There are times when it's hard to write. In the middle of100 mile per winds, it's hard to write, it's hard to imagine the night will end, and if it ends, will there be a roof on the house or trees on the roof. Hurricane Sandy. The rain drills sideways. The wind rips. You have to be the grown up because technically you are grown up even if you want to hide under the covers too. You are thankful you do not have that house that you always wanted with the water view and afraid for those you know near the water. Lights blink, revive, and blink again. Dark hits you in the face. Your children cling to you -- even your twelve- year- old son who earlier in the evening ignored you like always. They want to go, leave, escape, now. You remember you live on an island -- the bridges closed, the railroad shut down, you cannot leave even if you were brave enough to drive anywhere. You're not brave enough. And then,with a final heave of darkness and wind, the skies sigh in exhaustion. The dawn seeps through the horizon, the land is speckled with wet leaves and downed trees, the sky blue and clear. Your neighbor lets you know he has a guy who has a chainsaw coming as if that is an every day thing -- and you are thankful to that neighbor and to the guy with the chainsaw. Everyone has lost power. A generator buzzes from someone's backyard and spews gasoline fumes into the storm-fresh air. Your son takes off on his razor to find out what happened to his friends and their houses, waving you off, racing toward the sun.
I hope all are safe and working on recovery --
author of LIE
set on Long Island,
inspired by true events.