The Making of a Writer, Volume 2

by Gail Godwin

  23. The Unisphere was the 140-foot-high, stainless steel model of Earth that symbolized the 1964–1965 World’s Fair in New York City.

  24. Hatchards was a bookstore on Piccadilly one block from Gail’s office on Vigo Street.

  25. Andrew Baker had been one of the tenants at the Wests’ Tregunter Road boarding-house. The Wests had moved their “youth brothel” to 21 Old Church Street in August 1962. and Stella Anderson, Gail’s friend from Chapel Hill, arrived a month later.

  26. Justice Walk was a picturesque alleyway across the street from 21 Old Church Street.

  27. Letters of Direction: Thoughts on the Spiritual Life from the Letters of the Abbé de Tourville records the nineteenth-century French cleric’s letters to penitents.

  28. Gail’s maternal grandmother, Edna Rogers Krahenbuhl, whom she called “Monie,” had lived with Gail and Gail’s mother in Asheville before Gail’s mother married Frank Cole. Edith, in The Odd Woman (1974), is based on her.

  29. The Wasps is the name of Andy’s rugby team.

  30. Gail began writing “The Raising of Lazarus,” an unpublished story about a turning point in the life of a playboy, in 1959, and she completed a draft in 1961. An aspect of the story—Lazarus’s management of a Miami hotel—contributed a little to Gail’s 2006 novel The Queen of the Underworld.

  31. Gail, struggling with tone, begins to write a story based on her Oxford situation, in which Andy’s mother courts her more aggressively than does Andy.

  32. In Matthew 26:40 and in Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, Jesus addresses his sleeping disciples at the Last Supper, asking, “Could you not watch with me one hour?” He is soon to be betrayed and crucified.

  33. Lunn Poly was a major British travel agency that specialized in Caribbean cruises. Its slogan was “Get away!” It is now part of Thomson Travel Group.

  34. Dr. Charles Millender was Gail’s childhood physician, who made violins. Gail’s half-sister Franchelle Cole later married Dr. Millender’s son Charles. Mittenwald, Bavaria, is a resort town in the Alps near the border with Austria; it is the location of a violin museum.

  Part three

  PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN

  Beaufort Street, London

  JANUARY 31, 1965, TO MARCH 18, 1965

  In limbo between the end of a romance and open prospects—and between an increasingly routine job and an urge to go home—Gail produces much writing in this journal part. It begins with one accomplished story (“A Dollar’s Worth of Hygge”) and ends with another (“The Illumined Moment, and Consequences”). The first story will eventually form part of “A Cultural Exchange” (published in Mr. Bedford and the Muses); the latter will play a big role in Gail’s career, gaining her entrance to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in 1966, and publication in the North American Review (under the title “An Intermediate Stop”).

  A fiction-writing class at the City Literary Institute spurred Gail’s productivity. It created the necessity to examine and employ a backlog of story drafts and ideas, and to try new ones.

  Gail also began to develop a way of diagramming stories—not as plot outlines, but as webs of associations. Henry James’s novel The Portrait of a Lady becomes a key influence. Not only does it relate to a big theme in literature at the time—the independent woman out on her own—it displays James’s way of creating an architecture of interactions, and it presents a male protagonist (Gilbert Osmond), whose absence of heart Gail wants to counter with a more redeemable character—a man whose deep secrets prevent him from acting with heartfulness.

  JANUARY 31, 1965

  It seems almost like an admission of failure to begin these notebooks again. The purpose is even more odious. Then let it be another purpose.1

  —

  I HAVE JUST READ a condensed novel called Nina Upstairs, published in McCall’s magazine—another story of a girl in N.Y.C., only written more honestly than usual. It made me wonder, once more, what was stopping me from writing such a story: say, about girls in London—three. Perhaps the decision outlined so well by Father Webbe can be my outcome.2 This, too, must be an honest story and not fall into any prescribed, clichéd patterns. I’ll start with “Roxanne.”3 The form is what leaves me blank.

  IT IS SUNDAY, the last one in January, and I have spent another weekend alone. Any ordinary stranger reading that first sentence would assume this solitude was far from intentional. The stranger would be wrong. What amazes me, and somehow compensates, is the change I have noticed in myself. I am not so compulsive anymore.

  And yet I enjoy a little bit of suspense. This Swiss man who followed me from the supermarket—the novelty of his approach has worn off. I know, having seen him again, that he is one of these worldly, competent human beings without a trace of warmth or compassion. Before, I would have agonized: What was he thinking about me? What was he doing on Sunday? So, here I sit, not quite sure of what comes next.

  —

  CHURCHILL’S FUNERAL yesterday4 and I got out of a feverish bed to walk two miles in the bitter wind to look down from a second-floor window [of Andy’s office] on the small coffin (it seemed too small to hold such a big man). I am sure people all over London have colds tonight as a result of queuing for hours for the lying-in-state. Why? I like Andy’s answer: It was not so much that he was the greatest man of this century [though] it was that for a start. It was that it gave people justification for trying to contact a higher life. Standing for hours in the rain so that they would pass a coffin and pay their respects was their religious experience.

  STORIES OF IMPOSSIBLE LOVE:

  The Girl with Green Eyes5—young, naive girl with older, married writer man.

  Nina Upstairs—young, intelligent working girl with older married man, his wife insane.

  The L-Shaped Room6—unmarried pregnant girl and tenants of boardinghouse.

  Why doesn’t the man get hurt for a change?

  SAD TALES BORDERING ON THE MAN GETTING HURT:

  Marty—there is always something terribly sad about a father figure.7

  Wuthering Heights—romanticized type of man, the kind that really kills me.

  The sea captain—Cliff.8

  Or: As far as sex goes, it’s a natural joy for him, but he’s not the planned seducer. He must be able to surprise himself. He’s a self-sufficient man with inner resources who takes lonely walks and has a secret—an insane wife or …

  Look how Gilbert Osmond attracted Isabel.9

  How about an Englishman with a little boy? An Englishman is married to an American woman who has gone back to the U.S.A., leaving him with a little boy, Marcus. He advertises for an au pair. The advertisement reads: “Wanted: educated girl, over 25, to care for young boy of 4 during the day. Some light housework, typing skills preferred.”

  FEBRUARY 13

  Another Saturday night almost gone. All day I have been battered down by emotion and nostalgia. The thing is: Describe it, let it wash over you, understand it. One form it has taken is a massive guilt spree.

  This fall when I was home, saying to Franchelle “Can’t you roll your own hair?” when what she wanted was to be with me.

  When Wiggles was alive, how I shut the door to my room and wouldn’t let him in. I wanted everything pure, idealized, no dogs messing it up with their happiness.

  Although it was not entirely my fault, the thing with Charles Cleveland.10 But I could have sent him a Christmas card.

  This Ivory Tower period. I sit up here weekend after weekend.11 Yet it isn’t bad. I have a feeling I’ll be in a new stage soon.

  FEBRUARY 16

  I must stop crapping around, as Lorraine so elegantly puts it, and make up my mind and stay or go.12 Now is the right time. I have to understand who I am and not wish for the achievements or attractions of others.

  THE CINEMA ON Saturday night. Everybody comes expecting something. How funny it would look to an outsider—a building with colored lights and large pictures on its walls. People come out of the night to queue in its brightly lighted foyer, pay money to th
e girl in the stall, arm themselves with sweets, and enter with hushed expectancy.

  For two hours, surrounded by the soft darkness, fitted in safely among others, lifted or let down with the music, they live with figures in a square of light. For two hours, they have purchased peace, vicarious love, and adventure. And then the lights go on, the candy wrappers are on the floor, you look your neighbor in the face and look away. Everybody scrambles toward the exits before they get caught by “God Save the Queen.”13

  THIS MORNING, a woman fell off the bus, was lying there, legs spread apart, old-fashioned shoes. The bus conductor had covered her with his coat. They waited for the ambulance. Other buses passed. Faces stared at the empty bus, the still figure on the street, covered by a conductor’s coat.

  FEBRUARY 21 • Saturday

  All along, I’ve been storing up impressions for that time when I’d be home. I must have known all along I wouldn’t stay.

  “Yuh musta been away.” Tom Wolfe suddenly intrudes.14

  Driving along down Buckingham Road with Briggsie,15 I see the English policeman and think: I will miss this—the calm courtesy, the clean, pressed look. But I can’t stay here just for the policemen. Officer Banks, about twenty-five or twenty-six, comes into the office to get any unusual stamps. “We have to wear our topcoats until March 30. Oh, we can wear them on April 1, if it’s cold, but what I mean is, if it’s a hundred degrees on January third, we must wear our topcoats.” On handling lunatics and schizophrenics: “You have to act interested in a disinterested way. Agree with them, while walking them to the door.” He stands there in his neat blue. The tall hat with patent leather strap cutting into his firm chin. (I don’t think they hire them unless they’ve got good chins.) He has a nice face. Direct eyes. Straight nose. Always a slight smile. “What would you look like without your hat?” I ask. “Short,” he replies, good-naturedly.

  FEBRUARY 22 • Sunday night

  Fifteen minutes ago, I was in hysterics, sobbing on Andy’s Harris tweed shoulder, and now I am sitting calmly in bed, toes on hot water bottle, face cleaned, hair done up for tomorrow. The storm has passed. Why did I put on that performance? It started off simply enough, he getting lecherous. Then I began on “it”16 again. And yet, even yesterday I had made up my mind not to see him anymore. I had this thought: I was weeping for a concept of Andy.

  “It was like you were two people,” said Andy. Was I?

  Tomorrow night: Do creative writing assignment.17

  FEBRUARY 23

  You cry for the fading shape of love.

  LATEST CHIMERA: someone to catch all my longings and fantasies—Officer Banks, the calm, cool, young, clean policeman, who is so very self-contained.

  Gail: “Why didn’t you come in earlier today?”

  “Because I had things to do.”

  “What?”

  “Things to do.”

  He is his own man, he has his code, he shines by it. His code is like a competitor’s, an opponent’s. All day I waited to see him stroll up Vigo Street. [The bobbies] came singly, they came in twos—little ones, tall ones, slumpy ones. The ones of his height had wedges of dark hair peering out behind their tall hats. His is light. Most of his face is under his hat, but he has square white teeth, an amused look. Yet I’ve never seen him laugh. I wore my glasses all day long so I could see out the window, neglected to stuff my envelopes. It got dark, but he never passed.

  IDEA FOR A story sometime.

  The Photographer

  Told by a photographer. A girl comes in, wants engagement pictures.18 He takes photos of her naturally, in a blouse; thinks she’s lovely that way. But her fiancé and [his] family don’t like them. She’s terribly apologetic to the photographer. He arranges another sitting. Tells her to have her hair done up fancy. Wear a ball gown. He shoots some “fashion pictures,” which don’t look like her; he is violating his artistic principles, but can’t stand to see her unhappy. She writes a note saying her fiancé was thrilled with them. Orders several. Photographer is suddenly unreasonably concerned for her, tries to put her out of his mind. Then, curiosity and “something else” make him get her number out of the file and call her. He says the prints are ready, but he is leaving town and wants to bring them around. She sounds strange but agrees. “Yes, I might as well still have them.” He takes them around to her and then goes off on his holiday. (He has blown up one of the naturals of her and has it in his studio.) When he gets back, she visits him. She has broken off the engagement, just wanted to tell him he was right. She sees her photograph in his studio and is moved. Now, we’ve got to arrange for a meeting or a suggestion, something to show he is right for her. (He already knows she’s for him.) She feels she can talk to him. Perhaps she says: “Listen …”

  FEBRUARY 23

  Peter Perry19: “You can’t change your personality. You may change facets, but beware: Those facets may affect other facets.”

  Irene Slade20 was enthusiastic and lovely and I see why I dreamed about her. I also see that I can learn from her and use her as a sounding board, but that she is not God Writer and cannot go all the way for me.

  I WALK DOWN Saville Row, hoping to run into Officer Banks. The thing is: I enjoy these illusions, I enjoy agonizing over my policemen and sea captains and I accept the disillusionment before it comes. I get in. Andy calls. We have nothing in common. It is a trial even to make conversation.

  FEBRUARY 26

  Next Tuesday’s assignment for Irene Slade: “The Mask.” This is a subject that attracts everyone. I think I’ll write a monologue. A man, after a masked ball—the Mardi Gras—has moved to his room and decided not to leave until he discovers who he is.

  MARCH 2

  Miss Slade had chickenpox, so our class was taught by a high-powered individual named Geoffrey Davis who writes TV scripts. I liked his method of teaching. As Peter Perry says: It was a script. He treats writing more as a highly skilled craft, with definite approaches, with definable methods. He brings in the medium of films and TV in this approach (selection of objects in a description; vantage point; etc.). I may try to enroll for his spring term class.

  Sunday. Peter Perry took me for a walk—from Fleet Street to St. Paul’s to the East End docks to Bermondsey, then walking all the way back to Lyons Corner House at Charing Cross Station. Here, over eggs and sausages, he told me the story of Cyrano de Bergerac and I cried. Then we taxied to the Tate. Afterward, we walked back to Beaufort Street in the waning light. Dark blue sky. Lights of double-decker buses, the smell of the river—London, which I perhaps love better than I realize. I was expecting it to yield up too many dividends per moment, that’s why.

  MET OFFICER BANKS at the corner of Old Burlington and the back entrance of the police station. What astounded me was that he was much more talkative—and even cocky—than I imagined. He talks to men more easily than to women. Witness the difference between his conversation with me and with Alan Wooley, who happened to be in our office and was a former policeman himself.

  Here is Officer Banks’s conversation with me:

  “You look cold,” he says.

  “I am.”

  “Do you have a cold?”

  “Yes, I have everything.” Then I add nervously: “Have you been walking around in this cold?”

  “I don’t mind it. Now I’ve got to be on traffic for the next hour at Piccadilly Circus.”

  “Oh, look, there’s that fascinating crane driver way up there. Have you ever wanted to be a crane driver, Officer Banks?” Savoring this, calling him by name at last!

  “No, I like the ground better myself.”

  Then he was off about the weather: “It was down to forty,” etc. But what struck me was the casual, sort of swaggering way he talked. He has a sort of inoffensive cockney accent—or perhaps North or West Country. He seems pretty satisfied with himself. He has a bemused look.

  Then I said what I’d planned about Elizabeth21 and my wanting him to take us to the wharves one day. He said, “Oh, they’re not so dangerous,
really.” But I quickly went on until he said, “We’ll see what we can do,” or something.

  Back in the office (I went in dragging him like a prize cabbage), Alan Wooley, seeing me followed by a policeman, said: “I knew it would happen sooner or later.”

  And Officer Banks chatted quite amiably with everyone, took out his light brown wallet and swept my stamps in, saying, “Thank you very much … Gail,” hesitating over the use of my name. Then he commented on various things, how lazy we were—“I come in once a week and ask them questions just to keep them in practice”—and said to me, “See you anon.”

  “Don’t forget the wharves.”

  And he said, “No, I won’t.”

  What I can’t get down is his style, damn it. His walk, for instance, swinging a bit, a slight plunge forward, a bit of head motion, as if he’s on his way and nothing will stop him—yet still the calm, bemused look on his face. The face itself is strong, good chin, sort of Roman or Jewish nose, blue or gray eyes, different tones in his skin, slightly sallow, not all peachy-cheeked like some.

  Then he stood and talked to Alan and the level rose. I couldn’t hear it all, but they were talking about “the work” and I thought he was conscious of me because I sat and watched, and several times he blushed. Some I learned from listening, the rest from Alan afterward. He’s been in six years, plans to make a career of it, not CID [Criminal Investigations Department] or anything else, but go up in the Metropolitan Police Force. Says the turnover is great because so many want to get married, live in country. Therefore, we assume he doesn’t plan to marry soon. Alan says he’ll go places. Also there is a slight gap between his front teeth.