The Making of a Writer

by Gail Godwin

  Gail’s two brothers and one sister by Frank—with their first ample accommodations. Gail’s grandmother, Monie, with whom Gail and her mother had lived in Weaverville and then in a Charlotte Street apartment in Asheville, had moved to an apartment on Katherine Place.

  B. pays $8, 000 a year income tax! Great God, he must be loaded. I never knew. Ah, well, no use to chafe. Either he’ll wait or he won’t. After all, who’s to guarantee I’ll wait?

  OCTOBER 26

  MORNING—

  I think B. was extremely right in parting with “See you next week.” He came around and we went out to Black Mountain to the Coach House for our Summit Meeting. He said it was ridiculous to regard my trip as a negative and that our relationship was anything but negative. He said he didn’t have one person in his world who had faith in his good judgment to be where he wanted to be (that was aimed at me). He said he thought it was fine we had completely separate interests, that he could think of nothing better than a woman writer & a man lawyer living together, each with their own interests & with one common bond: bed. I used all kinds of bait but he didn’t fall. He said, “If you ever fashioned that clay man you couldn’t get rid of him fast enough. You don’t want a carbon copy of yourself?”

  OCTOBER 27

  BACK IN LONDON

  Back from the New World with my New Philosophy. There has been plenty to test its strength.

  James got fouled up on the time, the plane was early & we missed each other.

  Came home and opened a letter from the bank telling me I was £3 overdrawn.

  Called Peter W.220 & received the classic rebuff of the self-assured Englishman. He soared in my estimation. I had played dirty & he wasn’t having any. I wrote him a letter tonight. I will probably never see him again & it will be my loss.

  Had it out with the Wests. The sad thing is, Mrs. West & I could make it okay again but Mr. West did not play square & I can’t say this to her. We have gotten into a real tight spot, like Kennedy & Khrushchev, and somebody’s going to lose face & that’s why it won’t work because they’ll always resent it / or I’ll always resent it. Now that I’m tired, I wish I could forget about the whole thing.

  The thing about this new philosophy is that it saves unnecessary wear and tear on the human machine. If I do not have to think through other people’s lives, how simple it will be. This way, I will have a definite framework. It is basically this: Regarding other people in category 1, demand absolutely nothing—ever. When it seems they have done something unfair to the relationship, decide whether or not I have the faith in their judgment to accept the act unflinchingly. If so: The relationship goes on. If not: Stop. Don’t second-guess if I can help it. Weigh a situation as honestly as possible in view of all the factors available, then decide & act. Don’t second-guess.

  Do during each day an honest amount of work. At USTS, this means enough to earn my salary, and enough to satisfy Miller’s faith in me. About the writing, know what has to be said. Then attempt to say it. Don’t think in terms of finished products but simply of a few good sentences that say exactly what was meant.

  Regarding people in category 2: This includes people like Peter W. in relation to category 1 person James. This includes people like Uncle William, etc.—people that I like, that have more than a temporary meaning to my life, but people that I can live without. Fair play is the recipe here, but no concessions ever at the expense of a category 1 person. (I am in category 1; that must not be overlooked.) Duties & obligations to category 2s must be defined & adhered to.

  Category 3 people do not include neutrals, shadows passing through, or semi-people. Category 3 is an important one. It consists of those persons who, for some reason, either by proximity or relation to 1s & 2s, are an undeniable part of my day-to-day life. To these people I owe nothing of myself. Courtesy is the byword here. Respect their territory but don’t let them invade mine.

  Lorraine’s forty pages were good. She thought it out. I enjoyed reading them. They were not slop.

  OCTOBER 30

  They were two very separate beings, vitally connected, knowing nothing of each other, yet living in their separate ways from one root.

  —D. H. LAWRENCE

  I can think of no better relationship than one where the wife is a writer or whatever she wants to be & the husband is a doctor or lawyer or whatever he wants to be & they live in the same house, make love in the same bed, but go their separate ways.

  B.

  Emotionalism & inward gazing. That is what’s wrong with my life & my writing. Did I think I could separate the two, keep one clear of the other?

  Walking to the bus stop on Haymarket at 5: 30 is, I think, my most unpleasant experience to undergo daily. I have given up taxis for the present (no money). There is something so desolate about darkness at 5: 00. I join the fast-walking crowds hunched down into their coats, necks receding, like turtles, and we all hike for the bus stops. Then there is the queue and finally I am aboard a 19 or 22, breathe a moment of relief upon entering the lighted interior, upon finding a seat, crossing my legs, scrunching down into my warm clothes & looking first at everybody else on the bus and then out the window. Sometimes I can look from my top-deck seat into the top deck of another bus drawn up along beside us. This is almost like spying and I turn away if anyone in the other bus returns the look. Often I forget all about paying until the clip-pie is standing over me saying, “Any more fares, please.”

  Walking down Old Church Street from King’s Road, I thought of Peter W. Through what may have been a sincere indifference to me and my kind, he has made himself an image to be attained at all costs. His simple act of rejection has turned him into a new person and I now want to go back and reassess all the things he said and did in the light of my new opinion of him. Whereas before he seemed an overintense, little-bit-strange D. H. Lawrence fan with too-curly reddish hair (I would have said carrotty before!), he is now a thwarted request for an unsolitary winter, good talk and romance. I have a feeling he is one of those inscrutable men. And so for the thousandth time, one second-guesses. At least that first night he made it quite clear what he wanted.

  One of the reasons I called him when I returned was that I was ready for a new section of experience. No nostalgia is felt for Asheville. I was there and now I’m here. That’s all. B. will always be my hero. James will always be a friend. Now I simply want a good winter friend to keep me warm and talk with me about the poets and various assorted ethereal subjects.

  The West situation has eased. I wonder what will happen next. I shall pay the rent and wait for the Spanish girl. She will not receive a hearty reception from me. I have gotten on the Black List by (1) this incident, (2) my indiscretion, (3) with James, of all people. I think courtesy is the byword for November. And no confidences.

  So much now seems superfluous. I can’t even write B. because I feel everything has been said.

  I am reading DHL’s The Rainbow.221 Where will I find this secret of writing?

  James said the other night, the night I had just returned from New York, “Darling, don’t ever cry again like you did that night.” I said, “It would be sad if I did, even sadder if I didn’t.”

  OCTOBER 31

  MIDNIGHT

  Peter W. called. I answered the phone (7: 45) and knew it was him because he said, “Just a minute,” and I heard newspaper sounds. Dinner with Charles and Jill222 and Michel. Fun. Light. This winter I am going to have a romance with Peter W. I am in London. He said, “Don’t think too much.” I said, “I’ve quit thinking. Nothing’s urgent.” He laughed. Tomorrow!

  NOVEMBER 1

  Damn time anyway. I arrived here about three minutes too late and Peter W. had called and left the message that he couldn’t come and would call Monday. Monday is eons away, but he’s such a busy man and I have no right to anybody on this earth. I took a giant step for me today.223 Now apply B.’s maxim: Don’t ever second-guess yourself. So I’ve done it and there must be no what-ifs. I won’t be a six minutes’ walk
from James, but then neither will Mr. West ever get the chance to feel my bottom or Mrs. West say “I think it’s just AWFUL, your staying out all night.” I will have to cook, but then I’ve done it before and I can do it again. The indestructible pyramid! I will have to watch my finances but I’ve already added it up.

  £24 weekly salary

  £4 for tax

  £10 for apartment rent

  £3 for food

  = £17 for expenses

  I will have £7 a week to live it up on. That’s $20. I should certainly manage and manage well. What is more, I could get someone else in and charge them £6 and then I will be saving £6 a week myself. I walk to work, so some savings there. I shall sell my foolish gold and diamond watch. It will be nice to be completely independent for a year. And I should get some writing done. It will be lonely as hell at times but I will manage. Who knows after that?

  James. My test of maturity soon arrives. The weekend looms. Stella may or may not want to move. That makes no difference either way. I told the landlady November 13. As soon as she confirms it, I shall tell the Wests. I hope there are no cold words. I like them, but I can’t tolerate this infernal, everlasting gossip. Ah, and Peter W. can come and see me in my new apartment.

  It would have been good to see him tonight. It is cold, wet, rainy. It would have been good to talk to him in a calm voice, feel the affection, think of the enjoyments of exploring the mystery.

  Another step I thought I might take: inquiring about journalism careers. I would have to pay English taxes. Horrible. But at least to get away from this stultifying job.

  He came after all and it’s all on a new level. A challenge again. When he talks, I have sometimes to admit I don’t understand his words or his word combinations. He hates clever women who edit magazines and teach in universities.

  When he comes toward me, I feel repulsed, frightened, and passionate, all at the same time.

  He is ridiculous, virile, honest, self-possessed. He was pleased when he saw The Rainbow. “You’ll learn more about England from that book than from any of these silly persons you meet in London.”

  Thirty-one, not twenty-seven. Cambridge, lit.; Manchester, logic and degree in philosophy.

  One does love the flaws, too. Can it possibly be that one loves MINE?

  “Marshmallow you called it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I had been describing what I hated about my writing.

  “I shouldn’t stop writing. Writing is a way of existence.”

  He suggested I try some short stories first.

  This is a man to be careful with.

  “I might call you next week if you promise not to put perfume on my clothes.” (My Givenchy Le De had left its aroma on his tweed jacket.)

  I said, “You don’t have to come if you don’t like. I can live without you.”

  “How wonderful this is,” he said.

  “For me or for you?”

  “For us both.”

  NOVEMBER 2

  It’s all done. Now, as B. says, there must be no second-guessing myself. I know I did the right thing and it is amazing what this knowledge does. I went into the kitchen after dinner. Mr. West was doing the dishes. I put my hand on his shoulder (did I have to do that?) and said, “Look. I’m giving two weeks’ notice. Is that okay?” He said, almost without bat-ting an eye, “Uh-huh. Fine.” He was then very anxious to know just when I was leaving. I told him November 13. After that it was only a matter of minutes until I had reached the top of the stairs, Mrs. W. had returned to the kitchen, he mumbled & she said (a bit too loud): “Oh, I’m so glad.” How one misjudges one’s own popularity at times! I had actually thought they would be a little distressed! Then very shortly afterward they headed out of the house (with Andrew, I think), probably for a pub. I can picture the very zest with which they walked up Old Church Street. They are going to have a pint of bitters. And there is something new to talk about. Something even more exciting than the Cuban situation, because I was a part of their lives and now will no longer be. There will be speculations, the opinions will range. There will be a crescendo of faultfinding until one of them, feeling subhuman, will say: “Oh, wait a minute. That’s not really fair.” “No, you are right,” the others will chime. There will then be qualifications. Soon they’ll be digging in again. The funny thing is, I feel nothing at all. Rather I have to fight against the old urge: to please people I don’t really like.

  NOVEMBER 3

  SATURDAY

  Guy Fawkes Day. The English Halloween. Worked until 12: 30 at the Fishbowl, then came home, ate lunch, & went to the shoe repair shop. When I returned around 3: 00, the “European haze” had started to fall. It really is smoke-lemon. The weak sun straining through actual chimney smoke, I suppose. Anyway, it gives me a sense of unreality. Not at all unpleasant. The cold is worse, but I really do not mind that either. In fact, I haven’t been desperate about anything since I returned.

  Re the Wests: This was a good lesson, the complete value of which will be recognized later on. Until one becomes adroit, the best rule is to go entirely by past evidence. I have seen them switch loyalties on and off like light bulbs; I have caught him in fibs; I have felt the insincerity of some of their remarks. They are desperate people living on a now basis. Therefore it is both logical and necessary to them that their friends also be on a now basis. When the friend (?) ceases to fit in with the demands of the NOW, they MUST TURN AWAY IN ORDER TO SURVIVE.

  I believe more and more that people do change . . . and on a day-today, place-to-place basis. As Proust says, our social images are created entirely by other people’s thoughts. I think that our images of ourselves are influenced tremendously by our surroundings at each given time. We are all perfecting our act. We are living in a social world where an act is a survival.224

  Sunday means sleep late, write Greenwich Village section of “Roxanne,” drink effervescent vitamin C. I no longer wish to be where I’m not. I can get my stuff over next Saturday, Sunday. By taxi, return by bus. Two trips will do it.

  GREENWICH VILLAGE225

  On my way back to London, exactly a year later, I stopped overnight in New York. Roxanne & I had been corresponding on the average of once a month &, after several months of tentative meeting plans, we had agreed in our last letters to meet at the information booth in Penn Station at 9: 00 p.m. that Friday.

  I had not planned on being physically exhausted. After a

  five-hour plane trip on a rough windy day from my mountains to Newark Airport (it takes only five and three-quarters hours to get from or to London!), fifteen miles and $9 worth of taxi into the city (the driver never stopped talking once), and two aspirins and one Scotch on the rocks at J.’s, I was fit for no human company. I lay on J.’s sofa in a stupor, talking to my host in monosyllables, listening to the Brothers Four singing mountain ballads, 226 and leisurely examining J.’s living quarters. He had reinforced my belief that New York, unlike any other capital of the world, while boasting ceaselessly of its melting-pot status is nothing more than an island of well defined groups. Even in Greenwich Village, reputed to be the home of the different, the unusual, the artist and the outsider, the inhabitants were living in uniform apartness. J.’s apartment, for instance: the travel posters on the wall, the bookshelves filled with paperbacks and Henry Miller (“I had to go all the way to Mexico to buy those”), the daybed with multicolored cushions, the old portable typewriter on the desk, the Paul Klee reproduction, all this I expected before I ever stepped inside. But that deadly tiring Friday evening, its familiarity was comforting to me & I lay there against the colored cushions, sipping my whiskey, thinking of the hundred other apartments like this one where I had paused for an afternoon or night. It was raining outside and it was 8: 30 & I wished I hadn’t promised to meet Roxanne. I thought of the many times during the past year when I had genuinely longed for her company and wondered why so many of life’s events are ill-timed.

  She was sitting on a vast marble pillar which mark
ed the foot of the stairs under the clock at Penn Station. I heard the bored-assured “Hi-i-i-i” before I saw her. She was prettier than I remembered and also, I noted, not as dark as I had expected. I was a little disappointed to note that this was the girl I’d been telling people was black. Her skin was far from coffee-colored. It was the same color as light light butterscotch. She was wearing a knitted suit which I remembered from Copenhagen. I went up to her and awkwardly offered my cheek and then stood back and looked busily at everyone milling through the vast hollow terminal and said: “God, I’m exhausted. It’s been too much in one day.” She seemed a complete stranger, someone utterly different from the girl with whom I’d exchanged long personal letters for almost a year, and I was embarrassed by her actual presence. She wasn’t a bit embarrassed.

  Looking me over, she said: “You look great. So . . . I don’t know . . . European. Did you have that coat made for you in London?”