From a stranger, the encouragement to keep trying

I am standing in line at the used bookstore. I am leaving town the next morning and have crammed an afternoon of errands into the next hour. In my mind I am already checking off this errand, striding out the door on the way to the bank, dry cleaner, and grocery store for airplane snacks for the kids.

I am shuffling my feet loudly while the guy ahead of me takes his sweet time selecting a pastry from the display case, which really, I decide, is just for display. People order only coffee while they browse books. Also, I think, eager to feel mean, because of this man I will never get out of here in time to finish my errands.

I’m irritated. Not really at any of this. I’ve gone from feeling brokenhearted to feeling angry. My recently completed novel – a manuscript I spent years writing and the past two years tearing apart and reconstructing – will never see the light of day. My literary agent has emailed to say that while the novel is now the best version of itself, she cannot submit it to publishers. My novel, she says, does not arrest; it does not stun; it does not reveal what it is to be human and alive on this planet.

In her rejection of the novel, she has described the mandate of literature. I cannot fault her for that. But today my deep sadness has veered hard into anger. And now, here is this man who’s straight out of central casting with his suspenders stretched over his belly and plaid shirt in the middle of summer. Santa Claus-like tufts of gray hair spring from his straw cowboy hat. He chooses pie, the deep dish. When he looks away, the woman behind the counter rolls her eyes at me by way of apology.

“A. La. Mode,” he announces dramatically.

My book, the one I requested over the phone, sits on the counter with my name misspelled on a yellow sticky note. I want to reach around him, snatch the book, and fly.

As if he reads my mind, he drums on his belly and turns to me. “My buddy,” he says. “It was his dream to sail around the world.” 

I look around. Is he talking to me? 

“It’s been done before, sure,” he says. “But,” he shrugs, “it was his dream.” I try to relax my face into something respectful. I try to stand still, to stop fidgeting. I want to care about his story. Suddenly, I am sure that I should.

“So my buddy, he’s going to do it. He’s really going to do it. Sail around the world.” He stops and guffaws. 

“He almost dies, mind you. Plenty times. There was this one time around the Horn of Africa ...”

A line has formed behind me. Why has Santa Claus singled me out? He is telling me how his friend, the sailor, was shipwrecked. His boat survived, though his marriage did not. His ex-wife went on to form her own publishing company. 

There is a long pause. The woman behind the cash register is looking hard at me. Now I’m the one she’s impatient with for holding up the line.

The man has been speaking to me in three-quarter profile. He turns to face me full-on. He pauses. Then: “It takes a long time to publish a book.”

And just like that, he turns – the wedge of pie and dollop of ice cream held high – and walks away.

I am stunned. I pay for my book and leave. I do not glance back for him at the display of books by local writers. It takes a long time to publish a book. Was that the message? Or was it the foolhardy plan to sail around the world, risking everything? How could anyone emerge unscathed from such a hazardous journey? How much easier to retreat to terra firma, safe and unchanged.

Years passed. I wrote another book. And still, I could not let go of my other novel. Once again, I tore it apart. Over the course of another year, I took its characters around the world with me. My sailboat, a kitchen chair. Our perilous, storm-tossed sea, the inner lives of human beings struggling to live rich and meaningful lives. And now, that novel has again left my hands, sent out to find a home and readers, while I wait. 

Sometimes, I hear my angel: “It takes a long time.”

I sail on.