When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time--the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes--when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever--there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Yes, I am still working my way through this book, still savoring Irving's words. It can be days between reads, and sometimes I only finish a page or two before life interferes, but he never fails to impress. Irving inspires me. He daunts me. He makes me ask: If I truly want to write a piece of literature, if this is the bar to clear, how do I do it?
And if I can't do it--if I can only write a book good enough to be published and read but not remembered, quoted, kept instead of turned in to Half Price Books-- should that be enough?
2 comments:
Absolutely that should be enough. It's like me with singing. I'm no Renee Fleming but I love to sing. People tell me they enjoy listening and I get so much pleasure and fulfillment from it too. Stop singing because I'm not the best? Are you kidding? There is a quote I have hanging in my home - The woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang the best. It's the same with writing. Libraries would be very small if no books were published except by those who wrote the best. Everyone has something to offer.
What an affirming response! Okay-- onward, then! Thanks, Gretchen.
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