Secrets play a crucial part in my psyche and in my writing. I’ve written four novels. “They Called Me Bunny” is grounded in secrets: Bunny hides her love for Richard both from him and her best friend Cork, whom he loves. Her adoption, steeped in secrecy, and Bunny’s search to uncover the secrets of who she is are the essence of her story. It is a search for truth, for love, for her own identity.
“The Circle Leads Home” also expresses a yearning to reconnect with identity. And a secret, or more than one, at its core. People guard their secrets with the ferocity of a lioness protecting her cubs. I know I do. And yet I strew clues like crumbs along my path, hoping to be found out? Because I know I can never find true intimacy with another person while I am guarding my secrets?
I have a fear of getting Alzheimer’s, like my mother and her mother, like my older sister, and then I would not know how any longer to carry the burden of my secrets and not hurt anyone else by telling them. Maybe the secrets would come seeping out, or erupt, like oil from the ground.
Tom is tormented in “Flight to Ohio” by the fear the secret of his true identity will come out and hurt not only him but those he loves. “Woman at the Window” is an odd rendering of who I am, a long howl of yearning, told mostly in code. Oh, the excruciating loneliness of being human! And the joy, the relief, of creativity