There will be dogs...
Part two of my letter exchange with Samuél Lopez-Barrantes
Welcome back to Stock Fiction and part two of my intercontinental correspondence with
, writer of novels, singer of songs, thinker of thoughts, and nurturer of virtual friendships.If you missed the first installment, you can read it here:
“My question to you is: where do you see yourself in ten years?
If you tell me you haven’t given it any thought, I will have to call foul. Because while I know you are a man who lives every moment to the fullest (better than most), I also know you are a romantic, a dreamer, and above all, a thinker.
No wrong answers here. Just a glimpse of what you’ve conjured up in those quiet moments when your brain takes the wheel because the rest of you is too tipsy to drive.
Where do you go?”
Read on to find out where we went.
Meg,
What a pleasure it is to read your words and to respond to them here, in letter form, without copying/pasting into a Word doc, thinking about exactly how I want to respond to each line, wondering if I should say this or that—in short, acknowledging what it means to actually communicate via letter form from the heart.
Thank you for your honesty. The idea of middle age being comparable to adolescence is both invigorating and intimidating as I creep towards the oh-so-hallowed forty. And to your point about "the biz" and the genrefication of seemingly everything, what an exhausting world to have to inhabit—it's like we're in high school again, isn't it?—vying for the gatekeepers' attention, hoping beyond hope that we'll be seen, not recognizing (perhaps) that the only people who matter have been watching and seeing us all along.
I know you're on the hunt for an agent and I wish you luck. Like finding the right dress for prom (I wore a pink suit from the seventies that I found in a thrift store in Burlington, Vermont), we want to show up to the party feeling confident, but in the end we'll all be dancing with our friends in some corner of the gymnasium whilst the cool kids critics and the gatekeepers sit on the bleachers and keep judging. I have no doubt you'll find the validation in publishing that you're looking for, and that when that validation comes, you'll also become keenly aware of the parameters that tether so many writers to the idea versus the reality—but you're a true writer, so you'll just slice those tethers in half when they no longer serve you and will move gracefully onwards.
Where do I see myself in ten years? It's a good question, and one I've thought about. In my mind, forty years old (which is four years away) has always been the age where in my mind I'll know whether or not I want to devote the second half of my life to bringing a human into the world and showing them all of the wonder I've been able to experience. I have no fear of speaking candidly about my hesitation in having children, however, not the least because Augusta and I are unconvinced that we wouldn't have a ball of time without them.
So where do I see myself in ten years? Whether or not there are children scurrying around, I know there will be dogs, and I know there will be a country home somewhere far outside of Paris, which will still be the place I will call home—I'm here for life. I see a few more published novels under my belt by then—weird, strange ones, too, that only a few friends may have seen, let alone read. I see myself hanging upside down in a tree from my legs because in my mid-forties I want to be one of those people who can confidently say they've finally figured their body out. I see myself continuing to enjoy the occasional psychedelic experience by a pond or a creek on a quiet piece of land that will surely inform the way I write once I begin to spend more of my time outside of the city. But mostly, personally speaking, I see myself happy and fulfilled with Augusta, and with my family, and with my friends, because if we can't believe in the beauty of our own futures, well shit, I don't really know what we're doing here.
The professional will always come. I have no doubt about that. All I can do is keep writing and keep believing in what I'm writing, regardless of what anybody else thinks. If I could be giving fewer walking tours then, and if I could be paid a livable wage for teaching at a university, that's a plus. But I've never thought of money as anything other than peace of mind to allow me to do what I really want to do in life, which is to write, and to live a life worth writing about. To that extent, the future will come. It's not that I have to be hopeful about it, I just choose to be. And of course, ten years from now, I also see myself continuing to write letters to literary friends all across the world, remembering what it means to actually do this thing, to sit in a library like I'm doing now, surrounded by books and people who've chosen to think, connected to whatever the thing is that unites us all when the streets fall quiet and the lights go out.
I won't read through anything I've just written, because it seems to miss the point, somehow. And as a last foray into this literary exchange, I wonder: what does ten years from now look like to you?
-Samuél
Samuél,
Thank you for your thoughts on my thoughts. As someone who is slowly but surely unpeeling her own soul onion to uncover the root cause of her anxieties, I have come across a unilateral fear of not being heard. Not so much in a “why is no one paying attention to me?” way, but in a “if I fall in this forest and there’s no one around to hear me, will I make a difference?” kind of way. It’s heavy and bothersome, and I often wonder if I’m overdue for a path-revealing psychedelic experience of my own. It probably won’t shock you to learn that I’ve never had one.
As for my agent hunt, I’ve more or less called it off. For all the reasons that will make you super proud of me. I’ve been so encouraged by your creative journey and by the countless others I see carving their own paths to authorial fulfillment. It seems a waste of my finite magical energy to chase a business-style romance, void of organic chemistry, with a total stranger who could never love my books as much as I do. Now, if one day I accidentally spill my iced coffee on a total stranger at a literary conference somewhere and our painfully awkward introduction leads to a long and fruitful partnership, that’s another story. #serendipity
On to the future:
As an experienced bringer of humans into the world, I can tell you that there is no comparable experience. Much like skydiving or running with the bulls or dropping acid, humanity is divided between those who have done it, and those who have not. If you become a parent, it will change your view of the world forever. You will notice every pregnant woman. Forever. You will empathize with children more. Even the difficult ones. You will empathize with parents more. Even the difficult ones. You will sleep less. You will eat differently. You will laugh and cry at things you never knew were funny or sad. And you will be humbled, aggressively and often.
Whether that passage intrigues or terrifies you is irrelevant. You will parent or you won’t. Whichever path you choose, I have no doubt the halls of your country home will be filled with laughter and song and beauty and stories for many decades to come.
Where do I see myself in this future?
It’s a bold question to ask of a woman who is currently knee-deep in a mid-life crisis, but I’ll bite. And I’ll bite with my hopeful teeth, rather than my cynical set.
In ten years, I am through the thickest part of raising my kids. They are adults and are making adult choices. I am honoring those choices.
My husband and I are happily married. Thirty years and we still got it.
I don’t obsess about my body anymore. My body, which has stubbornly refused to let me figure it out completely. I’m happy in my own skin. Mysteries and all. Or at the very least, I’m satisfied.
I’ve found my professional calling. Is it writing? I don’t know. That depends on whether I was able to harden myself to the constant heartbreak I endured in the beginning. And whether I finally got out of my own way so I could make my own way. In my own way.
I’ve seen more of the world and have settled somewhere very, very green. I also see dogs. A goat. And a garden.
I sleep better and I sing more.
And I get high once in a while.
While this letter marks the end of our conversation, in its artistic form, I hope our exchange will continue off the air. Through emails or postcards. Zoom calls or skywriting. Or simply by releasing an encouraging thought into the ether and trusting it will find its mark.
You’re an old soul and an inspiration, Samuél. I think if we were the same age and we grew up in the same place, we would have hung out in high school. I would have totally dug your pink, thrift store suit. Truth be told, I probably would have asked you to the prom, as a friend, and you would have said no like the other five guys I asked, but we still would have ended up dancing together in the corner with the rest of the “uncool” kids.
And it would have been a blast.
Until we write again.
-Meg
Love love LOVE this. The ‘10 years from now’ question. A good one.
This! Too many quotes to mention. I admire both of your visions that will come true. I know it.
I highly recommend having tykes but also know couples who parent their animals, travel and have enriching, fulfilling lives.