― Grayson Perry
Quinn
Writers, real writers, are the most isolated individuals―there ought to be a support group for them. I'm not talking about dilettantes, poseurs or celebrities trading on fame to write a book―I'm talking about artists.
I'm not getting into semantics about author vs. writer or published vs. self-published―I don't care about hair-splitting. I mean, if someone is serious enough about their art to give up a year of their life to write in solitude not knowing if their work is going to be accepted or trashed, well then, you gotta respect that commitment.
Yeah, I know this sounds self-serving as a paean of praise to me and self-sacrifice, but damn it, the only way to find your own voice is to get your own pain and then head off to the desert to write about it―free from the input of others who might leave fingerprints all over your work and mar your vision.
Okay, that's my apologia for why I spend so much time alone in my fictional world.
I'm back sitting before the fire, my Mac Air on my lap, drinking my fourth coffee. I'm probably over-caffeinated and too wired to do anything more than edit.
My cell rings and gives me a start―I watch it skating around my coffee table before I recover and pick up.
"Hey, Liam―it's Clio. Is this a bad time? I hope I'm not disturbing a creative moment."
Clio Carmichael is part of our gang that meets bi-monthly at Sweetwaters. I'm overjoyed to hear her voice and connect.
"Hi Clio―great to hear from you! You're not disturbing anything. Actually, I needed to talk to somebody just about now―going through a bit of a rough patch―nothing drastic, just writer's angst, I suppose."
"I understand, Liam. I know writing presents its own unique challenges, but that's why I was phoning. The Department Chair said today he needs to hire a lecturer―Phillip Myers was in an accident and will be out for a semester. Do you think you might be interested?"
"What courses would I be teaching?"
"Victorian Novels and 19th Century Prose―right up your alley. You assisted Phil as a T. A. when you were in graduate school. It'd be a minimum of prep for you and leave you all kinds of time to work on your writing."
My heart leaps at the thought. I picture myself back in the College teaching alongside Quinn. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity for a second chance.
"I've got to admit―it sounds intriguing. How do I go about applying?"
She laughs. "You just did―I'm the Assistant Chair this year and I just hired you. You start teaching Monday at nine so that gives you the weekend to get ready."
"I don't know what to say, Clio―thanks for considering me."
"We've all missed you at the College, Liam. I know you'll do an excellent job and at the end of the term we'll talk about future opportunities. See you Monday."
I sat there stunned, letting the realization of what just happened wash over me. I couldn’t believe how much Clio’s job offer meant to me.
I felt I had a new lease on life.
Much as I loved writing, the solitude had lost its attraction and I saw myself less as a Thoreau retreating from society to ‘live deliberately’ and more as a man in self-imposed exile.
Yes, isolating myself had clarified my individual vision and made me independent of influences, but also denied me the social life I needed.
It cost me my relationship with Quinn and that was too high a price to pay because she was my real need.
I lost out on time spent with her and to my mind that made me a loser— not simply because I lost someone precious, but lost the one relationship I really meant to keep.
But now I could put all this angst behind me. This would definitely be a new beginning.