Crash Course

by Robin Black

  Is it too simple to say that his paternity came laden with a similar non-compete clause? It’s surely not something he knew about himself. I’m convinced that on every conscious level he wanted his children to succeed. But at the same time, he made it all too clear that anyone who tried to shine as bright as he became contemptible to him. And as for not shining as bright as he? Pitiable. Not worth the effort. These are the messages I internalized thoroughly enough that they stopped my fledgling ambitions in their tracks.

  It can be liberating, yes, to recognize such a thing about one’s own life, but it can also be deeply saddening to perceive the clarity of an unspoken conversation such as that, of mandates issued and followed, unaware. My father never imagining that through his actions he might be closing a child down. Me not comprehending how my behavior was shaped to appease this requirement of which he was unaware. I have no great certainty, looking back, about which of us to pity more.

  And that is hardly the only thing about which I am unsure. My father’s legacy is a profoundly unmooring one. In spite of all the troubles, I cannot dismiss him as a “bad” father nor, certainly, as a “bad” man. His desperation to be the most accomplished, most admired person in any room—if not the world—had about it the unmistakable quality of a psychiatric disorder, and to his credit he worked hard to battle his own instabilities. Moreover, his ambition was inextricably intertwined with a great deal of real good he did in the world, even as he made no bones about the motivating power of his hunger for fame. “For as long as I can remember, baby,” he’d say in the Texas drawl that grew stronger with every decade he lived in the Northeast, “even as a boy, all I wanted was to be famous. There’s never been any limit on that in me.”

  He never became a household name, but he was a massive figure in his field, legal academia, well-known for his work on civil rights, and through his writings in opposition to the death penalty. At Yale and Columbia Law Schools, where he taught for nearly a half-century combined, he educated scores of future leaders of every kind. When he died, his obituary ran a third of a page in the New York Times—a fact about which he himself would have been thrilled.

  And it was impossible not be swept into his orbit. For much of my life, upon meeting people, I led with the fact of being his daughter. It seemed much more important an aspect of my identity than anything for which I might ever be responsible, and it also seemed somehow required of me.

  To others it may have appeared as though I was bragging, mentioning this accomplished parent at every chance. But in fact, by mentioning him, I was keeping myself small, reminding myself how much more important he was than I, steadying myself through the gravity of his narrative, to which I was only appended, lightly attached.

  “Your father would have been so proud of you.”

  I suppose it’s inevitable that people say that, as it’s inevitable that I feel guilty about my certainty that it’s incorrect. I have always felt guilty about perceiving his failings. “I haven’t been a bad father, have I?” he asked, as he neared his death. “I’ve been all right, haven’t I?”

  The true answer was that he had indeed been a bad father, though he had not been only that. “Of course you’ve been all right, Dad. What are you even talking about?”

  I had no desire to hurt him. Because I loved him, and because he loved me—to the extent that he was able.

  And because complicated love produces complicated results. Having stifled my work for so long, he has also motivated it. An interviewer asked me recently whether I intend readers to dislike a particular character in my novel. My answer was that it’s hard to exaggerate the degree to which I’m uninterested in trying to define whether my characters are good people or otherwise. I have long taken pride in not judging my own creations; and I understand now that this artistic point of view, this commitment to uncomfortable compassion, is a familiar vantage point for me, a place of primal security. For all that my father silenced me, he may also have given me one of the deepest, most cherished needs I possess: this hunger to comprehend the complexity of human behavior, to look beneath what might be dismissed as only hurtful, to discover what may neutralize simple dispositions of blame, to convey this to the world, if only to convince myself. In other words, to write.

  You father would have been so proud of you. No. He would not have been. But he would have wanted to be. And for me, because I love him, and because I have outlived the inhibitions he imposed, that is enough.

  Varieties of Fiction

  When my then-fourteen-year-old daughter asked if she could read my newly published collection of stories, I hesitated, because of her language-based disabilities. Several of the pieces involve parents struggling with their sorrow over their disabled children’s challenges, struggling to adjust. Though not autobiographical, these accounts are echoes of my own experiences, and my first impulse was to protect her from reading that. But she was in a phase of feeling keenly that we had babied her for her entire life, of accusing us of defining her by what she cannot do. And she campaigned hard. So, after that initial hesitation, I gave her a copy of her own.

  She carried it from room to room for several days while I stood at the ready, prepared to have whatever conversation seemed necessary. She sat with it, held it open now and then, and turned the pages—though not entirely convincingly. And gradually, I realized that there might be more pretending than actual reading going on, that it wasn’t the content that would upset her, but her inability to penetrate the words.

  “You don’t have to read that, you know,” I said, as I watched her try.

  “I know,” she said.

  “Those stories can be hard to understand. Even for grown-ups.”

  “I know,” she said again, her gaze steady on the page, everything about her posture a plea that I let the subject go.

  I sometimes picture all those words I write, the letters, the punctuation marks, the ink itself, as a curtain of thick, black lace, through which my daughter cannot see. And at such moments, I hate the work that gives me so much pleasure, hate myself for thickening that curtain, for bolstering her sense that there is something very beautiful beyond her view.

  For days it seemed as though every time I walked into the room, she picked up the book. For days, I could sense in these actions, in her body, in a kind of nervous force field surrounding her, that she didn’t trust me not to pin her down on what she had—or hadn’t—read. And she wasn’t wrong to be concerned. For years, I have thought of denial as harmful, as weak. Many writers do. We view ourselves as truth-tellers and find virtue in that role. My daughter knows me well.

  But then, the book disappeared into her room. “I loved your stories,” she told me soon after that. “They’re really good.”

  Once upon a time, I would have insisted it was healthiest to pierce whatever pretense might be at work. But even I have gradually come to understand what life has forced my child to grasp from early on, that it is a luxury to insist on blunt honesty as always best, a luxury to be granted an existence in which denial’s softening mercies are not necessary now and then.

  “Thank you,” I said. “That means a great deal to me.”

  Encouraging a lie? Perhaps. Or maybe just acknowledging that there are fictions far more important than my own.

  Ii. writing (& life)

  Twenty-One Things I Wish I’d Known Before I Started to Write

  1. Publication doesn’t make you a writer. Publication makes you a published writer. Writing makes you a writer.

  2. Your “writer friends” are suddenly going to seem a lot more interesting, understanding, simpatico, and just plain fun than the friends (and sometimes family) you had before you threw yourself into this pursuit. I mean, they get you! But be gentle with the ones who were there all along—and remember the support they’ve given you, and the care; and try not to hurt their feelings by making it clear how much more compelling the ones who “speak writer” now seem. (And may not always seem…)

  3. The best you can do is the b
est you can do. There’s a fine line between learning from other authors and trying to be them. Be yourself. There are more than enough different types of readers out there for us all. I can’t tell you how much time I have wasted wishing my work were “hipper” and “edgier.” And every single moment was indeed a waste of time. I didn’t even like much of the writing I wanted to emulate. I just liked the attention heaped on the people who wrote it. Write the book you’d most like to read—not the one you think will win over the editor du jour.

  4. Not everyone will love your work. Not everyone will like your work. Some people will hate your work. Don’t put energy into pursuing the fantasy of universal adoration. It has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with guaranteeing that you’ll never be satisfied.

  5. Don’t expect yourself not to be jealous, but don’t let yourself act on it. Be jealous and be generous. Be jealous and feel generous.

  6. You will make mistakes. You will seem too pushy. You will seem falsely humble. You will forget someone in your acknowledgments. You will rush publication on something not ready to go. You will say things to your editor you’ll wish you hadn’t said. You’ll accept edits you shouldn’t accept. You’ll give a friend unhelpful advice on a draft. You’ll forget to read a draft you promised you’d read. You’ll ask for one favor too many. Don’t expect perfection of yourself. Do your best. Feel bad when you screw up, apologize, and don’t let it make you hate yourself. A lot of writers seem awfully prone to self-hatred. Try to cut yourself some slack.

  7. But be vigilant about being a jerk. We all make mistakes—but it’s also frighteningly easy to become a taker, a user, a self-absorbed neurotic wreck, and not even know that’s what you’ve become. Don’t be too hard on yourself, but don’t assume you haven’t fallen into bad-colleague practices either.

  8. Many writers live in bubbles. It could be family. It could be editors, friends, an admiring workshop. Your bubble loves you and loves your work. Your bubble may give you inflated ideas about the impact your work is going to have on the universe. Before you step into the great big world, try to remember that the world may not receive your work the way your bubble has. Try not to let yourself be set up for a huge disappointment. It’s such a privilege to have readers at all—don’t undermine the joy of that privilege by setting your sights so high you forget to feel grateful.

  9. Speaking of which, know what counts as success for you. If it’s the New York Times bestseller list, then know that. If it’s the grudging respect of a former lover, own it. If it’s critical acclaim and not so much about sales, try to remember that fact. There are cultural templates of ambition—prizes, lists, etc.—that the world will tell you count as success. But don’t fall for believing that they’re necessarily what you want. Only a very few writers get those things, so if that’s all that counts as success for you, you’re just setting yourself up to fail.

  10. If you have kids, don’t insist that your career be the center of their lives. It’s more than enough if they’re engaged and happy when good things happen for you. It’s not their job to see your artistic life as the center of their home. They may even push back a little bit. Kids are smart. They know what’s competing with them for your attention and they aren’t always going to welcome their rivals. Nor should they. I grew up in a home where a parent’s career was in many ways the emotional center of the household; and trust me, it’s a lousy way to grow up.

  11. If you have success of any kind, don’t believe your own hype. Maintain a little skepticism about your “victory.” The most inspiring authors to me are those who respect their own work, and are even proud of it, but don’t give off an air of entitlement, don’t act like they’ve been owed that seven-figure book deal since birth.

  12. Network only as much as you can bear. Don’t obsess about your followers or your platform. Time spent on platform cultivation is almost always time better spent writing. If you enjoy Twitter, that’s one thing, but if you don’t, then skip it. As much as publishers say they love authors with platforms, no extraordinary book has ever been rejected because of a lack of a Twitter following. And if you’re doing it to sell books? People would love to think Twitter sells books, because then we’d all know something that sells books; but the internet is littered with people who made splashy online names for themselves and then had sales numbers that still keep them up nights wondering what the hell went wrong.

  13. Don’t suck up to famous writers so they’ll blurb your book—the one you wrote that’s soon to be published, or the one you’re sure you will write one of these days. I didn’t ever do that; but then at a certain point (big confession) I kind of wished I had. And now I’m very glad I never did. It’s just icky. Plus, they know you’re doing it.

  14. It isn’t in the power of an editor (agent, etc.) to tell you whether or not you’re a writer. It’s that person’s job only to tell you if they want to work with you and your manuscript. Don’t view rejections as the final word on your worth—or even on the worth of the pages that were returned. You are the only person who gets to decide if you’re a writer or not.

  15. Before you decide that someone will reject your work, give them the opportunity to do so. You might be shocked by who falls madly in love with what you wrote.

  16. If your Goodreads, Amazon, etc. review of a friend’s book is going to lower their average, don’t review the book. Your integrity as a literary community member does not require you to make things harder for your friends. And if you loved the book, consider taking the two minutes it takes to tell the world.

  17. There are only so many manuscripts you can read for free before you begin to resent the people who are sending them to you. Try not to get in the habit of doing “favors” that tick you off. Find a way, when it’s appropriate, to make a reading fee clear—or just say you don’t have time. It’s not doing anyone a favor to read a draft with steam coming out of your ears. When you offer to read a manuscript, do it because you want to be a help to a friend, or because the project interests you, and not because you haven’t learned how to say “no.”

  18. Annnd…don’t ask people to read and comment on your work for free—unless you gave them a kidney (or read their book for them). But, if they offer, don’t hesitate to accept. Take them at their word, and offer to reciprocate if that’s ever a help.

  19. You cannot write the pages you love without writing the pages you hate. Nothing that you write is pointless, useless, or unnecessary. The product requires the process. The good days may be more enjoyable, but the tough ones are the ones they’re built upon.

  20. Don’t believe there are rules. There is only advice. There is only opinion. There are only my experiences and yours and yours and yours…

  21. Make your skin as thick as you are able to, for your career. Keep it as thin as you can tolerate for your art.

  The Collaborative Reader

  It is a magic trick: I make people up, events, locales—and, as I do, I trap those fancies in little black squiggles on a page where they remain, inert, until a reader uses her imagination to free them—though in an altered form. My story becomes our story, because writing, it turns out, is a collaborative act.

  Others have noted this fact. In his essay “The Half-Known World,” in the book of the same name, Robert Boswell writes: “The illusion of people and place created by a story is the algebraic product of a writer’s art and a reader’s engagement.” That seems indisputable, and since no two readers are alike, all works of fiction therefore have at least as many versions as readers. “At least” because a person who rereads will inevitably create a slightly different story the second time through.

  When I started writing, I didn’t understand that the creation of a story involves a reader’s active participation. I envisioned readers as passive observers to my performance in wordsmithery. I was doing something, and they were having it done to them. I was holding forth and they were listening. I was showing off and they were admiring. I was laying down the law, and they were ta
king note. If I said a character died, the character died. If I said the sky was blue, it was blue.

  Which is almost true, but not quite. Those two assertions, the unfolding of an event and the color of the sky, do not reach a reader with the same authority—because the story doesn’t belong to me alone. It belongs to me and to every reader. We have distinct roles, and we have distinct responsibilities.

  If I say a thing happened, it did. If I write that a woman gave birth to twins, there’s really no argument. But if I say the sky is blue, my authority is immediately tempered by the reader’s imagination. I cannot dictate what shade of blue the reader pictures. Or the other reader. Or the next. It doesn’t matter the detail in which I describe the sky, its hue. It doesn’t matter how many metaphors I spin, robin’s eggs, stained glass, I cannot control what goes through a reader’s head.

  The woman had twins. Because I said so. The sky is robin’s egg blue. Whatever that means to you.

  These two strands intertwine throughout every work of fiction: First, that which is mine, the author’s, to assert without modification and then, that which is a reader’s to invent, using the author’s words as a starting place. The house has seven rooms. Mine. The house smelled of soup. Not mine. The car went off the bridge. Mine. As the car went off the bridge Frank experienced a loneliness so keen it felt like a new state of consciousness. Not mine.

  Just the facts, ma’am. Anything subject to the least bit of interpretation belongs as much to the reader as to me, and nowhere is this knowledge as important as at the beginning of a story and at its end.

  What happens at the start of a story? If everything goes as hoped, the reader falls into an imaginative state—not unlike that of the writer when writing—ready to play her role in making the story up. She gives her imagination over to the service of the words on the page. She is no longer exactly in the room she occupies, not exactly in the time that passes through her. Many call this the dream state. Whatever one calls it, I find it infinitely moving that two strangers can occupy an imaginary world together, apart from all else. Can, in fact, make that world up together, apart from all else.