Chapters (10)
What did Theo think I was going to do? Make introductions to editors and publishers and all my buddies? But, Theo, it’s your fight. You break down the doors on your own, just as I did. No one did it for me. I’m not doing it for you.
I see it in your eyes. The rapacious hunger for what belongs to me, for my achievement. But, Theo, you can’t just walk up to me and take it. It’s mine.
You buttered me up. Flattered me. You memorized all my books. Perhaps to imitate me. And perhaps you will succeed with your imitation, perhaps you will be lauded for your imitation. Receive a grant or two. Maybe an award! A critic will marvel at your insightful and slick style. (Because the critics can only recognize the derrière-garde.)
But, Theo, it’s not just about being a “good writer.” That will get you nowhere. You must go much deeper. You must scapel your flesh, dig out your own bones, sharpen them on the stones of disappointment, strop them on anger until they’re keen as quills, then dip them in your own pain-thickened blood. Then you can go to work. Awkwardly and publicly. With no guarantees. And that’s how one makes one’s way, “young scholar.”
You will have to get angry, stay angry, at society, at the world, at the rich and the poor, the politicians and the academy, and me, for years, to find your way. This is what you need and what your work needs. And still, it may not come. Without anger, you cannot be a great artist.
January 18, 2007
Been a warm winter, turned very cold in recent days. I keep the fire roaring in the fireplace. Those boring old journals make for great kindling.
Very dry, they blaze with crackling enthusiasm. It may take the rest of the winter to burn them all.
I like these days. Serene. Getting reading done. Much writing.
A few months ago, I was so alone, so abandoned. No friends. No family I could love. Even my editor wouldn’t return my calls. My girlfriend had left me. Now I have a second wind. Sarah’s back, nourishing me with her vigor and soft skin. Leon and I have a new understanding. The doctor says my heart is almost back to normal. Even good old Dad is stable. He promises me he’s got at least ten more years!
The house is warm. The wine is good. I sit by the window watching the chickadees out by the feeder. Here comes the squirrel to steal the sunflower seeds. The phone rings. Stops. Rings again. I know it’s you, Theo. And I’m not picking up.