Dina Madani: Finding Story in a Character's History and Emotions

Below is an excerpt from the novel/novella which I am currently writing–and am determined to finish! Here, I am trying to understand the character of Dina Madani, a once Matriarch who has retreated into private space and isolation. But, what happens when someone seeks her company?

Dina Madani is often described, by the others in the building who her rarely see her, as a young girl or old lady. But Madani, who goes by her last name alone, is perfectly Middle-Aged. In the temporal landscape of eras and ages, there she lies at fifty, drinking from thrifted goblets and eating the squirrels who had the unfortunate fate of storing nuts on her balcony. She perches on the fraying velveteen lounge chair, at the center of the living room, no television, no microwave: portraits and stacks of magazines line the walls. The rest is empty space. Breathing room. She is draped in chain mail and on horseback. Only, while her kingdom used to be the town, it is now her apartment, and her horse is a wheelchair.

Her horse rarely stretches its legs. Madani keeps to herself, indoors. She doesn’t have time to waste for clocks. She knows she will die; she would rather not know where – or how nearby. The only tally of time she permits is the paper from the Associated Press; that, with the unpreventable sun (if she could, she would), means morning has arrived. The papers collect dust by the entrance, and on every fifth night of its arrival she treats herself to tearing them for kindling. The red of fire burning behind her eyes.

A few years back an odd girl, so spindly Madani took a moment’s pause when she showed up her doorstep, arrived with the paper. For a moment, Madani was confused as to what a squirrel was doing on the entrance mat instead of the balcony. She clutched the pocketknife on her neck. Until it spoke. This was the first time Madani received the Associated Press in decades. The previous newsboy, Thomas Mason, who had become a news-geriatric, must not have debriefed his replacement. What had become of him? Bad management.

Since then, Madani has referred to her as the messenger, and allows the girl, like a trained little dove, to deliver and depart in silence. Sometimes, without a word, the messenger washes a goblet or two in the sink, which is near enough to the door, so it does not seem as though she is trespassing into Madani’s kingdom. More like a gardener, who goes past the fence, but remains behind the glass. Madani watches, perched and poised. She has missed having an audience; she has missed having an audience, that is as innocent as this squirrel. It is nice to have the girl watching, even if she pretends not to stare at Madani’s legs.

I have been hesitant to post my writing from this fiction project because it feels like a promise–to say, it’s published here, and this is the way it’s going to be. But this is a sketchbook. These words are conversations about my ideas—hints at where this may be going. Perhaps these words will appear in physical print, or maybe this is their one and only debut…let this sharing be a kind of idea-exchange. And a way for people to start understanding the story I am writing—to see, for themselves, if perhaps they would like to read it one day as a book. But, I know for certain, it is a book I will write.