A reader e-mailed me, saying some really nice stuff about my first novel. In my reply, I managed to articulate something that’s been at the back of my head for a while:
What an amazing thing, that we can create imaginary worlds, events, and people, then have others share them with us!
I remember the day I finished doubleZero in a cruddy back-alley shambles of a café-in-a-warehouse in Toronto. I was there with my friend Bert, typing away on my Newton, when I entered the final words and realised I was finished. I started crying, realising that I wasn’t going to get to be with those people anymore. They had become quite real to me.
I’ve had other relationships since — with characters like Hugh, Simon, Stefan, Peter, Jeremy, Victor, and Despendra — because our first love is seldom our last. The whole process is still pretty magical to me, and I’ve been away from it long enough that, to be honest, I’m scared by it. Which is silly, especially when I’ve got so much proof that I can do it consistently and even have a process for doing it that I’ve taught other people.
I guess it’s the measurement thing: because none of my books made a big splash (in that way we imagine outside forces are somehow going to take responsibility and make such a thing happen), it’s like going back into dating after being repeatedly heartbroken.
When I was dating, I got this feeling like there was soot accumulating in my heart with every rejection or disappointment, and that this dark stuff would eventually be the end of me. What a beautiful surprise, then, to meet the person who’d become my spouse, and find all of that accreted stuff blown away from every last corner. I had a fresh start.
I guess this is how it is for writers, too. As much as I hate celebrity culture and honestly do not want to become famous, there’s a certain validation in hearing someone say that they let their imagination participate in one of my stories and loved being in that place. It completes the circle of the creative act. I imagine the effect is exactly the same whether it’s one person or a million.
I was taught in theatre school never to ask “So what did you think?” because it’s unfair to put others in that position, and because they might actually tell you what they thought. If their reaction is bad, even though you know that their reaction is completely personal and subjective, you still have to go on with the show, and that’s difficult to do with harsh words in your head about the thing you’re doing.
Today I encounter the world with the great benefit of having someone behind me, shielding my spotless heart. Is this what we need as creatives? Not unquestioning ‘yes-man’ sycophants, but, well, fans?
Perhaps this is part of the process, and I need to go back and create a swatch-file of that sort of correspondence I’ve received, because for whatever reason, the mind doesn’t ever seem to hold onto the good stuff. It’s back to Square One every time in the land of conditioned mind, where we’re taught that we’re unacceptable by nature and have to earn our way into virtue. But as Zen teacher Cheri Huber says, “If self-improvement worked, it would have by now.”
I insist that everyone has the right to create, but there’s another jump to make from that place to the place where we have the courage to notice, value, and make use of the ideas that come to us. And perhaps there’s nothing wrong in needing help with that.