by Jane
Rosenberg LaForge
No matter
where I am, people ask me for directions. I could be in New York, where I have
lived for 18 years, or on the streets of Paris, where I have spent six days,
and someone will approach me for help. I rarely know, for I am a tourist
even in my own city. But I must look as though I have a terrific sense of
direction. Or perhaps I always appear to belong, or I’m someone who knows where
she’s going and how to get there.
Cub
reporters were once told they needed five years of experience to get a decent
job. I got mine at the Ocean City, Maryland, bureau of the Baltimore
Sun. I was the only employee of said bureau, i.e. a desk I fashioned out of
motel-style end tables in my rented living room. Ocean City was laid out like
an aircraft carrier: one long strip of cement. The streets were numbered and
reached into the hundreds, so no one asked me for directions. You could drive
in circles and find your destination. Among my many scoops was the story of a
kid who drove very fast and backward in a parking lot one night. He was
"doing donuts," and drove himself into the ocean.
There was
a drought that summer; the mainstream media was trafficking in the term “global
warming” for the first time. Temperatures at the beach hit the 90s. I had
brought my relatively new husband with me, which meant he was unemployed while
I was on duty. We argued a lot about how I neglected him to I chase after
fires, drunken boating accidents, and an NAACP boycott of the town.
Hotels, restaurants, and amusement parks would not hire townies, a.k.a.
African-American kids who lived on the mainland. Across the drawbridge, their
roads were not always paved, and their access to public sewage systems not guaranteed.
It was territory the Industrial Revolution and the Civil Rights movement
apparently forgot, which made great copy for me, but a lot of misery for
everyone else.
I was
crossing a field of corn on a dirt road on an inky night when my car was either
attacked or ran into some indeterminate yet vengeful force. It slammed against
the windshield and the passenger-side door so fiercely I had to stop driving.
When I dared to look through the windshield, I saw it was the only thing
preventing me from drowning. Perhaps it was a flash flood, or that global
warming business had reached critical mass, and the ocean was cresting into
farmland. Or this was some kind of a test, a trial by water with a blindfold
that also covered my common sense.
I
realized through my disorientation and panic that the field, unlike most, was
irrigated. I had hit a bank of water because the system had switched on.
My job was a kind of trial too, to see if I worthy enough to transfer
permanently to the Metropolitan desk. And right then, I knew the trial was
over, and I’d lost. I knew because I would have rather been lost, under water
and mud logged, than on my feet and on my way back to whatever I was working
on. I wanted to savor this experience and mine it for its potential symbolism.
It held more possibility and portent than all that transpired that summer,
because I could make it mythic.
Indeed, I
was demoted that December, and went onto other nowhere-newspaper jobs. I got
divorced and enrolled in an MFA program. In my first year, I built a story
around my watery encounter into the tale of a boy who thinks he got his skanky
babysitter pregnant (waters of birth, a new beginning, etc.). Though it was not
the most coherent story ever written, I had wrestled it out of my own ephemera.
I won a fellowship for older women writers, and resolved to learn all of the
shortcuts in the rural, suburban, and forested sprawl that surrounded the
campus.
Soon
enough, I was assigned an instructor convinced I was an insult to the
intelligence of all sentient beings. I'm sure others have had this experience,
but she amplified the humiliation she doled out during workshop by confiding to
others how ardently she disapproved of me. Because one of my thesis committee
members had heart surgery scheduled for the day of my defense, I had to include
her on my committee. I managed to graduate (re-marry, move, and have a child)
but found myself unable to write for many years afterward. When I had any
doubts, I had her voice reminding me how I should indulge them.
I have
since published a memoir; four volumes of poetry; and am in the midst of
working on two others scheduled for publication. But I can barely navigate the
grid system of Manhattan, though isn't that what subways and a New York native
for a daughter are for? I recently was relieved of a freelancing gig. The editor
disagreed with my interpretation of the myth of Prometheus, whose theft of fire
from Zeus - the equivalent of writing - earned him a lifetime of suffering. I
can't find an agent for my new novel, though one agent said in rejecting it:
“Your writing is beautiful, and many of your sentences are so gorgeously
crafted. You have a lot of writing talent,” and if I kept working on my craft,
some day “you're really going to knock our socks off.” I wonder if she knows I
qualify for Social Security.
It's been
my failures that have defined my journey as a writer. The only thing certain is
there will be more of them. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know about Samuel Beckett and
"failing better.” At this point, it could be mathematically proven that
this maxim doesn't apply to my case. I don't particularly like Beckett, but I
think he’s onto something about how bleak our alternatives become if we do
nothing in the face of inevitability. If I don't know why I subject myself to
ever more monstrous failures, I need only look at the settings of his plays to
see what awaits me should I quit. I am a lost soul who cannot help but look for
meaning in my life. I'm headed where everyone is going, but I hope to
take my time, and take notice, before I get there.
For
Jane's memoir, An Unsuitable Princess: A True Fantasy/AFantastical
Memoir
For her
website: Jane Rosenberg LaForge
For the
new chapbook, In Remembrance of the Life
Facebook
author page: Jane Rosenberg LaForge
Twitter: @JaneRLaForge
______________________________
Jane
Rosenberg LaForge is the author of An Unsuitable Princess: A True Fantasy/A
Fantastical Memoir (Jaded Ibis Press 2014) and four volumes of poetry: After
Voices (Burning River 2009); Half-Life (Big Table Publishing 2011); With
Apologies to Mick Jagger, Other Gods, and All Women (The Aldrich Press
2012) and The Navigation of Loss (Red Ochre Lit 2012). Her newest poetry
collection is the chapbook In Remembrance of the Life (Spruce Alley
Press 2016) and her full-length collection, Daphne and Her Discontents,
is forthcoming from Ravenna Press.
1 comment:
A fascinating read. Go Jane!
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