I was meeting with my editor in that sad
café near the theatre district…the one where
those going up start out and those coming
down wind up. It was any other night. I had
an advance on a piece I was writing, and he
wanted to check on the progress. Hell…even
writers need a prod now and then…lazy bunch
of sots…
So, we were meeting and we both knew why
and we both knew the routine. We’d managed
to crank out several volumes together, so, why
should tonight be any different? But, it was…
it was very different.
“I don’t get it, Frank….we’ve been through
this so many times. Why is it so difficult this
time?”
“Because I can’t write what you want me to.”
“What? You can’t find the words? What is it?”
“No…it’s because it would be wrong to put it
into words…because words cannot recreate
experience….because an oral culture…oral
learning…can only happen in person. A
description in words could only be a travesty”
“Words do the best they can. You’re a writer.
Why can’t you do the best you can?”
“Because I was told not to.”
The evening lingered, Our table became a confluence
of conversation, congruence and coincidence…
…it was like all the other evenings.
My editor….that sturdy intellect of steel…ambition
of purpose beyond personal gain looked across the
table at me and asked: “What is it?”
I looked at him. I saw a man looking into a mirror
for his reflection.