A Man Writing at his Desk, Jan Ekels (II), 1784
When I was eighteen, I decided I wanted to be a writer. I knew, of course, how to put words down on paper, but not how to transform that rudimentary skill into images and ideas that would interest lots of people enough to keep them turning a page. One day, I told John Jackson, the director of the Mary Cheney Library in Manchester, CT, where I had a part time job, about my wish. I explained to him how I found it difficult to overcome distractions long enough to write down anything of significance. He responded by setting up a desk in the windowless basement of the library where old documents and books were stored. People rarely went into the room so I was assured I’d have plenty of the privacy I said I needed. I’d be able to concentrate and write away to my heart’s content. After Mr. Jackson left me to my writing that day, I took a close look at my surroundings. I in was a large, dingy room where the only light came from a 100-watt bulb dangling from an extension cord above my desk. It was a damp, musty place and there was a strange unpleasant odor that permeated the air, a combination of mildew, old paper and damp concrete.
For several days, I would take a notebook and pen and descend into the library storeroom. This was during a stretch of beautiful summer weather when I could have been outside riding my bike, playing tennis or swimming at Globe Hollow. I would trudge down the concrete stairs, take a seat at the desk, open my notebook and I write. Or I would try to. I found my surroundings to be highly disagreeable, made all the more so by knowing the August sun beyond my dank concrete enclosure was warm and bright. This caused me to feel, after not too much time had passed, that writing without any diversions might not really be what I wanted after all. That and, even more importantly, a lack of direction and confidence, led to spending less and less time in my gloomy inner sanctum until finally, after less than a month, I abandoned the effort altogether.
I had thought the obstacle to a writing career had been the lack of a place to write without interruptions coming either from myself or others. I quickly found isolation and less than ideal surroundings could also keep me from what I had thought was my goal of literary glory. Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, Jack London, along with hundreds of other writers, certainly all had obstacles to overcome and I’m sure for many of them, stumbling blocks greater than mine. Did someone influence them to make writing the most important goal in their lives, come what may? Or did they possess an inborn belief in their ability with words so powerful that they were convinced, no matter what the obstacle, it was not a matter of if, but when, the world would discover their literary talents?
I’ve wondered sometimes if any of those writers would have persevered and stayed in that dank and dismal room until they emerged with at least one story. I think it’s more likely than not that they would have. But then, perhaps being able to write the way they did is not just a matter of perseverance. Maybe even more it’s a gift, one that must be honed and refined with hard work, but nevertheless a gift not everyone receives. And for those who do receive it, not always a gift fully apprehended or appreciated. The act of writing in such a way as to make a reader want to keep turning the page is in large part a mystery.
It’s not that I walked out of that gloomy storage room at the Mary Cheney Library for the last time and never tried to write again. In the years since I have written poems, short stories, editorials, reports and essays. I wrote An Unknown Soldier, a novel about what war does to ordinary people and the redemption that love makes possible. I can honestly say to myself that I’ve acted upon the decision I made when I was an adolescent. While this hasn’t resulted in the fame and fortune I envisioned at eighteen, I think I’ve written well and with a fair amount of success. If you’re still reading my words at this point, then perhaps you agree.
David James Madden