Twelve years ago I began to betray my writing. I gave the work and myself to a star-crossed obsession that I believed was the deepest love I had ever felt. The romance ended. I found myself alone – without the words that had poured through me for years. I wrote a friend: I find myself without the blazing energy that has so often carried my hands across the keys, my pen across paper. So I read, taking comfort and inspiration from other writers. Mary Stewart’s fine-crafted Merlin trilogy carries me to sleep and dreams each night. Here, from, The Last Enchantment, are the words that brought me solidly to earth, free from the terror that the work has ended for me; and worse, that in focussing a year ago on my former lover and his writing, I disrespected my own gift.
‘(Young King Arthur speaks to his teacher/oracle Merlin) “…it has seemed—not like a dream exactly, but as if something were using me,using all of us…’
(Merlin) ‘Yes. A strong wind blowing, and carryng us all with it.’
(Arthur) ‘And now the wind has died down,’ he said soberly, and we are left to live life by our own strength only. As if—well, as if it had all been magic and miracles, and now they had gone. Have you noticed, Merlin, that not one man has spoken of what happened up yonder in the shrine? Already, it’s as if it had happened well in the past, in some song or story.’
(Merlin) ‘One can see why. The magic was real, and too strong for many of those who witnessed it, but it has burned down into the memories of all who saw it,and into the memory of the folk who made the songs and legends. But, that is for the future…’”
In February I left the man to whom I gave away my time and my work (not at his demand, but out of fear,—and the last shreds of belief that one must earn love.). Two months later I fell while hiking and soon found myself imprisoned by pain. Arthritis racked my hips, shoulder, legs and hands. I began to believe that I would never again be able physically to write. There was no way out of the pain, no way out of the knowledge that writing was more precious to me than the illusion of safety. Hour by hour, day by day, I dragged myself on an unmarked path that carried me home to myself, and my work.
Now, I find clouds and shadows of what I have learned drifting into my re-write of my second novel, affecting the characters, affecting how they treat each other and themselves. But, it is too early to write directly about what happened during those nine months. When I try, the flow is dammed, no word seems true enough—except these: I vow to keep my writing near me at all times; and I vow to teach what I have learned about the hard craft and the radiant magic of writing.
Eleven years after I wrote my friend from what felt like an abyss, I again believe in magic – not the sweet and furious enchantment of falling in love, but the long slow magical craft of persisting. If you have ever believed you had been visited by magic – in any form – and lost it, please take thirty minutes or more to write the story. Send it to me and I’ll publish it next week.
Here, from Vanessa Nirode, is her response to last week’s Breakthrough tip :
In the short run, I always carried something that was just a little bit too unwieldy, never overwhelmingly so, just a little so that I had to keep shifting it around, changing position, moving my hands and arms so I wouldn’t drop it. I walked block and blocks, miles and miles, still…always…carrying something. I passed an older man on the street once. He wore a soft, worn, grey felt fedora, and a canvas parka with a hem shaped like two triangles in the back.
“Put that down, young lady,” he said, “Put that down. You don’t have to keep carrying that. It’s still a long way, a long way to go.”
I ignored him, brushing past him, leaning over just enough so that my shoulder touched his, showing him just how much in the way he was.
“Watch where you’re going,” I said, “Watch where you’re going.”
I didn’t look back but I could feel his eyes watching me leave. The back of my neck felt hot, even though my hair was pulled up in a pony tail and the wind coming from the East River was cold and spikey. I couldn’t stop. I was afraid to put anything down for fear I wouldn’t be able to pick it back up again.
I just kept carrying everything.
“In the long run, what are you going to do?” Anne asked me. She pushed her new, round, clear glasses back up her nose. “You can’t just set all of this down in the middle of gods know where and expect everything to be ok. What will you do? How will you live?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “Maybe I don’t need all these things. Maybe I’m not supposed to carry them. Maybe someone lied along the way. Maybe this isn’t living the dream. Maybe it’s just a sham. And maybe my arms hurt.”
“Hmmpth,” said Anne. She stooped to pick up something shiny from the dirty sidewalk. She stuffed it into the pocket of her expensive, brown leather coat.
“Might come in handy,” she said.
I nodded because that’s what friends do and walked beside her. I tried to ignore my gut, my stomach, my arms, everything. I walked beside her and when she stopped again, on the corner of 76th and Lex to pick another shiny object, I helped her find a place to wedge it into her arms.
“I really have to go,” Anne said then, “I have so much to do today. And I’ve got to get all of this stuff back home so I can go out again.”
“Okay. Sure.” I said.
Anne leapt out onto Lexington Ave, balancing her load with one arm while swinging the other high. A yellow tax cab pulled up next her and she and her load shimmied into the back seat.
I watched her go. After the cab pulled away, I stood there on the edge of the sidewalk watching the cars stream by. People bumped into me or my load and, suddenly, for no discernable reason, I just set everything down on the sidewalk, right next to one of those metal paper boxes for the New York Post. I wasn’t even sure what was in that load anymore, not really. I stared at it there on the ground, leaning against the paper box.
A girl in sweat pants and high heels came careening by me. She lost her balance because the thing she was carrying was so wide. She teetered for a second on the tip of her right spiked heel, then fell right into the pile of stuff I had set on the ground.
“Ooof,” she said. She never let go of what was in her arms. She wouldn’t put anything down. She tried to get up but didn’t have enough leverage because her arms were full and she didn’t want to empty them. I reached down and pulled her up by her elbows.
“Oh thank you. Thank you so much,” she said. She started to smile then stopped. Her eyes widened in what looked like horror but I couldn’t be sure. “Oh my god,” she said, “I had no idea. No idea.”
“What?” I asked her.
“Your arms,” she said, “Your arms are so devastatingly empty.”
I opened my mouth as if to say something. Then I closed it again. I looked once more at my discarded pile of stuff and at the girl, pursing her lips at me. People rushed by us with their arms chock full of every single thing they could possibly carry, some of it so old they probably didn’t even remember what it was, or that it was there. I swing my arms from side to side, strong and free.
“In the long run, I think I like them this way,” I said and walked away, empty arms and all.
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