It would be nice to drive a sports car or have a yacht and be rich, be like Gore Vidal, but that isn’t my measure of success.
I often look at some other writers, who get published right away because the professor in their writing program took a liking to their work, helped them find an agent and a publisher, and blurbed their book. Then the book comes out and it’s okay, it’s fine… you know, it’s wonderful for them. But really, it could have stood for a bit more adversity; it could have been placed in the pressure cooker for another year. And had the author not had access to those opportunities to publish, he or she would have kept on revising it, refining the whole thing and making it better, until finally, it found its way. That reminds me of the importance of adversity. It makes me feel very lucky in retrospect because at the time, it didn’t feel lucky that I had such a hard time finding my way.
I won the prize in 2008, but that’s after having applied in 2007 and not even getting on the longlist. I spent the subsequent year revising the manuscript, changing it, gutting it, polishing it, and completely reworking it. Then I applied in 2008 with the hope that I would just get on the longlist, so that agents would pay a little bit more attention to me. Then I got on the longlist. And, honestly, I cried. I was so relieved and so happy. It was the little bit of affirmation that I needed. And then I got onto the shortlist and I thought, Well, fantastic. I’m going to get a free trip to Hong Kong for the prize ceremony, I’m going to lose, I’m going to get drunk, I’m going to have a good time, I’ll eat some dim sum and catch up with friends… and it’ll be great. I had no expectations whatsoever of winning; and when I did, it was beyond my wildest hopes and dreams. Everything changed for me overnight. Suddenly, I had an agent in less than three or four days, and a book deal within the week. It was a Cinderella story.
The wonderful thing about writing, though, is that these fortunes change. People go up, people go down.
My father and I didn’t see eye to eye about my writing at all. We didn’t speak for many years. It was funny: after I didn’t speak to him for a very long time and was really kind of… I was really alone in the woods for a while—and to my mind, it was indefinite. And it was probably the best thing that happened to me. Then I knew I couldn’t rely on my parents, I knew I had to make my own way in the world as a writer. Not having them… it was really very formative for who I’ve become as a man. So being away from my family and my country really was very freeing. Of course, though, I’m respectful. I don’t write about my parents… I find interesting stories but I’m not going to create this thinly veiled version of them that will hurt them or cause people to gossip. I think I’m more of an artist than that.
To be an honest writer, you have to be away from home, and totally alone in life.
