Photo quote de jour


Even jaded New Yorkers titter when a literary lion is in their midst. At a recent memorial for Amos Elon, I recognized Joan Didion sitting in the front row. Eager fans stood next to her, their backs hunched in veneration. Ms. Didion or Saint Joan as some fans call the iconic writer, graciously shook hands. She is perhaps best known for her 2005 memoir of grieving: The Year of Magical Thinking. I'd read it and loved it. The question was: did I want to go up and meet her? The last thing I wanted was to prattle on like a besotted fan or worse, a besotted fan who is an aspiring writer. I've met lots of famous people but I'm Canadian. We don't drool over celebrities. Philip Roth sat nearby, his oily curls brushed the back collar of his khaki raincoat. It was kind of him to show up and pay his respects. Watching him, I found compassion for every celebrity who shirks from public scrutiny. He looked caged, as if he wanted to disappear. At the end of the evening, he rushed through the crowd hellbent on no contact, perhaps still smarting from reviews of his latest book. I knew better than to approach him. I value my privacy and the privacy of others. Anyone with half a brain cell knows who wants to be left alone.

Much ink has been spilled about Joan Didion's frail appearance but  her fragility was evident from across the room. She sat alone with empty seats on either side. As a professional intuitive, I sense auras, energy fields and I don't recall feeling a more depleted aura. A crepe paper flower tethered by a filament of dandelion fluff. The room was filling up. It was now or never. I coach clients to live with passion and no regrets, so I took my own counsel and introduced myself to Joan. Her cool, weightless hand clasped mine and her bottomless brown eyes locked onto mine. Under layers of sadness, a bedrock of hope flashed in her eyes. I sensed a green light and I sat down next to her tiny, husk-like self. Once the ice broke, I found she embodied the same adjectives that are said about her writing: subtle, flat affect, crisp, logical, self-contained and a razor sharp clarity. I asked if I could photograph her.
 "Yes, but no flash," she said with a crooked smile. I quickly snapped a few. I knew in the dim light they would be grainy and decided to turn them into a sepia tone. The color of her tweed jacket and cashmere scarf. The color of another era.
"Don't you get tired of people coming up to you and asking advice about writing?" I asked, half in jest.
"No, they don't bother me because I tune them out."  Her lips curved into a whisper of a smile, half impish, all wise.
I knew not to go down that dead end road. If you are are novice writer meeting a famous writer (not you, but you know who I'm talking about), stop asking writers stupid questions.
"Do you have any psychic ability, intuition?" I said, knowing the answer, but I had to ask.
Joan Didion is too gifted a writer not use her insights. She talked about her process using flashes of insight to propel her writing, but ultimately it came down to one thing. "Discipline," she said with a power in her voice that belied her delicate body. When it was time for her to go to the podium and speak, she got up, all ninety pounds of her, and floated ghost-like across the floor. She spoke with a gentle wit and sharply honed intellect.
It floored me. If a woman who exudes the energy of a gnat can sit down and write through pain, tragedy, old age and God knows what else, then, what's my excuse? Just do it. Sit down and put one word in front of the other until it's done. No excuses.

Thank-you Ms. Didion and have a happy birthday. It's her 75th birthday tomorrow and I wish her many, many more.