R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I don't want to make a bigger deal out of this than it is, but I don't want to make a littler deal out of it either. Tonight we had a writers' critiquing group meeting, and I pulled something out from about eight years ago. It was an account of the last few hours of a fishing trip, very vividly lived hours in which I had some divergent views of the guides who took us on the trip, and saw the head guide as a supremely gifted person in some ways and pretty pathetic and pitiable in others. This all happened in the Rockies, and between the vivid personalities and the stunning scenery, I remembered it keenly (still do) and managed to get it down on paper fairly well.

People were reacting through the piece, but at the end, there was this gust of appreciation and I sat there, not entirely comfortable, as six people gazed at me with a measure of respect. I'm not saying I split the atom or cured cancer or sacrificed in any serious way to make someone else's life better. But I tried my best to convey what I felt in those few hours, and I guess I succeeded. I do try, folks, and this isn't the first time I've gotten a modicum of respect for work reasonably well done. But this was extracurricular, and it's what's called creative nonfiction, which has more cachet than the journalistic work I've mostly done. And the people listening were all pretty serious—one teaches writing at a nearby college—so I was pleased, of course, but strangely humbled too. Creative, it's called, in this sense meaning you use the techniques of fiction. But I didn't really create all that much. I didn't create horses, or mountains, or people's hearts. I was just there, noticing and thinking about it. Trying to describe what I thought at the time. Years and years ago, my life very different. But so vivid in my memory. The stars aligned, and evidently I did a good day's work in getting it down. And a good day's work is worthy of respect, if anything is. So—uh—good for me, I suppose.