Hemingway said war is the greatest good fortune a writer can have. He would say that. But the man had a point. That first night under bombardment teaches an invaluable lesson:
Your days are numbered.
This is not something learned quickly or easily. Or ever. And it’s not good enough to see death happen to others, no matter who they are. Death is just bad luck. Often it is, but even as we ponder, or grieve, we feel invulnerable. They lost, we won, and we wake the next morning with our work at hand, not one whit smarter.
Too bad. Especially for the writer of fiction, whose job it is to know the score. And to continue the sports metaphor, dumb as it is, the score is never in our favor. Death is always winning.
It’s probably healthy to ignore such things. For most people, but not so healthy for writers. I wouldn’t just say my MFA pals, Emily and Derek, ignore death. That’s common enough. They ignore aging itself.
In a way, they are forever young.
They graduate next spring. There is no plan to begin a project, or go to work. Both are applying for writing retreats, which will kill a little time. Emily will be vacationing in Vietnam for a month. Or six weeks, there’s no rush getting back. Derek? His lack of any plan is telling. Maybe he’ll surprise her by showing up in Ho Chi Minh City. Some surprise.
These young people have plenty of options. Young? That might not be the word. Both are over thirty. Youth is just a vibe. An impression. I’ve seen people their age who seem old the same way Emily and Derek seem young.
They want to be writers. They talk about being writers all the time, and I want to be clear, this is okay. I am very impressed at the dedication. They are writers first and foremost, and neither works otherwise, or works very much. Derek is a freelance editor who helps with corporate issues like manuals and press releases. I think he’s really good, and I think he’s paid really well, because he doesn’t seem to work a whole lot. Emily works from home as an organizer of some kind with a state-funded arts board. She’s a little nervous, because her position was created by Covid funding, no longer forthcoming. Neither Emily nor Derek likes to talk much about jobs. Again, this is admirable. They are writers, and proudly so.
My concern is more subtle. Not only are these young people not very young, but they don’t have many responsibilities. They get loans, which may or may not have to be repaid. They live in apartments in University Village, a very chic and upscale area near campus occupied almost exclusively by fellow 30-ish professionals. They talk about travelling to South Padre and Cabo for Spring Break. Spring Break? I haven’t heard those words since I was in college. They have no plans to marry, or partner up, or have children. I don’t know if that’s bad or good. To each their own. And yet…
“I’m not sure,” said Emily. “I want to bring children into this world.”
“Which world?”
“This one.”
“What’s wrong with it?” I knew what was wrong with it. I just like to be a snot.
“It’s burning up!”
“You mean global warming?”
“I mean climate change.”
I never saw the difference, except we’re sunk no matter what. “You’re not having kids because of that?”
“Yes! It wouldn’t be right.”
“For you?”
“For the children! Are you always this difficult?”
It is a gift. “Aren’t you afraid you won’t have anything to write about?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what do you write about now?” I knew what she wrote about. Manhattan. Restaurants. Drugs. A snarky world-weary heroine who has sex the way the rest of us have a cup of coffee. There’s always someone showing up to wreck things, a girl or boy from the past. You have to have something to keep the whole works going.
Emily says, rather haughtily, she has plenty to write about. She has, after all, taken extended trips to France, Spain, and soon, Asia. She can write about that.
I saw another snarky world-weary heroine who has sex in Vietnam before someone from the past shows up to wreck things.
“I mean,” she asks. “What do you think I should write about?”
“What about right here?”
“This stupid place?”
“Sure. Real life. And while you’re at it stop worrying. Take chances. Work all the time. Fall in love. Have children you didn’t expect. Make a few mistakes, for god sake. Life doesn’t last forever.”
“Make mistakes?” Emily was aghast. She blinked at my foolishness. “Why would I do that? Why would anybody do that? Who are you anyway?”
That one was easy. “A writer.”
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com