Writers

A woman writing.

I've encountered two writers over the past week.
The first lives a couple of miles away from me and was selling a small propane grill for $35. I wanted one because there are frequent power outages where I live and, if one is combined with being snowed in, I want to be able to heat things up.

The Weber propane grill I bought.

She's a theologian who'd taught at an Ivy League level and published often on religious topics. The book she's working on now, she said, declares an armistice among religions, especially Christianity and Judaism. This reminded me of a bit by Louis C.K. in which he says Christianity won. ("If you don't believe me, think of this. What year is it?") She'd never heard of Louis C.K. I liked that about her. She's had a full life—she mentioned her grandchildren—and it's been a scholar's life, focused on studying and writing, friends with those with similar interests, focused on topics that interest and reward her. Some think little of a life so cloistered that she's never heard of Louis C.K. despite his prominence in the news beyond comedy due to his poor behavior, but I like it.

Louis C.K.

The second writer is a novelist whose reading I attended at a small bookstore last night. She's a neighbor's long-time friend. An American, she married an Englishman and the two moved to Paris in 1981 and have lived there happily ever since. She described taking a factory work like approach to writing. Up at six, write a bit, walk the dog, back at her desk to write until one o'clock or so. Lunch, errands, more writing. She made it sound like something anyone willing to live a disciplined life could do, but her favorite authors are ones who when I read them I get confused and sleepy after a few pages and give up trying to read. Real writers are smart. I bought the book. I hope I can understand it.