I’ve been thinking about what it means to turn our experiences into words to be shared with others. Also, the disingenuousness of describing this process as “sharing.” Almost all of the writers I know hope to see their words valued not only in a your-truth-touched-my-heart sense, but also with an I‑will-recognize-that-making-these-words-are-your-work-and-you-have-bills-to-pay exchange. But what’s the measure? What’s the balance between using our experience to – hopefully – connect with others and offer something useful, versus exploiting ourselves and our loved ones for monetary gain?
(I may be overthinking this. Thanks, Jonathan Evison, for the revealing numbers in “How Much Do Novelists Make?”)
No surprise that this is what’s on my mind right now. Friday morning, my buddies Kari, Pam, and I are off to the Wild Mountain Memoir Retreat, where we’ll spend the weekend studying our craft. Tomorrow also marks three weeks that my proposal has been out in the world, making the rounds among possible publishers. Knowing this, carrying on with ordinary life has been tough. In the midst of cleaning the cat box, or wiping toothpaste goo out of the sink, the reminder strikes: Someone in New York is reading the most intimate details of my life (as captured in 94 pages) right now, weighing their worth.
What is the worth of words? How does anyone decide?
Even as those questions cartwheel through my mind, there’s nothing I can do to speed up or affect my book’s process right now. Daily life continues – cat box, toothpaste goo, and all. I focus on remembering to breathe, going to yoga and cutting back on coffee, and consider what an exquisite moment in time this is, regardless of the outcome. Perspective comes with the memory of the first words I sold.
*****
When I was 19, I spent a lot of time sitting on San Francisco sidewalks, with a few detours to Hollywood Boulevard. I traveled light: a sleeping bag another kid had kicked down to me, and a backpack that mostly held notebooks and pens.
I usually perched in front of the Fisherman’s Wharf Ben & Jerry’s. The manager was a kind man, frequently offering hot water to refresh my teacup, and the sidewalk was wide enough to unobtrusively plant myself cross-legged on the curb, with this cardboard sign propped at my knee:
May 23, mid-afternoon. A tall man paused to study my sign, then looked at me very seriously. With a butter-brickle smooth voice, he asked, “Would you write me a poem?”
I don’t write poems. Others – June Jordan, Vivian Faith Prescott, Joel Brady-Power – string words together in ways that make my heart sigh and nod, but apart from some angst‑y adolescent efforts best left in the past, that’s not how words come to me.
I would’ve explained that, but his plaintive request sounded just like a line from one of my favorite books: “If you please – draw me a sheep!” The pilot couldn’t deny the Little Prince his sheep, and neither could I deny Andres from Bolivia his poem. I wanted to honor this man who wore tinted glasses over sad dark eyes, who admitted he’d been having “an up-and-down day.”
So the wandering story collector who didn’t write poetry agreed to write a poem.
Brightening, Andres said that he’d be back in 15 to 20 minutes. With that tight deadline, I got to work.
Fifteen years later, the battered journal that held that poem sits here, open on my desk. My own red ink scrawl tells what happened next.
Andres came back. He said he’d been going to stay in the U.S. another week, but “after last night, I’ll leave in two days.” He didn’t elaborate. I told him it wasn’t a great poem, and he stood in front of me to read it. His eyes lightened; he said it was better than I could know, that it really helped him and was just what he’d needed. He gave me $7, and I gave him a hug.
Would this be a better story if I’d scribbled a copy of that poem for myself – and now, for you? Maybe. More likely it truly was a terrible poem, good only for the person it was written for. I like this story ending as it does: with the ragged edge of a single page torn loose from that journal’s binding as the only remaining whisper of our exchange – that, and the memory of two strangers meeting over words, managing to perfectly value what each other needed at that particular moment in time.
Tomorrow’s a big day, sure, but two days ago was pretty special, too. Happy belated birthday, Dad! I don’t always read the calendar so well, but I do love you.
I can relate to this. I am a “writer on a much lower level, started with shards of my ordinary life as I remember it but as my folder grows I am fighting the urge to publish. Should I? shouldn’t I? Inner battle goes on…
Publishing is definitely an inner battle, Eva, and not one easily resolved. Great big good on you for writing through the uncertainty, even as you’re not sure what you want to “do” with the contents of that folder. Keep writing. Try not to get too caught up in “should-ing” on yourself. Keep writing. Be proud of your words; be proud of yourself for valuing your work on its own merit. Keep writing!
Have fun up there. You’re right about the most important thing: take the time to appreciate this moment in time. It’s definitely special.
Yes, I can relate to the thought,…are my stories, really meant for others,…the guy who lives in Ohio,..(?)
maybe he needs a good story of high seas adventure,…
or are they for my two sons,…who Definitely need to know who their Dad is/was
If I’m a faithful writer,..faithful to the “Others, out there” that would be good,…might pay something someday
but who am I writing for,…whoever the creative gift is for,…at the moment?
I’m glad you commented here, Alan. Seems like a lot of us struggle with who our words are for — and that the answer changes. Without knowing you or your relationship with your sons, I’d agree that a parent’s stories are a gift that no one else can replicate. As children, can we ever truly “know” our parents?
You might look up Terry Tempest Williams’ book, “When Women Were Birds.” It’s a reflection on a mother/daughter relationship, but if you’ve ruminating on the value of words, stories, and the question of being known, I suspect you’ll find some things to relate to.
Well it’s a very small portion of the words you have written that will end up becoming one’s bread compared to the enormous gift of words you continue to freely share and that poem is a wonderful reminder if ever there was of the value people ascribe to your words. Just as you sat on the path that day and had to wait, so too will the same thing happen, Andres is a metaphor for your future agent. Just keep being you until (s)he arrives.
Oh, that’s very good, Claire — I love that you found the metaphor here! You are a thoughtful, insightful reader, my friend — and those folks make the best writers, you know. 🙂
For the rest of you: Claire is a voracious reader, and posts thoroughly excellent reviews on her blog. Her “Books Read” list is one of the main menus I’m selecting this summer’s boat reading from. Visit http://clairemca.wordpress.com/ to refresh your own to-read list.
What a wonderful story. Sometimes we get so caught up in bestseller list mentality that we forget that the right words at the right time can have an impact. Be happy for that $7 because today it’s hard for a serious writer to earn even that from hours of work. How many essays in literary journals that took weeks to write earn only a free copy of the journal? How much online content is produced for third-party sites that pay only if you generate a certain number of clicks? Good luck with your proposal. I’ll be waiting to buy your book.
Didn’t you know coffee is now supposed to be good for you? I tend to latch onto news, of all sorts, that fits my wants and needs, and I love my java.
Likewise, I can’t wait for your book, and am sending all good vibes that the right person will find it and usher your words to paper (and/or bytes) so we can get a bellyful of them.
Enjoy your retreat.
I’ll pay you 14 bucks for the Andre poem (published on your blog)
(what’s your po box?)
“the ragged edge of a single page torn loose” ~ a poignant reminder indeed. I can just imagine the words and ideas that will flow during the retreat.
Thanks for sharing this — I’ve been reflecting on questions of sharing and income over recent months as well — I am currently re-reading a book I first read last summer called Sacred Economics (http://www.sacred-economics.com ). I find that many of the thoughts and ideas in that book resonate strongly for me. Your comments about the tension between sharing yourself/experiences and the desire for monetary gain from it reminded me of a passage in the book:
‘To be sure, we can buy art, but we sense that if it is mere commodity, we pay too much; and if it is true art, we pay infinitely too little. Similarly, we can buy sex but not love; we can buy calories but not real nourishment. Today we suffer a poverty of immeasurable things, priceless things; a poverty of the things that money cannot buy and a surfeit of the things it can (though this surfeit is so unequally distributed that many suffer a poverty of those things, too).”
This passage speaks to the receiver’s perspective, but there are others where the challenge to the creator/gifter is considered as well. I’m not sure if you have the time or inclination to read the book but I would certainly be interested in hearing your thoughts on it if you do.
Yes! That’s a great passage, Matt — thank you for taking the time to share it. I’ll put this one on my summer list — it’s hard to believe that I get way more reading done while we’re fishing, but it’s true.
Sounds like you and I’ve been tussling with similar quandaries lately. Joel’s preparing for his first photography show, debating how to price his photos in a way that covers all of the printing/framing expenses, while — hopefully — keeps them affordable. I’ve been following the discussions professional photographers and artists have about not giving their work away for free, appropriately valuing their work, that pricing their stuff too low devalues everyone. And then I saw this TED talk: http://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_palmer_the_art_of_asking.html
It resonated pretty deeply with me, and might touch on some of your own recent reflections.
Thanks for speaking up, Matt. It’s going to be a while before we’re back up there… Would you pass my love on to the ravens? 🙂