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Volume
15, Number 12 |
Also in this
section: An
open letter to
a young writer by Silvia Sirias If
you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing,
or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use
for it.
Anais
Nin
I
don't know much about creative writing programs. But they're not
telling the truth if they don't teach, one, that writing is hard
work, and, two, that you have to give up a great deal of life, your
personal life, to be a writer.
Doris
Lessing
Always
be nice to those younger than you, because they are the ones who will
be writing about you.
Cyril
Connolly
For Dominique Wiese This missive is an apology, of sorts. That’s because, at a crucial moment, when you needed my endorsement, when you needed a vote of confidence, I failed you. But perhaps you didn’t even notice this. In fact, it wasn’t until after we said our farewells that I realized that I had let you down. Thus, in case you overlooked my lapse, allow me to refresh your memory. The incident took place the day of your graduation from high school, during the reception that followed. You, your family, and I were chatting, all of us feeling proud of your accomplishments. At some point during our conversation your father expressed how much he liked Words of a Dragon: a collection of the best essays from the Introduction to College Writing course --- a collection that, incidentally, included several outstanding pieces that you wrote. Throughout this part of our gathering, I kept deflecting, rather clumsily, your father’s praise for my teaching. After all, I kept insisting, the students wrote those works, not me. Feeling awkward and hoping to divert attention away from the topic, I turned to you and said, “Tell me, what are you going to major in?” “I’m thinking about art,” you replied. But then you hesitated for the briefest of moments, looked me in the eyes, smiled, and added, “or maybe I’ll study creative writing.” And I knew that you meant every word of that last statement. That part of your answer came as a complete surprise, startling me, and instead of rejoicing and offering words of encouragement I stammered something about how some writers are also excellent visual artists, what a wonderful gift this is, and how God did not see fit to grant it to me. Shortly after I was done stuttering, we said our farewells and went our separate ways. That scene has been haunting me since because I now realize that I should have said, “That’s wonderful. I enjoy your writing, very much, and I have faith that someday you’ll make your mark as a writer.” But let me try to illustrate why your expressed desire to become a writer so alarmed me. I’ll try to do so through a story I learned while conducting research in preparation for writing Bernardo and the Virgin. As an adolescent, Bernardo Martínez told Father Enrique Mejía Vilchez, the man responsible for ministering to the residents of the village of Cuapa, about his fervent desire to become a priest. In response to Bernardo’s plea for support, Father Mejía Vilchez adamantly refused to endorse the teenager’s ambition, crushing his spirit --- at least temporarily. Although Bernardo first attributed the refusal to the priest’s cantankerous nature (I met Father García Vilchez when he was well-advanced in years, and his legendary ill-temper was, indeed, based on reality), in the years that followed that exchange, a phrase Father García Vilchez said gnawed at Bernardo: “Why do you want to become a priest? Don’t you know that the road to hell is paved with the heads of priests?” The day came, eventually, when Bernardo understood that the priest’s rejection was not because he lacked faith in Bernardo’s vocation and resolve (although at the time, with Bernardo being illiterate, the cleric knew that the young man had a long, uphill struggle before him), it was because Father Mejía Vilchez was acutely aware from his own experience that the priesthood was a harsh, lonely life of sacrifices that he did not wish upon anyone, let alone upon someone he respected, like Bernardo. A similar sentiment overwhelmed me the day of your graduation. My hesitation was never a question of lacking faith in your ability or in your resolve; rather, the long, difficult journey to arrive at the point where I can, still with trepidation, call myself a writer, reared itself, a terrifying specter. All those instances of self-doubt, and the wasted time these provoked, sent a chill straight through me. You see, the sacrifices called for to become a writer are daunting, and many times along the path it seems as if instead of moving forward one is regressing. What’s more, like the priesthood, being a writer is a lonely occupation, with only a handful of people capable of understanding and of offering to help along that journey. And the solitude in which writers work, without validation or pats on the back, invariably lead to moments of despair that become even more dreadful in the face of the editorial rejections that unavoidably plague them at the most vulnerable stages of their careers. And yet, in spite of these drawbacks, in spite of these fears, the sacrifices become worthwhile once we feel that we have achieved a satisfying measure of command over the craft. Thus, well aware of the difficulties that await you, I can say in all honesty that I believe that you have the aptitude and the will to succeed. Your writings, as you know, have impressed me, for several years now. And I’ve been stirred to confidence by the statement you made last school year that you already know what your first novel will be about. Indeed, I believe that you have many tales to tell and, more importantly, that you’ll learn how to tell them well. For these reasons, I shall now state what I failed to say the last time we spoke: “Walk boldly toward your goal of becoming a writer. I have faith in your desire and in your willingness to work hard to learn the craft; and I pray that someday your words will touch the hearts of many readers.” Godspeed, then, and may God bless you.
Silvio Sirias lives, writes, and teaches in Panama. His second novel, Meet Me Under the Ceiba, will be out September 30 with Arte Publico Press. For more information, visit http://www.silviosirias.com
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