Mara’s type of obsession is so interesting, so complex … is she the best character ever written?
I mean, yes, obviously she’s the best. Next question.
But more seriously: Mara is what happens when pattern-recognition goes feral. She’s doing what writers do. Drawing lines between things that may or may not want to be connected and then refusing to let go of the thread. I love characters who are too good at noticing, who can’t stop themselves from making meaning even when it hurts. She’s not trying to be right; she’s trying to feel real. Which, honestly, feels like a very human error. My kind of behavior. Regrettably.
Some insect imagery woven into this … or am I just reading too much into a couple of mentions of bugs?
You’re absolutely not reading too much into it. I am letting the bugs do some quiet work.
Insects are persistence machines. They don’t care about your heartbreak, your narrative arc, or your big realization at three a.m. They keep going. They build. They trap. They die in motel windows or are trapped in jars. That felt right for a story that’s about longing operating long after it’s stopped being useful. Also, webs are basically analog internet, and I couldn’t not think about that.
I contend that nearly everyone who’s had sex has had sex at one of these motels … list three-to-five famous people who definitely haven’t.
Okay, strong premise. Let’s say:
- Queen Elizabeth II (God bless her, but no)
- Marie Curie (too busy inventing stuff and becoming radioactive)
- Mr. Rogers (this feels spiritually incorrect—I mean, the cardigans …)
- Jane Austen (not enough fainting couches)
- The Dalai Lama (self-explanatory, but it would make a good story)
Everyone else copulating in motels? Extremely yes. The bed bugs suck, though.
What’s Cate McGowan’s escape route?
Writing is the escape route. And also, the maze. I write my way out and immediately construct another room. And sometimes just choosing not to knock on the door, which, admittedly, is not my strongest skill.
“… a sweater, two books, a bottle of salt.” Sounds like a pretty good weekend … what’s the salt for?
You’re right: That is a good weekend. Borderline ideal.
The salt is practical (you always need salt), symbolic (preservation, protection, ritual), and a little unhinged (why is it here?). Also, margaritas! Also, salt makes everything taste sharper. Including memory. In one of my poems, I write, “Salt is my favorite seasoning.”
So yeah, I like objects that feel necessary and inexplicable at the same time, things you’d pack because you might need them, or because you can’t quite say goodbye to the version of yourself who once did.
Fuck Chekhov’s gun.
