I Came All This Way to Meet You: Writing Myself Home

by Jami Attenberg

There are plenty of reasons why I write. This is just one of them. The sense that I want to own something, own my work, own my creativity, own my name. It is perhaps not the purest reason, not truest of heart, for there is some ego attached to it. But it is real. I own these words. I own these ideas. Here is my book.

Instead, I have become a superior dinner guest. I am wonderful to have at your side while you cook, particularly if you give me a glass of wine, and also to have sit at your table, because I will appreciate your food in a deep, emotional, and highly verbal way, perhaps, in small part, because I did not get to experience that kind of cooking growing up. I’m just always so appreciative of being fed a delicious, home-cooked meal; genuinely, puppy-dog-eyes astonished by the food put before me. Invite me over and feed me. I will be your best companion.

But I knew home was in the books for me. All these things I did for books. In Laramie, in the bitter air of the evening, I laughed at myself. I was cursed, doomed. But I was still alive. I made my way to a sidewalk dug free from ice and snow. Forward, I thought. Forward. For the books.

The ocean was ceaseless and crashing. My brain was clear and unfettered with the concerns of others. I didn’t expect to live a fantastic life as an artist. To pay the bills seemed fantastic enough. I just wanted to be in a better place than I was when I wasn’t writing. If I just looked at everything a little differently, if I fully accepted the artist within me, if I leaned into my eccentricities, if I saw all the colors in their most vivid fashion, if I embraced the kaleidoscope at last, I could be there. It meant taking a step away from a normal life, but hadn’t I already moved too far away from it? Where was I anyway? I was all alone on this beach, far away from home, watching strangers, making up stories about them. Wasn’t I already there?

A great lesson: When someone tells you not to bother dreaming, they’re not on your side.

Whatever I had been doing for the last ten years of my life was no longer working. What does housing instability do to a person? How does it alter them? For me, I felt shame. Not having a regular place to live for so long. Relying on the help of others. I told people I was doing fine, that I had things under control, that there was a plan in play, but I was nervous and edgy and difficult to be around. I felt like I didn’t deserve anything. No one judged me more harshly than myself. I accepted who I was, but I didn’t always like it. I was lucky I wasn’t on the streets; I knew that. So goddamn lucky. America does not look kindly upon the unhoused. I have always felt like I was two wrong turns away from complete destruction. We all are, and we’re fooling ourselves if we think we’re not.

In fact, we receive so much from other writers when they show us how it’s done. When they position a character’s heart directly on the page for us, when they’re inventive in form or structure, or emotionally true in a way that feels radical in its familiarity. Or when their sentences are so crisp as to be nearly audible, like a piece of paper torn in two—all of this shows us how to do it ourselves, how it’s possible, but also it emboldens us, releases us from our fears about our own work. An encouragement by example.

Why did this one work? I believe that one must arrive at an intersection of hunger and fear to make great art. Hunger to succeed and create something brilliant and special and affecting. Fear that your life will remain just as it is—or worse—forever. I was hungry, and I was scared.

Satisfied to be away from my family for a while, too, and all the energy that went into being present, behaving, the dynamics, the relationships. It was just so hard not to notice things. I could never shut off my general state of awareness.

Eventually, my brain goes on strike. My brain says: You need to feel better about yourself. You need to put yourself in a situation where you can succeed more days than not, and the times you feel most successful are when you are sitting quietly at your desk, doing your work, writing your books, contemplating your characters, thinking about the why of your story and the why of life, and putting it down on the page, for you first, and then for everyone else. My brain says: Stop.

“If you were pretty, you would have gotten a lot more slow back rubs from local community theater directors,” says Emily, sage and wise. And pretty. Being a smart girl is always better. This I know and can promise. Being a smart girl means you can always take care of yourself. Being a smart girl means you can figure shit out. Being a smart girl means your self-worth does not alter with time. I invest heavily in being a smart girl for a long time after that fall. I still do.

My finally would be for something I made, not for someone I married.

Ten days after the breakup, I got on the plane. Even if you scrupulously architect every last detail, you don’t get to choose what kind of vacation you take. I had certainly not planned on it being a breakup vacation. I hadn’t imagined it would take on the tenor it had, to be full of complicated feelings. Whenever my life turns into any kind of cliché, I am furious. Not me, I want to scream. Not me, I am special and unusual. But none of us are special and unusual. Our stories are all the same. It is just how you tell them that makes them worth hearing again.

“When I think about my insides, I see things are held together by like, a paper clip and a piece of chewing gum and a Band-Aid and a small piece of Scotch tape. And that’s life, we are held together like that, adhesives of our own choosing and making. And it’s a little sturdier now for me. It’s grounded in the earth. And it’s functional. But still, it’s fragile.” Her head is still. I don’t know if she’s smiling or serious. I really have to switch back to Zoom sessions, I think. “Anyway, I love that about people. I love knowing what holds them together, what it looks like in there. All the flaws. I love that.”