This blog, which I've been publishing for eight years, continues to bring me into contact with many wonderful writers. Sometimes a single email
exchange grows into a week-long or month-long (or longer) conversation; often, I invite
that writer to contribute a guest post. That's more or less how I found Sandra Hurtes, who emailed me after reading an interview here with Sue William
Silverman, one of her "writing heroes." Sandra is an adjunct assistant professor at
CUNY and also studies watercolor painting.
Please
welcome Sandra Hurtes.
When
Poets & Writers began its “Why We
Write” column, I felt the topic was made for me. I understood the myriad
reasons why I put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard. I hurried off an essay,
noting my early life as a painfully shy and compliant child and how through
writing I had found my voice and myself. When my essay was rejected, I was surprised.
Until I went back to work, rewriting, going deeper, and not stopping until I
cried. I discovered that it is only through the laying down of word after word
after word that I can get to the center of anything, whether it’s a personal
essay or a book I’m teaching in a freshman comp class.
As
a freelance writer, I’m guaranteed nothing. Not publication. Not a reader. Not
a dime for my efforts. And so being aware of the gifts writing bestows upon me
is vital; it keeps me returning to the page.
I
didn’t always feel this way.
Though
I had an early sense that I was a writer, and dreams of literary success, it
wasn’t until I was 44 that I settled solidly into my chair to begin the work. It
was the 50th anniversary of the Jews’ liberation from concentration camps; my
parents were survivors, and I needed to be part of the emerging global conversation.
I loved every second (even the tearful ones) of working on my first fully realized
essay, “A Daughter’s Legacy.” It first landed in The Jewish Press, then it was republished in The Brooklyn Woman, The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles, and
a small Israeli magazine. The thrill of fulfilling my goal and discovering the
joy of writing set me on fire. The following year, I wrote four essays that all
found homes in Na’amat Woman, The
Philadelphia Inquirer, The
Washington Post, and The
New York Times.
When
the Times called to tell me they were
publishing my essay, I was giddy with happiness and nerves, certain I was
headed for the big time. The Times
piece led to messages from editors and agents who wanted to meet me, and the
rush of attention filled a need I didn’t know I had. From my job as an office
temp, I called in to my answer machine every half hour for messages. When the Times called to relay agent messages, I
was ecstatic. But when there were none, I felt deflated. I was aware of this
internal dynamic, and it made me uneasy.
I
met with agents and an editor to discuss projects. My ideas included an essay collection
or a memoir; I'd already begun a memoir draft. But each person I spoke with was
interested in a novel; they assumed I’d been writing for years and had one ready
(this was in the mid 1990s, before the memoir mania). My period of "fame"
ended with no agent, no book deal, and a bit of insecurity.
I
continued to write and publish essays. Sometimes readers wrote to say they
connected with me; I loved that. Sometimes an editor reached out; that was an
incredible high, underscoring my belief I would eventually make it big—a book
turned into a movie turned into a move to Los Angeles to a house with an ocean
view and writing as my day job. But in the real world, I still had no finished
book manuscript. Wanting to have a book out in the world was a wonderful goal;
but for me, it was also a deeply personal form of validation.
I
branched out into writing service articles and hoped I’d make a living as a
freelancer. This was still a time when you could call up editors and run ideas
by them. But the few times I did, my voice trembled. I felt as if I was putting my life on the line.
I mailed my queries instead of calling, most of which received form rejections.
Still, studying magazines and coming up with fresh topics was fun; sometimes I
wrote entire articles on spec. I loved writing for its own sake, but each time
I looked over my shoulder at peers who had agents or books on tables at Barnes
& Noble, that pure love shifted. I became competitive and jealous.
I started
the novel I thought might be my ticket to success while also working on my
memoir and everything else I could squeeze in before, after, and during office
jobs. I sent a self-help article to a magazine editor who had loved my Times piece. She left me a long voice
mail. Sandra, you don’t have the skills
for journalism. You should stick to essays. I’m passing on this article. I sent it to a rival magazine, and six months
later I received an acceptance. But by then I had given up waiting and instead placed
it with a poor-woman’s (aka trashy) version of Cosmopolitan.
My disappointment was blinding. The ups and downs of
the freelancers’ life were too painful to manage. I continued to work on my
novel, and believed in it enough to hire an editor. But it never quite came
together in terms of character development.
One
day, I told my mother I didn't want to write anymore. “That makes me very sad,"
she said.“I hear my voice in your words.” In that moment, I settled back into
my chair and thought a lot about why I write.
Since
then, I've gone back to school for an MFA and I’m now an adjunct English
professor teaching four classes a semester. I write all the time, mostly preparing
lectures. It sounds dull. But the first time I prepped to teach Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I spent hours exploring how
a scientist’s brilliance led to his demise. I was on fire with the process of learning
and from the gift I was able to give myself (and my audience of students).
I
discovered I could labor over essays, and if they didn’t find a home it was
okay. When they did, I was gratified when I heard from readers. As for the most
organic book project I had inside of me—the essay collection—I self-published On My Way to Someplace Else. My goal was to contribute a body of work on the Holocaust, and I
exceeded that by garnering excellent reviews.
My
second book, The
Ambivalent Memoirist, has a quirky style of short, digressive chapters.
I didn’t look for an agent. I found closure in writing memoir and have closed
that "book". A line in the Publisher’s Weekly’s review -- “Writing as art and psychological salvation is
at the heart of this book.” -- showed me
more about what writing means to me.
Being
published in newspapers and magazines is important to me; the reach it provides
into other people’s minds and hearts is significant. I still want that. But I
no longer feel competitive or even aware of what other writers are doing. I’m
wedded to my process that allows me to grow and develop in ways I could not
have, had I not become a writer.
Note from Lisa: Sandra would like to give one lucky blog reader a copy of each of her books (print or Kindle, your choice). Simply leave a comment by the end of the day on Saturday, February 28, 2015. US postal addresses only for print). Visit Sandra's website to learn more about her.
Images courtesy Sandra Hurtes.
