Rick Kogan writes in the Tribune about the remarkable timeliness of the newly discovered Carl Sandburg poem, “A Revolver.” Here is the poem, found by a volunteer at the rare book room in the U of I library.

A Revolver

Here is a revolver.

It has an amazing language all its own.

It delivers unmistakable ultimatums.

It is the last word.

A simple, little human forefinger can tell a terrible story with it.

Hunger, fear, revenge, robbery hide behind it.

It is the claw of the jungle made quick and powerful.

It is the club of the savage turned to magnificent precision.

It is more rapid than any judge or court of law.

It is less subtle and treacherous than any one lawyer or ten.

When it has spoken, the case can not be appealed to the supreme court, nor any mandamus nor any injunction nor any stay of execution in and interfere with the original purpose.

And nothing in human philosophy persists more strangely than the old belief that God is always on the side of those who have the most revolvers.

 

Could any words have more relevance to Chicago at this moment? If you aren’t sure, here is a catalog of the 509 human beings who were killed in our city in 2012.

One thing I love about writing historical fiction is the power it has to transport me to a different world. I might be typing away at my desk in the little alcove off our bedroom where I work, while garbage trucks screech and clank down our busy Chicago alley every hour and a snowblower growls next door, but in my mind I am stepping off a paddlewheel steamship docked at Mackinac Island in 1835. I am a woman named Susannah Fraser, who ran for her life from the husband who nearly killed her and now faces a future of uncertainty. I am Magdelaine Fonteneau, the wealthy fur trader’s widow who wants to save Susannah because she cannot change the past, cannot go back and save her own sister from a man’s violence. When I’m writing about these imaginary people, I travel through time, to another place.

Here’s another thing I like: These stories are not about me. Sure, I put plenty of myself into my characters. But this is not memoir. I am not examining my own life in fiction, at least not directly. Truth be told, I really don’t like to talk about my own life all that much. It’s hard for me to imagine that anyone would find it very interesting. I guess I am one of those “private” people.

But this year, something “private” happened to me that has changed me forever, and changed the way I do the work I love. I became a mom.

A few weeks after my daughter was born in February 2012, we were settling in to our new life with a newborn baby. I was out of my mind with exhaustion and physical pain, and two competing monologues about overwhelming love were duking it out inside my brain. One monologue was focused on the “love” part: “Ilovehersomuchilovehersomuchilovehersomuch.” The other monologue addressed the “overwhelming” part: “What if I make a mistake? What if she gets sick? What if I can’t do this? Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatif?”

Somehow in the middle of all this, I agreed to a January 2013 deadline for my next novel. I cannot explain the level of delusion that allowed this to happen. I guess January sounded far away at a time when just making it through twelve feedings in twenty-four hours felt like it took about ten days. Maybe I am just bad at math (okay, we know I am bad a math). But I said I would do it. And once I say I will do something, I WILL DO IT. So it was settled. I figured out when I could write around my daughter’s naps, and when my husband could watch her, and I made a schedule and set my word-count goals for each day, and I just told myself I would will it to happen. I had willed many things to happen in my life up to this point. Why should this be any different?

Except, I would learn, this was different. This was DIFFERENT. I slogged to the library all summer with my books and my laptop, only to find that most days I was so tired I couldn’t string a sentence together. That feeling of escape I used to get when the writing was going well, that feeling of being transported into the world of the book–it just wasn’t coming. Something–someone–was keeping me rooted right here in this world, right in the now of pajama snaps and hiccups and fevers and giggling–”Did she just giggle?!”–and The Big Red Barn and The Bear Snores On and first teeth and mashed-up avocado and the way she fell asleep in my arms every night and I knew I should put her down while I had the chance and tiptoe out but I would keep rocking and stare at her and think, “let me have just one more minute.” This, this, this is where I was.

I failed, you guys. I totally failed. I couldn’t will the book to happen on time. I turned in my draft in January and my editor told me the truth: It’s not ready. I need more time. I am sad about the delay, but I want the book to better than it is now. I want the time to do it right. So. All of this is to say that the book will be delayed until the spring of 2014. And I wanted you to know why.

“The men who fought the American Revolution . . . meant what they said about freedom. . . . This didn’t mean that twenty percent of the people were free to rob the other eighty percent of the means to live. This didn’t mean for one rich man to sweat the piss out of ten thousand poor men so that he can get richer. This didn’t mean the tyrants were free to get this country in such a fix that millions of people are ready to do anything–cheat, lie, or whack off their right arm–just to work for three squares and a flop. They have made freedom a blasphemy. You hear me? They have made the word freedom stink like a skunk to all who know.”

–The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, 1940

Roberta Gately’s The Bracelet has an intriguing premise: Boston nurse Abby Monroe and New York Times reporter Nick Sinclair find themselves entrenched in the middle of a human trafficking ring overseas. When Abby realizes she may have witnessed the murder of a Pakistani woman by a high-ranking official, she and Nick must break the story before she becomes the next casualty. I can’t wait to read it. Welcome, Roberta!

What is your favorite quality in a person?

Sense of humor. Laughter is the antidote for almost everything in life.

What is your least favorite?

Dishonesty, and that nagging feeling that someone is just insincere.

What is your greatest fear?

Being alone.

Who is your greatest love?

As an optimist, I’m hoping I haven’t met him yet.

What is your idea of a perfect day?

My dream day is working in humanitarian aid, setting up a clinic in a remote region, and knowing I’ve
made a difference. There is no other feeling quite like it in the world.

What place do you love?

I can’t choose one–I love two places, as dissimilar as places can be, but both offer unique and simple
pleasure to me. Cape Cod–for the sheer pleasure of the ocean lapping at my feet, and Afghanistan–for the opportunity to provide aid in a place as desolate and desperate as you can imagine.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

I am lucky enough to still be a nurse, a role that’s taken me around the world and allowed me an
abundance of opportunities.

Which person, living or dead, do you most admire?

It’s actually a group–the staff of the International Rescue Committee–they quietly
devote their lives to rescuing the world’s forgotten.

What are the words you live by?

Treat people as you want to be treated.

For more information on Roberta’s books, visit http://robertagately.com/

Catherine McKenzie’s novel Forgotten tells the story of  a woman who returns home after a six-month journey to find that everyone she knows believed she was dead and has moved on without her. Publisher’s Weekly recently called her a “force to be reckoned with in women’s fiction.” Welcome, Catherine!

What is your favorite quality in a person?

 Intelligence.

What is your least favorite?

 Arrogance.

What is your greatest fear?

That my tendency to overthink things keeps me from doing things I should.

Who is your greatest love?

 Can’t pick just one. My family. My friends.

What is your idea of a perfect day?

 It’s fall and sunny and the leaves are turning. It’s warm, but the air is crisp. The day is calling: come run in me.

What place do you love?

 Many places, but Montreal is way up there.

If you weren’t a writer, what would you be?

 If skills and reality weren’t a factor—an astronaut.

Which person, living or dead, do you most admire?

 Someone I don’t even know, whose life is hell but is cheerful anyway.

What are the words you live by?

 Make time for the things you love.

To learn more about Catherine’s novels, visit www.catherinemckenzie.com.

The lovely Samantha Hoffman and me, before our reading at Lake Forest Books. Too bad the fire alarm went off in the middle!