To The Books We Don't t Know We Write

You were reading a bad novel. “I can write this shit,” you said.

“No,” I said. You had enough to deal with. I was thinking that the last thing you need to guilt yourself with or pressure yourself with is writing the Great American Novel. Next summer, by the pool, you can get back to it.

“No. It’s better to read someone else’s book,” I said. Let them do the work. Let them sit down at the typewriter and bleed. 

Let someone else sit down and grate themselves raw. Let them reach down into the darkest part of themselves and bang it out on to the page. Let someone else reveal a secret even if no one else can see it. This is not a test of character or patience or talent or even discipline.

This is not a test. And we cannot fail.

We all write our lives, our stories, even when we don’t. I have recipe cards from my grandmother, one title “Rue.” She knew better, that the word in French is “Roux.” But one day, after I asked her to send me all her recipes, she sat down with a black ball point pen and a 3x5 index card and began:

     Rue

     ⅓ c. Oil 

     ⅓ c. Flour

In French, “Rue” is street. 

My grandfather kept calendars, years and years of calendars with the smallest details of his day marked in each square. His handwriting barely changing over the years. 

We all write every day and we all have a book by the end. Maybe not a best seller. And no one will make a movie out of it. 

But someone will read it. And they will know how much you had to bleed to get it down. How much we all suffer to get it down. They will be grateful you wrote as much as you did. They will put it all together. The meaning is made later, by the reader. They might think it’s shit. I doubt it.