Whenever Old Lyme threw a literary gathering, the writers would usually be the locals: Dominick Dunne, David Handler, and me. What a thrill I felt to be included with them. And I was always as entertained as the audience: they were as smart and funny as storytellers come. All three of us set novels in town; Dominick's fictional Old Lyme was Prud'homme, David's is Dorset, and mine is Black Hall, with the beach area of Hubbard's Point.
Earlier this summer when David and I discovered each other on Facebook, we had a happy online moment. It turned bittersweet as we spoke of Dominick and how we miss him.
Old Lyme's light is dreamy, reflecting off Long Island Sound, the Connecticut River, and all the tributaries, ponds, salt meadows, and marshes. Lyme Street runs through the village, lined with charming saltboxes, stately white colonial houses, stone walls, and gardens, one more seductive than the next.
There's an unquestionable reserve about our town, mystery behind the picket fences. Such a delicious place to set novels. No wonder David's are mysteries.
David has a brand new blog; I read the post while away from Old Lyme, and it made me homesick for everything about the town. I hope we're asked to speak together again before too long. I really want to hear him tell the Sid and Nancy, well more Nancy, story again. Also, and I bet David doesn't know this, the reason I got a Fender Stratocaster is directly linked to why his character Mitch Berger first acquired his.
Dominick was wickedly witty and kind and direct and famous. He knew everybody and traveled all over, and I think he really considered Old Lyme to be his sanctuary. I loved his writing and consider his Vanity Fair article, Justice, about the murder of his daughter Dominique, to be one of the most riveting, honest, unforgettable pieces I've ever read.
What a time, what a town. I want to stop by the Phoebe Griffin Noyes Library and get lost in some research, and I definitely need to play my Strat more often.