Years ago, I learned an important lesson about the writer’s life. My (now late) husband, Omar Castaneda was finally getting published. We were ecstatic. We celebrated flamboyantly when his novel, Cunuman, was accepted by a small publishing house, and through that year of editing and rewrites, we talked continually about how exciting it would be to see his work in print. Then, in the spring of1986, he received the final proofs. Things went downhill from there.
Omar read the proofs with growing apprehension. He’d been so proud of his novel, but now—on the eve of its publication—he felt like he was seeing it with new eyes. Suddenly, the work he’d labored over seemed slipshod and clumsy. He hated the plot, the characters, the style. He became convinced that it was amateurish rubbish that would label him forever as a hack and a fraud.
It was not a pleasant time. Omar shut himself in our bedroom to read and reread his novel. Every half hour or so, the door would open, and he’d wander out, looking dazed and desperate. He’d walk around the room philosophizing miserably about the inevitable collapse of his career, then he’d disappear behind closed doors again and the cycle would repeat. This went on for days.
Of course, Omar’s career did not collapse. Cunuman wasn’t exactly an international best-seller, but it got good reviews and became the first of several increasingly successful novels and short-story collections. And, of course, every time, a book was ready for publication, he’d have another bout of panic.
Since then, I’ve seen quite a few writers ride the roller-coaster of horrors. It’s taught me a lot about what it is to be a writer. How vulnerable we feel. How exposed. How often we walk the thin line between joy and despair.
It’s also taught me how much of our fear is false. Mainly it’s just us being writers—insecure, hopeful, socially challenged, and damaged, as so many of us are. It’s all about the voices in our heads—the ones who are determined to make sure we’re not happy, even when things are going well. Maybe the fear’s even good—it keeps us from getting too full of ourselves.
In any case, there it is. A nearly-finished novel. A few thousand hours of my life. A lot of hope and a little craziness. And a storm rolling across Minnesota, bringing rain.