My mother makes paintings. She wants people to see them.
I explain it as such (especially when I want one of her paintings that she is hesitant to hand over): the painting exists halfway unless anyone sees it.. hears it… feels it… reads it.
I once asked this of Anna Quindlen:
Dear Ms. Quindlen,
My huge fan-ness will go by the wayside with this email. I figure you have heard it enough. Suffice it to say, you are an inspiration.
I am a mother of three under six, Ivy educated, former business owner (music business -- publicity, massive girly I know), and now, recently twice published columnist for the Boston Globe, Globe North that is.
Question is: is one a "real" writer when they are hurt that their own friends haven't bothered to read their stuff? Does a writer only exist in the magic of the writing? Should that be enough?
I recognize and respect your busy-ness, but if you have a moment this writer-mom would so very much appreciate your insight as I begin what I hope is a new career for me, the one I always wanted.
She responded in kind:
Dear Darcy,
I hear Philip Roth doesn't really care who reads him or what others think about him. That's it, as far as I can tell. Writers are just like other people, only a little crazier and with a better facility for typing and thinking at the same time. It drives almost all of us crazy when the immediate world hasn't read our stuff, much less our family, friends, or former hometown honeys. I'm not sure where the notion that we should have elevated sensibilities comes from. Not from anyone who has actually watched us work, that's for sure.
Here's all you need to know about the "words-are-all" school, at least as far as I'm concerned. At a very young age I taught my kids to go into bookstores and move my books to eye level, cover, not spine, facing the shoppers. Writing is a conversation. Everyone wants someone to be at the other end.
Good luck with it.
First: Oh.My.God.
Second: It is a conversation.
Is there any one at the other end? Hello? Hello?
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Writing to the Ether
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2commentsBrilliant Person Wrote...
Two points: First, I read what you have to say voraciously. When there's an e-mail from you in my mailbox, my heart jumps. Because, I know, waiting for me is one of two things. First, it could be a glimpse of your life, which I on the one hand admire from afar and on the other hand relate to to such a degree that it inevitably makes me laugh or cry (usually both). The second thing it could be is a response to something that I have sent you to read. And those I treasure, like you must treasure the thought that Anna Quindlen paused for a moment of her day to think about you. I always have comments, but many of them end up bubbling through my conversations with those I run into throughout the course of the day. What you say always makes me think, and I quite literally change because of things I read. But what I don't understand as much is BLOGS. I feel like I'm writing in the margins of a very beautiful diary or journal. I feel like I might tarnish what you write, or might be adding a brushstroke on a painting that is perfect (or just fine, anyway) the way it was. Comments make it messy, and complicate things. And for me, they seem unsolicited. In this world of information oftentimes being a unidirectional (from the "experts" or "authorities") I find it hard to hit that "Publish" button.
Sarah, your thoughtfulness astounds. But if you want to scribble on my diary, I give you the key. I am pretty sure that whatever you can say makes it better.
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