In 1984, Charley and I married and bought a historic house on Orange Street on Nantucket.
Nantucket is thirty miles from the coast of Massachusetts and because of its isolation and the farsighted care of preservationists, it is a kind of living museum.
From this beautiful island, sandy shoals hide just below the surface of the water. Over 700 ship were wrecked off Nantucket during the course of its written history, caused by the dense fogs that obscure the island or by the gale force winds that howl and rage several times a year. The center of the island is uninhabited moorland where mists gather and drift like wraiths over heather, wild berries, twisted trees. During the long winter months, many of the businesses are closed, leaving houses and shops dark and empty, day and night.
In the early 80’s, the year-round population was around 5,000. Schools existed, but no malls, no chain stores like Home Depot, no chain restaurants like McDonalds. The town’s electricity was provided by generators grumbling away down at the harbor, fueled by oil brought over by tankers. Often, due to high winds, the electricity went out, for hours at a time. One of the first things I learned was to keep plenty of candles and matches on hand.
The first book I wrote in this house was Spirit Lost, about a couple who move to the island from Boston into a big old house on Orange Street. John, the husband, is an
artist who establishes his studio in his attic, like a Nantucket artist I’d met. Willy, his wife, isn’t thrilled about the move but is glad for her husband who believes he’s inspired by the island.
John’s painting is going well until one night he is visited in his attic studio by a beautiful, compelling ghost. He falls in love with her. He becomes obsessed. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep, he spends all his time in the attic. Willy is frantic with worry at this change in her husband. Finally, John tells Willy he’s fallen in love with a ghost.
It was late spring when I wrote this. I used a small electric heater to keep my study warm as I sat at my computer, working on the last section of Spirit Lost. I was alone in the house. It was late morning, gray and fogbound. As I typed, I occasionally looked out my window toward the harbor, but all I could see was a thick mist.
I was working on the scene where Willy rages through the attic, yelling at the ghost: You don’t exist! Ghosts don’t exist!
I wrote: “The wind was screaming now, and shafts of icy air spun through the attic. With three small pings, the electric heaters went off and all the lights went out.”
As I typed those words, my computer went dead. My electric heater went out and all the lights in the house went out. It was completely silent. This is true.
Below, the ghost of Spirit Lost. To be continued on my next blog.
