I have moved to the floor out of respect for an older woman who has arrived, a friend of the hostess. The cool of the brown carpet chills me, though at my back the woodstove throws heat which rises up and over me. The long, lustrous brown table, cluttered with fruit and nuts and wine and books and breads and beer, separates me from the man who brought me here. He is sprawled upon the couch opposite, the only male among the gathered poets, the whites of his eyes glowing between the dark curls of his hair and the bushy mustache, darker still.
I look around at the assembly, women all, of every age and description. Some are old and well-read, some seasoned writers; the young ones bring imagination instead of experience to their art. The smell of their wine is something I cannot escape, acute and heady like strong scented flowers. It makes me slightly dizzy.
I have not been to a gathering like this in too many years. Farm life has dulled the edge of my wit. Happiness and acceptance have made me a poor critic. I cannot impress these people, I think, nor even present myself as worthy to be among them.
It has been a long time since I gathered up words like branches and tossed them into huge, tousled piles for the sheer joy of their design, their many textures and shapes making a rat’s nest of forms and colors: iridescent purples, shrieking magentas, dried-out grays, with knobby joints like an old man’s knuckles, or skewer ends sticking out everywhere.
The young girl, who feels the need to clarify that she is not a Rastafarian—perhaps because of her vivid sweater of yellow and orange and green and red—heaves words together with luxurious abandon, bathing herself in in the sound and flash of light, in a glory of enthusiasm and innocence. They mean almost nothing to me, but the sensory experience of them thrills. She belongs here, with the word artists.
The older women, with their carefully written lines, convey in images and strong voices ideas so well-formed that I feel inarticulate. Ideas spark more ideas, criticisms spark inspirations, agreements, disagreements, leaving everyone full and helped. I say little.
Oh, I am keenly interested, but am rendered wordless. I am inspired, but I don’t belong. I write “that stuff–no offense.” I know long before my turn arrives that my visions have no place here. I would like to transcend my genre, but I feel I have to apologize for it. I feel like I need to defend it. I feel like these narrow-minded scholars could benefit so very much from fantasy, if they would only listen.
Like in Amadeus, “too many notes” becomes the accusation against me, but I laugh it off. I know there is a tendency in my work towards abundant description. I am not defensive about it. When I finish, they exclaim and clap.
When can I read this book? What happens, what does he do with the infant?
He names it, of course. If he doesn’t there would be no story, Karla observes. Karla is no dummy.
And here I am, explaining it. Alice wants to know how I can write that stuff. “This came to me when I was only ten, that is why it is the way it is. I write it because I have to.” Why do I write that stuff? “If I don’t, I go crazy.” Natural answers to reasonable questions.
That stuff. The label that sticks.
Siege of the Spirit 