Simply mentioning my book for the first time in months set off an internal maelstrom capped by complete panic in the grips of which I considered quitting writing and getting a job at the mall.
This reaction would be amusing if it weren’t so predictable. Since the first, seamless, innocent draft, the thought of editing my manuscript has sent me into spinning anxiety.
I can never decide no matter how much I prod my mind and my soul if this anxiety is a normal reaction to a monumental task like writing a book or a sign that I shouldn’t be writing this particular book.
I recently read in the New Yorker that David Foster Wallace said, “the big distinction between good art and so-so art lies in being willing to sort of die in order to move the reader.” I don’t purport to be on his level (nor end like him), and he wrote fiction, but I will be brave enough to suggest that this statement might be even truer when one is writing memoir.
When I think about what I will have to scrutinize, parse out and reveal about myself to make this book truly good, it kind of makes me want to throw up. It’s exciting to think that this could be possible and moving to an audience, and terrifying to think about how difficult it will be and how, should I fail, I will have simply laid my guts out on the table to be picked apart by vultures.
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It is true. Quincy Troupe wrote a poem in which at one point he paints a picture of his mother sitting on the toilet with a stack of magazines next to her. I thought, gee, not the image I would want my now poet laureate child to publish of me. It's not exactly the same as what you're talking about, the personal-to-you emotions, but when I asked him if he ever held back writing things that he was worried others wouldn't appreciate he said you have to be honest, no matter who it hurts.
ReplyDeleteUnfortunately, that is what good writing is. Writing until it hurts - only then will it touch others, seem real, be authentic. There's no hiding behind the bush and just giving people peeks and hoping it's good enough. When I wrote about my mom's death I had to reach for that. Can't say I'm there, totally - but I think I'm better about writing stuff that hurts me more than I am of writing something that has the possibility of hurting someone else. Course, I'm writing fiction these days, so no one can prove I'm talking about them as long as the names are different!
Your comments on "sort of dying in order to move the reader" reminded me of Audre Lorde's poem, Litany for Survivial. Here it is...
ReplyDeleteA LITANY FOR SURVIVAL
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing of dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid.
So it is better to speak
Remembering
we were never meant to survive.
--Audre Lorde