MEMOIR
StagesJERSEY CITY, NJ 07 July 2010 |
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On the night I made my Manhattan reading debut at a Nervous Breakdown Literary Experience, I found out my mother was sick.
In 2008, after two years in Los Angeles, I graduated from USC and moved to Denver to be with a girl. Things didn’t work out, as so many things so often don’t, and if I didn’t actually have my own personal nervous breakdown I think I might’ve come close. I’d left my parents’ basement in 2006 to go to USC, and a little more than two years later, returning to it was my only choice.
It was meant to be temporary. Driving across Kansas (and Ohio, and Illinois), I was aimed at Manhattan. I’d left six weeks after watching World Trade Center 7 fall from the Hoboken ferry, and I’d realized just a few months after moving to Denver I wanted to return to New York. I think maybe I felt I had unfinished business, like I’d left a story on the verge of its second act, and I wanted to return to see it through.
I wasn’t sure what seeing it through meant, but I had an idea. I’d graduated USC a better writer, mainly because I realized in the first place I could actually improve as one. I thought it was time to make a go of being an author. I wanted to get involved in the literary scene I assumed Manhattan had, and I wanted to meet and query superstar agents.
I wanted to be closer to what I thought was still the epicenter of the publishing industry.
In that spirit, I found a terrific apartment with an amazing roommate just a few minutes after I interviewed and got a job teaching at the college where I’d earned my undergraduate degrees.
Suddenly, returning to New York was really going to be a homecoming.
So: job, check. Apartment, check.
Literary scene?
***
One of my first destinations after moving to Jersey City was a TNB Literary Experience. Shya Scanlon read about fame. Kimberly M. Wetherell played hostess with the mostest (though I can’t seem to find the essay she read). Everyone had a great time, and I wanted to be part of it. I started trying to write better essays hoping for an invite, and also hoping that, if one came, when I got up to the mike, I might also be able to announce great news: I’d gotten an agent. I’d sold a book.
***
I’d forgotten how cold Manhattan December is. Jersey City December may be worse. It’s emptier, and it doesn’t stay up as late. If Manhattan is the City that never sleeps, Jersey City elects instead to stay at home at night, its curtains drawn and its television casting silver shadows visible from the streets you don’t necessarily want to be in.
That December night, I walked to the PATH station with my sister, her friend, and my roommate. I was keyed up. Perhaps vaguely disappointed I wasn’t going to be able to tell anyone I’d sold a book or gotten an agent, but I planned to read an essay I thought was pretty good and, for one single night of my life, I thought that was enough.
I don’t remember the conversation. I don’t remember what my sister said. I remember she told me on a particular block of Kennedy Boulevard in Jersey City, though: my mother was having problems. Of the female sort.
Problems of the female sort are always hard for men to discuss; we don’t get those sorts of problems. I like to think that, when it comes down to it, we’re all just people, and we are right up until we get down to those differences of physiology, at which point things differ greatly. I’ve heard people compare the pain of cramps to getting kicked in the balls, but I doubt the analogy: a ball kick delivers sharp, intense pain that is external, throbbing just outside the groin.
Really, though, such problems are difficult for anyone to discuss, nevermind considering gender. I think it’s why tampon commercials are so deliberately vague and why the ads for the iPad always make it sound like one.
Moreso: my mother is a reticent sort. The sort of woman who wouldn’t exactly talk about her female problems.
Words: bleeding. Pain. Others, too, many not meant for polite company.
Bleeding and pain are enough, though. She’s my mother, and she was bleeding and in pain. What more did I need to know?
***
I read that night. The video is here. If I seem mostly unperturbed, it’s because I was. On a lot of levels.
She’s my mother. She’ll be okay.
I mentioned I hoped I’d be able to mention some good writing news (because apparently reading a new essay in a hip Manhattan bar in front of brand-new friends wasn’t enough for me). You’ll notice, if you watch that video, I did not.
But I’m a writer. We get rejected. That’s what happens. It’s okay.
My novel will be okay. A few agents have passed on offering to represent me, but I’ll find someone eventually.
My mom will be okay. She may be bleeding and in pain, but it won’t be anything serious.
***
She’s not okay. I’m never clear on the details besides that those details end in “-oma.” There are lots of permutations, all of which mean different things. Adinoma. Sarcoma. Carcinoma. Lymphoma. I read them but they blur together. One strikes lymph nodes, another connective tissue, a third bone.
They—
Ironically, it always comes down to a “They.” They are nameless and faceless. They wear white coats and stethoscopes around their neck and They poke and They prod before they cut you open. They wear suits and ties and answer to CEOs and They don’t want your manuscript because They only care about the bottom line.
They are legion.
They are many.
They believe my mother has an “oma,” and most likely a couple of them. They don’t quite know how progressed it is, and They don’t know how advanced, but They know it is in those places from which “female problems” originate, and They believe They can halt further progression if They remove the sources of “female problems.”
They like my writing, which They call strong, but They just feel that time-travel is a difficult market, or They’re just not “in love” with the project enough to feel enthusiastic about it. Of course, They remind me, it’s a subjective business, and so They encourage me to keep submitting. To other Thems.
That’s where it hits. She’s my goddamn mother and it’s my goddamn novel and goddamn it, they deserve better from the universe and the world and life. I worked damned hard on that novel for long hours, went to graduate school and put in time and energy and money to make it absolutely jaw-dropping, and fuck Them for representing Twilight and Sarah Palin and not me. And my mother birthed me and raised me and if I’m a good man I owe so very much to her, and fuck Them for allowing her to suffer for even one moment.
Fuck Them.
What’s difficult is that it feels like fighting is impossible. You can’t fight Them. You can’t fight the damned errant cells in your body whose only fault is that they don’t know when to shut off, to die, to stop growing, stop taking over, stop making you sick. And you can’t fight the business and industry, the corporations and editors and agents, and you worry that even mentioning the shortcomings of the business model is going to get you labeled a difficult author or a whiny bitch, and then nobody’s going to work with you anyway, and all you want to fucking do is hit something or run somewhere, just go and do it and keep going, until your heart is pounding and your body’s racing and your skin is drenched with sweat but most of all your breath comes like a locomotive but at least you feel like you accomplished something. You can’t fight for your mother and you can’t fight for your novel and all you’re left with is this gigantic mass of impotent frustration that seethes like a bull and you swear to God somebody just looks at you fucking wrong and you’re going to explode like a fucking subway through Pamplona.
***
Look, I’m not a praying man. Haven’t been in a long time. But listen, just let her be okay, all right? Let her make it through the operation. Let her make it through the surgery.
And I’ll wait on the agent. I’ll wait on the book deal. I’ll wait on selling the novel. Just let my mom be okay and I won’t mind if it takes another couple years.
Just promise me she’ll be alive when it happens, okay? That’s all I want.
Please?
***
But what’s the point?
I don’t tell many people. My mother doesn’t want to tell anyone, and so I don’t discuss except with those absolutely closest to me. They all tell me they hope she’ll be all right, she’ll pull through.
Except even if she does, she’s just going to pull through so she can die later. I hate to be callous, but that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? Nobody gets out of here alive. Life is a sexually transmitted disease that’s 100% fatal. She’s going to die. I’m going to die. You’re going to die. We’re all going to die, and that’s okay, because otherwise overpopulation would be a huge problem and besides that, we have a thousand channels but nothing to watch already, so what the fuck would we do with another hundred or two hundred or two thousand years? You want to see the universe stop expanding and entropy? You want to see the sun go nova and eventually envelope the Earth?
Because that’s what’s going to happen. So what’s the point? Why keep querying? Only a couple writers have managed to survive their own lifetimes—Shakespeare, Dickens, Faulkner . . . the vast majority sell a couple thousand copies of a book and then are never heard from again. Look at the best-sellers’ lists from the early 1900s and see how many names you recognize; chances are, probably few. Even if you pick up an agent, they might not find a sympathetic editor, and your novel may never be published, and even if it is published, how many copies can you hope to sell? Even selling a million copies . . . well, congratulations, you just reached less than one percent of the population, didn’t you? There are, like, six or eight or more billion people on this planet, and chances are nobody you talk to will have ever heard of you, much less read your book.
***
Tests and procedures. Ectomies and treatments.
Courses in business. New positions in new fields and teaching new subjects.
***
My mother is in good spirits. She came to a point where she felt more empowered about her treatment options and worked with her doctor more closely to figure out her best courses. Things are still touch and go; when it comes to something like the big C, doctors still tread lightly. Like a single soldier sighting down the entire enemy front. I think most oncologists live every day knowing how little power they truly have. At least, the good ones must.
Regardless, she smiles and she laughs, and maybe that’s the best way to healing. When I talk to her, I hear in her voice how much better she feels and, often, how much she misses me.
I wish I could get home more often. It’s not far, but I’ve been changing jobs and careers, and writing more. I’ve been thinking more about how I can get my writing out there, through venues like this one right here, how I can invest better, how I can reach people better.
Sometimes it’s not how much longer you live, but how well. Just like sometimes it’s not how many people you reach, but how you make them feel.
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I read this once
& then again more
careful.
because it’s so much
like the things I wrestle
live slow
live well
to hell
with tomorrow
to hell
with the numbers
it’s how you
make people
feel.
I hope that Jesus looks like Willie Nelson
& when he meets me down by
the river of life
on the other side
he’ll hang his thumbs
in his pockets
smile that sly Willie smile
& say
“Well,
got that over with
didn’t we?”
‘Yes sir,” I’ll say.
“Yes sir.”
I hope that Jesus looks like Willie Nelson, too. I didn’t before I read this, but I now will for the rest of my life.
You know, I never have gotten into Willie Nelson, but if I died and met Jesus and he looked like him, I hope we might reminisce about all the girls we’ve loved before–wait. Is that Willie Nelson? Or the elder Iglesias? Or both?
Yes sir indeed.
Will.
That’s Bad Willie.
Try Phases & Stages.
Or red Headed Stranger.
That’s Zen Willie.
I can’t decide if there’s anything better than red-headed strangers. I sort of have a thing for redheads.
I learned at a very tender age growing up in the slums of a New York borough that life is not about the number of years, it is about the quality of life you live in those years. I had attended more funerals by the age of 17 then I care to count. I lost the one and only person who ever really understood me, cared for me and truly loved me – we were both only 15. I lost site of this for far too many years now but with the birth of my children I have slowly remembered, life is short and precious. I’m trying to teach my children (and remind myself) to live life to the fullest and enjoy everything you can. Reading your memoir just reinforces my belief.
I think that lesson–that it’s about the quality of life–is the most painful to learn and perhaps the most difficult to remain mindful of and remember always.
And it really is. Life is so, so crazy short. I mean, when you think about the trillions of years the universe has been around, it’s not just mind-boggling but absolutely balls-out ludicrous.
And yet here we are. Thanks for reading; I’m glad to have reinforced/reminded.
I am so glad to hear that your mom is still fighting, Will. And that you are, too.
This was heart wrenching to read – but compelling and well written.
I totally get the not understanding the physical problems of the opposite sex thing.
Last night, I was reading to my twins (as I have every night that they are with me since they were in utero). We were midway through book three of Harry Potter and Tolkien was lying next to me pulling at his underwear and I very frustratedly told him that if he was going to touch himself, he needed to do it in private. He got all exasperated with me and said, “BUT MY PENIS is STICKING TO MY BALLS!” And I was all, “Meh?” Because, as a woman, not only have I never been faced with a similar problem, but I didn’t even know the problem existed.
So then I said I could give him powder, but the only powder I have is this can of baby powder from the late forties that my great grandma had kept her whole life and it was given to me when she died. Some families have jewels. Some families have furniture. Some have art. My family? I got a 60 year old dented can half full of talc. And it’s all I had! so I went to my bookshelf and got itand told Tolkien the whole story. He was dying laughing. So he put the powder on and went to get back in bed to finish reading. As he was getting in bed, he patted me on the arm to say thanks – big plumes of 60 year old great grandma powder went puffing into the air. I started fake screaming, “aaaaaaagghhhhhhh! Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!!! You just touched me with your sweaty penis, old lady powder hand!! aaaaaaaaggggggghhhhhhh! aaaaaaagggggghhhhhhhh!” The kid was laughing so hard that he was almost crying
And that is what I would be missing out on if I were writing my book on the weeks I had my boys.
Oh, that’s a bad problem. Just wait until he gets older, and all the plumbing gets, well, bigger. And sorta . . . well, floppier.
One particularly queasifying one is accidentally mashing one’s balls when one sits down. I swear, I’ve been nauseated for several hours straight.
And that’s not even mentioning blue balls.
And I’m totally laughing about the sweaty-penis old-lady-powder hand. That’s amazing. Also: there’s something about the laughter of a child, isn’t there? That full-on, unadulterated, completely unrestrained whole-body laugh?
And thanks.
Can I have your number, please? I’ll be calling you for advice in about five years…
Oh, Will.
Your frustration and pain just jumps from the page.
I wish I had words to make it better – I don’t, but I hope your own words have helped you.
“Look, I’m not a praying man. Haven’t been in a long time. But listen, just let her be okay, all right? Let her make it through the operation. Let her make it through the surgery.
And I’ll wait on the agent. I’ll wait on the book deal. I’ll wait on selling the novel. Just let my mom be okay and I won’t mind if it takes another couple years.
Just promise me she’ll be alive when it happens, okay? That’s all I want.
Please?”
This made me tear up. I’ll be offering a ‘Please’ to whoever is listening, for your Mum. And for you.
X
They did help, yes. To be honest, I went back and forth about posting this. I’ve gone back and forth about talking about my mom, at least partly because she’s so reticent about it. And, in fact, even after I wrote it, I continued to wonder. I called her and asked her if she was okay with my posting it.
You know what she said? It was okay, but she didn’t want a “pity party.” If someone got something from it, awesome, but she’s doing well and healing and goddammitall she’s gonna beat this thing.
I’ve learned a lot from my mom.
Just writing this was cathartic. Which was the other reason I went back and forth; not that I distrust catharsis, but I have my own site for diary entries, you know? But I thought this was worth it.
Also? Thanks. And having just met you, can I just say you and my mom would get along like gangbusters? She’d totally love you. You share a similar effervescence and ebullience.
I’m glad this was cathartic in some way for you.. it’s amazing how writing can relase things, huh?
Your mum sounds wonderful! And I guess that’s where you get your own effervescence and ebullience from!
Give her a hug from me!
Damn, man. Sorry to hear it. Such a very palpable sense of frustration and futility.
Best thoughts for her swift recovery.
Thanks, Matt. Yeah, frustration and futility about sums it up. She’s recovering well. In good spirits.
Man.
So much going on here.
And so many questions that remain unanswered. How do you deal with the frustration that builds in the face of such helplessness?
I think those thousand channels sell us on the idea that there’s always a way, but maybe there isn’t, and part of life is learning to accommodate that.
Best thoughts, wishes, and hopes for your mother, Will. And for you.
Thanks, Simon. I really did try to pack it. I kind of figured if I was going to post something like this, I wanted it to be dense, and fire on a lot of different cylinders.
How do I deal with the frustration?
I blow shit up.
No, really. Or break shit. I’ve often found catharsis in working out, good, hard, raw exercise that strips muscles down, that you can feel in your bones until you want to rest your weary head.
I think you’re right about those channels. Though lately I think we’ll get beyond channels and just watch everything on Hulu and Netflix and YouTube. The Internet is its own channel, which is kind of weird.
I’m so sorry to hear about this, Will.
I hope she continues to heal, and that one of these days, someone with the juice will get hip to the Entrekin genius.
This was a great piece, as usual.
Thanks, Greg. I hope so, too. On all counts.
Will, this left me breathless. Your words are savage, beautiful, and raw. I’m sorry for your pain, for your mother’s pain, for the unfairness of it all.
~ r
Thanks, Robin. For the sympathy and the kind words. I’m still raw in a lot of ways. This was scrubbing, in a way.
You know, unfairness is funny. I want to claim things are unfair. Maybe they are. Maybe fairness is another of those things like good and bad, of which, according to Shakespeare, there is no such thing but thinking makes it so. People say life’s not fair, but I tend to think life’s not really unfair, either. It’s just life, and you hope for the best but what really counts is making the best of it.
To be honest, this was really hard to read, Will. Mostly because I dread being in the same circumstance. I am right now reading Stanley Elkin’s The Magic Kingdom, which is not only brilliant, but so far is all about hewing to any measure of quality of life versus some public perception of care or heroic measures. I recommend it highly.
I think I’m going to take its being hard to read as complimentary, Sean. You can correct me if you meant otherwise. Thanks for reading, and I’ll definitely check that out.
So sorry to hear about your mother, Will. What terrible news… You really put across your pain and frustration so well in this piece. So many beautiful lines… I hope she recovers, really.
Thanks, David. We’re hoping so, too. Just got good news from her, too, so things continue in a positive trend.
Will, like JMB, I had to go through this a couple of times. What a gut-pulling read this is, and you do yourself and the subject matter a great service with the tone- respectful, sincere, and heartfelt without indulging any of the cliches that are always available with such subjects.
I related to so much of what you wrote- the combination of confusion and optimism that seemed to carry you from one moment to the next. Confusion that you don’t fully understand what’s going on, and optimism that things will work out fine because they always do. You convey those emotions with considerable strength, almost as understatements.
>>Everyone had a great time, and I wanted to be part of it. I started trying to write better essays hoping for an invite, and also hoping that, if one came, when I got up to the mike, I might also be able to announce great news: I’d gotten an agent. I’d sold a book. <<
I thought this was brilliant on a couple levels. First, I share this feeling of seeing how much fun goes on in TNB and wanting to be a part of it. And secondly, this paragraph also underscores the fact that writers can improve though this site, without all the jaded/bitter critique that marks so many other literary forums. Seeing others write well seems to spur a lot of others to take their game up a notch or two.
Great read. Thanks for sharing it and I’ll keep you and your mother in my thoughts.
Thanks so much, Joe. I struggled with it. Not just the subject and everything, but trying to make it work as more than, like, an overwrought diary entry. The stages thing helped; I’d known the stages of grief for years, but always in an academic sense.
It was like, when we first heard, my mother seemed fine. My thought, as a guy who’d been a psychiatric editor, was understanding: she was going through denial.
Took me weeks to realize I was going through denial myself.
And you’re right about the site. I always come to every post wanting a TNB-standard level of excellence. It’s a great thing to maintain.
“Bleeding and pain are enough, though. She’s my mother, and she was bleeding and in pain. What more did I need to know?”
Well put. Particulars don’t matter, these times.
I’m so very sorry to hear about your mother, Will, though glad to hear of her recent good spirits. That’s a lot. And I think your observation of “sometimes it’s not how many people you reach, but how you make them feel” is a beaut and spot-on. You’re most certainly making your readers feel deeply, writing pieces like this one.
Thanks, Kristen. It really is a lot. Knowing she’s smiling again is a huge relief. And that depth of feeling is definitely something I’ve been trying to concentrate on more lately.
I haven’t commented because we’ve already talked about this a bit; wasn’t sure what I could say that would be other than for show.
I can offer as genuinely new sentiment: There was a girl?? Why didn’t I know about this? (Or did I? I don’t always pay attention.)
There was. And probably because I don’t in general talk about girls? For years now, I’ve kinda kept that part of my private life private.
And I’ve appreciated what you’ve said when we’ve talked about it.
Weeeelll…saying there IS a girl is hardly the same as laying your relationship bare for the world.
I am hurt. I am hurt that you do not tell me these things.
I think it’s generally safe to assume there’s a girl.
Maybe more.
*eye roll*
Never. Mind.
I’m a regular reader of TNB, and while you’ve never been one of my favorites here, I was totally on board with this entry, up to a point. The description of your stunned pain and frustration was probably the most effective and evocative writing I’ve ever read of yours – I was drawn in, hooked. However, when I got to the section that began “I’m not a praying man… “, all that good will dissipated – I’ve recently lost a parent and I feel for you, but I thought that the section implied that someone, somewhere, some nebulous “They” owes you a book deal, an agent, etc. I’d be interested in hearing why you think you’re owed such things, and to an even more extensive degree, what makes you any more worthy than other writers, even those who might need quotation marks around the title.
Your comment would seem a lot less douchebaggy if you had a picture and didn’t seem like an anonymous interloper finally speaking up merely to sucker punch someone with such a harsh criticism.
You can get one by going to http://en.gravatar.com/ and create a profile by using the same email address you used to leave this comment.
I don’t seem to have any photos of myself on my work computer. Facebook is blocked here as well. If I have a moment tonight I’ll try from home.
Gloria, it’s commendable that you would stand up for a blogger; however, my original comment was hardly a “harsh criticism”. Had I wanted to be douchebaggy, as you put it, or deliever a sucker punch, I could do far worse. I respect this blogger as a contributor, but I am genuinely curious about the issues I brought up. I work for a moderate sized literary agency and we are constantly in contact with writers who complain about the Palins of the world getting book deals and not them. Perhaps it’s to this blogger’s credit that at long last I saw something that made me “finally speak up” after reading post after post here.
Again, I am sympathetic for what this blogger is going through in regards to his mother’s illness, and I’m not attacking his right to feel his mother deserves better. These are issues that every decent percent can identify with, and I think he does a good job here. However, I was not aware that the comments section of such a large site as TNB were only for words of praise/support/unicorns, a la Livejournal.
I think there was definitely a valuable criticism tucked in there somewhere, for sure. And even though there’s a joke about TNB being nothing but nice people, I think it’s absolutely important that comments encourage us to be better writers first and, if it fits, humans second, I suppose. But first, I think this post might be the wrong place to be asking those questions when he’s talking about his mom being sick. Have some heart. Second, it’s reasonable to attack the logic, not the human. Starting out with “You’ve never been one of my favorites” automatically removes a portion of your credibility and the credibility of your comment – even if there was something valuable in there. I’m sure you could have been much more unkind. But why? There’s no need to grind axes.
I just have to note, I wouldn’t have called this essay a “blog,” nor myself a “blogger.” I’d never post a blog at TNB. Only essays. Maybe fiction or poetry if I ever get the opportunity, but never a blog.
Wow, Jaime. I’m really sorry for your loss. I’d be a mess if I’d lost my mother.
I think I get what you mean about the section you mentioned. I don’t think I’d meant implication; maybe you inferred that notion you mentioned? I’m not sure I think I’m really owed anything; I just genuinely believe I wrote two great novels, borne out of hard, daily work and strict dedication to craft. Not sure I’m “more worthy”; I’m not saying I’m more worthy than, say, Sarah Palin or Stephenie Meyer or The Jersey Shore, but I’d put my novels up against any of those books any day to let readers decide for themselves which they loved, certainly.
Really, though, that section came down to something simple: bargaining. It’s one of the stages. Maybe I approached it from the wrong side, though, or at least neglected to mention the other side: through the past several months, since I found out she was sick until very recently, my emotional response to every rejection I’ve gotten has been “That’s okay, as long as my mom’s okay.”
I think it’s worth noting that, for better or for worse, and as this piece probably demonstrates, writing and stories and fiction are the filters through which I experience life. I tend to feel that everything is colored, in some way, by my writing, and even just feeling that way, I think, says a lot about how I experience the world.
My apologies, but this will be a dual response comment – I’m in a bit of a rush at the moment but wanted to send this off before leaving the office.
@ Will: thank you for your eloquent response – I think I understand a bit more now what you were trying to say regarding the emotional state of the bargaining stage. There’s a great deal of potential in addressing the idea that this particular viewpoint has changed, that the conflict going on here has created some seismic shift.
@ dwoz: I’ll try to answer each of your questions in turn:
If this had been written by Malcolm Gladwell, would it have magically been transformed? — As it was written by Mr. Entrekin and not Mr. Gladwell, I couldn’t tell you.
Is the WRITER to be judged for the sins and shortcomings of his created character? — in a word, yes, if the writer fails to evoke a connection between reader and character. Given your caveat that the essay (my apologies for calling it a blog) may be told from the viewpoint of a created narrator, a reader would be doing the piece a terrible disservice to settle for less.
How much do we need to “know” the writer, before we can decide what the writing means? — the greatest reason I love my job is because I’m at the point in my career where I can sometimes read manuscripts, or portions thereof, before reading query letters or any form of communication from the author. The writing must therefore stand completely on its own.
The writers I was referring to, whose level of ambition, skill and dedication to writing could fit into quotation marks are of the Palins/Jersey Shore/Meyer ilk, as well as the ones that write us angry letters in response to rejections that claim that they are somehow more deserving. Personally, I’m astounded that anyone could believe that the world owed them anything, which is why this entry went off the rails for me. As Mr. Entrekin said, there may not have been enough regarding the other side of his viewpoint of that stage.
It may be subtle, but there is indeed a difference between a narrator saying, “Well, these things are ok now, as long as my mom is alright” and saying, “I’ll wait”. The former implies change and opens up countless opportunities to evoke. The latter is stubborn, which may be fine for a character, but is stagnant for an idea.
With all due respect, Jaime, I think you’ve dodged the question.
When I ask if the writer is to be blamed for the sins of the character, I don’t mean for the quality of construction of the character (in this case, narrator), but rather for the qualities that the character possesses.
My assertion here, is that you’ve taken affront with the author’s tone, and I think mistakenly.
The author’s tone is of a campaigner who is attacking a rampart, and every day he bashes his brains out against it. His lament isn’t that his skill is being ignored, his lament is that there’s a damn rampart in the first place.
In other words, there’s a test he must master, and that test is getting through you. (literally, through you, personally.) Your reply would perhaps be, “well it’s simple…write good stuff!” He would reply, “The definition of the word ‘good’ is the same one that allowed yet another vampire book to pass?…yet another ghostwritten neo-con memoir?”
Incidentally, I posted elsewhere here just this week that no artist deserves a stage, it must be earned. So we’re certainly not in disagreement there.
Your “writer” with quotation marks is arbitrarily defined. You do it intentionally too.
I think part of the reason we even have this discussion, is because there are a multitude of sometimes mutually exclusive definitions of the word “good.” Your (i.e. the literary agent) “good” means “I can sell this.” Your “bad” means “I cannot sell this.” But you intentionally smudge that into the area of quality. Naturally, you want to equate the words “sellable” and “quality.” I think that the record shows that the publishing industry hasn’t always done so deservedly. The latter implies change and opens up countless opportunities to evoke. The former may be fine for a character, but is stagnant for an idea.
I think it’s worth noting, here, the opposite sides from which a writer and an agent might view this situation, as well as the spirit in which such a bargaining prayer might be offered. I’d note I think that prayer is positive–not in the sense that it’s good or wishes well, but rather in the sense that it specifically requests something–in that it’s a request for my mother to be better. Not that she no longer be sick, but rather that she be okay. In that same spirit of hope (and positivity), the converse request would be for a book deal, not for not getting rejected.
Does that make sense? I think the way writers and agents approach the querying process has some effect on their views of it, as well.
To wit: I can’t generalize to you, Jaime, as I don’t know you, nor what agency you’re with, nor whom you represent. But I will note that, as I’ve encountered agents on Twitter and personal blogs and interviews on various Internet sites, I’ve often seen agents note that when they read a manuscript, they read one looking for a reason to reject it. They look for a reason to say no.
On the other side, however, writers submit with a positive intention (again, not in the sense of positive = good and negative = bad); when I submit my manuscript to agents, I’m hoping for an offer of representation. I’m not hoping they won’t say no; I’m hoping they’ll say yes.
Dwoz brings up some good points in his response, too. Especially in his idea of a campaign; despite mudslinging and political hackjobs, it’s one thing to run for a position and another to run against an opponent. I would call the former positive, the latter a negative. Of course there are nuances and shades; one might have to point out an opponent’s weaknesses to highlight one’s own strengths, for example. But it also calls to mind the political exhaustion many feel when they can’t vote for the best man for the job but rather the one who’s not the worst.
I’d also note I think Dwoz’s point about our imagined exchange (“It’s simple . . . just write good stuff!”) and my response to good goes along with your original question about worthiness. Because there it comes down to: who determines worthy? As it stands, you would have pretty much all the power in the situation, and what is worthy is what you deem worthy (that I’ve “never been one of [your] favorites here” might, in that scenario determine my unworthiness). Which all leads down a further rabbithole (are Palin and Meyer worthy/good because they sold a lot? Did agents/editors/publishers know they would sell a lot, or did they just pay a lot for the books and then put massive marketing efforts behind them? Where’s the chicken, and did it lay the egg?).
While it makes me sad I’ve never been one of your favorites (I’ve always wanted to be everyone’s favorite writer), seeing the faces here, who’ve been following my writing for several years (and in some cases, across several continents) makes me happy. I know I can’t make every reader feel the same thing, but if I can write something better every time out, maybe that’s something.
Will,
Of course, I’m preaching to the choir here, but it bears saying I think, in context…
If there’s ANYTHING that’s true, in any creative endeavor, it’s that discovering a voice, that is your own, and using that voice to imbue your work with INTENT, is all that an artist can really ever do.
What the listener gets from that is their business, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.
Sure, there’s an objective standard that can be applied…whether your coarse mechanics are in reasonable alignment, etc. But the voice is something that just is.
In my songwriting, I have people tell me its too erudite, too many big words, it’s presumptuous, it’s pompous, the rhymes are too subtle, they’re too this, it’s too that…
…but then once, a guy sent me a note telling me that my song somehow hit him at a certain time in a certain way, in a particular context, and it changed his life.
Yay, me.
Now, if 100,000 of his closest friends would have the same epiphany…I’d be good!
I actually found his lament to be an expression of a universal, rather than a petulant personal whine.
Additionally, I am intrigued by the idea implicit in your critique that the “goodness” of the writing is somehow dependent on the “value” of the writer him/herself.
If this had been written by Malcolm Gladwell, would it have magically been transformed?
By this I mean, this is a bit of words-on-paper. The writer creates a narrator, who speaks in a voice. We make an assumption that it is the author speaking, but it’s a narrator. The narrator we seem to “know.” But, does it really inform us about the author? The author could be intentionally creating a character, with whatever traits he/she wants that character to have.
Is the WRITER to be judged for the sins and shortcomings of his created character?
Your “quotation marks writer” comment was pretty vicious, apart from it’s exquisite sophistication. But then, when we find out that you’re “in the business” it becomes a bit of a condescending cheap shot. This would be an illustration of my point, turned against you instead.
How much do we need to “know” the writer, before we can decide what the writing means?
your thoughts?
I would just like to note, I saw Malcolm Gladwell the other day, and it took every ounce of restraint I could muster to keep myself from going up to him and saying “ZOMG you’re Malcom Gladwell! For years I wanted a book deal, but now I just want to tip!”
I’m not sure he’d have appreciated that. But he’s a really nice, unassuming fellow.
Hey, Will. I continue to send good thoughts in your mother’s direction. I hope she gets better soon.
This was a tough read and a powerful one. And believe me, I know that frustration you feel when it seems like the universe will simply never serve up a break. I haven’t seen your manuscript in a while, but the version I read had a lot of potential. The fiction market is just so ridiculously tough right now. Why don’t you email the ms. to me? I’m curious to see the work you’ve done to it.
Best of luck to you, man. I know it must have been tough to post this.
Thanks, Richard. And you ain’t kidding. Right up to “publish.” For a whole lot of reasons.
And you better be careful with offers like that. What do they say, “No good deed goes unpunished”? I’m totally going to take you up on that.
Not really much more to say, but “peace”. Truly. As we say in Igbo, odimma, which is falsely translatable, but in reality approximately the same as Eliot’s “All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”
As we used to say at mass, “And also with you.” And as we didn’t say in mass but probably should have, thanks, brother.
will, this made me tear up. i’m glad your mom is doing better and that she’s in good spirits.
i really like the voice of this piece, that ranty, poetic stream-of-consciousness.
Thanks, Angela. I was glad to maintain that voice; I feared it was going to fall right apart. It was a lot like the actual balancing act; I kept myself together, mostly, but definitely fell right apart a few times.
Firstly: My thoughts and prayers are with you and your mother. She will be ok. And you’ll be ok. It’ll be hard, but you’ll be ok.
Secondly: Will, I’ve been a fan of yours for years. This post seemed a little raw compared to your others. I feel that you’ve revealed a little more of yourself than you usually would. I like that.
I’ve read pieces of yours that have made me laugh, think, be inspired, be excited and even sing some times. This one made me cry.
“Just like sometimes it’s not how many people you reach, but how you make them feel.”
Well, my dear, you’ve reached me, who lives all the way in Africa. And I thank you for enriching my life by letting me read the stories, essays and blogs that you’ve written.
Firstly, thank you. Okay seems more and more possible, and that may be the most hopeful part yet.
Secondly, thank you. This was definitely more personal than I’ve tended to write, I think. But I tend to feel like I’m not really all that interesting, or fear that people will think I’m, like, emo, or something. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I guess it’s that I really do want to make people feel something, and I guess I tend to disbelief talking about myself is the way to do it.
But I’m always thrilled to have reached you. You know you were the first person to make my book international? That means the world. Literally, and to me.
Will, I’ve always thought you were the coolest guy ever. I’m not just saying that, it’s true. After each post I read of yours you inspire me. When you started writing for TNB, I thought “Shit, this guy’s going places! Look at the fancy schmancy site he’s writing for.”
Will you are interesting! Let yourself go a little and see what happens.
I didn’t know that I was the first to make your book international. I’m proud to be the first. that means alot to me.
I read this
twice,
but that is not
enough.
I read it
again,
but that is not
enough.
Tomorrow
I will read it
some more.
I am
mute
now.
I have
nothing
in my hands
to offer.
Perhaps
tomorrow
I will be
wiser.
Perhaps
tomorrow
I will see through
the smoke.
Tomorrow
there may be
clarity,
perhaps.
I think I might propose,
Irene,
That even reading once
Is enough.
Especially
If you felt something.
I hope you feel more
Each time you read.
You need nothing
To offer,
As I offer this to you.
And if it so touches you,
Please,
Share it,
As I shared with you.
I just wanted to say after reading the above comments (mostly) that I totally understand that feeling of bargaining on behalf of someone we love, as well as the feeling of being overwhelmed at the number of people on this planet insofar as they are competition for making one’s mark. And then, at the same time, realizing that the world owes me nothing. Yes, what you said at the end is exactly right – that it’s how we live and how we make people feel that matters. But so many of us are driven to succeed. To matter somehow. Why is it so hard to keep our eyes focused on what’s really important? Hm. I think I tried to squeeze too much into this comment. You got my mind going, though. You’re getting the steam seeping out the crevices.
Hang on tight to your mother while you have her. Give her dignity when it’s time for her to go. Let the pain of mortality drive you to succeed in everything you do. Hold on to that feeling when you need it and search for peace where you can. We may each of us be alone, but we’re also in it together. It’s what we have.
Your final paragraph is like . . . is it “The Desiderata?” That poem I’m thinking of? The famous one? I once–very briefly–lived with a girl who had pasted it on the back of her door so as to be mindful of it as she went out into the world. I loved that girl.
Thanks for reading. And your thoughts.
Will- I’m really behind on reading. Mostly because I’ve been dealing with my own mother troubles.
But this was wonderful. And heartbreaking. And everything else, too.
Life SHOULD be different. More fair. I should have a job and you should have a published novel and your mother should be healthy and my mother should still have a husband.
But it just doesn’t work that way, does it?
(On a more upbeat note: My paternal grandmother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer seven years ago when she was 72. She’s 79 now, and- thank G-d- still kicking.)
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