FINDING A CREATIVE LIFE (Part 7)

Susan, Susan!

She stopped and turned as if we were in some cornball love story.

I was out of breath but managed to say, Can I send you my writing? I mean, I'm in the middle of the rewrite but—

She gave me a most tender smile and answered, Mel Ryane, the one person I really wanted to meet. Send me what you have.

Back in my dorm room, I sat cross-legged on the bed and called William. Back in L.A. he was swamped, working two projects at the same time. I couldn't get him on the phone. The most exciting event of my creative life and it would be hours before I could share it with my husband.

I called Michelle.

Remember my dream? The one where I was pregnant? I just figured out what I'm giving birth to. It's a book.

I went for dinner with friends that night. I celebrated with good wine and blushed all night at my good fortune. As I crawled into the single bed in my dorm room I finally reached William on the phone.

Sweet, so, so sweet, he said. I'm beyond proud of you. Come home and let's celebrate.

Flying back from New York that summer I knew that with a literary agent interested in my work and teachers encouraging me, it was time to take my writing much more seriously. As the plane began its descent into LAX a gentleman next to me started up a conversation. I heard the wheels of the aircraft unlock as he asked me, What do you do?

I'm a writer.

I'd never said that before. It made me smile to say it. It made it true.

I'm a writer.

That summer I holed up in my office to finish the manuscript and get it to Susan in New York City as fast as possible. I had a terrible fear that Susan's enthusiasm would dissipate, that perhaps our encounter had been a mirage.

I wrote for four straight days, twelve hours a day. I added content and spell-checked every word. I had the manuscript printed and mailed it to New York. I had a second copy printed and set it on William's desk.

William, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, was surviving on five hours sleep a night and his wife was asking him to drop everything and read her book.

I made dinner reservations at our favorite French restaurant for that Saturday evening. I bought a good bottle of wine for our meal and kept myself busy while William read my book. I gave him some coffee and left him alone. William's past criticism about my writing was erased in this single act. This was momentous for both of us. He was giving me his all.