I had agreed (with myself) to work a full day on Thursday & Friday. Insurance work: a few telephone conversations, exchange some emails, watch multiple video clips, lots of paperwork.
Midday I got a text that a package had arrived in the lockers for me. The lockers are downstairs in the lobby, so but a short elevator ride for me to take after lunch.
Inside the cardboard packaging was a paperback book called Tortoise (An Imposition). The cover was the color of a bright eggshell cut with a purple swath through front and back. The pages felt substantive and keen to the touch. The care in design & construction was apparent immediately. The book was magnificent -- the work of a skilled craftsman.
Many years ago I dropped out from my life to write a novel. I moved into a Victorian attic without cable or internet. I took my car off the road. I discovered a character named John and wrote about his world and it's strange periphery & read & walked about. I wrote letters to friends in other places. All in all, it was a fine time.
When my time was up (coffers emptied) I went back to making a living how I know how to make a living: selling insurance. As much as I had loved my year as a writer, afterwards I always felt like a failure -- I had not succeeded in telling John's story & sharing it with the world. I had pages -- some good, some not -- but I had not made a thing to put into the world.
In the years since, I have snatched a week here, a month there, and revisited John. I've added more chapters, lost some, tried steering him into one shape or another. I've tried to get it right. But I've always failed. It is a debt that I have been unable to pay.
In the insurance business you sell a policy or you do not. No one cares what you are going to do, or once upon a time did. How much AP did you write this month, this week, today? It's an equitable system. One can look at the board and see where they, and everyone else, (indisputably) stands.
In the writing business some are more forgiving of a lack of production. Some still consider me a writer even though I have no history of making things to put into the world. These are kind people. Their kindness is appreciated but they do not fool me. In an insurance sales office, a poorly producing agent will typically save everyone involved the discomfort & just move along. No one has to say, "Hey, buddy ..." One day they are not there and everyone knows why and office life continues uninterrupted, undisturbed. It is a good system.
I have written quite a few poems, a few that are decent enough. But I've no inclination to put them into the world because I am not a poet. I say that without condemnation: some are, some are not. I am not. I have also written quite a few short stories. Some are pretty good -- I would read them had you written them. But I've not a one that feels like it is done. I don't feel that I've gotten the character(s) correct & nailed their story, their essence, what it is all about in their world. There are a couple I would LOVE to share with the world but they are not yet satisfactory. So, no.
I've started a few novels & some got a decent way along. The story of John mentioned earlier got the furthest, based solely on number of words written & time devoted. Gosh, but I've been at John a long desperate time. I love John & yet he saddens me beyond belief. What does debtor say to the one they owe, long past due? I am like the lousy insurance salesman, mentioned earlier, but one who doesn't have the decency to just quietly move along. I linger over John's story like a ghost: always present but without substance. It is indecent & I have felt the toll.
So today Tortoise arrived in my mailbox. It is the work of a fine editor/publisher named Craig -- my very good friend -- who has cajoled me for years to let him make something out of my repeated failure. I resisted because I KNEW the story was unfinished. It is not done. I know this. But a few months back I sent him files I had and said, "Have at it. I don't have a title (that comes when a thing is finished). I hate the beginning (it is very uneven), Do as you wish." Or some such.
So I spent this afternoon, previously committed to Insurance work, reading what Craig had done with my words. I can not lie, the first few pages are horrid (I have rewritten the 1st chapter a hundred times & it has gotten progressively worse). Slight improvement can be found in chapters 2-3 and eventually the writing gets more cohesive, more confident. At some point after the writing evened out, I started reading it as a book that had just landed in my hands today & not something I'd had a hand in making. And I had a good time. A couple of scenes stirred my emotions -- my apartment is notoriously dusty -- but maybe that was just author me favoring a character I've been acquainted with for so long & feeling their pain or loss more than the story might otherwise implore. Or maybe anyone might feel the same? I don't know. Maybe.
By early evening the novel was finished & I'll admit to feeing quite stirred after I set it down. It wasn't pride that I felt -- seeing a made thing with my name hung on it. No, maybe that will come later (after the repairs have been made). I felt relieved that my debt to John is soon to be repaid. Craig did amazing work taking what I had given to him & understanding what it should be. He took words I'd written in pursuit of one thing -- let's say, The Tale of John Duff -- and repurposed them into pursuit of another thing -- making a worthwhile story to tell & read.
By the way, Craig named the book. Tortoise, what an odd title! What has this to do with anything?
It is a perfect title. This title, more than anything, gives permission for the book to stand as payment to John. To explain: if you are familiar with the paradoxes of Zeno of Elea, you know Achilles is destined to chase the tortoise throughout eternity. Between points on the grid there are infinite points in between. Therefore, it is LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE (if we agree to exist in Zeno's paradox) to finish the story of John Duff. There are much too many stops along the way. There are other characters & stories and there is also the thunderous pursuit of the fabled Achilles. We are surrounded by what is happening, what might have happened, what should have happened, what did not happen (yet?) -- so many choices, so much living & potentialities, how does one ignore this for that, when this is fully insistent?
So my friend Craig has given me the greatest gift today. Thank you, friend. Fucking A, the relief. You can not imagine the relief. It is a reprieve I could not conceive of receiving. But here we are.
p.s., What occurred to me while reading (while feeling the implication/relief of the title: "Tortoise"): there is so much room for more. Not to this book: it will be done, after repair. It will be finished. But hopefully it will leave thirst for more of John Duff & the other stories of his world as yet untold?
