AMERICAN WRITERS FROM THERE TO HERE AND BACK AGAIN

Why do American writers, or any writer for that matter, bother putting words down?

The easy answer is, “Because they have something to say.”

Which brings up another question: What if no one is listening, or reading, or shows even the slightest interest?

Is that the writer’s problem? They’re doing the work and it shows. But it’s not enough?

The nerve of some people. We all have busy lives, too busy, and it takes a special effort to make time to read.

It takes a special effort to write, too.

Imagine the crushing feeling of chasing a writing dream down a dead end street. That’s when you take account of things like education debt, relationships, and housing, and food, and clothing.

You know, the essentials for American writers.

The last door slammed on that dead end street and you’re standing there in rejection flop sweat with $30K owed to a MFA program, no long term love interest, a leaky roof, a can of tuna, and dirty socks with your toes poking through.

American writers say, “That’s right where I want to be?”

No one else would.

American Writers From The Bottom Side

What’s it feel like to the writer who gives it all up to write? They’ve given up happiness and comfort and love to pursue writing goals.

What kind of work do they produce? I look at the crustiest character I’ve seen the more of lately, Charles Bukowski.

Charles’ poetry and prose on being alone made me realize being alone is a good thing at times. Rather than being something we fear, being alone should be embraced and taken advantage of.

Some people are better off living alone in their funk, their drunk, and their hangovers. Pictures of Bukowski look like alcohol and nicotine are oozing out of his skin. He does’t look like fun guy, but American writers know his name.

And his work.

An American Writer’s Story

(An excerpt from a work in progress.)

In the late 70’s I engaged the idea of marriage and followed my future across the country. It wasn’t the most adult decision of my first twenty-three years. We met while I was an English major at the University of Oregon walking a writer’s path after my Army stretch in Philadelphia. 

She graduated and moved east with wedding plans. I dropped out for the second time and followed my girl. By the end of summer she dropped me, is how I remember it. We both agreed it was for the best. That she’s been married so many times since gives me no pleasure. If anything, it’s understandable. 

Instead of lurking around New Jersey for a second chance, which is what you do in New Jersey, I made a writer’s choice and moved up the road to New York City. Brooklyn, actually. Since New York is so big it’s good to break it down. My last apartment was on 33^rd & 4^th in Sunset Park.

Even though I was a demoted fiancé who’d moved out of state, it didn’t change much. They’re tiny states. We went backward instead of following the ‘moving on’ rule. She liked to visit. 

It got awkward after I met a woman at a dinner party in my first Brooklyn apartment. She lived a few subway stops away, a lady friend of my lady roommate who’d warned me about some problems before the evening got started.

“I’ve known Dora for a couple of years, and we’ve talked about her intimacy issues,” my roommate said.

“Intimacy issues?” I asked. 

“She likes to sleep with men who pay attention to her,” roomie said. 

Meeting someone new felt like a step in the moving-on direction. Now I liked Dora before we’d met. Roomie broke the girl-code by sharing their secret. But it’s not much of a secret. Pssst, people like people who pay attention to them  

I could tell Dora about my marriage plans gone wrong, she could talk about her intimacy issues. It would be rude not to pay attention. And she was coming over on the subway at night. Even that seemed daring.

My roomie knew the secret of staying safe in the New York subway as a woman: Don’t take showers, don’t wash your hair, and don’t wear nice clothes. Change when you get to work. I wondered if her friend would look like a truck driver, too. But roomie’s friend turned out to be a stylish woman with a slight chill when I answered the knock at the door. 

She smiled, I smiled, then my roomie took over and we settled in.

I shared my slow-motion breakup tragedy of weekend visits from my ex-fiancé.  

“I’m living here the rest of my life,” I said. “My story will be, ‘broke up, moved to New York, wrote about falling in love with the city.’ Just like that.”

“Or,” Dora said, “found the cheapest place to rent, a job that barely pays, and you’re trapped here like the rest of us. A writer could work with those conditions.”

“My new life story: I spewed romanticized crap to a new friend and got it slapped down by her cute hand,” I said. “Thank you for the insight.”

After dinner and clean up, everyone said goodnight. Dora was last to go.

“I’ll walk you to the subway,” I said. 

Since it was dark, and it was Brooklyn, any walk at night felt dangerous. It was also taking a shot with a New York girl who’d probably heard every shot in the book.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said with a frosty look. We were face to face near the front door.

“Okay, then. Nice to meet you, Dora,” I said, holding a fake hurt-sad smile, and her coat. She broke into a fake hurt-pout.

“You’re funny,” she said, took her coat, and left.

With Dora gone, my roommate moved in.

“Why did you ask her that? No one does that here. We don’t walk anyone to the subway. This isn’t junior high. She doesn’t need someone to carry her books. I told you she has intimacy issues. Why not just ask her to screw in the hallway? At least she got away before your big sex move,” she said.

“Big move. Down the street and back isn’t too big, but that’s all I’ve got planned,” I said. “I’d do the same for you.” 

“I hardly need an escort,” she said. “You need me more than I need you.”

She was right.

I heard a knock on the door and answered it. Dora stood there with a smile warm enough to melt away any intimacy ice. 

“If you’d still like to walk me to the subway?” she said. 

I grabbed my keys, ignored my roommate’s glare. We walked down the hall to the elevator, out to the sidewalk, and up the block. She knew how to walk.

“How far away are you?” I asked.

“Five stops,” she said.

“Is that a long way?”

“Come along and learn the neighborhood,” she said.

“I’m a fast learner,” I said.

“New York is a big classroom to study,” Dora said. “Do you really think I have cute hands?”