The Making of a Writer

by Gail Godwin

Jeremy is lying on my bed with his brown suede shoes on my sink; Andrew has fixed my typewriter & is applying for a job on it. Eugenio is coughing in the other room & we have been sending each other notes in Spanish.

  MAY 12

  James has gone to see his Scottish parents this weekend—William165 said last night that he was completely fed up with the Rank Organisation166 and had come back to the flat disillusioned & threatening to quit. We went out to a play Thursday night—it was one of those evenings that start off disastrously & end quietly & happily. We are both tense & the play Blitz167 wasn’t really too light even though a comedy, because of its theme. Afterwards we stopped by the flat to have a drink & William had some character there that was the epitome of everything I hate about the English. Tight little mouth; snide remarks; a sort of constipation of the spirit. He proceeded to invite James on some cruise & then proceeded to decide out loud which girl would be best for James. I resented it & felt I shouldn’t (now I know I am justified because he was just plain rude). So went to the Gigolo for a late dinner & I felt the need to retaliate & really let J. have it with both barrels. I made it very clear that I didn’t like him at first, he was too old—and he looked suddenly very tired & old. Then I was attacked by a real tenderness & would have handed over my life to him in an instant. (I had even said, “I wish I could like somebody like you—you’re what everyone says I need.” What a bitch.) We went back to the flat again “for just one drink” and I lay on the bed feeling thoroughly sorry for myself & very dramatic & he fixed one Scotch & one coffee. Then he came & sat beside me & we talked seriously without any jabs. I ended up spending the night . . . it was one of those times when two humans need each other’s warmth. He said finally, and sincerely, to my great surprise: “You’re so sweet & very natural & I love you very much . . .” Also, “I want to take care of you & protect you,” and with that I slipped away and we both fell asleep holding on to that warmth. He hasn’t made love to me. And then we took the bus to work together & he left me in Hyde Park. That’s when I realized what he was to me . . . walking away with that lumbering stomping walk, head bent slightly forward, carrying his umbrella. I watched him until I couldn’t see him any longer & then turned & looked at the rows of tulips against the green of Hyde Park & the early morning riders on their dappled grays & roans & chestnuts—and there was the usual lemon & gray haze over my adopted city & I felt at once lonely and exhilarated; caught & free. I even stepped away from the queue to isolate myself for a little longer.

  Tonight afterwards, listening to Van Cliburn & Mozart’s Requiem, I regained my vocational spur. Thomas Wolfe still makes the others look sick. No little compositions of manners for him.

  Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.168

  MAY 16

  9: 30 WEDNESDAY EVENING

  It’s still light outside & I have gone to bed. So much has happened. Where to begin?

  James came Sunday evening and we went to 49 Mossup Place169 & discussed his new decision to leave Rank. He said he was prepared to lower his standard of living, sell his car, etc. “I’m feeling particularly fond of you tonight.” Was it that I had spent a self-sufficient weekend & looked radiant because of it? Was it because he read my clippings & decided I could write? Who knows? But anyway the wine flowed & the feelings got warmer. I’m not rationalizing when I say I’m not sorry. I know so much about him that he’s never told me. First of all, he has not had a spectacular life. Father was civil service, Mother (I think) is a little over-loving. He was in the Navy—Australia, etc.—and then came back to study law at Oxford. From there it was a firm & then another (must ask about those in-between years). He’s been to the continent but I really don’t know how much he’s traveled. I know he’s never experienced the excitement I have in twenty-four years. I wouldn’t trade my life with anybody’s. Also, I wonder how he feels about my having been married. I don’t think he minds, it makes me less of a desperate woman. “One of the things I find most attractive about you is that you’re mentally honest.” He knows how I feel about separateness. I have never had such a perfect relationship with anybody. It’s a short time but it still sets a precedent. Monday night late, we fixed dinner (cold chicken, beans, peas & mint, cheese, bread & wine), had a good talk—mostly about the pressures of organization life & single people being pressured by their married friends.

  MAY 17

  This is one of those days when I cannot compromise to pacify the smiling mediocres with their stock of speech & thought patterns. I am finished with DW as a person. I was silly to think we could get along. She is not imaginative & not extremely brilliant. She is not appealing to men. She is not really a good manager. Today we clashed twice: once about a letter I had written and once about my paying American income tax. I rode home on the bus blue with hate. When I get extremely mad my face goes numb all over. I really wish I had the benefit of an older & cleverer person’s advice but I don’t. Not tonight anyway. Besides, there are only two people whose opinions I’d really value: B.’s & James’s. Neither is available now. So: I know not to handle this situation as I did the Beverly Paulson case.170 In other words, (1) never let anyone suspect that I dislike her; (2) don’t let her have anything to criticize; (3) forget she exists as much as possible—if I come to work on time (always nine!) & start typing madly, reading every bit of material that comes in. Always have a stock of available literature in my desk if Miller171 asks for it. FROM NOW ON BE QUIETER & don’t talk to anyone in the office unless necessary— be utterly charming (never brief or surly) to the visitors and phoners.

  MAY 18

  The work problem somewhat alleviated. I kept it strictly business until the middle of the morning, when Doreen said: “Are you sick or something?” Then later she was forced to say: “Gee, Gail, you’ve really been doing a lot lately . . . ,” then she went to lunch & to the bank & to the hairdresser & was out all afternoon. Oh well, we shall see whether or not she is another BP.

  Church bells are ringing somewhere, the air is cool, we have been cheated of spring. Is there anywhere like Chapel Hill in the early spring or Asheville in the late spring?

  Now for a quiet rest . . . oblivion . . . and then the happy time . . . Shostakovich’s Eleventh172 is supplementing me. Thirty-one Tregunter closes down soon. The framework of the new venture will be myself, Eugenio, Jeremy, Colin & a few others. Rosemary left a thief; poor Alec must leave his piano. Fidgeting, his hands clasping and unclasping on an English novel, Neil, who isn’t going, said: “You know, I’m glad it happened in a way. I was getting in sort of a rut.” The lightheaded girls— Geraldine, etc.—rushed out to Flats (Raymond Kerry Share-a-Flat) & are now complaining miserably about basement dampness & old furniture. Michel is still in his room with the velvet curtains & double bed, counting his pennies like Midas, hoarding his unpaid tax money. Andrew will not find another passage, I don’t think. He is at a party, owing me & everyone else money.

  MAY 21

  VAMOS A PARECER CACAHUETES EN CHAROLA EN LA CASA NUEVA173 “We are going to seem like peanuts on a tray in the new house.”

  MAY 23

  It is 12: 50 and I have completed the first six typewritten pages of “The Gall Crab.” I am enthusiastic—it reads like pro stuff and I am having fun writing it. I know exactly where I am going and what I plan to do. I think this will be about fifty pages—that’s four hundred words a page, twenty thousand words, which is a novelette. I haven’t had this wonderful productive feeling since December in Copenhagen.

  MAY 24

  THURSDAY

  If tomorrow weren’t Friday I would be at the end of my rope. Complete exhaustion. My job is not the center of my life. Spent the evening with the Wests. We had a good conversation and I told them the Kennedy story.174 Mr. West said I should relax more, said I was attractive and walked well. But they both think I should marry an American.

  MAY 27
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  SUNDAY NIGHT

  Another weekend gone. I have ten thousand words of “The Gall Crab” and have finished as far as the art class. Evan is emerging as a sympathetic character & I think everything will be all right. The next scene will be Wednesday at the library & largely a thought chapter. She will see Al at the library & they will go to Bayfront Park where he will tell her the story of the old man who fell in & then discovered he could swim. Al is emerging as a glamorous, intelligent character, but a little phony.

  “Halcyone and the Lighthouse”; “The Gall Crab”; “Gull Key”—these three titles represent the evolution of Godwin’s e forts to come to terms with her experiences in South Florida. In the end, “Gull Key” prevailed, but not without incorporating parts of the other drafts, and then falling short of publication, due, perhaps, to inconsistencies in the mixture.

  “Gull Key” underwent tremendous transformations on its way to completion, eventually deriving its dramatic substance from a story not found in early versions: the dissolution of a marriage. Initially, the story, in its Halcyone mode, involved an ex-reporter who falls in love with a sea captain. Aside from the setting, the main element that “Halcyone and the Lighthouse” shares with “Gull Key” is the symbolism of the lighthouse.

  Any one person has far more experience in his or her life than is required for any one book, yet few come away with classic tales. Any group of people will come away from a common experience with different reports, yielding unequal candidates for print. Godwin’s process in writing “Gull Key” demonstrates that one of the most critical aspects of writing fiction is finding the essence of a story.

  JUNE 1

  Beautiful sunny June 1. I am in London. Reassured by outside noises of garbage cans clanging and the ragman calling down Cathcart Road. Inside, Eugenio is shaving. I am in bed with God-knows-what. I now have a natural necklace of graduated glands. Dr. Kennedy (a clean, white-haired English practitioner with just the astringency of an Irish brogue) says it’s either poisoning from scratching my scalp or glandular fever.

  ANDREW: I get a kink in my throat whenever I see a beautiful girl driving an expensive car.

  EUGENIO: But why? That’s so stupid.

  ANDREW: Simply because it’s annoying. Too much.

  EUGENIO: But if you go around being so stupid you will make little squares of your life.

  MICHEL: But at seventy-two one does not need three or four silver teapots.175

  ANDREW (putting on Michel’s soiled raincoat): You know, it’s amazing how quickly one can make oneself look like nobody.

  JUNE 4

  I do not have time to write my book. James read it and liked it, falling asleep calling me his “little genius.” It makes one wonder if one shouldn’t get rid of one’s own very polished, calculated style. Saw All Fall Down176 tonight alone. Enjoyed being alone for a change. I like Gail. Must think about my book—haven’t resolved it yet. Must be true to oneself. God, how I’ve improved since last year.

  How to recapture . . .

  JUNE 8

  So many triumphs this week and I am too sick to care. I got to go to the Daily Mirror luncheon, not Doreen. My writing is better than ever. All that remains is to copy over part 1 and send it to the Atlantic, then proceed to finish the novel.

  JUNE 12

  Part 1 is all typed. I’ve prayed over it & tomorrow I write a very courteous letter to the editor, address it to the Atlantic First competition, 177 buy international postage coupons & mail without another thought. I must make clear that this is only a small segment of a novel.

  At least I’ve got the entire book planned. I can submit an outline to anyone who wants it. Good grief. How can one ever know for sure?

  JUNE 13

  Wednesday—milestones: (1) I mailed my story and will either be rejoicing or be shattered a month from now; (2) I detest my job; (3) went to see Jules & Jim178 with Andrew. The girl simply succeeded (for a time) at what I’ve been doing for years. Andrew’s suggestion for skyrocketing the national economy: make fertilizer, marrow jelly & gloves out of corpses.

  JUNE 14

  Tonight it becomes necessary to set down (in order of importance) a few maxims in order to save my own life: (1) the story will probably come back. If it does, you must STILL finish the novel; (2) you must throw yourself into your job tomorrow and do all the letters and keep busy; (3) you must put James in his proper perspective. He is thirty-eight years old. Has never married, will probably never marry.

  Seeing James tonight walking down King’s Road, with that brown face, briefcase, that special walk, I thought: It isn’t fair that someone like him should be running around loose.

  Andrew: “Michel—your laugh just shattered three panes of glass in my window.”

  JUNE 17

  Sunday—I am alone to assess myself & my progress (OR LACK OF IT). Today is the last day I can say I am twenty-four years old. Although the number 25 terrifies me, there’s not very much I can do about it. Time certainly sneaks by. I have everything I want in life except the writing success and that will either come or won’t. I have escaped Key Biscayne & the failure of a job & I have escaped Asheville & Frank. I have a man that I seldom tire of, a man that can get more tenderness from me than anyone else on earth; and this same man lies with his face buried in my neck and says, “I’d rather be with you than anyone else on earth.” I am writing a novel, it is a good & honest novel, and the end is in sight. I was just thinking, sitting here by this window enjoying a pre-storm breeze: It is so very necessary to have privacy. I need meditation, I need to rearm myself for the never-ending battle of WE vs. THEY.

  This weekend was a funny half-and-half one: James was standing on the steps waiting when George179 brought me home from work. We went out to eat with Wm. & Anne-Marie and then came back, got sloshed, and James told me just how disillusioned he was. He apologized later but said, “I wanted you to know, anyway.”

  I know that the answer is simple—for both of us. We must live the best truth we know.

  JUNE 18

  Twenty-fifth birthday. B., of course, forgot—but then that’s B. Mother sent me a box with three little Mountain Craft animals and I am very fond of the bear. I am going to ask them to mail the mountaineer. Monie180 sent me a card with a little girl on the front (the kind she’s been sending for twenty-four years) and I felt curiously timeless—as if I never really grew up. James told me about himself when he was little. He had a face, he said, like a big balloon. God, I know how he suffered. A lady came to the door when he was three and said, “Hello, fatty, where’s your mother?” And he looked at her and then quietly shut the door in her face.

  And he used to climb to precarious heights to get some black-and-white-striped candy balls. “When everybody found out, they were so nice to me and let me have as many as I wanted.” I told him about the goldfish. “Here he comes ...”181

  James is good in many ways—except that he’s not sure of his future (who is?) and doesn’t really know what he wants. I think I will know more about him when (if) he finally breaks away from his job & strikes out on his own. I wonder how our relationship will go. Is it now as strong as the one with B. & me? That’s pretty damn strong. I think that tonight I will see how happy I can make James. He needs it (38 – 25 = 13, that’s not too bad). Doug was fifteen years older.

  JUNE 27

  WEDNESDAY

  Middle-of-the-week slump. I ride to work on the bus with nothing to look forward to. I ride home on the bus (feet aching) with nothing to look forward to. I have faith in my novel. It will be done well. It is honest. I am taking it slow and will prune the words carefully. I have to get her thoughts down as they are and yet not copy James Joyce or any of the others. I am getting more and more withdrawn about James.

  JULY 2

  Monday again. Riding home on the bus was particularly unpleasant— smells of body odor, Vicks VapoRub, the cheap print of the Evening Standard. A man got up for an old lady & then insisted that everybody else get up for old ladies. The old l
ady in question kept grumbling, “Is this Earl’s Court? Is this Earl’s Court? Will everybody please get off my clothes!”

  Must make some resolutions about the office, in order to survive. I think the only way I can enjoy it is to be a martyr and work harder than everybody else. Doreen & I almost came to blows.

  James took me out in the country for a picnic on Saturday and we slowly uncoiled. Came back & I took a hot bath & fell asleep at nine, no good for the rest of the evening. He slept, too, and then got up at midnight & fixed omelets & fried bananas & then we went back to bed. We also went to some small village to rent a punt (only there wasn’t one) & sat in the pub and listened to the locals.

  Sunday was better. We went waterskiing and I came home and worked on my book. Then he returned in the evening, bathed, exercised, and got three pages of “Lucan” done.182 He’s finished “George” and started a second story. They are both good and I am so proud of him.

  Dinner in the new Italian restaurant, Trattoria Pigliatelli, or something like that. We talked about “Lucan” and my “Bentley,” drank wine, and listened to the guitarist, whose voice was much older than he was. Then we came home and listened to the Russians183 and went through the New Yorkers.

  Every energy I have is directed toward the successful completion of this novel. It is my passport out of these doldrums. Until then I must hold on.

  JULY 4

  Independence Day and for me, too—I have enjoyed this free day to the utmost. Up at 9: 30, breakfast; wrote until 12: 00; went for a walk to W. H. Smith’s, where I bought this pen because it was old-fashioned and looked like one my grandmother used to have.184 Then I walked back through Redcliffe Gardens185 —dog turds; the slap, slap of wet feet on pavement; a child’s voice saying, “Aeeoh! Wot a nice television.” And a woman standing in a door saying, “I wonder if you could give me a rough idea how much it will be.”

  The sounds of my London on a day off. I drank wine & had Ry-Krisps + Camembert and thought about the triumph of going home & my novel is good. I know it.