My short story, “Fire Watch,” originally published in issue #5 of Ginosko’s online literary journal, was chosen for the magazine’s new print anthology. The book is out now, and while I hope that you all go out and buy a copy, this post is really about something more personal.
First I should say that I was thrilled to be included. I love these guys — editor Robert Cesaretti took this story on at a time when I really needed a boost. It was 2007 and I was going through something we all go through as writers, one of those long stretches where it seems that no one wants what we do. It’s beyond depressing; lots of us just give up. I was seriously considering a career in food service when I got word that “Fire Watch” was being published. It was validation. I felt honored and thrilled. When the magazine came out, I just kept looking at it — not reading it, just gazing at the pages, the way new parents watch their babies sleep at night. I was so proud!
Fast forward to now. As I reread the story while proofing the galley for the anthology, I had a different reaction: I saw so many things I wanted to change! I’m still extremely proud of the story, but I’m a different writer now and I realized that if I wrote it today, it would be a different story. And yet… it’s been published. It’s out there. Publication has a way of stopping time. “Fire Watch” will always be what it was in 2007, stuck in the amber of print. That’s a kind of immortality, and I feel guilty for being anything other than unabashedly grateful for it. I do feel grateful, just… with a touch of dissonance.
That dissonance comes from the distance between what we dream a piece of writing can be before we write it and what it actually is, once set down. Even once we do set it down, it still shines with the potential to be that perfect thing of our imagining. (That’s what rewriting is for — reaching for that ideal.) Then, if we’re lucky, it’s published. And once it’s published, we need to let go of whatever we thought it would be and embrace what it is.
This is actually a lesson I learned a long time ago, from my 12th grade A.P. English teacher, Mr. Corradino. One day he read an essay assignment of mine aloud to the class, then went on at great length about the depths of insight implied in the writing. I listened with horror. I hadn’t written any of that: My take was infinitely more simplistic, and (I thought) all there on the page. Timidly I raised my hand. “Um, that’s not what I meant,” I said.
Mr. C’s smile was wicked. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That’s what I got.”
“But…” I struggled for words, believing I hadn’t made myself clear. “You’re reading stuff in that I never put in there.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said again. “When you publish something, you give it away,” he told the class. “It’s up for grabs for anyone who reads it, and their interpretation of what you wrote is just as valid as yours.”
I was astounded. I was outraged. But I’ve never forgotten what he said. And I know now that he was right.
It drives me nuts that I can’t go back into my published work to endlessly fiddle and tweak. But if I want to continue to publish (and God knows I do!) I have to learn to let go. I need to be unabashedly proud of my little darlings as they go out into the world. I just hope that the world understands them. Or if not that, sees something in them that I never did, and loves them anyway.