After writing a book of short stories and a Holocaust fiction, what I write now weighs on me. It reminds me of that writer’s cliche of having to come up to the parity of the first published book; the second novel, I suppose, is a killer. The irony about Sojourner is that it emerged from a short story of about 30 pages and evolved into a 200 page book. I remember finishing it on or about 1980, Yet I threw everything I knew then into the book on a manifest level, revealing on a latent level my own discontent about the meaning of my circumscribed life.
I have changed, and my attitude toward the book has undergone a significant change. Here I am, a much better and improved version of who I was at 40. What I didn’t know then I feel I understand now. In short, I have grown. As I work on this book written by myself so many years ago I meet the man I used to be ( what a curious realization, fiction as biography). The question for me at this point is to reassess Sojourner — does it work? Or is it a stale remnant of who I was at that time so far ago in an emotional and psychological frame of mind no longer mine. It is a revisitation of a self. Of course, our character is a constant, although we change here and there, modify this or that behavior through conscious will (ha!), or life simply macerates us so much that we are no longer recognizable. I am the man who wrote Sojourner, and I am no longer that man. The “dilemma” is to see if what I wrote — it was my first try at a novel, therefore, I do have a loyalty to it –has any merit at this time. I really can’t say, although I feel that there are large parts of Sojourner that do not carry the gravitas that I am capable of. And this nags at me.
I weary at the thought of redoing the book dramatically, structurally, a kind of writerly perseveration, trying to endow it with strengths that it may not have. I weary at the thought of deepening that, broadening this, developing that theme, introducing this sub-plot. The potential effort fatigues me. In a mildly corrupt and self-lying way, what I associate all this to is trying to put blush and rouge on the corpse so that it looks presentable for showing. I am hard on myself, I know that. Good Jane feels it has merit and she is the observer and intelligent reader of my writings. I wait for her opinion as the book is in her hands, newly revised. You need only read her introduction to Down to a Sunless Sea to realize what a careful reader she is.
Yes, I have tightened this, eased out this, reinforced that, rephrased, rewrote, yet I feel I have only done cosmetics. Unlike earlier works in which I dug deeply, excavated, dug new shafts, ripped out ores for refining. With Sojourner I feel I have not done enough to it, feel that I only want to give it a carwash and not repair dents or abrasions or give it a good Simonize job. The hope is that I am allowed to take a break between heavy books. The irony is that I have reached back into time and geeked out an original book and reinserted it into my life now. How can I say this better? Can it measure up to the standards that I now own as a writer? I think not, but the book is not garbage and has worth. The real questrion is that I need to relent, give up being the superego of my work — and how hard that is! I will see. After all, I am done with it now.
The book rests on Jane’s nightstand. It will be read. I am enduring the interregnum between literary efforts. I am preparing to go to short stories or another book from the past. What I am doing is going back to the often rejected fictions of the past which I felt had worth then, for I did spend years on them. They taught me my craft. Was it the writer Tillie Olsen who wrote how she spent over 25 years doing housework and all that dreck before she could focus on her creative selves? I identify with her. I feel I have shot my load, that all that I have written in the past while struggling to eat and feed the family is all that I have to work with — perhaps not. From such clay so many pots can be thrown. I could write original material and I am doing that with a potential new book with the working title of Tales of the Holocaust. Several stories are in utero, one close to mailing out for the world to judge. It is as if I must obsessively, compusively clean up after myself. I will get to my point. I would like to see on my bookshelf in the next five years the following works: The i Tetralogy, Down to a Sunless Sea, Sojourner, Tales of the Holocaust, Gruffworld (sci-fi fanasty), a collection of previously published essays.
All this is a patrimony for my children, Jane and grandchildren if that happens. However, it is also my self-patrimony, and for that I am very grateful. I have proven to myself that I am not bereft, that I am not empty, that I can give, that I am an artist, that I write fairly well, that I feel intensely, that I listen equally as well, that I am a good person, that I am dark, that I am sad and depressed, that I obsess, that I perseverate, that I am a livable entity, that I have done my best or at least close to my best, that I can forgive myself, that I can back off being so hard on myself, that all my books are statements of my inner life, for others to pore over or to cherish. I have no more to say.
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