Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

As scheduled, 'Shore Leave' did appear in the September 6th edition of Saturday/Sunday. Several of my colleagues in the office complimented me on the writing. An editor at Harper and Brothers dropped me a nice note, saying that if and/or when I had amassed a book-length collection of stories, he'd be interested in considering them for publication. Someone from RKO Pictures made a tentative telephone inquiry about the rights to the story, but then sent a letter, explaining that 'wartime romances are now passe'. As promised, I did despatch a copy of the magazine to Ruth in Maine, and received a cheery card back in return ('You really have it as a writer... and this reader wants to read more!'). Eric squandered a significant portion of his weekly salary on a celebratory dinner at 21. And Nat Hunter also marked the occasion by taking me to lunch at Longchamps.

'So do you regret taking the job?' he asked as our drinks arrived.

'Hardly', I lied. 'Do I seem like I regret it?'

'You're far too well-mannered and polite to ever openly express dissatisfaction. But - as I know you've discovered - yours is not the most fulfilling of jobs. Nor, for that matter, is mine - but at least I have the fringe benefit of an expense account, which allows me to lunch writers... like your good self. On which note: where's the next story?'

'I'm working on it', I said. 'It's taking a little longer than I expected'.

'You are a terrible liar, Miss Smythe'.

He was right, of course. I was utterly transparent. And I was getting nowhere with my next story... even though I knew what I was going to write. It was a tale of an eight-year-old girl on summer vacation in Maine with her parents. She's their only child: over-protected, over-pampered, over-indulged... but also deeply aware of the fact that her parents don't like each other very much, and that she is the glue which is holding them together. One afternoon, her parents get into a horrendous argument, and she wanders off out of their rented beach house. She leaves the beach, takes a wrong turn and finds herself in a deep set of woods. She remains lost there overnight, and is found the next morning by the police. She's in shock, but basically unscathed. She has a tearful reunion with her parents. For a day or so afterwards, harmony reigns within the family. But then the parental fights start again, and she runs off into the woods. Because now she realizes that, as long as she's in jeopardy, her parents will cling to each other and get along.

I had a title for the story: 'Getting Lost'. I had the basic narrative structure worked out in my mind. What I didn't have was the will to sit down and write it. The Saturday/Sunday job was enervating. I'd arrive home at seven each night, sapped. After eight hours of reading other people's stories I felt like doing anything else but tackling my own work. So I began to play the postponement game - as in, I'm just too depleted to open my typewriter, so I'll wake up at six a.m. tomorrow and crank out three hundred words before heading to the office. But then, when the alarm went off the next morning, I'd roll over and sleep on until eight thirty. When I got back home that night, I'd be feeling as devitalized as ever, unable to think about my short story. On the nights when my energy level was high, I'd find other things to do. Like heading off to see a great Howard Hawks double bill at the Academy of Music on 14th Street. Or I'd squander the evening with an enjoyably pulpy William Irish novel. Or I'd decide that this was the moment the bathroom needed cleaning...

The weekends were worse. I'd wake up Saturday morning, determined to put in four hours at the typewriter. I'd sit down. I'd type a sentence. I'd hate the sentence. I'd yank the paper out of the typewriter. I'd roll in another piece of paper. This time I would get two, maybe even three sentences on paper before ripping it from the Remington.

And then I would decide it was time for a walk. Or a coffee at the Cafe Reggio on Bleecker Street. Or a trip uptown to the Metropolitan Museum. Or a late morning foreign movie at the Apollo on 42nd Street. Or a trip to the laundromat. Or any other piece of busy work which would help me dodge writing.

This went on for months. Whenever Eric asked how the new story was going, I'd tell him that I was making slow, steady, progress. He'd say nothing, but the sceptical glint in his eye let it be known that he realized I was lying. Which made me feel around ten times more guilty, as I hated deceiving my brother. But what could I tell him? That I had lost all confidence in my ability to string a sentence together, let alone a story? Or that I now knew I was a one-off writer - someone with only a single story to tell.

Eventually, I confessed this to Eric. It was Thanksgiving Day 1946. Like the previous year, I met my brother for lunch at Luchows. Unlike the previous year, I wasn't in love. Instead, I was enveloped by disappointment: with my work, with the circumstances of my life... but, most tellingly, with myself.

Like the previous year, Eric ordered a bottle of sparkling wine to celebrate. After the waiter poured out two glasses, Eric raised his and said, 'To your next story'.

I lowered my glass and heard myself saying: 'There is no story, Eric. And you know that'.

'Yes. I know that'.

'You've known that for a long time'.

He nodded.

'Then why didn't you say anything?'

'Because all writers know what it's like to have a block. It's something you really don't want to talk about with anybody'.

'I feel like a failure', I said, swallowing hard.

'That's dumb, S'.

'It may be dumb, but it's the truth. I messed up at Life. I should never have taken that job at Saturday/Sunday. Now I'm unable to write. Which means my entire literary output will end up being one forgotten story, published when I was twenty-four'.

Eric sipped his wine and smiled. 'Don't you think you're being just a tad melodramatic?'

'I want to be melodramatic'.

'Good. I prefer you when you're Bette Davis, not Katharine Hepburn'.

'God, you sound like him'.

'Is he still on the brain?'

'Only today'.

'It being your anniversary, I suppose'.

I winced. And said, 'That wasn't nice'.

'You're right. It wasn't. I'm sorry'.

'You're very hard on me sometimes'.

'Only because you're so hard on yourself. Anyway, it's not criticism. Just constructive teasing, an attempt to get you to lighten up. So stop torturing yourself about not being able to work. If you have a story to tell, you'll tell it. If you don't... it's not the end of the world. Or, at least, that's what I've decided recently'.

'You haven't given up on your play, have you?'

He stared down into his glass for a moment, then reached (as always) for his cigarettes and matches. He lit one, but didn't look back up at me.

'There is no play', he said quietly.

'I don't understand... ?'

'It's simple, really. The play I've been writing for the last two years doesn't exist'.

'But why doesn't it exist?'

'Because I never wrote anything'.

I tried to disguise my shock. I failed. 'Nothing at all?' I said quietly.

He bit his lip. 'Not a word', he said.

'What happened?'

He shrugged. 'There's only so much rejection one can take. Seven unproduced plays is enough for me'.

'Things change. Tastes change. You've got to travel hopefully'.

'And while you're at it, physician heal thyself'.

'You know how impossible it is to heed one's own advice'.

'Okay - then listen to mine. End the self-flagellation. Put the typewriter away until you're really ready to use it again'.

'I'll never use it again'.

'Stop sounding like me, for Christ's sakes. Especially as you will use it again'.

'How can you be so sure?'

'Because you'll want to. I'm sure of it. And because you will get over him'.