In My Mother's Love of Great Writing, A Call to Action

I woke up this morning thinking about a line in one of my mother's letters in which she describes the writing of one of her favorites, John Gardner. She was reflecting on him the day after his death in a motorcycle accident. "You must read at least one of his books, just to find out what beautiful writing is. When I read something by him -- whether paragraphs, pages, or chapters, it's like a person who knows and loves music listening to beautiful music. Heavenly!"

I don't remember how this line made me feel when I received that letter back in September of 1982; I'd imagine it gave me a mixture of encouragement and fear. At age 19, I was expert in the writing of cliches. My mother must have read my stuff the way a piano teacher listens to a child starting lessons, or a monkey banging on the keys.

My writing began to improve when I worked with Tobias Wolff at Syracuse. Not coincidentally, this was around the same time that I was introduced to Sherwood Anderson, James Joyce, Chekhov, Cheever, Tolstoy and Raymond Carver -- all masters of fiction and the short story -- not to mention my teacher himself.

At that time Toby had not yet reached the level of fame he now enjoys. He was well known in literary circles, having published a celebrated short story collection called In the Garden of the North American Martyrs, his first. I believe his second book, a novella called The Barracks Thief had just been published around the time I first worked with Toby in 1981 or '82.

I don't mean to disparage or diminish the work of my high school English teachers, because I had some good ones -- Bob Button, my journalism teacher at Grosse Pointe South High, who taught me to write concisely and was the first to publish my work in the award-winning school newspaper, The Tower, Mary O'Donnell, Ugo Toppo, and Renee Landau at Harrison High, who all pushed me to do better. But Toby's insistence on making my characters believable and my writing original is what ultimately made me want to be a writer.

My mother's letter reminds me, of course, that she was my first, and arguably most significant, writing teacher. Being a voracious reader, she instilled in me, early on, the importance of reading. Her letters have brought back into stark focus that writing is something I both love and strive to do well.

I know I've told myself over these last few months not to write about writing, but I feel the need to express my intention of creating a work of fiction that is symphonic. I'd like it to be a piece that is worthy of my mother as a reader with an ear for the music of great writing.

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.