BUDAPEST
My pen moves along the page
like the snout of a strange animal
shaped like a human arm
and dressed in the sleeve of a loose green sweater.
I watch it sniffing the paper ceaselessly,
intent as any forager that has nothing
on its mind but the grubs and insects
that will allow it to live another day.
It wants only to be here tomorrow,
dressed perhaps in the sleeve of a plaid shirt,
nose pressed against the page,
writing a few more lines
while I gaze out the window and imagine Budapest
or some other city where I have never been.
- Billy Collins
Recently, Publishers Weekly produced a small piece celebrating an author who has produced five novels before the age of thirty. And not just ordinary tough-as-nails-to-write-for-anybody books, but tremendous books. It is as though this young intellect arrived on earth with a soul full of truths and simply sat down and let the stories out. Helen Oyeyemi, Publishers Weekly correctly observes, is an icon among writers and her generation.
That acknowledged, I let my breath out. Now what in the hell do the rest of us mere mortals do? By this spectacular standard I have clearly underproduced; muddled through to middle age with but four books (and a load of false starts and no-sells in the drawer), and one newly completed manuscript out in the market. I think it would be fair to say most of the books are competent; maybe one a near-great (for me). But none of these books mark the high point of a generation. Not one has as of yet set the bar for literature or the world on fire. So what does this coal-car of paper amount to then?
It amounts to me. To my complicated, imperfect, imbalanced journey through life. To all that it required for me to become a writer at all. A parenthesis around pathways that amounted to ridiculous dead-ends, needless "learning experiences." A love-song to the self-confidence that didn't arrive until late in my third decade. A fossil of sorrow that hollowed out wasted thinking and living and left a thing fine and unbreakable in its place. These books I have written are all in some way reflective of an unorthodox coming of age. Not classic young adult tales of self-discovery but the thrashing near-drowning of the very adult. The bumbling, insecure, hopeful human being that ages into self-assurance by sheer survival. The lost in the raw, relentless beauty of the world. That journey is me. My work.
It is now and then necessary to step back from the media banner-awards party. The thirty under thirty lists, forty under forty, the masters of our time, thought leaders and cultural candles. I rejoice in their accomplishments. But I cannot make their journey a template for mine. They have overcome or stepped over life crevasses of their own. Sooner, better, more beautifully, with extraordinary shining talent the world does well to recognize. I remind myself this does not negate my dusty corner. At the fringe of my shadow I am quietly content. Each book a summit. A personal Matterhorn in tennis shoes.
Time occasionally finds us on the right or wrong side of some imaginary mark in the sand. A bar we have set ourselves, or that others seem to vault with greater ease. Celebrate the victories. Let the anxiety go. Live your life on your own terms. This is the true prize. And the grandest part of it all - the becoming of you.
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My pen moves along the page
like the snout of a strange animal
shaped like a human arm
and dressed in the sleeve of a loose green sweater.
I watch it sniffing the paper ceaselessly,
intent as any forager that has nothing
on its mind but the grubs and insects
that will allow it to live another day.
It wants only to be here tomorrow,
dressed perhaps in the sleeve of a plaid shirt,
nose pressed against the page,
writing a few more lines
while I gaze out the window and imagine Budapest
or some other city where I have never been.
- Billy Collins
Recently, Publishers Weekly produced a small piece celebrating an author who has produced five novels before the age of thirty. And not just ordinary tough-as-nails-to-write-for-anybody books, but tremendous books. It is as though this young intellect arrived on earth with a soul full of truths and simply sat down and let the stories out. Helen Oyeyemi, Publishers Weekly correctly observes, is an icon among writers and her generation.
That acknowledged, I let my breath out. Now what in the hell do the rest of us mere mortals do? By this spectacular standard I have clearly underproduced; muddled through to middle age with but four books (and a load of false starts and no-sells in the drawer), and one newly completed manuscript out in the market. I think it would be fair to say most of the books are competent; maybe one a near-great (for me). But none of these books mark the high point of a generation. Not one has as of yet set the bar for literature or the world on fire. So what does this coal-car of paper amount to then?
It amounts to me. To my complicated, imperfect, imbalanced journey through life. To all that it required for me to become a writer at all. A parenthesis around pathways that amounted to ridiculous dead-ends, needless "learning experiences." A love-song to the self-confidence that didn't arrive until late in my third decade. A fossil of sorrow that hollowed out wasted thinking and living and left a thing fine and unbreakable in its place. These books I have written are all in some way reflective of an unorthodox coming of age. Not classic young adult tales of self-discovery but the thrashing near-drowning of the very adult. The bumbling, insecure, hopeful human being that ages into self-assurance by sheer survival. The lost in the raw, relentless beauty of the world. That journey is me. My work.
It is now and then necessary to step back from the media banner-awards party. The thirty under thirty lists, forty under forty, the masters of our time, thought leaders and cultural candles. I rejoice in their accomplishments. But I cannot make their journey a template for mine. They have overcome or stepped over life crevasses of their own. Sooner, better, more beautifully, with extraordinary shining talent the world does well to recognize. I remind myself this does not negate my dusty corner. At the fringe of my shadow I am quietly content. Each book a summit. A personal Matterhorn in tennis shoes.
Time occasionally finds us on the right or wrong side of some imaginary mark in the sand. A bar we have set ourselves, or that others seem to vault with greater ease. Celebrate the victories. Let the anxiety go. Live your life on your own terms. This is the true prize. And the grandest part of it all - the becoming of you.
Read More
