On the Soccer Sidelines
The Encirclement | Granta 107 | Magazine | Granta Magazine
A funny thing happened at house league soccer this summer. Kevin took Albus to most of his games, and got to know some of the other parents. During one conversation, late in the season, a dad politely asked Kevin what I do, and Kevin said, “She’s a writer,” like he always says, bless him, and the other dad said, “No way! I’m a writer, too!” or something to that effect. When Kevin brought this discovery home, I realized how excited I was by the thought of having a sideline soccer chat with another writer. And it turned out that we did get to talk shop during one of the tournament games. Which made me realize how rarely I talk shop. And how lonely this writer journey has been. And how totally I’ve been responsible for my own isolation.
I’ve been thinking about the blog, recently, because a friend and new-to-blogging-blogger had questions for me, very interesting questions about maintaining privacy, deciding how much to reveal about the day-to-day major and minor life-changing events that affect our writing, about shaping a blog entry, and choosing a focus, and et cetera. I wish I could claim to have thought deeply about these issues; but the truth is that I’ve flown by the seat of my pants, and this blog exists and is maintained by instinct. Even the blog’s title was not something I spent hours pondering; in fact, it was the first thing that popped to mind. (I had been considering the possibility of blogging for a long time before I began, however; so maybe my subconscious had already worked everything out). I am surprised, now, that I was brave enough to choose a title that would out me as a writer, having spent a good portion of my writing career shrinking from that identity. I was not comfortable claiming to be one. On the other hand, I was extremely happy and comfortable with my identity as a mother. So, I preferred to answer the question, and what do you do?, by saying, I look after my kids.
In retrospect, I think my discomfort came from my exalted view of what it meant to “be a writer.” How could I claim to be something so wonderful and mysterious? Well. Sometime during the past decade, I’ve come to understand that being a writer is like being anything else, that it is a craft to be learned and practiced, and that talent is relative, and that saying “I am a writer,” does not mean the same thing as saying, “I am a writer of brilliance, and here are my many proofs and prizes.” It means saying, I practice, I keep at it and I haven’t given up, I am prone to moments of reverie and calm, I sit my butt in front of the computer and I translate experience through the lens of imagination into a structure that relies on words.
So, I’m a writer. I write.
And let me tell you how much fun it is to talk to someone else who does the same thing. This must sound fairly obvious to all of you who enjoy talking to your colleagues about work. But it’s only been very recently, just this spring and summer, that I opened up to the possibility whole-heartedly. Why has it taken me almost a decade to come around to appreciating this? If I’m honest, I’d say my barrier was basic insecurity. I was afraid of not being good enough, of my own competitive instincts to be the best (stupid competitive instincts; though I thank you for making me work hard); of competition itself, quite frankly, because a writer is self-employed and potentially fighting for a spot on limited lists with other writers, who are equally hungry. I can’t identify precisely what happened to change my point of view, but I don’t see it like that anymore. There is room for many. There is no “the best.” There is a good deal of luck involved in success, as well as talent and hard work. Anyone who sticks it out in the arts has my deepest admiration. And I celebrate all writers who break through into literary stardom (if there is such a thing).
All of which makes me a happier writer, and a happier person, too. And excited to talk shop, whenever the opportunity arises, be it on the soccer sidelines, over a bottle of beer, via email, or here in Blogland.
The link above is to a story written by the soccer dad, whose name is Tamas Dobozy. I’ll admit straight away that it is quite unlike the kind of story that I write, but it is damned interesting, and plays with ideas of identity and reinvention, of heroism and cowardice, and at the end you may be wondering, like I was, who is telling the truth.
What I Read This Morning
11 | Lost Cat | Granta 107 | Magazine | Granta Magazine
This morning, I woke with yesterday’s story in my mind. I am writing all this week, and Kevin is looking after the kids (they are headed on bicycles to their first summer swim lesson this morning–and the sun is shining).
I did not mean to start my writing morning by reading a long essay by a writer who has lost her cat; but if you have time, consider reading it, too (link above: “Lost Cat,” by Mary Gaitskill). It is about much more than losing a cat, of course. It is about how humans attempt to love and to change each other, out of love, or out of what we interpret as being love; and about how we are haunted by our childhoods; how our patterns establish themselves and persist; and about so many other small and moving things: the difference between sentimental and sentiment, and where our real feelings intersect with the feelings we use to hide from ourselves our real feelings.
In a paragraph that made me laugh out loud, the author begins to ask random people, strangers, even, whether they have a psychic feeling about where her lost cat might be, and she writes: “I am still amazed by how many of them claimed they did.” Which made me wonder, would I claim to have psychic feelings about a stranger’s lost cat, if asked? I probably would. I would probably appreciate being asked, and entirely believe that my feelings on the subject were as legitimate as anyone else’s. Wouldn’t you?
Well, anyway. The essay is not primarily about the cat, but about other relationships, of the human variety. I won’t give it away. The pleasure of this essay–like the pleasure of so many experiences–is letting it unfold without guessing in advance what it will reveal. (Don’t get me started on those movie trailers that spoil a good movie by revealing all the best lines).
Now I shall hang laundry in the sunshine, and mull the effect of this essay, and its effect on the story I am writing.
And then, I shall write.
Archeology 101
Fooey (to me): Were you alive 89 years ago? … Oh right, 89 years ago was when there was dinosaurs.
Soccer Saturday
So, the soccer season is over. Albus’s team played hard and performed better than anticipated, but it wasn’t quite enough to send them on to the semi-finals tomorrow. Watching from the sidelines kept me happy; Albus is not the strongest player, and I felt less of a sense of responsibility and investment, and could enjoy the ebb and flow of the game more as a result. I was relieved that his performance wouldn’t make or break the outcome of the game. No one was counting on him for big goals. Kevin experienced an opposite effect, finding Albus’s games harder to watch than AppleApple’s, seeing all the missed opportunities that a bolder player would have taken. Maybe I should go to Albus’s games, and Kev should go to AppleApple’s, and we’ll all live happily ever after.
I see more soccer sidelines in our future. The grass is fine, there’s a big sky, and the non-playing kids entertain themselves with snacks and play. I’m almost–okay, not even almost, but actually–looking forward to next season.
Meta-Musings
In answer to Krista’s comment yesterday, asking why I’ve decided not to write about writing … well, I have at least one defensible reason, along with several indefensible ones; and fully expect none will matter anyway, and my vow will prove an entirely temporary whim, because writing about writing, for a writer, is kinda like enjoying several glasses of wine when you know you should stop at one. Sometimes, it’s just too damn pleasurable and you don’t care about the inevitable hangover.
Here is one good reason not to write about writing: It’s a procrastination technique. I fear becoming a writer who neglects her writing while writing about the process of writing. And the process is fascinating–for writers, if for no one else–and the corollary of this is becoming a reader who neglects fiction and poetry and memoir to read essays about writing.
But here is one not-quite-so-good reason not to write about writing: When you’ve put something down on the page (or into the ether that is the internetten), it stands as if it were truth. But I am the kind of writer more interested in experiment than truth; in flux, in a transitory moment. At the same time, I write with conviction. I am entirely committed to the transitory experiment I’m placing on the page; even while I’m aware, underneath, that this too shall pass. How does one express that duality to a reader without appearing insincere or downright fraudulent? I play with possibilities. I am hyper-aware that everything I write down here, every scene that I paint, is constructed and subjective, even when it points toward an essence that is true. It would be terribly annoying to remind a reader of this at all times; besides, I think we’re all aware on some level that this construction is going on, even here in Blogland (or perhaps especially here in Blogland) where we present ourselves and our families and our lives in a very particular way, through the lens of the blog, to the world at large.
It isn’t a perfectly accurate picture, in other words. It cannot be. It’s impossible to capture the mundanity. We are constantly making choices, conscious or un-, about what to keep and what to forget.
When I write about my writing, especially in the midst of a major project like the one I’m currently hurtling through, all I can see afterward are the flaws in my logic, the mistaken paths down which I enthusiastically trod blindly, and the many ways in which things did not turn out how I’d intended.
In writing about writing, in other words, I create a record of my own failures. It can be, frankly, a little disheartening. I need to believe absolutely in the thing that I am creating, or my courage would fail. If I were reminded, too bleakly, of how often a creative idea does not bloom to fruition, or grow as hoped, I might fear the work ahead. Except, even as I type this out, I think, TOTALLY NOT TRUE!
Because of course I’d do it anyway–I do indeed do it anyway–even knowing the inevitability of failure–failure to realize fully the original vision; rejection letters; a bad review; the variety of opinions and personal tastes and the impossibility of pleasing most; my own wish to be just that inch or two more accomplished at my craft. I am intimately acquainted with all of that knowledge. It does little to impede my attempts.
But, in truth, I’d rather no one else knew. That’s the indefensible reason.
Heavens. I’m in a confessional mood. I had a neighbour, an older woman, when she heard that I was a writer, tell me that it had once been her dream to be a writer, too, and that she had in fact written a book for children, sent it to one publisher, and received a letter of rejection. “So I knew I wasn’t a writer,” she said.
I’d say it’s quite the opposite. You know you’re a writer when you receive a letter of rejection, and with blissful or dogged or determined optimism, you send out your manuscript again. And again. And you rewrite it. And you edit it line by line. And you seek the opinions of others. And you throw it out. And you write another. And you send it out. And through it all, though you question and doubt and your energy dips from time to time, you are filled with purpose and hope.
But you’d rather no one else knew too much about the naysayers.
And that’s why I am not going to write about writing. So help me.