His poetry reading was tonight. It was in his datebook, on his calendar,
even in the paper, and he could therefore no longer avoid thinking about
it. Three new poems had been published in a literary journal and now he was
to read them in front of an audience (albeit a small one) for National
Poetry Month, a label which he found even more depressing than the scantily
stocked poetry shelves at the nearby mainstream bookstores.
But to justify his decision to commit to writing full time and thus keep himself from lying in bed till the late afternoon every day, he'd agreed to read when a friend of his had asked him as a favor. And now, after months of traveling across the country, living on his savings as well as the money he occasionally made writing travel articles, and writing poetry in the middle of the night in abandoned motels in the southwest, he was finally exposing himself, his words. His own words--unhinged from the page and floating freely. At this thought, he felt the room begin to spin and had to steady himself against the door.
It wasn't that he was afraid to speak in front of a group; teaching had cured him of his shyness. But the idea of releasing his thoughts into the air so that they were no longer his, but everyone's and subject to examination, to interpretation, to scrutiny made him shudder. It was different from publication. Publication was static, tame. Readings meant interacting with his words and with the audience at the same time. It meant contact.
He'd recoiled from contact for so long that he didn't even know if he was physically capable of giving something of himself that was real, that was naked, to another person. And since the last time he'd done this had turned out so well, he thought sarcastically-(the memory of Grace's lips against his still quickening his breath after a year)--he wasn't eager to try again, even though he'd originally seen it as the next step in his quest to redeem himself, to prove that he was not a complete fraud.
Chris had unfortunately read about the reading in the paper and she and her fiancé were coming. She'd insisted that the three of them were go out to dinner afterwards and she sounded so genuinely happy for him that he couldn't refuse. But the idea of seeing Chris again made him more nervous than the thought of reading his poetry. He had told her about his "retirement" only two weeks after he'd left and the sound of her voice on the telephone, the way she'd said "Ohh" as if she weren't entirely surprised, had haunted him ever since.
Although she hadn't questioned him when he said that he'd left teaching to devote more time to his writing, her distant tone made him wonder how much she knew. After all, she had been there that night when Grace had practically exploded into his kitchen and he'd awkwardly turned her away. She'd been the only person from his past to witness him with Grace. Had she possibly noticed something between them then that even he didn't yet see? If she did, she'd kept it to herself. Chris never said anything about Grace's sudden intrusion on their evening together except "so you're students must really like you, huh?" "Yes well, some.more than others" he'd replied, attempting to laugh it all off.
But he still had to pretend to look for a book in his bedroom so that he could get away long enough to temporarily stop his mind from reeling. In his room, he tore his black and white picture of Nabakov from the wall and threw it away. This was , he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking deep breaths. He couldn't avoid talking about this to Grace any longer. But what exactly "this" meant he didn't know and he suspected that Grace didn't either.
Still, he knew he had to figure out a way to talk to her without making her hate him or hurting her by making her think he didn't care or worse yet-- drawing her still closer to him. Looking back on it now, he laughed bitterly at his wasted efforts. But he'd tried. Hadn't he?
He sighed as he walked out of his door to get the mail. Even if Chris knew nothing about "Chekov-gate" as he jokingly called the whole sordid ordeal to detract from his anger, he knew that she would still irritate him with her looks of concern and her incessant advice.
"August," she'd said to him a few days after their initial conversation, "Not to meddle in your life, but are you sure this is the right thing to do.I mean, you already seem so."
"So what? How do I seem?" he'd snapped at her, his anger burning unbearably in his chest.
There was a pause on the phone. "So..I don't know. Isolated, I guess."
He laughed. "Don't worry Chris," he'd assured her, "I've already survived the obligatory periods of disillusionment and despair that most mediocre writers go through. I'm invincible now."
Her silence had told him that she didn't really believe him. And the pain behind his eyes had made him realize that he didn't believe himself, either. Now, as he sorted through his mail and found a light green envelope marked with nothing but his name written on it in unmistakably familiar handwriting, the hair that rose on the back of his neck assured him that he was definitely a liar.
But to justify his decision to commit to writing full time and thus keep himself from lying in bed till the late afternoon every day, he'd agreed to read when a friend of his had asked him as a favor. And now, after months of traveling across the country, living on his savings as well as the money he occasionally made writing travel articles, and writing poetry in the middle of the night in abandoned motels in the southwest, he was finally exposing himself, his words. His own words--unhinged from the page and floating freely. At this thought, he felt the room begin to spin and had to steady himself against the door.
It wasn't that he was afraid to speak in front of a group; teaching had cured him of his shyness. But the idea of releasing his thoughts into the air so that they were no longer his, but everyone's and subject to examination, to interpretation, to scrutiny made him shudder. It was different from publication. Publication was static, tame. Readings meant interacting with his words and with the audience at the same time. It meant contact.
He'd recoiled from contact for so long that he didn't even know if he was physically capable of giving something of himself that was real, that was naked, to another person. And since the last time he'd done this had turned out so well, he thought sarcastically-(the memory of Grace's lips against his still quickening his breath after a year)--he wasn't eager to try again, even though he'd originally seen it as the next step in his quest to redeem himself, to prove that he was not a complete fraud.
Chris had unfortunately read about the reading in the paper and she and her fiancé were coming. She'd insisted that the three of them were go out to dinner afterwards and she sounded so genuinely happy for him that he couldn't refuse. But the idea of seeing Chris again made him more nervous than the thought of reading his poetry. He had told her about his "retirement" only two weeks after he'd left and the sound of her voice on the telephone, the way she'd said "Ohh" as if she weren't entirely surprised, had haunted him ever since.
Although she hadn't questioned him when he said that he'd left teaching to devote more time to his writing, her distant tone made him wonder how much she knew. After all, she had been there that night when Grace had practically exploded into his kitchen and he'd awkwardly turned her away. She'd been the only person from his past to witness him with Grace. Had she possibly noticed something between them then that even he didn't yet see? If she did, she'd kept it to herself. Chris never said anything about Grace's sudden intrusion on their evening together except "so you're students must really like you, huh?" "Yes well, some.more than others" he'd replied, attempting to laugh it all off.
But he still had to pretend to look for a book in his bedroom so that he could get away long enough to temporarily stop his mind from reeling. In his room, he tore his black and white picture of Nabakov from the wall and threw it away. This was , he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking deep breaths. He couldn't avoid talking about this to Grace any longer. But what exactly "this" meant he didn't know and he suspected that Grace didn't either.
Still, he knew he had to figure out a way to talk to her without making her hate him or hurting her by making her think he didn't care or worse yet-- drawing her still closer to him. Looking back on it now, he laughed bitterly at his wasted efforts. But he'd tried. Hadn't he?
He sighed as he walked out of his door to get the mail. Even if Chris knew nothing about "Chekov-gate" as he jokingly called the whole sordid ordeal to detract from his anger, he knew that she would still irritate him with her looks of concern and her incessant advice.
"August," she'd said to him a few days after their initial conversation, "Not to meddle in your life, but are you sure this is the right thing to do.I mean, you already seem so."
"So what? How do I seem?" he'd snapped at her, his anger burning unbearably in his chest.
There was a pause on the phone. "So..I don't know. Isolated, I guess."
He laughed. "Don't worry Chris," he'd assured her, "I've already survived the obligatory periods of disillusionment and despair that most mediocre writers go through. I'm invincible now."
Her silence had told him that she didn't really believe him. And the pain behind his eyes had made him realize that he didn't believe himself, either. Now, as he sorted through his mail and found a light green envelope marked with nothing but his name written on it in unmistakably familiar handwriting, the hair that rose on the back of his neck assured him that he was definitely a liar.