“We live with mystery,” the poet Mark Strand notes, “but we don’t like the feeling. I think we should get used to it.”
I never met Strand, though I saw him read back in 1999. That was the year I spent making deliriously bad poetry. I didn’t realize how bad it was at the time. I only knew that prose had become an insufficient vehicle for my genius; this was why my short stories kept getting rejected.
I was depressed and lonely, scrambling between adjunct teaching gigs driving a pale green Tercel with a rusted undercarriage that would eventually shed a wheel in traffic. Every Thursday, I drove to a hipster bar and abused the open mic. I haunted local readings, vibrating with angst and stabbing insights onto a napkin because I couldn’t be bothered to buy a notebook.
That was when I was feeling ambitious. Mostly, I got stoned and watched movies at the second-run theater in Davis Square. I’d coat my arteries in Milk Duds, then walk outside into the silence of who I was.
How wretched was my poetry, really?
Owed to Water
It is said the ocean forgets everything
forgets the lash of lightning and the stones
it grinds to sand and the planks it swallows
without joy or renunciation
OK?
I wasn’t ready to write about what was actually happening in my life. So I ravaged Roget’s Thesaurus and bound the resulting dreck into a manuscript titled, unpretentiously, “Seven Essential Dreams.”
My dad suggested therapy. I hated him for it, then went to see a psychiatrist who reminded me, a little, of my mother (also a psychiatrist) and who informed me, after our first session, that she didn’t have room for me in her schedule. I staggered onto the sidewalk and burst into tears. As if in a dream, or a bad poem, one of my students appeared. We both had to pretend it wasn’t happening, that she would not now race back to campus to inform the rest of the class.
Around this time, my mother flew to Boston for a series of interviews that represented the final exam of her psychoanalytic training. At dinner one night, I mentioned that I’d been writing poetry. “I once dated a poet,” she murmured. “A million years ago, at Antioch. Do you know Mark Strand?”
“Mark Strand,” I said. “Oh my God! Are you serious? I just saw him read.” And so on.
I had long since renounced the practice of showing her my pain. For years, I’d been playing the role of her charming youngest son, the one trying to be a writer across the country. But having her in town, right across the table, awakened an ancient desperation. I wanted her to comfort me. My brain has spared me a reliable memory of that meal. I remember only that I started to cry.
“I’m sorry you’re struggling, Stevie,” she said. “But I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
I hate telling you this. I hate that it happened. My mother was the person I loved most in the world. She was the person whose devotion to literature had become my own. She was also tired of caring for needy, self-absorbed men. The point isn’t that she was a bad mom. The point is that we had no idea, in that particular moment of torment, how to reach each other. We were lost in private orbits of doubt.
**
That’s my central feeling when I begin writing: doubt. I haven’t quite worked out what the story is about. I have, at most, a few stray associations, a fragment of dialogue, the faint outlines of a plot.
Even as I learn more about my characters, as their dreams and fears begin to coalesce, I often conceal this data from the reader because I experience this withholding as a form of authority.
A reader mired in doubt, after all, is in no position to judge me.
There are, of course, other reasons that I foist doubt upon the reader. I forget that the reader isn’t me, doesn’t have access to my memories, hasn’t been along for the journey of discovery. I’m wary of the pain I might encounter and concerned about exposing my private tribulations, or those of my beloveds. Whatever the reasons, the result is the same: I mire the reader in my confusion, rather than that of my characters.
I’m not the only one making this category error. As the fiction editor of a literary magazine, I rejected 90 percent of our submissions for the simple reason that they were needlessly confusing.
To be clear: the stories we tell (if they are honest) should be full of doubt. We, as a species, are full of doubt. In fact, our deepest stories arise from our bewilderment. They represent a productive engagement with that bewilderment — a creative struggle to understand and make meaning from our destructive impulses, our disappointments and delusions, our unresolved traumas, the vaults of mayhem we calmly drag around.
**
In ninth grade, my English teacher, a brilliant ham by the name of Jim Farrell, read us the first chapter of “The Catcher in the Rye.” I was hypnotized by the voice of Holden Caulfield, at once sly and bereft.
Mostly, I loved how honest Holden was about his own confusion. He wasn’t on some epic quest to process his nervous breakdown. He was simply having it, on the page, hurtling through his lost weekend in New York City, offending the phonies, fretting over the ducks in Central Park, sobbing before his little sister.
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This story is part of a collection of stories printed Sunday, March 31, 2024.
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To write so openly about doubt struck me as a revolutionary act. I had spent years hiding my own, mistaking uncertainty for weakness.
We’re all the same way. We present to the world a version of ourselves brimming with assurance, free of anguish, in control. We know it’s a lie, but we see everyone else participating in that lie; the result is a vast and insoluble loneliness.
As writers, we have to allow our characters to stumble, to fail, to wander off the trail and into bewilderment. We have to stop regarding our own misspent years as personal failures.
Yes, we were drinking too much, ruining friendships, hurling our bodies before our hearts. Yes, we were unable to get out of bed. Yes, we got fired, got dumped, got arrested, got hospitalized. Yes, we needed help. But we were also, in the midst of all that, deeply alive. Pathetic as we might have seemed from the outside, we were working to change, to grow, to forgive.
I see that now: all the work I was doing during my year of bad poetry. I was sad and isolated and creatively confused. But I wrote every day.
Years later, I would convert some of my bad poems into extremely short stories, which they had been, all along. Hiding behind even the worst of my poems was a true story I wasn’t ready to tell yet, usually a story about how confused I was, how ashamed, how lost.
We always turn away from unbearable feelings. We want to feel sure of ourselves. We want to skip the part of the story where the hero falls apart. But that’s the story the reader wants to hear, the one only another human being in pain can tell them.
Excerpt from “Truth is the Arrow, Mercy is the Bow: A DIY Manual for the Construction of Stories,” by Steve Almond. Copyright @2024 by Steven Almond. Used by permission of Zando, zandoprojects.com. All rights reserved.