"You just need to wait."
It was 11:30 am in an underground food court next to the Orange Line in Boston. James and I were scarfing down stir fry — him because he was hungry, me because I was trying not to cry.
It would be so embarrassing to cry in front of James Parker. I had loved his writing for over a year and finally worked up the courage to ask him to lunch for some brief professional advice. But it was on the verge of becoming a therapy session.
I was a semester and a half into a master's degree in journalism, a field I had no experience in, that promised little chance of a job and little pay if I could get one, all while forking over an exorbitant tuition and more rent than I could afford. I was, for all intents and purposes, an idiot. The only thing that could make it worse was crying like an idiot in front of James.
James wrote for The Atlantic, contributing literature reviews but also the one-page odes that take something ordinary and make them wildly hilarious. He won me over as a reader when he described Matt Damon running like a "frightened washing machine" in his "Ode to Running in the Movies."
James looked up between bites of broccoli.
"So, what kinds of things do you want to write?"
Shit.
"Um, nonfiction mostly, I think. But I think poetry is important, too —"
"Oh! What poets do you like?"
SHIT.
I scrambled and mentioned Kipling, a poet I knew nothing about and James knew everything about, because, of course, I was an idiot.
The worst part was that James was relentlessly kind. I meant to ask him about writing, but all of my questions were about to turn into a cry for help. More desperate, more carnal, something like, "Will I ever make it?" "Will this ever make sense?" Or maybe, will I ever not be an idiot?
James' reply was simple. "You just need to wait."
It was hard for me to keep the fried rice in my mouth. What?! Didn't he know I needed to hurry up and get published now, make money now, be talented now?
Waiting didn't seem like good career advice. I couldn't just hang out until someone plucked me out of obscurity for being undeniably brilliant. In journalism, you're always on deadline, and deadlines definitely don't wait. Plus, good jobs are few and far between. When an opportunity is flying by, you need to be ready. With a portfolio and references and lots of experience doing things.
I forced myself to swallow. I'm sure we talked about other things, but I can't remember. My mind was a scratched CD. Wait. Wait. Wait. Just wait. Wait for what?
I rushed back to class. Then I rushed through the semester, through graduation, through a couple internships. When I moved to Spokane, it was the seventh time I changed cities in four years. I was impatiently ditching one town for another, hoping that the next place would bring an immediate sense of relief and purpose. Turns out, the first months only feel scattered — which just made me feel like I needed to pack up and leave again.
Soon after I moved to Browne's Addition, I decided to make stir fry to christen my new kitchen. I burned the onions on high heat and stared blankly at my bookshelf. Dang, I still need to read Kipling.
You can't read poetry quickly. Poems force you to slow down. The only poem of Kipling's that I know, and the reason I brought him up in the first place, is called "The Answer." It's about a rose who complains to God that she died for no reason. I had to reread it three times, going slower and slower, finally just staring and waiting for the words to make sense, until I realized that God was answering her, saying that in her life and death, something else beyond her imagination was happening.
You have to wait to read and write poetry. But it turns out, waiting is really good writing advice for a deadline-driven job, too. When you're out reporting, wait around just a little longer, and you might find the detail that changes the whole story. If you're on a flexible publishing schedule, like this alt weekly, write something early and then wait — even a day or two later, you'll be able to make it so much better. Put the time in to build good sources. Spend years, decades, or even a lifetime getting to know a place.
I'm starting to think that waiting is really good career advice, too. I waited until I found a job that I loved, and I'm so glad I did.
Besides, the virtues that make a writer someone everyone wants to read — empathy, wisdom, honesty — are only won through experience. An impatient writer is like an impatient cook, scorning the secret ingredient: time. Life needs to sweat a while before the flavors transform, deepen, and work together.
But maybe most of life is that in-between time, waiting for the words to make sense, waiting for an answer, waiting for the onions to soften.
I eat stir fry in my new home and hope that's the case. Guess I'll have to wait and see. ♦
