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Enough
            by Eric Karl Anderson

I grew up in the state of Maine never having been very conscious of writing or writers. It wasn’t until my late teenage years that I developed an appreciation for literature. Although I harboured a vague fondness for writing poems and plays, reading was never a great pleasure beyond the few fantasy novels I’d read. I actually resented my English classes. My parents lovingly read aloud to me from an early age and that’s something for which I’m incredibly grateful. But somewhere along the line, as with so much of America’s youth today, video games and television took precedence over the written word. I’d like to say that I accidentally stumbled upon a great book that fuelled my passion for literature. But the truth is that I only started to read interesting literature when some cool intellectually-bent kids I’d met started talking to me about books that I hadn’t read. In order to be friends with them and participate in their conversations I decided I needed to read what they were reading. They didn’t develop into the great friends I’d hoped they’d become, but my interest in books stuck. I read more and more as the years went on and I began college in Boston. My interest in novels and stories grew so intense I abandoned my planned major in social work to study literature and creative writing.

Although Boston has a lively cultural community, in a curious way I wasn’t aware that writers existed in any real sense. Somehow I still maintained the childish belief that books appeared magically out of nowhere. Then one afternoon while walking with no particular purpose through Boston, I stumbled upon an advertisement stating that Alice Walker, a writer whose work I admire, would appear that day at the Boston Library. It suddenly occurred to me, “This is a real living writer!” I wandered into a nearby bookstore, purchased a copy of The Color Purple and quickly went into the library where there was already a long queue waiting for Walker to sign their books. What I found attractive wasn’t the celebrity excitement of the event, but the realisation that there was a distinct personality in existence who could create something that touched other people so intimately. Yet the person herself was in a strange way completely disconnected from the thing she had created. My meeting with Walker was in no way remarkable. She smiled and politely said hello. I stood silent and dumbstruck as she signed my book. I became aware for the first time that there was a loose community of writers who were all working to create and artistically shape their own novels—something like E.M. Forster’s ideal picture of writers in a circle all individually working on their distinct projects.

Since then I’ve enthusiastically attended readings by a wide variety of authors. Now that I live in London I’m able to see authors from all over the world who stop in this city to deliver a lecture or as part of a book tour. Once at an Ian McEwan reading, a woman in the audience raised her hand and asked, “I was just listening to you read and suddenly wondered ‘Why am I here?’” McEwan smiled and responded, “Aren’t you the best one to answer that?” before kindly responding in a more serious tone that perhaps people still have a child’s desire to be read aloud to and are able to better visualize a book’s scenes with the writer’s voice in their heads. This is no doubt true, but I also think that we desire to connect with the real person who has stimulated our minds and hearts so profoundly with their written words. A signature in a book can connect us with that individual in a very personal way. One of my early literary loves was the French dramatist Eugene Ionesco. This is why I sentimentally added a line in my novel ENOUGH about Paul being given a signed copy of Ionesco’s only novel The Hermit as a gift. I desired such a book greatly. With part of the generous prize money from the Pearl Street Publishing First Book Contest award, I was able to purchase a signed copy of Ionesco’s autobiography Present Past, Past Present.

Now, the readings I attend and the books I read greatly influence my writing. Of course I’m able to enjoy great books without having come into contact with their authors. Tremendous books by writers like Balzac and Virginia Woolf continue to inspire and amaze me. The way that other books influence someone is mysterious. The only other book that had a self-conscious influence upon my writing of ENOUGH was Dickens’ Bleak House. It’s a tremendous novel whose female narrator’s voice unfortunately sounds affected at some points. I wondered if I could do any better at inhabiting a female voice. It was a great challenge. I wanted to create a female character who possessed the strength to break out of the social circumstances into which she was born instead of demurely accepting them. I also liked the structure Dickens used for the novel of an alternative first- and third-person point of view. Although the action felt quite natural, writing as a woman was something that made me very nervous and I was interested to hear if women readers would feel that the voice was in any way “true.” I wrote ENOUGH as part of my senior project at Goddard College when I was 22 years old. Luckily, I had two excellent female professors who helped me overcome my fears about this. Obviously, everyone is an individual and has his or her own point of view that doesn’t necessarily have to do with gender. But switching sexes on page is a tricky business, particularly for men who seem overall less successful at it. I’ve been gratified that many female readers have responded to the book saying that Lucille’s voice is convincing. My friend the writer Amanda Craig even went so far as to say that I was able to inhabit the female mind to a scary degree. Now it’s my task to learn to write in the voice of a real man.

It’s been a privilege to publish ENOUGH and know that people can read it even though it’s something that I feel is completely separate from me. Although publication isn’t at all essential for someone to feel he or she’s created something meaningful, it’s gratifying to know that I’ve become a part of a very loose literary community. I still attend many readings in this thriving creative city to see the actual individuals who create such wonderful books. I’ve been able to meet most of my favorite living writers and become friendly with some of them. One of the greatest pleasures I’ve had following the publication of ENOUGH was co-editing an issue of the literary review Blithe House Quarterly with my boyfriend. As part of this project, I was able to gather new stories by a group of current writers I love. Some of the stories were specifically written for this issue. (You can read them on-line by looking in the Previous Issues section for Winter 2005 at http://www.blithe.com/).

People almost never receive recognition for the creative writing they work so hard to create. Each of us continues to painstakingly develop our own projects with the desire to affix some permanence to our ephemeral experience in this world. It’s an impossible task to record it all but it’s something that I am convinced is necessary. I don’t feel I will ever deserve to call myself a writer though I will always labour to become one. After all, books are magical and have no source.