Say What You Need to Say

As an undergraduate in the English Department of Syracuse University's College of Arts & Sciences, it was inevitable, in the early 1980's, that I be introduced to the work of Raymond Carver. He was teaching Creative Writing in what was becoming the most renowned graduate program in the country, and his work was gaining a confident muscularity as he emerged from his drinking life and started anew with poet Tess Gallagher, who also taught in the program.



Like many college students at that time, I was bowled over by Carver's stories. They were terse, economical, and had an emotional directness I'd never experienced in my reading up to that point.

I used to see him at readings every once in a while. I even sat next to him when Edward Albee came to read at the Hall of Languages, because I was friendly with his niece, Amy, who introduced me to him. "Uncle Ray, this is Dan Fuchs. He's a writer, too." He shook my hand shyly, and his shyness was so powerful I could only reflect it back at him. If I said anything to him, I don't know what it was.



One typically cold winter day, not long after meeting him, I saw Ray standing outside the University Bookstore following a book-signing he had just done. He was alone, smoking a cigarette and looked so at peace that I chose not to say hello. I told myself I'd have plenty of other opportunities to speak with him.



Of course, I never did. I was vacationing in Greece in 1988 when I read the news of his death, which floored me. The combination of knowing I'd never get the rush of reading a new Carver story in the New Yorker or Esquire again, paired with the regret I felt as I understood our conversation would never happen, was like having the wind knocked out of me momentarily.



I vowed that from then on I would seize the opportunity, whenever it presented itself, to reach out to the people I admire. In the Spring of 1990, I went to see Richard Ford do a reading at ACHNA (Asociacion Cultural Hispano Norteamericano) in Madrid. With the same nervousness I felt meeting his departed friend, I shook Ford's hand, and managed to say, "You and I have a mutual friend in Toby Wolff." "Really?" he said, his eyes lighting up. "Well, isn't that something? Were you a student of his?" When I said that I was, he called his wife over, "Kristina, come over here. This is Dan Fuchs. He was a student of Toby's at SU." (At this point I was starting to notice the annoyance creeping onto the expressions of the others who were waiting for Ford to inscribe their books. I didn't care.) "Oh wow," Kristina said. "Did you know they just had a new baby?" "You're kidding!" I answered, genuinely surprised. The two of them were so engaging; I wanted to offer to show them around the city, but I could already see a publicist type, redirecting Richard to the line of book buyers who were waiting. "I'll get out of your way," I said. "It was nice meeting you." "Hey, you too, Dan," Richard said. "Did you want me to inscribe that for you?" I'd almost forgotten and handed him the book, a Spanish edition of Rock Springs. In it he wrote, "For Dan, With the pleasure of meeting you, and with good hopes for your work. Richard Ford, April 24, 1990, Madrid."

I now hold the book as one of my prized possessions. It was a moment I knew my mother, only a year and a half gone from the world, would have been proud of, when I realized that even my idols are a part of the family to which we all belong. I'd like to think Ray was pleased, too.