White Tiger on Snow Mountain

by David Gordon

  Literature I Gave You Everything and Now What Am I?

  1

  Writing is a desperate act. Like tucking a scribbled note into a bottle and tossing it onto the waves, it is a last resort, a hopeless gesture, a howl and a flare. Even worse if you write fiction—the urgent news about imaginary people. A story is savage, childish magic: toy dolls and invisible arrows. A vain stab at the hearts of strangers.

  Little wonder then that so many writers, engaged in such a fatally frivolous pursuit, take up extreme or irrational strategies. Really, why not wear a lucky writing hat or eat a ritual tuna sandwich at the same time every day? They say Joseph Conrad had his wife lock him, stripped, in a room like a kicking junkie and withhold food and clothing till he produced something. Balzac supposedly kept himself in a constant state of sexual arousal, working up to the point of orgasm without crossing it while simultaneously consuming vast quantities of strong coffee, fueling fourteen-hour writing sessions that resulted in more than ninety novels and death at the age of fifty-one.

  The Balzac approach has much to recommend it. It keeps one sharp, honing the instincts and mobilizing those dark forces upon which all creation depends: hostility, anxiety, craven desire, yearning loneliness, self-loathing, and itchy discomfort. On the other hand, it can be highly counterproductive. You’ve unlocked the lowest self now, after all, and Cousin Id, released from the basement, does not want to sit still, thinking about verbs and perfect tenses.

  Fledgling authors, sick with desire and unable to focus, might well be tempted to ease their vigilance and “unwind” before setting to work. Relax and release the tension is the idea here. But that is precisely the problem with this method: lack of tension. Now you want to nap, not write. The postorgasmic writer is content, and contented, peaceful souls do not produce great literature. The blank page is like an empty bed—those fields of crumpled white—where the desperate meet at midnight to make a final stand.

  Hence the most important question facing any young writer may well be: How often should I masturbate and when? (It also brings up the second most important question: How much coffee should I drink? But here the answer is clear: As much as you can without dying.)

  That’s why I spend my days at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, which I chose precisely because it has no Internet service, endless bitter coffee, and a staff who frown on removing your pants. Sit there long enough and you pretty much have to write something, if only a love letter to the beautiful Albanian and Ethiopian waitresses who move among us lowly, seated folk like queens, dispensing éclairs and hot chocolates atremble with cream. The downside of café life, however, is the fact that they let in other people, practically anyone who can afford a cup of coffee. Now, I’m not saying all other people should be banned from cafés. That’s unrealistic. And I really don’t mind the readers, the thinkers, the studiers or the dreamers, as long as they stay away from my favorite spot in the back corner. With most other writers I maintain an uneasy truce. We nod in greeting, pass the sugar, chat when signaled with a smile that it’s safe to approach, and most important of all, ignore one another completely when we show signs of writing, such as staring at an empty screen, practicing a spoon-twirling trick, or just pacing the sidewalk out front, muttering and shaking our fists, enraged.

  It’s the talkers I can’t stand. For Christ’s sake, talk at home, not in public. Though to be fair, it’s not all talkers. Murmurers I can live with, holding hands under the table, sharing a guidebook. Foreigners in general are fine, the foreigner the better. The soothing babble of languages I don’t understand is like Muzak to my ears. It’s the loudmouths I want to murder, the pontificators and raconteurs, the sad seducers reheating the same stale anecdotes for a rotating cast of girls, the screechy girls screaming their secrets: These I long to silence forever with a butter knife through the heart. And the worst of all, my nemesis, my temptress and my torture, dark lady of this humble tale: a relentlessly loud talker who talked and talked incessantly—about writing.

  Her name was Jasmine. And the reason she kept making so much noise about such an offensive topic was that she not only wrote but also led a whole gang of aspiring writers in some sort of self-help program. Right there. In my café.

  Let me be clear: This was not, as you might reasonably imagine, a program to help them quit writing, like other afflicteds gathered to cease smoking or shopping. That would make sense. I might even ask for a brochure. No, The Writer’s Way was designed to take perfectly ordinary citizens, normal, healthy people with no reason to write anything but emails and texts and checks, and turn them into writers, mostly memoirists of course, and spoken-word slammers, but also novelists, short story writers, even poets.

  Nor was she actually teaching them anything, certainly not, for example, how to write a grammatically correct sentence or a clear paragraph. Those dreary tasks sound suspiciously like work. Instead, she loudly recommended everyone focus on “thinking like a writer.” This consisted of “freeing up the creative flow” and “discovering our true voices,” which were not, apparently, the false ones that had ordered their cappuccinos. She was, in essence, a paid muse, and her followers came to her not for knowledge but inspiration. They lacked purpose. This was their problem. They wanted to “be writers,” yet they had nothing to write.

  Nothing to write! Yet still wanting to be a writer! The mind boggled. It was like converting to Judaism, joining the marines, or leaving a rent-controlled apartment—I couldn’t grasp why anyone except a maniac would do such a thing. Voluntarily. If you had a choice. If you could simply not. How wonderful to wake up in the morning with nothing at all to write. You’d be free. Free to go outside and enjoy the nice day, have brunch, like your ex-girlfriends all begged you to, brunch apparently being an extra sort of meal that regular people have, one so leisurely and abundant that it crosses in a wide and sunny bridge from morning to afternoon, touching two meals and relaxing between them, perhaps on the balcony of a nice but casual restaurant. You could walk dogs, install shelves, practice yoga, learn how to play tennis, and bake your own bread. You could have a life. A full, useful life. And offered a life, who would willingly choose to write a book instead? Because you can’t have both, you know that. And you know too that a book, even a very good book, is in the end only a small thing, an odd, dubious, essentially useless thing. And your book isn’t even very good now, is it?

  2

  It was not an attractive group. I don’t mean they were ugly; on the whole they were average, with several members above (I am no doll myself, being just the sort of troll you imagine lurking in the rear of a café every day), but they didn’t feel inviting, like a happy family around a turkey or friends jousting easily over drinks. You didn’t want to wander over and sit down. You wanted to get under your table and hide, or accidentally bump an African princess passing by with a tray of scalding drinks.

  I didn’t, of course. I listened, while trying desperately not to. I wasn’t giving up the cherished spot (corner table, decent light) that I shared, most days, with a diminutive, pale blond woman who sported thick glasses, chapped lips, noise-reducing earphones, and a huge plastic file box that she carried in a pack on her small bent shoulders like a snail. We never spoke, just nodding hello or scraping our chairs forward to let each other pass to the toilet, though I once caught her eyeing my own stack of color-coded and numbered index cards as I shuffled and dealt them, hoping to read the fortune of a doomed novel, and she looked impressed.

  But unlike my table partner and I, who studiously ignored each other’s work, the knights of the round table declaimed theirs aloud, then offered critiques consisting of exuberant praise, mainly in the form of “relating,” which is to say finding a way to make talking about another’s writing into yet another chance to talk about oneself. Circling clockwise they were: Clyde (Note: The group members’ names have been made up because I don’t know or care what they are), gay, sad, and largely deaf—I use these adjectives not to be flippant but because this was the topic of his me
moir, Silent Tears; Maureen, a former temp on disability, whose 9/11 memoir, Almost There, purported to relate her struggle with PTSD after potentially being at work in lower Manhattan that day, except she was home with a strained coccyx, but the sections I heard were all from a long chapter devoted to some rich douchebag she slept with once who never called; Sonya, whose memoir, My Name is Sonya, described recovery from passive-aggression, sugar addiction, and S issues, which I eventually found out meant sex; and Pat (Listening to My Self) who struggled with an emotionally unsupportive work environment, motion sickness, and gluten abuse. Then there were the fiction writers: Frank, a retired accountant writing a series of mystery novels about a retired accountant who solved murders using his accounting know-how; Norman, a dental lab technician writing a series of mystery novels about a dental lab technician who solved crimes using dental lab techniques; and Mohammed, a Palestinian cabdriver working on a multigenerational epic about a Palestinian cabdriver who falls in love with a rich American-Israeli fare in his cab. (He was stuck on chapter two and considering working in a murder mystery angle.)

  I knew all this not because I wanted to but because I had to. It was the opposite of eavesdropping: Eaves-talking? Eave-stalking! Forcing your neighbors to listen to you sound off about bullshit no one wanted to know.

  And then there was Jasmine. I don’t know what it was about her, but when she was in the room, I couldn’t keep my eyes or ears away. I found her hypnotically, overwhelmingly, even charismatically annoying. She was long-lined and dark, with long black hair, long black nails, a tight black tank top and gypsy skirt, a clatter of bracelets on her thin, waving arms, and a hippie clutter of coins and rocks and the scarves of enemy nations warring about her shoulders. Dark, kooky, kohl-lined eyes blinked and gooed in a thin face with a hatchet nose, a high forehead, and red lips that smacked and chewed each word as it filled her mouth.

  “Clyde,” she’d murmur, “read the part where your step-uncle shamed you.”

  And poor Clyde would nod, red with fresh shame, take out his thatch of pages, and begin: “Meeeeeeee . . . ooooncle . . . wuzzzz . . . nod . . . reeely . . . meeeee . . . ooncle . . . ,” bleating and blurting in the off-key honks of the deaf. Why couldn’t Clyde sign his text, like when I saw his brilliant hands flash and dance about a friend or boyfriend on the corner one evening, fingers sculpting air into elegant hieroglyphs? Why couldn’t he have someone else read it for him? Or, since he lip-read their comments anyway, at least have them mouth-mime, sparing me the agony of hearing them?

  Because Jasmine insisted. He had to “own” his text. It was essential to his deeper process. So she tormented him, smiling blissfully while he struggled, baying and hooting: “I . . . haaad . . . toooo . . . sit . . . onn . . . heees . . . laaap.”

  Then came the insights. Maureen, patting his hand and enunciating into his face: “I loved it, Clyde. I really related to the uncle because it reminded me of the part in my memoir when, while I’m attending my cousin-in-law’s bachelorette party in the Meatpacking District, a handsome dashing stranger sends a bottle of champagne to our table. He was so charming and proper, I agreed to visit his Tribeca loft to give him my opinion on some fabric swatches. He seemed like a true gentleman, and offered me use of his guest room since he didn’t feel comfortable with me driving home. Next thing I knew I was swept away in passionate lovemaking. Only the next morning when I looked through his wallet and briefcase did I realize he was CEO of a major salted snack company that you would all recognize if I was legally permitted to say the name out loud. But the part your memoir reminds me of most is six months later when, after he hadn’t returned any of my calls or emails, I decided to take the high road and showed up at his office with a picnic lunch. When security escorted me out, it retriggered my trauma, and I flashed back to that moment on 9-11, when I realized that, if my temp agency had booked me to work at a firm in the towers, I would be dead now.”

  “I agree with Maureen,” Sonya put in, tonguing whipped cream from her lips. She’d traded her sex issues for food issues, and her belly, sprinkled with crumbs, no longer let her close enough to the table to properly assault her wedge of Black Forest cake. “The shame and the saltiness reminded me of the first time I fellated a stranger . . .”

  At this point I fled, circling the block and gulping big portions of cold, clear New York air. On my return, I got more coffee and a napkin, which I began to ball up and stuff in my ears while Jasmine inspired the group, who sat with eyes closed, except for Clyde, of course, who eagerly watched his guru’s lips. Sonya’s softly chewed.

  “Breathe out,” Jasmine intoned. “Exhale fear, doubt, and judgment. Now breathe in creativity, abundance, and light. Invite your higher self to take you by the hand. Can you see it? Your spirit guide?” Everyone nodded. “Good. Name it.”

  “A golden angel . . .”

  “Friendly elf . . .”

  “A tiger who can speak and also turns invisible . . .”

  “A dragon I can ride . . .”

  “An Indian warrior, I mean native person . . .”

  “A flock of magical wonderful birds . . .”

  “Elloophann!”

  “Excellent,” Jasmine said. “To name the thing is to create it, to call it forth! This reactivates the primal power of words. God speaks and so let it be thus. We too partake of the divine when we create. But be careful of this power, friends. Use it wisely. As writers we truly change the world.”

  They all nodded, pleased yet sobered by their awesome gifts. She went on: “That’s why each morning I dedicate my practice to the goddess within. I meditate, light incense, then write my morning thoughts in a special book with my favorite pen before breakfasting quite simply on green tea and fresh fruit.

  “I never edit my work or block my flow. That is the ego speaking, the controlling male principle. I keep my sacred channel free and let my goddess flow directly through my opening, as though she were speaking, moving my lips while I merely transcribe. I am but the instrument. Hers is the beauty and wisdom. In the evening I chant my thanks and light a candle. I express any question or creative complexity I might have, I do not say ‘problem’ because there are no problems, only learning opportunities, and what you call block is merely a clog in your channel. Usually, I dream the answer. I meet my characters in the dream, and they tell me what they need from me. Sometimes I even wake up with the answers jotted in the notebook I keep by the bed. It’s like having your book write itself!”

  The group bubbled over at the idea of eliminating the tedious writing part of the writing process. I meanwhile had been working for six hours that day. I had written one sentence. Then I had crossed it out.

  Why did everyone find my work so easy except me? I readily admitted I could never do theirs. No lawyer, baker, auto mechanic, or social worker would suggest I just show up at his job tomorrow and take over. Nevertheless, at weddings and bar mitzvahs, HR executives and architects forcibly pitched me their life stories, without ever once asking for my input on labor policy or building design. An oncologist cornered me at a Christmas party, demanding to know where writers gathered to “swap ideas.” I longed to tell him I’d had some thoughts about cancer in the shower that morning. Could I swing by the spot where doctors hung out, the lab or medical conference, and make them all sit and listen? Instead, I told the truth: Writers don’t hang out. We sit and grind our teeth, and the only ideas we swap are about how to obtain insurance. We came to this café because it had light and heat and a working toilet, things that might not be true at home. I myself was cat-sitting for another, more successful writer while she was out of town on a magazine assignment. My plans for next week were to move to a friend’s couch. After that I could camp in the park and roast weenies over my unpublished drafts. But meanwhile, as long as I had two dollars, I had a home.

  Then something beautiful happened. As I sealed my ears with wads of napkin I’d dipped in my water glass, my silent tablemate removed her headphones. Staring bashfully at the crumbs on the tabl
e, she whispered to me softly: “I hate her too.”

  It was a sweet moment. I wanted to take her hand under the table, but I was afraid to scare her off. It had taken months just to reach this stage. Really, we had Jasmine to thank. Nothing brings people together like hate.

  Meanwhile, Jasmine’s students all took their notebooks out and began scribbling away like five-year-olds, letting their consciousnesses stream. She peered about through slitted eyes. “Sorry, everyone, but I feel bad vibes from somewhere. Don’t let them invade your sacred space.”

  At this we both giggled, the tablemate and I, like students caught whispering during quiet time. Jasmine shot us a dirty look and we faced away, trying to swallow our mirth, which as we all know just makes it mirthier. It was wonderful. We snorted and snarked, peeking at each other from behind fingers and bangs, falling in love right under Jasmine’s glare. I hid my smiley face behind a newspaper. My girl tried to settle herself with a sip of tea, but she sprayed it all over her meticulous notes, which made me laugh even harder. Then she started coughing. Then choking. I looked over and her eyes bulged. Her face was red.

  “Hey, are you OK?” I asked as she gurgled, trying to remember if I was supposed to pat her back or do a Heimlich. Then she fell out of her chair. Her teacup shattered on the floor. She curled on her side, shaking, as the waitress ran over. Someone yelled for 911. I helped turn her over. Blood streamed from her nose.

  She managed to stand, clutching a bloody napkin to her face. I trailed uselessly as the waitress rushed her to the hospital down the street. Shaken up, I knelt to gather her papers, the careful microprint now stained with tea and blood, when I felt something like a cold finger tracing my name on the back of my neck. I shuddered and looked up. Jasmine was staring right at me, eyes aflame. She smiled.

  3

  When I got to the pastry shop the following afternoon, my tablemate had not returned. The waitress, bringing my coffee and cheese Danish, said she was fine, and I left it at that; I had an important sentence to tackle that day, and as soon as I read the newspaper and failed to complete the crossword, I was going to get right on it. I savaged my Danish. I got more coffee. I went to the bathroom, just in case, as if prepping for a long flight. I didn’t want to be interrupted once I got going. I rolled my sleeves up. I decided I was chilly. I rolled them back down. I opened my document. I took a sip of coffee. I began to type: