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Look for the February 2004 release of The Usual Rules in paperback!

November 15, 2007

Dear Friends,

The email that landed in my box last January came from the director of a lecture series in Sacramento. Norman Mailer would be making an appearance there later that month for the purpose of promoting his newly published novel, The Castle in the Forest, the writer informed me. An interviewer was needed for the onstage conversation. Would I be interested?

I'd never met Mailer, though for much of the year just finished, a copy of The Executioner's Song had sat to the right of my computer as I worked on a book about an American murder. I'd picked it up many times -- opening at some random page -- just to take in a little of that bold rhythmic voice, strong as a punch. In fact, though I'd always believed I'd be good at the kind of assignment that was being offered to me now, this was the first time I'd been asked to perform it. The fact that the person with whom I might have this conversation was not only a writer I admired deeply, but one famous for conversational scrimmage -- not to mention, one famous for his combativeness with women writers who embraced feminism, as no woman writer I know does not-- seemed nearly irresistible.

But there was a problem. On the date when my presence was requested in California I was supposed to be in a very small Mayan village on the shores of Lake Atitlan, Guatemala, where I spend part of each winter. The journey to Sacramento was a long one. And the budget for my participation would hardly cover the cost.

Still, I said yes. I put aside my work (I'd come there to write a book of my own) and dove into Mailer's. Procuring a copy of The Naked and the Dead in that little town was my first challenge, but an American friend, traveling down, brought it to me. I spent that week on the shores of a volcano-ringed lake, staring out at the fishermen in their dugouts now and then as I made my way through the first novel of a man young as my sons are now -- brash, confident, ambitious -- and one who cannot imagine he will ever be anything but young and invincible.

I brushed up on Mailer's life too -- his colorful career of run-ins not only with the likes of Germaine Greer but political honchos and ex-wives and reviewers, among others. Friends who knew I'd be talking with the man quoted me remarks he'd made -- Mailer had voiced his opinion on everything, at one time or another -- and sometimes these remarks seemed outrageous. Here was a man who seemed to relish life in the ring -- a writer with his dukes perennially poised.

Contemplating Mailer, the man of whom I was reminded, in fact, was Muhammud Ali, whom I had also met very briefly -- for a single day -- thirty years before, when I'd made another long trip, from New York City to his training camp in northern Michigan, as he prepared to fight Ken Norton. He'd been nearing the end of his career then, as I watched him sparring, and later, jumping rope as he recited poetry, and later again, as we'd talked while he drove his bus ( with the words"The Greatest" displayed on the front) over the backroads of Berrien Harbor, holding forth on the topics of life. If Ali had been -- among other things -- a dazzling man of words, Mailer was a boxer.

I had to set out on my journey to Sacramento a full twenty four hours before my presence was required onstage. First there was a boat across the lake, then a car over the mountains, then a plane to Los Angeles, then another plane, to Sacramento. It was late evening when I reached the hotel. Standing at the elevator, I watched as a fellow traveler approached. He was bent over on not one cane but two, and moving as slowly as the sun setting over the volcano the night before. For three weeks I'd been reading him, looking at photographs of the man at 30, 40, 50. Now here he was, three days past his 84th birthday: Norman Mailer.

"I think you and I have a date tomorrow," I told him. He looked at me then -- looked up, though I am not such a tall person, but with the look of a man not unaccustomed to women he's never met before proposing one thing or another. And though he didn't know who I might be or what I was talking about, he did not miss a beat with his reply. "Oh really? How nice." A beautiful smile.

The next day, we convened only briefly backstage at the theater. Recognizing -- each of us -- that what we were embarked on here was as much theater as literary exploration, I made myself scarce, though he was there in the green room, for the hour beforehand, with his son John Buffalo at his side and others. Even in Sacramento, it appeared, the man had friends.

The event began with a lecture on the writings of Mailer -- and a certain anxiety came over me, recognizing that my grasp on his body of work was so much less than that of the literature professor at the microphone. I had been instructed to focus our discussion that day on the new novel and felt a little frustrated by that. A lot had been written about the book in recent weeks, and it was not my favorite. But I knew the vicissitudes of a writer's life -- even if the writer is Norman Mailer. He had books to sell, and I would do my job, assisting.

Our turn then. I said a few words of introduction. Then he came out on the stage. One step at a time. Foot, cane, foot, cane. In photographs I'd studied of him in his younger days, he'd been a natty dresser -- vests, suits that looked like something a gambler might wear, or a Mafioso, a walking stick (not because he needed it then). Now he dressed with comfort in mind: loose pants and a work shirt, Ugg Boots.

He commented with a certain regret on his diminished mobility first, his need for hearing aids. Then he smiled warmly. Waved his hand in the manner of an impresario. And from the moment he spoke, it was clear: Whatever else might be diminished, it was not intellect. Here was a vital man, full of force and energy and -- I do not use the word lightly -- fire.

Within minutes, he had made the suggestion that we talk about whatever we wanted and just have a good time, and for the next hour and a half we did -- had one of the best times I'd known.

I asked him about writing of course, and he (the famous carouser) spoke of the necessity for discipline. The work didn't begin the morning you went to your desk, he said, but the night before, the night you didn't drink or stay out late. Oh, did I ever know what he meant.

He was going to write a sequel to the new book. And if he was lucky, he had plans for another after that. He talked about the war in Iraq with a passion that left me thinking, if George W. Bush had stepped out on the stage then, Mailer might have punched him, never mind the small problem of arthritis. He talked about God: was a believer. Never mind the outrageous remarks on the stage at Town Hall back in the seventies: this was no misogynist . He talked about his mother, his children, his wife, whom it was clear he adored. I asked about fidelity. It was easier to accomplish now than it used to be, he said.

I do not remember everything we talked about that afternoon, actually. I know there was a good deal of laughter. And that eventually I opened the floor to questions from the audience, though truthfully, I wished I could have had more time to talk with him, myself. He was that funny, that responsive. He was quick as Ali.

I waited till the end for my question about growing old. What was it like I asked (I, who was well on her way in the same direction he'd gotten to, long past the days of t youthful prodigy)? How did it feel to be 84, to see one's self transformed from this virile, powerful man -- arm wrestling champion, seducer of beautiful women -- to one in need of not one but two canes? I felt no need for delicacy, asking this question. Even into his ninth decade, it was clear, Norman Mailer required no gentle protection.

He leaned forward in his chair then. "I think of myself like an old freighter," he said. "Throwing ballast off the decks, as it ceases to serve me. First the hair. Then hearing. Then the knees. Sometimes, now , I have to reach for the right word." He shook his head a little ruefully.

"But as long as I have this" -- he actually knocked on his forehead, like a door -- "I don't mind. This is all I need."

When it was over, I kissed him. This was a man to kiss on the mouth, and he kissed me back. After, in the green room, I had a hard time saying goodbye to him, though I didn't want to linger, either. He had books to sell.

"Come to Provincetown this summer," he said. "You'll love Norris. Come anytime."

Then I made my way back to the hotel. Back to the airport, and from there retraced my journey, landing in Guatemala City just as the sun was coming up. My driver was surprised I could be back already. Such a long trip, and only a few hours in the United States.

Vale la pena, I told him. Well worth the trouble.

Over the months that followed, I thought often of that invitation to come have dinner at Norman Mailer's house. I called up the editor of a travel magazine I worked for one time, to suggest that she send me there. The story would be "Norman Mailer's Provincetown." Really, of course, it wasn't Provincetown at all that concerned me. I just wanted to have another glorious conversation with Norman Mailer.

In September, I flew east. The day before I was to head for the Cape, the call came. Norman was in the hospital. No visit.

The grief I felt, reading the news of his death, might seem surprising for one who met the man only one time. But as was true of my brief long- ago encounter with Ali, the hour and a half I spent with Norman Mailer will stay with me. I know as I grow older myself (older, and then old) I will think of him as he was that day -- his hearing poor, knees gone, eyesight in jeopardy, and still, he was looking toward the future, heading home to start another novel.

That's it for this week. I'm off to work.

With friendship,

Joyce Maynard

A FEW SPACES STILL REMAIN IN JOYCE'S DECEMBER 1st
ONE-DAY WRITING INTENSIVE AT HER HOME IN MILL VALLEY
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Celebrating with students at the end of a long and inspiring Lake Atitlan Workshop week. (Note the good food -- there's more where that came from.)

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