Authors: Tom Grimes
Mentor: A Memoir (20 page)
At that moment, I died in some small but irreversible way. Years later Charlie said, “The book
may
have had the same life in the world, you can’t know. What’s gnawed at you, though, what you can’t let go of, is that you betrayed your own ideals by not signing with FSG. That’s what you can’t live with.”
may
have had the same life in the world, you can’t know. What’s gnawed at you, though, what you can’t let go of, is that you betrayed your own ideals by not signing with FSG. That’s what you can’t live with.”
Having already disowned me, Little, Brown remained silent.
When a copy of the review turned up in my mailbox, I showed it to Frank. Normally, he read with uncanny quickness, but this time his eyes lingered on the page. He scanned the words twice to be certain he understood them correctly. “It’s one review,” he said, returning the sheet of paper to me. “It’s no big deal.” Yet disappointment—not in each other; our bond had deepened and I was more Frank’s son than his friend—clouded the book’s once illusory promise. All Frank had hoped for had not come to pass.
Selling the novel had been deceptively simple and effortless. But the novel no longer existed as a potential success. It was real and, by increments, it was becoming a failure. Not even
Kirkus Reviews
’ assessment of it as “passionate, entertaining, and refreshingly confident” seemed capable of reversing its freefall, or restoring
my
confidence in it. Over time it became clear to me that my confidence had all along been Frank ’s confidence. So deeply had I sought his approval that I never questioned his judgment. I hadn’t been able to separate my need for Frank’s affection from my need to look at my novel as objectively as possible. Which is why it’s taken me twenty years to understand that our unexpected friendship, rather than my novel, was the real work of art.
Kirkus Reviews
’ assessment of it as “passionate, entertaining, and refreshingly confident” seemed capable of reversing its freefall, or restoring
my
confidence in it. Over time it became clear to me that my confidence had all along been Frank ’s confidence. So deeply had I sought his approval that I never questioned his judgment. I hadn’t been able to separate my need for Frank’s affection from my need to look at my novel as objectively as possible. Which is why it’s taken me twenty years to understand that our unexpected friendship, rather than my novel, was the real work of art.
It’s also taken me twenty years to figure out that no matter what decision I’d made regarding the novel, I would not have made the
right
decision because, for me, there is never a
right
decision. I didn’t choose the
wrong
house. Whatever house I chose would have been the
wrong
house. In fact, I may have made the
best
decision. But my counternarrative for selling
Season’s End
would have been this: immediately after I’d committed to FSG I would have thought, John didn’t like the novel, but Pat loved it. I knew this. So why didn’t I go with her? Instead, I took less money and gave away the novel’s world rights. Pat had been hired by Little, Brown to find, entice, and sign extraordinarily talented fiction writers, to create a list equal to or better than FSG’s and, had I signed with her, I would have been the first to represent it.
Season’s End
may have even become a success. But I didn’t, it wasn’t, and by choosing to define myself exclusively as a literary writer I’ve chosen a profession and a life that promise to humble me. Every day I face a blank page, knowing that the majority of the words I commit to the page will be wrong, and after I reread my prose, I know a dozen necessary revisions will begin the moment I complete the first draft. But for me writing is a necessity. I exist in sentences. I forget my sense of failure. I forget time. I forget that I’m aging. I forget that one day I’ll die. Revising sentences is an act of hope, and connecting with a reader is the only leap of faith I’ll ever take. As a boy, I read stories that transported me, just as stories transported Frank, into a world that, paradoxically, was real
because
it was imaginary. Now I write stories because I continue to need imaginary worlds, and limiting myself to
Season’s End’
s fate was deeply foolish. The book did change my life, not by telling me who I am, but by not telling me. Its failure left me unfinished. Maybe success intimidates me. Maybe I’m afraid of completion. Maybe I know that if I don’t believe I can write a book better than the books I’ve already written, I’m a ghost.
right
decision because, for me, there is never a
right
decision. I didn’t choose the
wrong
house. Whatever house I chose would have been the
wrong
house. In fact, I may have made the
best
decision. But my counternarrative for selling
Season’s End
would have been this: immediately after I’d committed to FSG I would have thought, John didn’t like the novel, but Pat loved it. I knew this. So why didn’t I go with her? Instead, I took less money and gave away the novel’s world rights. Pat had been hired by Little, Brown to find, entice, and sign extraordinarily talented fiction writers, to create a list equal to or better than FSG’s and, had I signed with her, I would have been the first to represent it.
Season’s End
may have even become a success. But I didn’t, it wasn’t, and by choosing to define myself exclusively as a literary writer I’ve chosen a profession and a life that promise to humble me. Every day I face a blank page, knowing that the majority of the words I commit to the page will be wrong, and after I reread my prose, I know a dozen necessary revisions will begin the moment I complete the first draft. But for me writing is a necessity. I exist in sentences. I forget my sense of failure. I forget time. I forget that I’m aging. I forget that one day I’ll die. Revising sentences is an act of hope, and connecting with a reader is the only leap of faith I’ll ever take. As a boy, I read stories that transported me, just as stories transported Frank, into a world that, paradoxically, was real
because
it was imaginary. Now I write stories because I continue to need imaginary worlds, and limiting myself to
Season’s End’
s fate was deeply foolish. The book did change my life, not by telling me who I am, but by not telling me. Its failure left me unfinished. Maybe success intimidates me. Maybe I’m afraid of completion. Maybe I know that if I don’t believe I can write a book better than the books I’ve already written, I’m a ghost.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
D
espite the book’s early reception, Frank’s faith in my work didn’t waver. He’d already awarded me one of the workshop’s six annual ten-thousand-dollar James Michener Fellowships. For the first time since I was twelve, I didn’t have either a full-time job or a part-time job while I was in school. As a kid, I mowed lawns and shoveled snow. I delivered newspapers. I jerked soda and washed dishes. In college, I hoisted coffins as a professional pallbearer. Later, I iced dead fish for a packing plant on Cape Cod. I managed a stationery company, a Soho housewares store, and, in Key West, I waited tables. Now, all I had to do was write. And, as a favor to Frank, I read fifty of the workshop’s eight hundred application manuscripts. “The borderline ones,” he said. Afterward, he selected the final twenty-five. I’d gone from being among the eight hundred to judging fifty of the eight hundred, a reversal of fortune I found incredible. Then he added, “I’m also nominating you for a Whiting.”
espite the book’s early reception, Frank’s faith in my work didn’t waver. He’d already awarded me one of the workshop’s six annual ten-thousand-dollar James Michener Fellowships. For the first time since I was twelve, I didn’t have either a full-time job or a part-time job while I was in school. As a kid, I mowed lawns and shoveled snow. I delivered newspapers. I jerked soda and washed dishes. In college, I hoisted coffins as a professional pallbearer. Later, I iced dead fish for a packing plant on Cape Cod. I managed a stationery company, a Soho housewares store, and, in Key West, I waited tables. Now, all I had to do was write. And, as a favor to Frank, I read fifty of the workshop’s eight hundred application manuscripts. “The borderline ones,” he said. Afterward, he selected the final twenty-five. I’d gone from being among the eight hundred to judging fifty of the eight hundred, a reversal of fortune I found incredible. Then he added, “I’m also nominating you for a Whiting.”
“What’s a Whiting?”
“An award for young writers, first books, et cetera. You’ll get thirty thousand. Just give me a finished copy of the novel.” At some point I learned that Whiting nominations are supposed to be confidential. But Frank had expected me to receive a larger advance, and annoyed, surprised, and slightly embarrassed by the fact that I didn’t, he not only wanted to help me, he also wanted to prove he still had the clout to bestow upon me a major literary honor solely on the strength of his name.
During the autumn of my Michener year, I’d begun my third novel. I wanted to have a new book under way before
Season’s End
was published, but Jody wanted to leave Iowa City. If you’re not in the workshop, it’s a gruesome town to live in. Hot, humid summers; glacial winters. No ocean, no museums, no theater. Lousy food, juvenile movies, and four hours from the nearest interesting city: Chicago. Also, Charlie had left, and from the time I finished my day’s writing until Jody returned from work near dusk, the house felt hollow. Yet I had difficulty imagining life without Frank’s constant, fatherly approval. I’d written a million words hoping to fill my emptiness and erase the perpetual sense of failure I’d lived with since childhood. But they hadn’t; Frank’s affection had. In his eyes, I didn’t feel like a flaw in the scheme of things. Jody had touched and healed one part of me, Frank another, and Charlie completed the family I’d longed for. I wasn’t prepared to lose it.
Season’s End
was published, but Jody wanted to leave Iowa City. If you’re not in the workshop, it’s a gruesome town to live in. Hot, humid summers; glacial winters. No ocean, no museums, no theater. Lousy food, juvenile movies, and four hours from the nearest interesting city: Chicago. Also, Charlie had left, and from the time I finished my day’s writing until Jody returned from work near dusk, the house felt hollow. Yet I had difficulty imagining life without Frank’s constant, fatherly approval. I’d written a million words hoping to fill my emptiness and erase the perpetual sense of failure I’d lived with since childhood. But they hadn’t; Frank’s affection had. In his eyes, I didn’t feel like a flaw in the scheme of things. Jody had touched and healed one part of me, Frank another, and Charlie completed the family I’d longed for. I wasn’t prepared to lose it.
Nevertheless, Jody deserved the chance to leave Iowa City. So, in December, I dutifully entered the job market. Since I had no interest in finding a job, I was so relaxed during interviews that I was immediately offered three. Even the university I advised
not
to hire me wanted to hire me. The school was located in Texas and, in an effort to distinguish its new MFA creative writing program from the country’s other hundred and fifty, its administrators had decided to focus their program on “literature of the Southwest.” So, while attending the Modern Languages Association’s conference in San Francisco two days after Christmas, I sat in one of their hotel suite’s cushioned armchairs and explained to three English department faculty members employed by Southwest Texas State University that I had absolutely no connection to the region. “I was born in New York, I grew up in New York, and my literary imagination sees the world through the lens of New York. If you’re looking for someone who writes about the Southwest, please,” I said, “look for someone else. It’ll be better for your program.” I hoped to end the interview with that remark because I wanted to see a documentary about making
Apocalypse Now
and needed to catch a bus. Instead, I was asked if I read literary theory. “No. It has nothing to do with literature.” Did I believe creative writing could be taught? “It’s not a valid question. Do people ask if painting, dancing, and playing music can be taught?” Once I was free, I dashed out of the hotel, sprinted to nab the crosstown bus and, certain I’d impressed no one during my interviews, I enjoyed the movie guiltlessly. I’d tried to find a job but I’d failed. Selfishly, and no doubt childishly, I was content. I could return home to subzero temperatures and my new novel. But that evening, by telephone, I was invited to Texas for a campus visit. Grudgingly, I accepted. Near the end of January, three months before
Season’s End
’s publication, I flew to Austin and then, in the dark, was driven thirty miles south to San Marcos. The following morning, sunshine and an immense, cloudless blue sky mocked my dreary mood. As if to spite me, the temperature was seventy-two degrees. Everyone I met was nice. All were eager to have me join the faculty. But the next day it rained while I was given a tour of the area. Sights I had no desire to see were pointed to; places I had no interest in were explained in historical detail. On the return trip to the airport, the program’s director said, “If we offer you the job, do you think you’ll come?” I stared at the muddy field bordering the interstate and, instinctively, said, “Nothing about the place speaks to me.” I hated the houses, the landscape, the horizon, and the ground. Only after the plane climbed above a thick layer of gray clouds did my fear of exile slowly fade. And only when I stepped off the plane did I, despite Iowa’s ear-scorching cold, feel my spirit bloom and my muscles unclench. In the Cedar Rapids airport terminal, Jody hugged me and I gave her a kiss. As for what I thought of Texas, my expression made it known that she had no reason to ask. Within twenty-four hours, I had a tenure-track job offer.
not
to hire me wanted to hire me. The school was located in Texas and, in an effort to distinguish its new MFA creative writing program from the country’s other hundred and fifty, its administrators had decided to focus their program on “literature of the Southwest.” So, while attending the Modern Languages Association’s conference in San Francisco two days after Christmas, I sat in one of their hotel suite’s cushioned armchairs and explained to three English department faculty members employed by Southwest Texas State University that I had absolutely no connection to the region. “I was born in New York, I grew up in New York, and my literary imagination sees the world through the lens of New York. If you’re looking for someone who writes about the Southwest, please,” I said, “look for someone else. It’ll be better for your program.” I hoped to end the interview with that remark because I wanted to see a documentary about making
Apocalypse Now
and needed to catch a bus. Instead, I was asked if I read literary theory. “No. It has nothing to do with literature.” Did I believe creative writing could be taught? “It’s not a valid question. Do people ask if painting, dancing, and playing music can be taught?” Once I was free, I dashed out of the hotel, sprinted to nab the crosstown bus and, certain I’d impressed no one during my interviews, I enjoyed the movie guiltlessly. I’d tried to find a job but I’d failed. Selfishly, and no doubt childishly, I was content. I could return home to subzero temperatures and my new novel. But that evening, by telephone, I was invited to Texas for a campus visit. Grudgingly, I accepted. Near the end of January, three months before
Season’s End
’s publication, I flew to Austin and then, in the dark, was driven thirty miles south to San Marcos. The following morning, sunshine and an immense, cloudless blue sky mocked my dreary mood. As if to spite me, the temperature was seventy-two degrees. Everyone I met was nice. All were eager to have me join the faculty. But the next day it rained while I was given a tour of the area. Sights I had no desire to see were pointed to; places I had no interest in were explained in historical detail. On the return trip to the airport, the program’s director said, “If we offer you the job, do you think you’ll come?” I stared at the muddy field bordering the interstate and, instinctively, said, “Nothing about the place speaks to me.” I hated the houses, the landscape, the horizon, and the ground. Only after the plane climbed above a thick layer of gray clouds did my fear of exile slowly fade. And only when I stepped off the plane did I, despite Iowa’s ear-scorching cold, feel my spirit bloom and my muscles unclench. In the Cedar Rapids airport terminal, Jody hugged me and I gave her a kiss. As for what I thought of Texas, my expression made it known that she had no reason to ask. Within twenty-four hours, I had a tenure-track job offer.
“Take it!” Frank said.
“Frank, it’s Texas.”
“So what?” he said. “Go! Ride out the recession. You don’t have to stay forever.”
As I slumped in my chair and sulked, Frank laughed. Then he said, “You’re always worrying. Stop it. This is good news.” He lit a cigarette and flipped the matchbook onto his cluttered desk. After he’d blown an eddy of smoke toward the dingy ceiling he added, “Professor Grimes. I like the way it sounds. Hey, I’ve been thinking. Don’t buy a guitar with your book money.” Frank’s career as a jazz musician had influenced his conversational style because he changed subjects as unexpectedly as he changed chord progressions. “Buy a piano,” he said. I had played both instruments as a kid. “You can get those electronic keyboards now. The quality’s not bad, and they cost less than two hundred bucks. How’s the new book going?”
I shrugged. “Yours?”
Leaning back, he swept one hand over the manuscripts piled behind, beside, and in front of him, as smoke trailed his curled fingers. “Speaking of which …”
By the time I reached his office door, he was reading again.
Often, I took long walks in the woods, fifteen miles west of town, to look for fossilized arrowheads and Indian burial mounds. One afternoon, I walked deep into the forest and paused when the sun dipped below a ridge of high, leafless branches. The workshop had changed me, not simply as a writer, but emotionally, as well. I had Frank’s affection, and I couldn’t let go of Iowa.
But Jody liked the prospect of Texas. Before we met, she’d traveled extensively in Mexico, and living within five hours of its border appealed to her. Plus we needed a steady paycheck. Only, I’d been so determined to turn down the job that I’d forgotten the salary. “You don’t know how much you’ll be paid?” Jody asked, stunned. Forced to remember, I did. In a dismal, windowless office, the English department’s chair, a petite, stylishly dressed middle-aged woman who spoke with a pronounced Texas twang, had leaned toward me and said, “After you leave, we have to vote before we can offer you the job. But, unofficially, the salary’s twenty-seven thousand. Since we really want you to come, we’ve raised it to twenty-nine.” As a workshop teaching-writing fellow, I taught two classes and was paid ten thousand dollars. Now, Southwest Texas State wanted to pay me
barely
three times that amount to teach three times as many classes—six altogether, four of them freshman composition. If I took the job, I’d earn
less
per class than I’d earned as a teaching assistant. But Jody didn’t want me to wait tables while I waited for my literary career to take off. On the other hand, I wanted time to finish my new novel, which, in my mind, would secure a large enough advance for us to live on while I wrote my next one. Plus, Frank had given me a summer teaching position. In a thrilling yet disorienting way, I would occupy his office while he retreated for two months to Nantucket. So why would I leave Iowa for Texas?
barely
three times that amount to teach three times as many classes—six altogether, four of them freshman composition. If I took the job, I’d earn
less
per class than I’d earned as a teaching assistant. But Jody didn’t want me to wait tables while I waited for my literary career to take off. On the other hand, I wanted time to finish my new novel, which, in my mind, would secure a large enough advance for us to live on while I wrote my next one. Plus, Frank had given me a summer teaching position. In a thrilling yet disorienting way, I would occupy his office while he retreated for two months to Nantucket. So why would I leave Iowa for Texas?
Several reasons: my timidity, Jody’s wisdom, and a compromise. We’d spent three years in Iowa; now it was time to move on. The problem was, I’d received an offer from a Virginia university but declined after meeting its embittered faculty, and another university’s offer disappeared when its position’s funding did. Texas was my only remaining choice.
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