Why am I so afraid to live?
I remember being a child and feeling like the world was my oyster. I remember dreaming of the life I’d live. I remember joy and magic.
I remember the absence of doubt and shame, how it felt to live without those twins of doom.
When I was little, I dreamt of growing up and the life I’d craft. I just had to get out of my mother’s house first.
Here I am again, fifty years later. My mother is no longer here to hate my book. I’ve got a green light. The direction is,
“Go.”
Go let the world know what I think, and what I wrestle with on this weird planet. Go.
Right.
There is an alien object in my house. It’s a moon rock in pages.
It’s as if it dropped from outer space. I tell myself I have nothing to do with it, I’m simply observing for now.
It sees everything, shadows me as I try to vacuum it out of existence.
I mean that literally. I got to page 60 yesterday, stopped, and cleaned the entire house. I even dusted.
And still it sat there, demanding my attention.
I started two different essays for today I knew I’d never finish. I made an appointment to walk with Other Liz at two o’clock. I read more. I left the house on page 87.
Page 88 is waiting.
Funnily enough, Secret Service offered to pick it up for me yesterday morning.
Sometimes I call him the benevolent alien: his assignment was to come from outer space and live with me. No mere mortal could put up with the amount of bullshit I dish out.
I was both shocked and delighted when he offered to go get The Thing. The Staples where it was printed is on this horrible road both of us try to avoid. He must have known how terrified I was and appointed himself to go fetch it.
I was very moved he was willing to sit through traffic for me. I gave him three crisp $50 bills. It’s $147 worth of printing. He brought back the change.
Anyway, it’s here, the benevolent alien brought home The Thing, which is a book. Apparently, I wrote a book.
It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like a joke someone is playing on me.
I start to pull it out of the box, and Secret Service says, wait, I want to capture the moment.
I smile, and he takes a photo. I post it on Facebook. I get nothing but very encouraging words and over 100 likes.
I ask myself why on earth I’d set myself up to disappoint so many people, myself most of all.
Self-hatred is very tedious.
I’ve spent my life wondering why I can’t do things the rest of you can. Your smiles, good attitudes, accomplishments, sense of decorating, self-worth, jobs, careers, self-acceptance, singing without fear, belief in God, and fashion sense have always eluded me.
I don’t know what to do, so I do nothing. That’s a fairly accurate summary of my life.
Now look, before you start handing me encouraging words and compliments: yes. I know I’ve accomplished some things.
I never feel attached to them, though. I forget I’ve done anything, and think of myself on the periphery of life, watching the rest of you live.
The book is evidence I’ve done something. I’m highly suspicious.
I hired an editor a few months ago to take the collection of words I’ve put together and tell me whether I have a book, and if so, what’s it about? Because hell if I know.
When people ask me what kind of book, I respond with “memoir.” But I’ve got a lot of things I could focus on in the memoir category: addiction, poker, growing up in an unwritten play by Tennessee Williams, the racism where I grew up (and everywhere else), catastrophic love, food and weight, working in NYC nightclubs, being a D-List groupie, feminism, disaster response…I mean for someone who has done nothing, I’ve done a lot.
And then of course, the relationship with my mother. There’s that as well, and what it’s been like taking care of her these last years.
I figure the draft I gave my editor had at least three different books in it. I told her I wanted to know if there was a book there, and not to worry about hurting my feelings if there wasn’t. I really wanted to know. And if there is more than one book, please pull out the best one, and I’ll work on it.
Now, it’s true I sent her a draft, and it’s true I printed out that draft. But in no way was it a book. That thing needed sorting by an expert.
This first draft has a shape. It’s in three sections, with themes. In her notes to me now, she uses words and phrases that grownup writers use, like arc of the book.
I cried the last time we met over Zoom. I told her I was terrified I wouldn’t finish; I would shoot myself in the foot right when I’m on the verge of success like I’ve done every other time I came close.
And she looked at me and said,
“It’s already done. It’s written, you’ve got a book.”
It’s on my desk, open at page 87.
I am reading my book. Believe me, it’s stranger than it sounds.
Some parts I’m already sick of because they’re the chapters I finished early on. I’ve read them a million times.
Other parts are a surprise. And it’s missing a few darlings the editor killed. I only have one darling I’m going to argue for, so far.
Sometimes I laugh, and Secret Service says,
“Look at you, laughing at your book.”
Then I want him to shut up.
The editor encourages me to read A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf. I start listening to it on Audible.
She doesn’t just write about writing; she writes about reading. I have never heard anyone else disparage Joyce’s Ulysses in the same way I do, and am thrilled.
Am I the same person now I was at fifteen years old?
Yes and no. And because I’ve written chapters over a span of years, I question certain passages. Writing from memory is daunting, I want anything I write to be as accurate as possible. Is what I wrote three years ago still what I think?
I make notes. “Where’s Mrs. Rumsey,” I muse, then remember the editor moved Mrs. Rumsey from one section to another. In the margins, I write little directions to myself. I cross words out and make arrows that will be indecipherable to anyone else.
But I don’t make major changes. There are already a zillion small notes from the editor in track changes, and I’ve got at least four more chapters to write. I’m reading to get a feel for it.
She also sent me an email yesterday about thinking of the work as a book, not as an essay. Essays are for here. A book is a different animal.
The hardest thing about writing this memoir: it’s not an essay. I am at home in the essay form. Writing a book is saying I know how to dance, I’ve studied modern. Then I’m thrust into ballet class. You use different muscles.
When I tell this to people, they think the solution is to write a book which is a collection of essays.
No dice. I can use some of my essays for it, but it has a life of its own. I asked the editor early on if it were a book or book of essays, and it’s a book.
It’s hilarious to me I’ve disassociated from a collection of my own thoughts.
One thing writing for other publications taught me is there is so much value in working with an editor. With rare exception, they have always improved my work.
I can tell she loves what I’ve written. This both encourages me and makes me even more frightened. I was not expecting enthusiasm. She’s magical and smart, and found the book. I love working with her. She has the confidence I lack.
There’s this whole war raging inside my head about how stupid I’m being about the whole business. I’m worried about things that may never happen. I don’t know if I’ll find an agent to pitch it. I don’t know if it’s going to be published or not.
Really, I am such a contrarian I should just connect with how audacious it is to try and get a book published in my fifties. I can do anything if someone tells me I can’t.
Here’s a list of my fears about the book:
It’s no good.
It’s good.
It’s good but not great.
It’s good but not exceptional.
I am too old to write a book.
Writing is boring, maybe I’m not a writer, maybe I shouldn’t have stopped acting, let’s go look at notices from casting directors.
I’ve created something, perhaps I do know how to live in the world, now what.
All this self-centered fear about the damned book is turning me into an awful person.
I’m a terrible person.
What will my cousins think.
I don’t know what the book is about; and that’s not a good elevator pitch.
I need an elevator pitch.
Seinfeld was about nothing, maybe this book is about nothing too. He did okay.
Who cares what I think about anything?
Remember the SNL skit Deep Thoughts? That’s how stupid this book is.
Why do I think I can make money writing when everyone says it’s almost impossible.
Am I fair to my mother.
Am I fair to everyone.
Do I change names.
I can never think of good aliases, people are named perfectly.
God hates me.
I don’t believe in God so who cares.
The whole business is very uncomfortable.
Why did I think this was a good idea.
I can always throw away my iPhone, get another dog, and read books from the library if it becomes too much.
What do I wear to the Pulitzer Prize awards.
Have I turned into my mother and will everyone but me see this.
I have just re-read this essay and have a terrible feeling my book may be equally confusing.
In fairness to myself, I can see the book now. I am not confused. It just might work.
All to say:
It has not been a process with neatly written index cards and a cork board, although I did have a board about the book once; I always forgot to look at it. I also neglected to write an outline. Obviously.
Most of it was written in my pajamas, not a tweed jacket.
I have not written this book with self-confidence, but instead, despite not having much.
Writing a book is hard.
Eventually, you, too, can have a book, if you’re willing to stay confused for four years and write anyway.
Reading this draft feels like a big step in the adventure.
Like everything else, thinking about reading the book is more difficult than reading the book.
Page 88 awaits my attention.
Quietly, so no one hears me, I whisper:
I’m very excited!
Oh Elizabeth, you confound me. I've read a great majority of your book and know it's brilliant. But the struggle is real! Don't tell me you're too old to publish a book. That would mean I am too.
I can’t stop laughing