Peter Rock
I found myself in a very uncanny moment, and I reacted to it.
This is actually a scene that is accounted for in the novel: Five or six years ago in Wisconsin, I was looking for something, both daughters in tow, and we went into the Red Cabin, an old 10 x 15 foot shack where I used to sleep. Once inside, I found myself surrounded by the artifacts of my life, twenty years before. An old bicycle, pieces of windsurfers, a Montana license plate from a favorite truck, but especially remnants of my attempts to be a writer. The old desk where I tried to write stories and, on the walls, personal but discouraging rejections from C. Michael Curtis at The Atlantic and Lois Rosenthal at Story, quotations from Camus (“It is only in order to shine sooner that that the author refuses to rewrite. Despicable. Begin again.”) and Hemingway, a photocopy of a picture of a handless blind boy reading Braille with his lips.
It was a pathetic tableau, an atmosphere of self-serious loneliness still lingering. I was fascinated and embarrassed at the same time. Also bewildered. I mean, there was no good evidence in those artifacts that my pursuits were anything but pretentious and delusional, that they might lead anywhere. And yet here I was, all this time later, having published books, being a kind of professor and—more surprisingly—having a family, these excellent daughters. It was uncomfortable to feel connected to that person, difficult to understand there being a continuity between him and me. I was standing there just staring at these pieces of my past in disbelief while my girls were shouting impatiently at me to do what they wanted me to do.
In my writing, I’ve come to understand “inspiration” as a reaction to something outside of me, something that I don’t understand but that fascinates me. (I tell my students, “If there’s something that you don’t know much about but that seems to be calling you, it’s because there’s something inside of you that is resonating with it—it’s your job to explore this connection.”) This goes back to my days as a museum security guard, where I passed time trying to make up stories for all the art works in my care. And then reacting, in books I’ve written, to a newspaper story of a father and daughter living in the wilderness, or the history and beliefs of an apocalyptic church in Montana.
This time the mysteries I was reacting to were once inside me, very close to me. So the questions of “What happened?” and “Why?” and “What was wrong with me?” all rose up. And I decided to look into that time, and the pieces of it that were available to me, and to see what possibilities would present themselves, and what I would do.
Because really the goal in all of this is to have something come out of me—in words—that I don’t expect, that surprises me.
I try not to start out with ideas or intentions.
This is actually a scene that is accounted for in the novel: Five or six years ago in Wisconsin, I was looking for something, both daughters in tow, and we went into the Red Cabin, an old 10 x 15 foot shack where I used to sleep. Once inside, I found myself surrounded by the artifacts of my life, twenty years before. An old bicycle, pieces of windsurfers, a Montana license plate from a favorite truck, but especially remnants of my attempts to be a writer. The old desk where I tried to write stories and, on the walls, personal but discouraging rejections from C. Michael Curtis at The Atlantic and Lois Rosenthal at Story, quotations from Camus (“It is only in order to shine sooner that that the author refuses to rewrite. Despicable. Begin again.”) and Hemingway, a photocopy of a picture of a handless blind boy reading Braille with his lips.
It was a pathetic tableau, an atmosphere of self-serious loneliness still lingering. I was fascinated and embarrassed at the same time. Also bewildered. I mean, there was no good evidence in those artifacts that my pursuits were anything but pretentious and delusional, that they might lead anywhere. And yet here I was, all this time later, having published books, being a kind of professor and—more surprisingly—having a family, these excellent daughters. It was uncomfortable to feel connected to that person, difficult to understand there being a continuity between him and me. I was standing there just staring at these pieces of my past in disbelief while my girls were shouting impatiently at me to do what they wanted me to do.
In my writing, I’ve come to understand “inspiration” as a reaction to something outside of me, something that I don’t understand but that fascinates me. (I tell my students, “If there’s something that you don’t know much about but that seems to be calling you, it’s because there’s something inside of you that is resonating with it—it’s your job to explore this connection.”) This goes back to my days as a museum security guard, where I passed time trying to make up stories for all the art works in my care. And then reacting, in books I’ve written, to a newspaper story of a father and daughter living in the wilderness, or the history and beliefs of an apocalyptic church in Montana.
This time the mysteries I was reacting to were once inside me, very close to me. So the questions of “What happened?” and “Why?” and “What was wrong with me?” all rose up. And I decided to look into that time, and the pieces of it that were available to me, and to see what possibilities would present themselves, and what I would do.
Because really the goal in all of this is to have something come out of me—in words—that I don’t expect, that surprises me.
I try not to start out with ideas or intentions.
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Jul 10, 2020 02:10PM · flag