my dad gave me a little guilt trip on sunday. “even though you promised to update your blog more often, you haven’t,” he said, in his ‘disappointed’ voice that gets me every time. i have half a dozen excuses, some of them even almost valid, but in the end it’s my own fault for not making time to write. because, honestly, i have the time. (i could, for example, not spend 20 minutes looking at the facebook page of a former high school classmate i haven’t seen in 15 years and instead use that precious time to write. in fact, it’s sort of embarrassing that i don’t.)
anyway. do you ever find that the universe kicks your ass at exactly the moment you need it? that certain events line up at just the right time to illuminate a life lesson you desperately need to learn? that happened to me yesterday, i think.
last night i went to a reading at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. the guest writer was one of my favorites, Lorrie Moore. she hasn’t published anything other than a short story here and there in the last 10 years, so the fact that her new novel, A Gate at the Stairs, came out earlier this month was a huge deal to people like me. i had her reading written on my calendar in capital letters and highlighted. you might say i was looking forward to it.
but let’s back up a moment. i was traveling from Pennsylvania to New York yesterday morning and since i got to the Trenton train station a little early, i grabbed a medium coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts stand before getting on the train. i was juggling a few bags (when am i not?) and sat my styrofoam coffee cup on the train seat so i could tuck my bags on the overhead rack. i clearly hadn’t sipped enough coffee yet because without thinking, once my bags were properly stowed, i sat down on my seat. on the coffee cup. in addition to scalding my rear end, i also stained my cardigan beyond salvation—i’m never carrying my Tide pen when i need it.
so all day i’d been walking around in a flimsy orange v-neck tee shirt from Urban Outfitters, jeans and my Converse—which is my idea of fashion, believe me, but not really work-appropriate. the outfit had been all about the cardigan, at least before the coffee incident.
by the end of the day i was freezing, so i gave in and threw on my Hofstra sweatshirt, purchased only recently on a sentimental, memory-lane-type trip back to my old campus (and the only other piece of clothing in my weekend bag). of course, it was during my time as a Hofstra student that i discovered Lorrie Moore. my second (and favorite) creative writing professor, Zach, wrote on one of the stories i submitted for class, “have you read Lorrie Moore? your writing reminds me of hers.” (to this day, it is the single best—and most ridiculous—compliment i have ever received.) i immediately went to the library and checked out as many Lorrie Moore books as i could find.
Like Life quickly became—and still remains—one of my favorite books of all time. it’s a collection of short stories and one titled “You’re Ugly, Too” especially opened my eyes to everything my writing was missing. if you’ve never read anything by Lorrie Moore, i suggest everything, but if you have only 30 minutes, please read “People Like That Are the Only People Here.” you can find it in the 1998 O. Henry Prize Stories and in her most recent short story collection Birds of America.
the story will stay with you forever, i guarantee.
anyway, so it was pretty fitting last night that i showed up to a Lorrie Moore reading in a Hofstra sweatshirt. that’s my point. i got there 30 minutes early and snagged a perfect seat amidst the growing crowd. and then i realized that Barnes & Noble was playing music by Madeleine Peyroux, a singer i only discovered about two weeks ago and have been listening to non-stop—literally—ever since.
after a somewhat mind-numbing day at work that had me really questioning my career choices, it was like the universe was telling me, “yeah, you belong here.”
Lorrie appeared on time, after an introduction that caused her to roll her eyes (which is partly why i like her so much—she’s so not about the B.S. ass-kissing the B&N employee was trying so hard to sell) and after a little self-deprecating banter she read from her new book (which i have still not read, i admit—i’ve been savoring Richard Russo’s Nobody’s Fool).
it wasn’t the first time i’d seen her read. four years ago she participated in the New Yorker Festival and i went to her session after work one Friday night. it was thrilling for me—it might as well have been Derek Jeter two feet away from me, seriously—and was right around the time i had decided to apply for MFA programs. i wanted to be inspired and i suppose i was, though not enough—i got rejected from every school to which i applied. (c’est la vie.)
last night i just really wanted to hear her read. people had their cameras out, snapping photos. nearly everyone had a Lorrie Moore book on their laps for her to sign. me, i wasn't feeling fanatic. before the reading began i’d overheard a few conversations between fellow attendees, people my age or younger talking about writing, talking about projects, about characters and plot twists and all sorts of things i never talk about with anyone outside of a writing workshop—and i kept thinking, “i’m not like any of these people.” i couldn't decide if that was good or bad.
after Lorrie finished reading she took some questions. that same ass-kissing B&N employee was running around with a wireless mic so various folks could ask their questions. as she was telling the first questioner about the writers who inspire her (“everyone,” was the gist of her answer), i decided i wanted to ask something. so i raised my hand when she was done. then i raised my hand again. no luck. the B&N employee announced that there was only time for one more question so i raised my hand yet again. rejected.
some lady asked whether she was crazy for thinking the protagonist in A Gate at the Stairs was narrating in the present tense—was she really reflecting back years later? i couldn’t helping thinking what a waste of a question! that’s what you end with? well, the universe heard my thoughts because the B&N employee with the mic changed her mind. “we have time for one last question,” she announced and, one last time, i raised my hand. this time, she saw me.
she hurried over and handed me the mic and heads turned to look at me, including Lorrie’s.
“hi,” i said. “i was wondering about your writing process—do you have one? how does it all happen?”
it’s important to note that i love reading about writer’s processes. it seems each one has a different process—some much more ritualistic and anal than others. i was not—at least consciously—looking for advice or guidance. but Lorrie (or the universe) thought differently.
“do you mean, how do i start my mornings?” she asked me. “what routine do i follow?”
“sure,” i said.
she spoke about the importance of the first cup of coffee and how it should not be wasted on anything other than work. “don’t waste it on your friends,” she said, “because you can never get it back.” everyone chuckled but she said, “i’m really not kidding. you start going for coffee with friends and it loses its power.”
then she got serious. “when i was your age,” she told me, “i wrote all the time. i was obsessive. i spent my weekends writing. is that what you do?”
i found myself nodding, even though it’s not at all true. i wanted it to be true.
“well, then you know how it is—you get into a narrative and you want to be with it, you want to be close to it, all the time.”
(that is something i do know.)
she went on to say that she’d never had a rigid process, like some writers. when you love to write, when you have to write, you just do it. “it sounds like you’re on your way,” she said, finishing up. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”
i was struck by the fact that she assumed i was a writer. i guess that’s dumb of me—probably she knows that the only people at her readings are writers. but i was also struck by the fact that instead of talking about her process, she sort of turned it around on me.
again, the universe was speaking, this time through one of my favorite authors. the message was basically: “uh, dummy—even Lorrie Moore thinks you should be writing all the time instead of putzing around waiting to be perfect. pull your head out of your ass already!”
and, as if on cue, as i filed out of the bookstore, Madeleine Peyroux came on again, this time singing my favorite song of hers, “Don’t Wait Too Long.” sample lyrics: if you think that time will change your ways, don’t wait too long...
i left feeling buoyed, not at all discouraged or even down on myself. on the subway ride home, i realized that i actually hadn’t been lying when i told Lorrie i write all the time. i may not always be writing stories that could wind up in a literary journal or collection of short stories someday, but most minutes of my day are spent writing—in my journal, e-mails to friends, birthday cards, thank you notes, photo captions, copy for work, copy for the wedding program, conversations i overhear on the train, descriptions that pop into my head that might be useful someday—i’m always typing, scribbling, jotting.
and maybe that’s the most important thing right now, at this moment. at least i’m always writing. though i did hear the universe loud and clear last night; i can’t wait too long to continue what i started in college, when i submitted that story Zach said reminded him of Lorrie Moore’s writing.
i’m just going to keep telling myself what she told me last night: “you’re on your way.”
mb
