(This isn't Marli-Lou's house, but it sort of looks like it.)
When we lived in Connecticut I had a good friend who bought a derelict Victorian carriage house in Greenwich. A carriage house is, or was, basically, the garage of the manor house. A carriage house is where the carriages lived. In this case, the manor house, a monstrous mansion had become a retirement home, and the surrounding acreage had been subdivided into tract housing sometime in the fifties, leaving Mari-Lou's carriage house sharing the lawn with the retirement home.
Mari-Lou’s house was a lovely brick and Tudor building without electricity and outdated plumbing. Over the years I watched my friend turn a mess into a beautiful home. And from watching, I learned a lot, like where to buy fabric, how to refinish cabinetry, how to reupholster furniture, but I think the most important thing I learned about was the notebook.
Mari-Lou had a notebook and each room in the house had a section in the notebook where she had fabric swatches, paint samples, and most importantly, a picture of what she wanted the room to ultimately look like. I spent a lot of time at antique stores and estate sales with my friend and the most impressive thing about her was even if she found something that she loved, if it didn’t fit or go or work in a particular room or space, she passed it up…even if she loved it.
I think that this theory can be widely applied in all areas of my life. In my writing: if I have a story and I know where the story is going, even if I have a great idea, even if I have a witty, clever bit of dialogue, or even if it’s a sky-rocketing kiss—if it doesn’t belong, fit or work in my story, it has to go. I don’t have room or time for tangents. I can’t slow the story down for detours.
I struggle to apply this same principle to how I spend my days. If know what I’m trying to achieve, if I really have a picture in my mind of what needs to be done, even if something looks enjoyable or delicious, if it distracts me from my goals then that’s exactly what it is—a distraction—and how much time I waste trying to make it fit, work or belong is ultimately up to me.
A strange thing happened a few years after Mari-Lou died. I was thinking of an upcoming trip to NewYork, which led to thoughts of my friends in Connecticut where we used to live more than 25 years ago. As I was sitting in church, for some inexplicable reason, her address popped into my mind, 21 Bishop street, Greenwich, Ct.
This was so unusual for me--I have trouble remembering my own phone number-- I took out my phone and googled the address and sure enough, a picture of her house showed up. I thought of my other friends from that time and place, and I couldn't even name the streets they lived on. I wasn't %100 sure of our old address.
And yes, I know, my thoughts should have been elsewhere, but I was sitting in the nursery with the three and under crowd and everyone was playing very nicely without my interference.
I shared the experience with a friend and she said, you'll have to tell me the rest of the story. But there wasn't a rest of the story. I didn't plan on going to Connecticut on my short visit to New York and even if I had, I wouldn't go to Marilou's house. It's not as if she would be there.
I guess the rest of the story I can file away in my memory bank and save it under the tab of things and people I want to remember--those that have made an impact.