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E-book About That Life : Barry Lopez and the Art of Community
Things got better after my first months in the city. I made a few friends, got a job through the new AmeriCorps program at a high school on the Lower East Side, and hung around with radi-cal environmental activists who wondered why anybody would leave New Hampshire for New York. But I was still unmoored. By my third year at NYU, I realized the world of professional theater was not for me. The thought of writing another script that would not get produced — or, if it did happen to get pro-duced, would be mangled by uncomprehending actors — was unbearable. I transferred to the University of New Hampshire for my final year of college, then got a job teaching at a small and non-prestigious boarding school. I stopped writing plays, and for a while stopped writing much of anything at all. I settled into the disappointment of being only myself.Eventually, the desire to write returned. In adolescence, writ-ing let me carry my mind away from a life I loathed, a life where I was always the weird one, often suspiciously so. (“Why are you so strange?” people would say. And sometimes: “What are you, a faggot?”) The work of writing became, for me, inseparable from the urge to escape. Once I had escaped, why write? Classes at NYU and elsewhere could not answer this question for me, and often did not admit it was a question anyone might ever ask.Done with plays, I returned to writing short stories, essays, and poems. Eventually, I felt confident enough to start sending things to potential publishers, mostly obscure literary journals. I knew I had some talent, maybe small, but enough to get by on. I had a couple of friends now who were writers, each seeming to get a bit more successful with each passing month: a personal rejection from a good publisher, a story in an interesting journal, an agent acquired, a book sold... Meanwhile, I had worked for years to write something somebody might care about, but aside from a pile of manuscripts, I had little to show for it except a bathroom wall covered with rejection slips. (Some of my friends found the wall depressing; I said I considered it an inspiring tes-tament to persistence, and sometimes I actually believed that.) While writing had always been challenging, the challenge had been invigorating; now, though, it felt futile.
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