By Catherine Madera
The truth brings with it a great measure of absolution, always.
~R. D. Laing
"You must be SO excited about your story!" My friend grinned enthusiastically and squeezed my arm. "I can't wait to read it. Think of all the people who will see it!"
I managed a feeble smile as my stomach twisted into a knot. "Yeah... I can't wait."
Any fledgling writer would have been thrilled with my achievement — my first byline in a major magazine. The story had attracted attention all right. Chosen from thousands of entries, it was the ticket to a thrilling, all-expenses paid trip to New York to learn to write for a magazine with a circulation of millions. Nearly overnight, my dream of becoming a real writer had come true. There was only one small problem. No, it was a big problem. The story I had written was true and intensely personal. It was even embarrassing — a chronicle of major failure in my life and marriage and the journey to healing. So why had I chosen to write about it?
Weeks away from publication, I couldn't remember why, exactly, I had chosen this story. It certainly wasn't because it was something I was proud of. No, it was almost like God had spoken to my heart when I entered the writing contest, on a whim, and instructed me to write and submit the story. After all, the magazine wanted true, unpublished stories of personal change. Mine certainly qualified.
After the workshop, my story was given a publication date. I was excited... for a little while. Then came the task of rewriting... and more rewriting. With the rewrites came the realization that the story was, in fact, going to appear in print. Fear began to replace my excitement. One day, after a long conversation with my editor, I hung up the phone and burst into tears. We had been shaping the story together, and each change cut closer and closer to my heart. I hadn't expected to feel this way. Writing so personally was hard. It was painful. Still, I gave my approval and waited for the day the magazine would appear.
During the last days before publication time, I was ambivalent, one minute filled with proud anticipation, the next considering a stake-out at all major booksellers and buying every copy of the magazine. And what about the friends and relatives who would receive copies in their mailboxes? Most of them didn't know about my experience. Would they be disgusted? Lose all respect for me? Some days, I felt physically ill with worry.
Then, a few days after I knew the issue was in stores, my worst fear came true. I was invited to a friend's home for Easter dinner along with some relatives, my sister, and a couple of her friends. All the way there, I thought about the story and wondered who might have read it. And, sure enough, when I entered the house, I spied a copy of the magazine prominently displayed on a side table. Nonchalantly, I sat down next to the table and covered the magazine with another publication when no one was looking. Perhaps everybody would just forget about it.
"Hey, Cath, don't we have a copy of your story around here somewhere?" My sister gestured toward a dinner guest. "Sara wants to read it."
"Really?" I felt my face grow hot as I wished the couch I was sitting on would swallow me whole.
"Of course. We're so proud of you!" My sister got up from her chair and rummaged through the stack of magazines. "Here it is, Sara. Cath's first big story."
At that moment, I excused myself and fled to the kitchen. A bottle of Chardonnay sat on the counter, and I poured myself a glass and gulped it down. Briefly, I considered disappearing into the back bedroom with the entire bottle.
When I reentered the room, Sara laid down the magazine.
"Uhhh, congratulations." She shifted in her seat. The look on her face said it all.
Quickly, I shifted the conversation to another topic, but the damage had been done. I contemplated my dismal future as a writer. I had been too real, and people were disgusted with me. Maybe I would be better off making up stories for the many celebrity tell-all magazines common at grocery store checkouts.
 |
Later that night, I lay in bed, knees pulled to my chest. Was it the money, the attention that prompted me to tell that story? Would people think I was willing to air "dirty laundry" in exchange for a few hundred bucks? Would they judge me, think I had no talent?
Then I remembered one of the magazine editors who had approached me one night at the workshop.
"I was the first one to read your story, Catherine. It stood out immediately; it had emotional honesty."
Emotional honesty?
I had never considered it. I'd only written as much from my heart as possible in hopes that someone else would benefit somehow — perhaps a reader who had gone through a similar experience. I hadn't thought of the people who might not understand why I chose to write about my experience.
When I thought about it, that editor wasn't the only one who was touched by the story. There was the woman who approached me privately after reading it and shared her own experience — one that very few people knew about.
"I want you to know I admire you for your courage and honesty," she had told me. Remembering her words brought instant comfort.
As I lay in bed, new thoughts strengthened my resolve. This was what writing was about: telling the truth. The sometimes hard truth. Sure, some people might not understand; they might even judge me. Certainly, not every true story is one that needs to be told. But when I thought about it, the authors and books I admired most shared a common quality: They had a transparency, an honesty, that touched me. And that was the kind of writer I wanted to be.
Комментариев нет:
Отправить комментарий