Fame & faith

Roiphe's incredible memoir (see below) raises questions that linger. Yes, as a young writer I sought "Fame" but this was not the fame of a movie star or rock star. This was the fame of Einstein. This was the fame of someone who discovered and shared a profound truth, in literature's case about the human condition. One wanted to be not just good but damn good, amazingly good. One wanted to get a response from others like the response you gave your favorite authors.

Of course, I learned as I aged how little "Fame" has to do with merit. This is a similar insight to learning, when I reached the point in my career when I was asked to judge literary competitions, that contests are about judges, not writers. Fame is about the culture, not art.

Yet there is a kind of fame wedded to merit but for the writer it works on a more one-to-one basis, a connection between the work and the individual observer. This is why I am so pleased about Sirc's comment on my essay -- especially his description of reading it in the dark basement of his university library. He found a treasure! That's what I want to do, write something that a reader finds in an unlikely place and considers it a treasure. Like I now treasure Roiphe's memoir, which I had never heard of but found and was attracted to its title, Art and Madness,

Or it's the fame of spontaneous appreciation, as when a single audience member at the curtain of my play "Country Northwestern" yelled out, "This play has balls!" No critic's praise can make me feel better than that. Or when a poet acquaintance caught up with me to say that he thought my short story "The Idaho Jacket" was the best fiction he'd ever read about the Northwest, including Kesey.

These are just opinions, of course, but they also are sincere connections. You write for the people who "get it," who get what you are trying to say. This is not a message, however; it's an experience, an emotional moment to share, an emotional truth to share. And I've been fortunate in this respect, despite not being a Superstar Writer. I've had my share of folks get it and communicate to me they get it, including a few critics who do that sort of thing for a living. And I've had the opposite, just to keep me honest, just to keep me from getting a swelled head. As my mother used to say, It all comes out in the wash.

I'm also fortunate to have two large archives of my work at two universities, one of them maintained online. This means the possibility exists that another Sirc will wander to my work after I pass. Indeed I have faith, the usual irrational faith, that this will happen. A grad student, most likely, wandering the Univ of Oregon library for a thesis topic. Stumbles upon my archive. Is blown away. This, too, is the ultimate compliment, "I'm blown away by ..." The one work of mine that drew this more than any other is my novel Kerouac's Scroll, no doubt because it is truthful and real about male experience of a certain generation and environment. Those who shared this react accordingly.

Roiphe ends her book by saying she would never do it all over again. Terry Southern's ex wife, in contrast, would. And I would myself. I made my share of mistakes but I'd do it all again. In fact, I'm not sure I'd be capable of doing otherwise.

And despite having outlived all my closest friends, which results in a new experience of loneliness, I like where I am today. I don't have a lot of years left but I sure as hell am going to live them with gratitude and as much energy that a still vibrant mind can muster from a weary body.