The Making of a Writer

by Gail Godwin

  FEBRUARY 9—FIVE YEARS SINCE MG’S270 SUICIDE

  Another work point:

  Father’s car Seeing the priest in Durham after

  the event—the evasions, the not-

  quite meshings.

  Jack M.271 in the intimate The constant search for a premise

  that runs like a thread through our

  lives—I must find out the truth, we

  say—but how much can you hope

  to find? Everyone is looking madly.

  The beach The essence.

  I must not take second-best plots, almost-stories. All my heroes & heroines must be looking for the main root. Not, not an offshoot, a facet, but the mainspring.

  This whole day has been a failure because I’ve let myself be a football field for a lot of people’s games. If I don’t watch it, the spongers are going to get my smell & I’ll find myself keeping them in whiskey, steaks, and sympathy. My most valuable commodity is time and I have spent it carelessly. The whole miserable day is my doing. To make it up to Henry for being curt to him after King Lear, I wrote him a note & invited him to lunch Saturday (today). He called yesterday (interrupting an intense conversation with Mr. Landsborough) to say he wasn’t sure he could come because he’d had a headache for two days. So I said, “Well, see how you feel tomorrow,” thus giving him leeway and trapping myself. Then Stella called & asked if she could “invite herself over,” and of course I said yes. Then Henry calls at 12: 30 & hedges, saying he still has his headache and he has to be home early if his sister has this friend to dinner, but he’s not sure—so what shall we do? Meanwhile, a customer comes into the office & I’m talking more for his ears than Henry’s & I’m tired of the whole bloody thing, so I say, “You decide. I can’t make up your mind for you,” and he says, “I wish I could put my head in the river,” and I say, “I have to hang up,” and do so. (I heard him say something else, but I hung up on it.) When I left the office, I felt distinctly annoyed & was perfectly aware I’d managed to do it again—please everybody but myself. So, Stella came & Stuart, the Scotsman, cooked & I was in the middle. Stella always makes me feel I have to “perform,” what with her avid interest in my doings. I have a funny intuitive suspicion that Stuart wears thin with her & so I react to him the way she is politely not reacting to him. (Same situation as with Lorraine in Denmark when I thought they were snubbing her in the restaurant because she was colored & ended up crying & she was comforting me.) I hate being in the middle. Then Jim Jensen272 came in & I was surprised at how glad I was to see him. He was the one sober positive element in the late afternoon. He went all too soon. So Stella has gone home, having had her afternoon; Stuart went out & got ornery-drunk & came back & made a farewell speech, during which he contradicted himself fifty times. I am in everyone’s mind as an ill-tempered, fluffy bitch—if I am in their minds at all. Candidly speculating, I doubt if anyone is giving me a thought. Thus I lost this round, but gained an insight. The result of trying to please people out of a sense of guilt only leads to laying yourself on an altar, cutting a gash, & letting the suckers suck.

  FEBRUARY 10

  I am okay again. Leaning on people was bad for me. Got up at one—I can lie in on Sundays indulging viciously in dreams, half dreams, and finally daydreams. Then I had breakfast at Lyons Corner House, 273 came home & read the papers, cleaned up & washed my hair, and wrote from four until nine. It must have needed to come out. I did 14 × 280 = 3, 920 words today, and I think it is the first un-bitter thing I have ever written. If only I’m not too tired tomorrow. I’ve gotten through the preliminaries and now need the priest scene & the beach scene. (End: “Listen, we’ll try again in the morning. Okay?” “Okay,” I said.) I brought these people to life today, now I’ve got to finish them.

  He [Jack] had a good face, the kind I would learn to appreciate later. There was nothing slick or collegiate cute about it. It was many-planed, complicated, and, when he took off his glasses, rather beautiful in its own way.

  Tomorrow—go to bank & get £5. Mail letters.

  FATHER FLYNN: A SHORT STORY

  That weekend began desolately. After midterms, everyone went home. I could have gone to see my mother if I’d felt like

  spending most of the weekend on the bus. By Friday afternoon, the campus was as silent as a ghost town.

  I was miserable. It was not that I had many friends, because I didn’t. I tried to merge with the groups I thought I ought to like while I secretly longed for the company of the unacceptable and nonbelongers. Thus I hit somewhere in the middle and touched neither side.

  But I didn’t mind my aloneness as long as there was a background filled with people. Now that background was removed for the weekend and I had nowhere to run. I had the keys to my father’s beach cottage, but 150 miles was too far to drive alone, and what would I do when I got there? It was cold & there were no heating facilities and nobody had been down to inspect the damages since the hurricane.

  I drove around the deserted university town in my father’s car (by this time the novelty of having a car had worn off), wracking my mind for someplace to go. I passed the Gothicspired Episcopal church and it was thinking of churches that led me to think of my father & the ominous religious significance of taking one’s own life (if he who loves life loves God, then he who . . . ), and then I remembered that a nun at the convent school I’d attended for ten years had told me when I visited there last summer about a priest in Durham. She said when I went to the university, if I ever got a chance to go over to Durham, some nine miles away, to be sure and look up Father Flynn, who was a wonderful man of God and who had helped her many times when he’d been in the local diocese.

  “He has an insight into things,” she had said, and this was enough for me. I suddenly felt very lighthearted and purposeful, and started for Durham at once. I drove fast, enjoying the smooth-moving landscape ribboning away on either side of me. I stopped at a Shell station outside of Durham and looked up the rectory in the phone book and called him.

  I began by mentioning Mother Winters’s name, and he said, “Oh, yes.” He said he would be glad to have me drop in that afternoon, and gave me directions how to get to the rectory, which was two traffic lights past a bakery, turn right.

  Three standard black Cadillacs in the rectory parking lot were aligned with pontifical exactness. My green-and-cream Buick hadn’t been washed since I’d inherited it, and looked shabby beside God’s gleaming automobiles.

  Although it was located in an area of town that was going downhill in real estate value, everything about the rectory was new—its yellow brick, its large picture windows, even the grass. A few trees in the yard would have certainly given it a mellower, traditional look.

  A priest answered my knock. He was dressed impeccably in a black suit with the clerical collar and his face had that unfocused puffy look of someone who has just awakened.

  “I have an appointment with Father Flynn,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, blinking. “You called from the filling station, didn’t you? I’m Father Flynn. Look, come in and have a seat in there.” He motioned to a sunlit room on the left, just inside. “I’m on the telephone. I must apologize, but everybody here is either away or down with that awful Asian flu. Have you had it yet? No? Oh, good. Well, just wait in there, I’ll try not to be long.” He flailed his arms in a gesture of despair and almost ran from the room. His ankles looked fragile in their black silk stockings and he wore a new pair of black Italian loafers. I heard him continuing the telephone conversation, which I had obviously interrupted, in a breezy, rather nervous flow of words that sounded like a PR man talking to a client.

  I had lost the initial fervor with which I had begun this trip and thus began rehearsing my approach to nervous Father Flynn. I felt that I should keep from boring him at all costs and was relieved when I remembered that I did have a serious problem and one which would surely not be taken lightly by any Catholic clergyman. I sat in a soft beige armchair beside a table with magazines,
mostly Catholic Digest, and tried to recapture the somber convent mood of incense and martyred saints, but it was a bit difficult when everything smelled of fresh paint.

  “Well, I’m back,” said Father Flynn, wheeling into the room. “I’m sorry, it’s a madhouse today. Now, I’ll just shut this door so we won’t be interrupted. But I must warn you, if the phone rings again, I’ll have to answer it. I’m expecting a call from one of our parishioners whose husband’s in Duke Hospital with leukemia and we’ll have to go over any time now to give the last sacraments. What a day.” He passed his hand over his forehead and sat down in a chair facing me.

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “What is, my dear?”

  “That . . . the woman’s husband, I mean.”

  “Oh! Oh, yes it is. It certainly is. So much tragedy. But always for a purpose, for a purpose, you know.”

  “I’m glad you said that, because one of the reasons I came here . . .”

  “How did you know Mother Winters?” he said.

  “Oh, she was my favorite teacher at St. Genevieve’s. I still go and see her whenever I’m up that way.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No, but I might be. I mean, I might become one.”

  “Mmm. Mother Winters is a fine woman. She has a real vocation.”

  “Yes, she said you helped her quite a lot in getting over some spiritual obstacles.”

  “I helped her? Oh, yes. I remember some of the sisters did come to me at times for recommended reading. Yes, maybe I did. Nice of her to mention it. Well”—he paused and fingered the ring on the third finger of his right hand—“so you were a pupil of Mother Winters. Where are you, at Duke now, or up at the Hill?”

  “Yes, the university. I mean, not Duke, but Carolina.”

  “I see. How nice.” He looked as if he were casting about for some more suitable questions so I decided to get to the point and not waste his time.

  “I hope I haven’t added to your hectic day, Father, but the truth is, I’ve been kind of mixed up about some things and I remembered Mother Winters saying that if ever I was over this way, you had a real insight (he was looking attentive now) into these things. So. Here I am.”

  “Well, I’ll certainly try to help in any way I can. Do you, uh, know exactly what’s bothering you? Can you put your finger on it? Little matter of faith, is it?”

  “Well, no. I mean, it is in a way, but what started it all is my father committed suicide last month.”

  The telephone rang outside the door and Father let three rings go by while he gave me a look of deep sympathy. “Dear child, I’m so sorry for you. Do you know whatever drove your poor father to do this? He was ill, was he?”

  “No, he . . .”

  Father Flynn looked agonized. “There. I can’t ignore it, can I? Do forgive me. I’ll be right back. I’m so sorry about this.” He bolted from the room and I soon heard the businesslike drone again. I picked up a Catholic Digest and leafed quickly through its pages, not really seeing anything.

  “Now. Let’s hope it was for the last time. You were telling me about your father’s illness. Did it go on for very long?”

  “No, he wasn’t ill. I mean, he wasn’t very stable in his work and he drank a lot, but nobody expected him to—well, you know.”

  “How did it happen? Sleeping pills?”

  “No, he shot himself in the head. The first shot misfired, so he really killed himself twice. I keep thinking how much nerve it must have taken when he realized he wasn’t dead and had to do it all over again.”

  “Brrr,” said Father Flynn. “Well, my dear, you must remember that when a man does something like this, he might not seem ill, but he could be very very sick and not really comprehend the seriousness of his action.”

  “But that’s what I really wanted to ask you about. You see, I loved my father very much . . .”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “. . . and, well, I had Catechism at St. Genevieve’s and according to you, he’s roasting in Hell right now . . .”

  Father Flynn looked slightly annoyed. “Now, let’s not be extreme about this thing, my dear, there are mitigating circumstances for everything. You must understand that if your father was . . . uh, mentally disturbed at the time of his action, and sometimes a person can be temporarily disturbed, then he was not entirely responsible, you know.”

  “Then, if he’s not in Hell, where is he?”

  “You must understand that he is not in a state of grace, but neither would we like to say he’s, uh, roasting, as you put it. There are always circumstances. I can tell you for fairly certain that there are prayers for this sort of thing. There are prayers.”

  “Then I should pray?”

  “Why, yes, pray. Certainly pray. That’s the idea. I know it seems bigger than life to you now, you’re probably still in a state of shock, but gradually things will fall into place for you.”

  “But where is my father’s soul? I mean, you couldn’t tell me definitely, could you?”

  “Nobody could tell you one hundred percent definitely but God,” said Father Flynn. “You must have enough faith in him to rely on his judgment. He’s a pretty fair guy, you know.”

  “Oh.” I had been waiting for the telephone in the hall to ring again, but it stayed silent. I heard a bus rumble by on the street outside and suddenly felt completely relaxed, almost stupefied, and unable to move or think further. Father Flynn had crossed his legs and seemed to be contemplating one of his thin silk-stockinged ankles.

  “Well, you’ve been a big help,” I said, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “You’ve said so much. It hasn’t had time to sink in, but I’m very grateful.”

  Father Flynn straightened up like a released man and smiled warmly for the first time. “I don’t know about that,” he said, “but I’m only too glad if I have, and you’re free to come back anytime. There is a very good man over in your neck of the woods, though, in case you’re interested. Father Gregory. He’s at the University Parish and terrific with young people. I can strongly recommend him. He seems to be closer to their problems, you know.”

  “Father Gregory,” I repeated.

  “That’s right. I think you’ll like him. Very understanding. Tell him about your father. He’ll give you some prayers to say, maybe explain it better than I have.”

  “Oh, no, but you’ve . . .”

  Now he was standing. “Tell you what. I’m going to give you a book that may help you. It’s sort of a compact little rule book to let you know where we stand on a lot of matters. There’s a very good section on marriage and the family in there and you look like a girl who may be needing that chapter before long.” He attempted a robust wink and handed me a little paperback volume he’d taken from the book stand: My Way of Life, it was called.274

  “Oh, but you must let me pay you for it,” I said, also standing now.

  “Why, I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Well, gosh, I mean, thanks.”

  He held my coat for me. “Did you drive? Yes, I guess you did. Could you follow my directions all right?”

  “Oh, they were fine. No trouble at all.”

  “Good.”

  He shook hands with me at the door. “So nice to meet you,” he said. “And next time you see Mother Winters give her my regards. Brrr.” He looked up at the dull sky. “You’d better get back to the Hill before it pours.”

  “Oh, I love the rain.”

  “Do you? Well, that’s a good way to be, I guess. So long, then.”

  “So long,” I said.

  Just before he closed the door, I heard the telephone ringing again. Poor thin, slangy Father Flynn. I hoped he wouldn’t come down with the Asian flu.

  Halfway back to campus, the sky opened and the rain came down in sheets. I slowed down to 30 mph and turned on the wipers and the radio. By some lucky coincidence, they were playing the Pastoral Symphony.

  I ate supper at Harry’s. There were plenty of others. There were only three gir
ls sleeping in McIver that night. None were on my floor. It was enjoyable, in a way, the absence of shrill conversations in the showers, no telephone ringing every third minute, the after-rain smell of water dripping into leaves, etc. I cleaned out my desk drawer and got my laundry ready ahead of time. Then I read through the entire fifty pages of Mott’s History of Journalism listening to the rain leftovers plip-plop onto the leaves outside, carefully underlining with a pen and ruler. By the time I had finished, it was late enough to go to bed.

  After my supper at Harry’s I had walked. The wet streets were clean and empty. I stopped in front of Kemp’s to look at the new record albums displayed on a turning rack and then next door at the Intimate to look at the new book titles, the colorful dust jackets.

  Walking past the post office, I had a brief realization that I loved my life that I was now living. But this flashed past so quickly that I was left with only the words: I will always remember this evening. And couldn’t even decide why.

  Saturday morning, I awoke to such quiet and beauty going on outside my window that I wondered what all the fuss had been about. I decided that, damn it, I was going to have fun this weekend all by myself. I would drive out to the country in this pre-spring air, and park by the side of the road, and walk, and maybe pray for my father. Then I would come back to town and go to a movie. I enjoyed going to the movies alone, anyway.

  FEBRUARY 12

  Ursula Winant, the agent, has invited me to her office on Monday to discuss my writing. Oh God.

  FEBRUARY 16

  Lorraine has said that my letters were beginning to sound like catalogues of lovers.

  Jim Jensen. If anybody does not remind me of a Jim, it’s Jim. I wish he could go by the name he was born with: Dmitri. He has, if not completely stolen my heart, at least set certain things clear for me. B. said, “I can see no better relationship possible than that of a man and woman who have no common interest.” I accepted this because I (thought I) loved him. But I can see the possibilities of loving a man who has the same interests. My problems are, in a certain respect, J.’s. I can appreciate him because I have a better understanding than most of what efforts he has made to achieve what he has done. I also see why he is seriously concerned with a future in which lecturing & serious writing must be combined.