A Very Long Meditation on Failure, Writing, God, Terror, Erasmo, Drawing, Neurosis, and A Very Famous Writer

"Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"
Mary Oliver


I don’t know what God wants me to do about writing.

Years ago we had three women set up to give a talk for my women’s club. At the last minute one woman, in fact the best speaker, bowed out. She was “too scared,” she couldn’t speak in front of people. Despite all our reassurances, she bolted. For years she stopped coming to Lydia’s House at all.

Trying to get my manuscript ready to take to the writer’s conference this month, I am overwhelmed with the wretchedness, the amateurishness of my work. How can I possibly compete with the “real” writers and illustrators? I struggle and struggle with one especially difficult drawing where a boy shrinks. I think it looks like shit. People are bound to regard it (and me) with contempt. I start sweating. My fingers ache. I stand over the drawing, trying to bully it into line. Now the boy looks like a alien. A very boring, amateurish alien.

Finally, much like the Lydia's House speaker, I shut off the annoying soothing music I’d put on and stumble into the living room where I sit till midnight reading about Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. (“Ah, the cost of unmitigated ambition!”) At least I didn’t light into a strawberry milkshake. But I feel ashamed: “Stupid, lazy fool!”

Maybe I should forget the whole writing thing. After all, one of the cats peed in both dining room and laundry room weeks ago and I still haven’t found time to clean it. Wouldn't it feel comfortable to just go back to being a little housekeeper? Isn't the life of a cat-pee cleaner as worthy as that of novel writer?

But, I argue, I’ve lived my whole life that way, hiding my light under the tiniest of bushels.

Twenty-four years ago a therapist bashed me for not having the courage to publish my work: “How would it be if I just counselled members of my church for free?” (Therapists, take note: this did not help.)

I remember a writers conference where A Famous Author tried to dissuade us all from the writer’s life. “Look at me!” she cried, pointing to her obese frame. “This is what writing did to me!” For thirty minutes she delineated all the ways writing is killing her. Everybody wished she’d shut the hell up.

I’ve written many times about Erasmo, the third grader who loathes reading because he knows he’s a failure. This week he begged me to let him read "a third grade book.” One look at all those big words and he shut the book like Freddy Krueger hid inside. Then wearily Erasmo took out The Fat Cat. I felt for him. Every week he takes home four or five of these books, which his sister informed me he never reads. Why do something that only reminds you that you’re incompetent?

I started my writing/drawing project as a surprise for Erasmo. He still has no idea I’m making something that he can read just for pleasure.(Imagine that!) If I think about nothing but that darling boy, the work flows. Aliens begone.

Slowly I drag out the old drawing board. Without the fear of failure, I work very slowly. Certainly I won’t finish in time for the writer’s conference...


"What is it to work…?

It is to weave the cloth with threads
drawn from your heart, even as if your
beloved were to wear that cloth.

It is to build a house with affection, even
as if your beloved were to dwell in that
house.

It is to sow seeds with tenderness and reap
the harvest with joy, even as if your beloved
were to eat the fruit."
Kahlil Gibran