In speaking of this desire for our own far off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you… The secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both.
~ C.S. Lewis
“I was ten.” The words are quiet, like a released breath.
Sam leans toward me slightly.
Do I want to share this confession with him?
“Ten years old. I had a story, written over a period of time, I don’t know, maybe a year or two. I hadn’t told anyone, not even Gran.” I blink up at him. “Gran is—the woman who raised me. She’s not my grandmother, she’s actually my adoptive mother. I never met my parents.”
“Mmm.” Sam’s response comes from deep in his chest, and there is empathy there.
“I brought my story to school one day. Planned to show it to a favorite teacher, to ask her to read it. I told myself I wanted her help, to make it better. But of course, I really wanted her to tell me it was perfect.”
I can feel him nodding beside me, even though my eyes are on my hands.
“I didn’t have many friends back then. I was—a little odd, perhaps? I’m not sure. But there was a new girl in school who seemed to like me. We were beginning to gravitate toward each other.”
I brace my hands against the log bench, expecting a splintery surface but finding it smooth.
Sam is quiet, waiting for the rest of the story.
“I had the story in a folder.”
I pause, seeing a folder nearly identical to the one I’d brought tonight. I hadn’t thought of that until now. The parallel leaves me slightly nauseated.
“Some of the other girls in class got hold of it, without my realizing. Outside, in the schoolyard, my new friend and I were walking and talking, and suddenly I heard one of the girls—Ashleigh, her name was, a nasty, sarcastic little thing—reading my story aloud to four or five others.”
Sam sighs, as if he can tell where the story is headed.
“They were laughing, of course. And when they saw me, they all turned on me. Ashleigh waved the folder in the air. ‘Here she is, the great author herself!’
“‘She thinks she’s Mary Pope Osborne or something!’ This was from another girl, Erica.”
I half-turn to Sam. “Mary Pope Osborne is a famous writer for children.” I still have no idea when this guy lived or whether the name would mean anything to him.
His hands are clenched together, forearms resting on his knees, and he says nothing.
“I tried to take the folder back, but Ashleigh kept it from me, kept reading the story aloud, with all of them laughing and saying, ‘Fairy tales are for babies!’”
“And your new friend?”
“Said nothing. And was never my friend after that day.” I rub my fingers against my forehead, where a little stab of pain throbs behind my eyes. “For the rest of the year, they mocked me. They ridiculed me for trying to be famous, dismissed everything I said as “silly storytelling,” and told everyone I lived in a fantasy instead of the real world.”
“They shamed you. For being yourself.”
“Yes.”
His succinct response incorporates everything I have felt for nearly twenty years.
I sit with the feeling, and the acknowledgment, for a moment. It feels heavy, like atmospheric pressure.
“But this was only the first time you experienced this shame?”
I nod. “It took me a long time to show my work anywhere again. I went to a nearby university and after graduation joined a local writers’ group. We met weekly and shared our works in progress.”
“It is good to have a community of others who are also creative.”
“I thought so at the time. But when it was finally my turn to bring my work, and it was a novel I’d been writing for years by then, it was… not well received.”
“What did they say?”
The image of Cara Oberman, with her narrow nose and widow’s peak hairline, is burned into my memory. The sarcastic twist of her lips as she spouts phrases like “saccharine-sweet” and “unbridled idealism.” The embarrassment, wanting to get out of that circle of folding chairs as quickly as possible.
“They said it was too hopeful, not real enough.”
“Ha!”
I glance at his grinning profile.
“That’s funny?”
“It is madness. Beauty is hope, above all other things. You have taken the highest compliment and turned it into a criticism.”
“It wasn’t meant to be the highest compliment, trust me. Every single one of them tore my story apart, said it might have been popular a hundred years ago, but I’d never find an audience for it these days.”
“And these other writers in this group… their works are all well-loved by many readers?”
“No, it wasn’t a group of professionals. Just aspiring writers.”
He tilts his head, his eyebrows arched with an obvious comment.
“You’re thinking their opinions might not be worth much.”
“I am thinking you are listening to the wrong people. A true community of artists will encourage you to pursue excellence, dig deeper. Not make you want to abandon your craft.”
My gaze travels over the Garden Party guests. “That’s what you have here, isn’t it? A true community.” A stab of longing leaves me breathless.
Sam follows my glance. “And you are part of it.”
“No, I’m not. At least not yet. Not unless I can bring something worthwhile.”
“You still don’t understand, do you?”
“Help me, then. A. said my words disappeared because I brought the story for the wrong reasons. What did I do wrong? And what is the right reason?”
“K., every artist, every creative person, plays a critical role in the world, to help awaken others to what is Other. To the truth and the beauty and the goodness in the world. All of us know it is there, sense that something Other exists. But we’ve forgotten. It is only the artist who can create work which binds up all that is Other and delivers it to our senses, to our spirits. And so we create… not to be affirmed in our talent, but to serve. We create, regardless of the limits of quality or the reception our work receives. We create, because we must.”
He rolls his shoulders back and studies his own hands, as though he’s spoken the words as much to himself as to me.
“I suppose I said as much to you, earlier.”
“You encouraged me with this truth, K., when we spoke with C. in our little circle of three. But you must also believe it for yourself.”
“And the table?” I lift my eyes to the Tree. “The gifts?”
“Our work is brought as just that—a gift, a gift we give to others, a gift that is not about us. A gift we give, simply because it is our responsibility to give it.”
“I think I understand.”
And perhaps I do. My yellow folder was stuffed full of angst and insecurity, hopes and wishes for affirmation or even correction. It was definitely not brought as a generous gift to the community. In short, it was all about me.
I lean back against the wood of our bench. “But you spoke of risks, and of bravery. So you know there can be rejection like I’ve experienced.”
“Tell me the rest of your story of rejection.”
“The rest?”
“You said you’ve been told over and over that you do not have talent. Thus far, I have heard from a bevy of cruel ten-year-old girls and a circle of unproven hopefuls with no qualifications. Who else?”
I rub my palm with my thumb. “No one else, I guess.”
He looks at me again with that cocked eyebrow. “This is your ‘over and over’ being told you’re not good enough?”
“When you say it like that…” I half-smile.
“Listen to me, K.” He takes my hand in his own, as if we are old friends. “For this Garden, this community, you must bring your work as a gift and nothing more. No comparisons, no jealousies. But this is a special place. The rest of the world will not be so kind, it is true. And that is where the great risk lies. Because rejection of your work is only the beginning of what you risk.”
“Great. So I’m hung up on Step One.”
“Perhaps. But even the first step must be taken before you can proceed.”
“So maybe it’s better to focus elsewhere rather than waste time trying to make myself into something I am not and ending up with only pain. In fact, I do need some help figuring out how to save the bookshop—”
“That depends on what you mean by ‘better.’”
I frown, shake my head in confusion.
“You said it’s better to focus elsewhere, to save yourself the pain. Is that really true?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Tell me about a time when someone encouraged you to write your stories.”
“Well, Gran always said nice things, of course.”
“Not ‘of course.’ She was not obligated to do so. But who else?”
I close my eyes, calling up a distant memory, nearly too fuzzy to grasp. “There was someone once, an older man—a friend of Gran’s, I think. I feel like he was a writer of some sort. She introduced me to him at a party, I think. Some kind of event happening outside in the evening. I don’t remember his name. But she had given him a story I was writing. I must have been about seven years old.” My eyes snap open and I look down. “Wow.”
Sam waits, smiling.
“I just remembered, I was wearing a dress very much like this one. White. With wisteria blossoms.” How strange.
“Interesting. What did this writer say to you?”
Even now, the warm glow of his words is like a banked fire in my creative spirit, one I’ve kept burning, despite the harshness in the years that followed. “He said I had a gift. That my story was charming, and I should most definitely finish it.”
“Well, there you go.”
I laugh. “One positive review of a young child’s story from an unknown reader. It’s hardly an endorsement that will have publishers knocking on my door.”
Without warning, Sam stands. “Enough sitting. Let’s walk. Perhaps meet some better friends.”
I rise from the bench to stand at his side, looking out over the meandering walkways and groupings of people. I’ve talked with or seen so many famous creatives already. Who might Sam introduce me to next?
And why am I still here, lingering when I should be leaving?
But he takes my hand and threads it through his bent arm, linking us as we stroll at the lighted edge of the Garden, just inside the vine-covered marble columns.
I glance into the shadows. What lies in there?
The warmth of his arm seeps into me as we walk in step with each other. I could come here every night, I think, for a never-ending evening with this guy.
“Tell me who you are, S. Give me something about the work you’ve done, something I would know about.”
He is silent. “Not yet. Nothing yet.”
Does he mean he’s created nothing I would know? Or that he won’t tell me yet?
“How about you?” He squeezes my linked arm against his ribs. “How can I know more of you?”
I snort a little laugh. “I think it must be obvious by now that I don’t belong—”
But the little squeeze gets tighter, meant to cut off my words.
“I meant to say, I’ll be writing something very soon that will have the world talking.”
“There you go.” The corners of his eyes crinkle in a really attractive way.
We’ve circled the Garden’s torchlit border until we’re directly across from the Tree, near the musicians’ platform. A harpist is settling herself behind her instrument. Her long fingers caress the strings, making no sound yet.
Just ahead, on another bench carved from a single tree, a woman sits tapping her fingertips on her knee. It’s the older woman with the spiky hair and great smile who was playing the piano when I first arrived. She senses our approach and looks over at us.
“Hey there, S., who you got with you?” Her smile jumps to me.
“This is K.” Sam nudges me forward a bit. “K., this is B. She’s—”
“The piano player. I remember. I loved your music.”
“Did you?” Her eyes widen, as though I’ve shocked her. “I’m only an amateur.”
I smile. “Yes, I can see how much you love it. And it looked like you were having a great time.”
She nods and takes a deep breath, her attention going back to the raised platform. “I think I’m finally waking up. Realizing I should have pursued it long ago. Should have pushed through the resistance. Not been so fearful.”
“What were you afraid of?”
“Ha!” Her laugh is a chest-deep huff, as though my question has opened Pandora’s box. “Everything. And nothing. What if I’m not good enough to make it? What if I am?”
No-nonsense. Two words, but sometimes I cheat.
Beside me, Sam is nodding.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter.” I want to see that fabulous smile again. “Watching you play, it… it brings joy. Makes people feel something. Maybe that’s all that counts.”
I glance at Sam. Is he proud of my newfound confidence in the sacredness of creativity?
B. shrugs one shoulder and nods slowly. “Perhaps. But it’s not something to be messed around with.” She looks up at both of us. “Have you heard about C. disappearing?”
Sam scans the Garden’s central grassy area, as if he’ll be able to spot Dickens. “A. mentioned it.”
B.’s eyes darken. “Well, I overheard A. talking a few minutes ago.” She leans in, as if her whisper is a sober secret. “She seems to think C.’s gone because of someone here. Because he was speaking with someone who’s refusing to bring a gift.”