So, what are you working on? I lie. I always lie. When I tell someone about my latest project, when I tell them what drives me all day and keeps me awake all night, I give away my power. The object of my written desire and affection and obsession is mineminemineALLMINE until published. The rest of the time, it remains a secret and forbidden love. No one else can know it even exists. Unreasonable? No. Seven years ago, just for the hell of it, I wrote the first 50 pages of a novel—creative nonfiction, based on stories Id overheard my grandparents tell their friends in the late 1970s and early 1980s. It was the first non-academic piece I had ever written. Still, something told me it might be worthwhile, that maybe it could turn into something special. But I wasnt completely sure. So I took a huge gamble: I attended a writers conference to sit down with an editor, a literary agent, and my manuscript. Lord knows its not finished, or anywhere near publication quality, I thought, but they can give me some tips to make it better. On my appointed conference day, I waited my turn to talk with the pros. Ahead of me were two dozen other writers, all of whom had at least 25 more years of life and writing experience than I. One by one, they huffed out of the conference room, slammed the door, and stomped back down the hall in hurt, insulted rage. And then I was next. Stomach cartwheeling with dread, I tiptoed into the room and meekly took my seat. Editor and agent, both worldly and sophisticated people who knew the business well, greeted me and shuffled my manuscript around. I readied notebook and pen for their helpful feedback. The editors eyes bore into mine. Miss Williams, if you do not publish this book, it will be a damned shame. He paused, would not let me look away. Do you hear me? A damned shame. If you do not finish this book and get it into print, you will have robbed the world of a precious, exquisite gift. I froze, pen in mid-air. The agent nodded. This story is excellent. Id love to see it when its, say, ninety percent finished. I can easily find a good home for it. And itll have to be a much larger press than mine, the editor added. Id love to publish it, but the demand would be too great. Aim for the big houses. He took another sip of coffee, then slid his card and the agents across the table. People are ravenous for books like this. Get it out there. Since 2008, that manuscript has lay in the bottom drawer of my desk. Once the mystery had been revealed, so to speak, the power and beauty of the tale Id woven just disappeared. Poof. GONE. The natural path that the story might have taken vanished under the glare of others expectations. People in the know had prophesied Big Things Ahead for Me. Everyone was watching. Like a child who falls silent when Grandma calls, Come in here and sing your pretty little song for us, the raging, rollicking, fiercely private work withered when I betrayed it. No matter that I had betrayed it to people who thought it gorgeous and strong. I betrayed it just the same: before it was ready, before it was whole. Oh, I tried to get it back. I changed the plot, the narrators motivation, the setting, the characters. No use. The result was forced, lifeless, trite and clichéd in a world of trite clichés. I finally walked away. I cried for months. The book refused to let me go. Last summer, in the face of soul-rending creative terror, I swore a formal, binding oath to my work. I took this commitment to my art as seriously and as solemnly as I would a marriage vow: I shall stay faithful to my story, forsaking all others. I shall write every day. I shall write no matter my mood. I shall notice every small thing I can. I shall bear witness to everything I can. I shall tell no one what my work entails. I shall tell no one even my smallest ideas. I shall tell no one where or why I travel. I shall not show anyone my notes or my idea board. I shall distract, subvert, and outright lie to protect my story. I shall reveal my story only when it is ready—no sooner. I am my beloveds, and my beloved is mine. When my story appears in final form, on screen or on paper, it is no longer part of me. It moves, lives, and breathes of its own accord. Only when it leaves my grasp, strong and sturdy, may others see and taste and touch it. Ask away. I cannot stop you. I know you mean well. I am grateful and humbled that you are genuinely interested in my work. But please know that I will always, always lie when you ask—not to deceive you, not to hurt you, but to give you the best gift possible. © R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)
Posted on: Sat, 08 Mar 2014 02:55:09 +0000
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