Writer Envy

I have spent my break between shifts at work, luxuriantly supine, sipping tea and flipping the pages of a novel that rouses more than readerly appreciation. I am boggled by the author's rendering of people (which, so razor sharp, is impossibly balanced between utterly merciless and grandly compassionate). She crafts characters who delight in their fully realized humanity. A sensual, sensitive writer, she relays the unrelenting tragicomedy of daily life in familiar yet illuminating detail. Zadie Smith published the book in question, White Teeth, her debut novel, to mass critical acclaim and commercial success at age twenty four. Twenty four. TWENTY FOUR. 

I find myself pausing after a particularly well-turned out paragraph. I study the appointments of her craft. But, more frequently and perhaps less sanely, I analyze the writer. She is there, in a black and white photo on the book jacket, certifiably fresh-faced with the somehow expected glasses and gaze expressing both youth and the inherent, congenital ancientness of all literary creatures. I conjure her presence in the one hundred and thirty two pages I have already read, imagining that lovely, young face laboring over the four hundred page manuscript that would secure her fame. I ponder over her writerly habits: handwritten or word processed? Solitary and homebound or one of those freaks stationed amidst the clamor of cafes? A Wikipedia search reveals that Miss Smith was a senior at Cambridge when White Teeth was completed, with the publication rights being auctioned off following anticipation-chumming excerpts printed in Granta. 

the photo from White Teeth

That was thirteen years ago. Zadie Smith has become installed in the international literati. She is a tenured professor at NYU, has edited successful anthologies, published both fiction and nonfiction, and has received a dizzying list of accolades and awards for her talents. No shrieking harpy of mad genius, she is also a mother and wife. I remember when White Teeth was published. I was twelve years old, a neurotically well-read middle schooler. I regarded her success telescopically: another's accomplishment on a distant chronological horizon I would inevitably, naturally best.

I am twenty five. As obsessed as I have been with Smith while reading her fine novel, in my Homer Simpson print jammy pants holding a tyrannically needy tabby cat, my interest is entirely egotistical. Smith puts my success, or lack thereof, into a defined context. The certainty of her achievement at an uncertain age makes my heart beat faster (or, really, is it jealousy?). Most people careening through their twenties justify apathy, ambivalence, and general lack of inertia as a given condition of their extended adolescence. I wouldn't classify myself as apathetic, ambivalent, or without momentum, but I would say I am incredibly lenient with myself creatively because of my age. It's okay, I tell myself, most writers don't even really publish, let alone see success, until middle age, if not later. Another of my favorite maxims is: it's part of the process.

WHAT? What is part of the process? Indulging in a waiting game? Storing your ambition in, to quote Saul Bellow, the "warehouse of intention"? The truth is, Zadie Smith lights a fire under my ass. She is a phenomenal, rare talent I would not be so maniacal or delusional to declare myself a successor to. But the boldness in her choice to pursue excellence in an arguably male dominated, definitely older field inspires me. It is possible. I do not have to stand by, wait for some mystical endowment of wisdom to descend and nudge me forth into literary fruitfulness in middle age. 

What I gather from Smith's accomplishments is that it is possible. It is possible, now, to write. And to pursue success. Success is a malleable term. An ephemeral concept in the creative fields. So, I rest my conviction not in success as the end game, but rather the verb. I want to pursue writing to my full personal potential as it exists now. I do not want to wait, for all the hackneyed reasons and otherwise: tomorrow in never promised, et al. 

Smith has said in interviews that she cannot bear reading White Teeth now. It is, in her current opinion, stilted and ungraceful. The evidence of an undeveloped voice. Embarrassing. This is a book on Time's Best Books of the Century, a Whitbread award winner, etc. Smith's feelings are evidence of writers' sometimes tragic flaw: perfectionism. Writers are ferocious, unrelenting, cruel (to themselves always, hopefully to others, minimally). This fear of inadequacy can, with time's accumulation, transform Bellows' "warehouse of intentions" into a wasteland. 

One cannot wait life out for fairer circumstances to strive for what really matters. Zadie Smith demonstrates this to me, in the black and white of her author photo in White Teeth. The blurb under her photo, in the first sentence, declares her age, as if it is unmoveable, fixed, the most pertinent detail to her literary identity. An image search confirms that time has not stood still for Smith. She still possesses the same large, placid eyes but there are some lines on her face. Unlike in the first photo, in these more current pictures, there is the undeniable aura of maturation and the confidence that comes with years, successes, failures, marriage, children, and all the litany of life's details. The critique of the younger Smith by the older was earned by a continuation of her efforts. But, with the young girl with the glasses, peering out from a smash hit bestseller, it was with her that it all began.

Of Vortex-trekking and the withering of cynicism...

the highlight to our day trip to sedona was visiting a church, built directly into the rock and, according to the solemn reporting of a proprietor of a dog accessories shop in town, "on a vortex". for those of you who have not endured one of my pertinent monologues, i was a religious studies major in school with an area of concentration on new religious movements. you may have gathered from my attention to religious art in sweden that i am at the very least an appreciator of religious iconography. and i am. but there is a vast space between objects and places rarefied through centuries of sacred designation and those more recently evolved. both are fascinating, and my experience in sweden was my first of the religiously-marinating-for-almost-a-millenia. what was amazing about this trip to sedona was immersion in america's new religious mecca.

i wish i had taken more pictures while we strolled through town, past shop after shop offering aura photography, crystal healing, vortex tours, and psychic consultations. it didn't feel appropriate. this marketplace of new religious services and paraphernalia was not hidden, some isolated wayside curiosity. this was sedona's main street, the dominant culture, and obviously a major engine of the local economy. there was something striking about seeing what, to many americans, is slightly deviant or suspect, being proffered without any self-consciousness or irony in the plain language of advertisements and prices. 

while walking sedona's streets, starbucks chai in hand, i could have passed through any one of dozens of storefronts and entered a space specializing in immediate salvation: spiritual cleansing, energetic healing, aura readings. we went in a couple crystal shops. i felt tawdry and voyeuristic as, unrelenting chronicler that i am, i eavesdropped on an elated customer telling a shopkeeper that "waking up to rainbows just makes me smile!" during my thesis writing days, a crucial part of my efficacy as researcher was remaining objective, neutral, and present during my visits to new religious groups. analysis was for later, and while impossible to totally separate my own subjectivity from my experiences, i did my best to write through a scholarly, sensitive lens. in sedona, gawking at the literal profitability of this geographically specific spiritual marketplace, i felt a little superior, cynical, and --somewhere underneath all of this-- like an asshole.

anyways, once we'd gotten our fill of strolling, we decided to check out this church. mike told me had seen it before-- bike rides had sometimes passed right by it. as we walked up to it, it loomed, smooth and alien somehow: all slick lines and glossy stone, atop the rough textured red rock sedona is famous for. it was a steep approach, and golf carts with wizened-looking drivers were at the ready on the sidelines for the less durable pilgrims.

 and, as we rounded the corner, up the determined incline of the sidewalk, it came into head-on view. and it was beautiful. the sun was poised directly behind the church, ringing it without nuance in a halo, its light streaming through the paned glass windows in geometric interruptions. i took one picture. and then, waiting for the tourist to kindly get out of view, another. and another. and another. it was so beautiful. retaining my documentarian distance, i told mike the pictures were good. i lowered my camera and we went inside.

 it is profound, the spaces us humans identify as sacred. the places we designate as our moorings, our safe harbors. where we go to unburden ourselves, divest our souls of our earthly weight. with light bearing through in each cross-created quadrant, i was relieved of my own distance. i felt, i experienced, i was. i took in the silence, breathed the air, watched people who spoke many different languages come in and experience singular awe. we create channels, places we can put down the awful weight of our "i"-ness. 

 it was a catholic church, built on a vortex. but that was not important. what was important was the quiet, the shuffle of consciously muffled steps, the widening of eyes.

love letter to light

a big ol bike ride

arizona is loving kicking my butt. the terrain here is insane, as if specifically designed to annihilate one's self-confidence, leg strength, and perhaps throw in a little cactus brutality for good measure.

we rode a total of 30 miles yesterday. beginning on lusciously flowy rocky goodness and kicking up into a soul crusher of a climb. it snaked along a ridge, filled with loose rock, tiny pebbles, cacti along every available surface, and aggressive sunshine. standing up to tackle this beast was not an option, as the traction is nonexistent with the sand and rock. one must simply put weight on the rear wheel and spin. i actually kind of enjoyed it. however, towards the top, features were on the unridable side for me, necessitating hikin a bike. when we topped out on the plateau, there was an older gent gabbering mike's ear off about football. as i pushed up, this butthead could not resist asking: "is your bike getting a nice walk?" i looked at my feet and muttered something about it being hard. of course, his rude comment fueled me to the top of the next ridge: was he BLIND? this was crazy to be riding bikes on! excuse me for not being superhuman, but my bike was enjoying plenty of actual riding. we took a snack break as mike explained it was the point of no return.

we rode. and rode. and rode. the descent was lunar: decomposed granite with dips and rock formations, but incredibly flowy and, minus points of feeling terribly exposed, almost relaxing. of course, i was riding like an idiot, braking erratically and spinning out on every turn, but my heart felt huge and glowing as mike and i reconvened at the bottom.

arizona, you are something.

facing fears with a great view

the mountains rise, ancient jagged molars. i was told, accompanied by some pointing, that we would be going to the top of one of these spires.

 the hike began promisingly. weather: perfect, spirits: high. the scenery: serene, wild, stark. as we navigated giant boulders and rocks, walking along tight outcroppings and ducking through surprising tunnels of green, i noticed that ahead, there was a major increase in both pitch and exposure. i decided to just tuck this away in the mental rolodex, and continue enjoying the lovely vigorousness of the setting and trail.

we came to the aforementioned steep pitch increase. there was a ribbon of water, which we followed high and to the left to come to a little pool filled with TADPOLES. tadpoles, dozens of them, and some crazy fly specimens straight out of doctor seuss using what appeared to be their wings to swim. we enjoyed a moment of solitude before digging into one of my worst fears ever.

now readers, most of you are aware of my three crippling phobias: HEIGHTS, clowns, and spiders. i had been aware, vaguely, on the approach that i would be experiencing some measure of height immersion. i have made recent strides with this irrational companion, riding a roller coaster ridiculously christened "the intimidator" this summer and daringly glancing over the edge atop the space needle in seattle. these are tiny steps indeed to an outsider but if you are in the panic galaxy my head becomes 10 feet off the ground, you would understand.

so, as you can gather from the pictures, things ramped up right after this sweet poolside interlude. my breathing became erratic. tears (TEARS!) formed in my eyes and my feet began bumbling on every surface. as julia would say, it was a sphincter clincher. mike stayed dutifully ahead, patiently waiting for me every five feet. it became necessary to STAND AND REACH for foot- and handholds, which was absolutely more than i could handle. i needed to take a second, and squatted on a buttress, trying to gather myself and talk through the irrationality when that most loathsome of outdoor recreationalists, a dready hippie idiot, ambled by and acted shocked at my, shall we say, discomfort. i resolved to continue, but the price was high. i was on the outskirts of a panic attack at the final push for the rest stop, atop the massively exposed pitch we had just come up.

mike was understanding. we snacked and, per usual, food allayed some of my craziness. however, it became clear that hiking up the final wash to the summit of the trail, with its exposure and the necessity of navigating back DOWN, was not going to add up to a fun day. so, after decimating potato chips and peanut butter and jelly, we turned around. the view was incredible and despite my terror on the way up, i was cool and collected on the way down. one might regard my descending technique as, well, "nontraditional".

that's right. abandoning pride, which i left at the top, i scooted on my butt almost the entirety of the way down. i saw senior citizens managing this descent upright. 

however, smiles were maintained. as we made it to the bottom of the trail, i felt that even making it as far as i did, given the magnitude of this phobia, was another minor victory.

from the land of desert...

cacti are everywhere. prickly hazards i tell myself are immobile and without malice, though by day one i had already slammed my hand (during some of my trademark conversational gesturing) into one, resulting in a constellation of blood-dots and a quickly blooming bruise. the colors are from a vast pallette- isn't the desert supposed to be a bland wasteland of neutrals? but no; colors seep forth from every surface. 

yesterday we rode for 25 very hard miles. i was humbled by this alien terrain with its strange dips and surfaces, sand and washes. the aforementioned cacti are sedate but merciless sentinels around every corner. i struggled. fear electrified my reflexes and possessed my imagination. i was almost comically thirsty. and yet, it was one of the most beautiful rides i have ever experienced. the final ridge, i felt what i am always chasing on 2 wheels. the synchronization of everything i am with the moment. 

the desert is beautiful.