I spent yesterday in recovery, as much of the country did. Watching the television Tuesday night felt like watching the plane go into the towers on 9/11: shock and disbelief and a terrible knowledge that somewhere, there were people watching that same horror and celebrating.
And before you rise up in indignation, no, I am not comparing the red-state voters with Bin Laden’s terrorists and yes, it’s petty to compare that massive and horrific loss of life with a presidential election. Nonetheless, I felt—and still feel—that the analogy is not misplaced. Both of those things that came across our screens—on 9/11 and in the early hours of 11/9—were fueled not only by hate and delusions, but also by a fully justified and long-unaddressed sense of resentment. And, what we saw Tuesday will shake the world as massively as that act of foreign terrorism did.
And Wednesday? I didn’t even step foot into my study, even though I’m in the middle of a pressing rewrite. Instead, I chose the traditional retreat: fiction. I pulled the pages of the new Jack Reacher up over my head. And in the afternoon, I went out into the sun and did some gardening tasks that have been nagging at me for many weeks. After that, I swam and I cooked dinner. I ate with family and went to bed early, since I’d slept little on Tuesday.
I have thoughts—and words—about the gardening tasks and the recovery process, but that’s for another day.