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Tying the knot
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Feb. 1, 2000 |
I'm 48 and have been seeing a woman on and off for almost 12 years. I've
broken it off a couple times in the hopes she would find someone to give
her the stable relationship she wants, but we always get back together. I
love this woman. She is without a doubt my best friend. I'm a freelance
illustrator whose income is extremely sporadic and minimal. I make barely
enough to support myself. I am also cursed with wanderlust. I spend my
winters in Mexico near the ocean. I love to fish, camp on the beach, dive
and gallivant about in my van with my dog. It's a simple life that I love. Recently she broke down crying, telling me how truly miserable she was,
and how it was all my fault. I thought it over and a couple weeks later
asked her to marry me. (She is thinking about it.) I told myself it was time
to step up and do the right thing. If marrying her will bring her happiness,
then I am now willing to try to make her as happy as I can. Lately, in this
optimistic aura, I am beginning to see how much this union will enrich my
life and wonder what took me so long to feel this way.
Mr. Blue Garrison Keillor's column appears every Tuesday in Salon Books.
Feeling blue about your prose? In the doldrums over your last date? Ask Mr. Blue. What I ask from you, if you would be so kind, is an outsider's view of the situation. Is my reason for wanting to get married valid? Or am I kidding myself that this will make us happy? Can a selfishly hedonistic guy find true domestic happiness after a life of frivolity? Out There in New Territory Dear Out There, After 12 years you two surely know each other better than most people embarking on holy matrimony, and if you go ahead and tie the knot, your marriage should be a happy and comfortable one. This car has been road-tested. This wine can only get better and better. Are you marrying for a valid reason? No, of course not, but it doesn't matter: You love each other and know each other and want each other, and she trusted you when she poured out her heart to you, and you proposed, and you're feeling better and better about this. You may need to draw the line here, though, and make it clear that marriage, for you, does not mean becoming a suit and driving an Audi and hauling down $185,000 a year, all in the name of making her happy. That the van and the dog and the beach may be part of the future. Perhaps she knows this, but it wouldn't hurt to make it clear. All of us suits trudging to work on the frozen tundra would like to think you're going to hang on to the winters in Mexico, the fishing and camping and diving. You owe it to us poor wretches to keep up your life so we can envy you.
Dear Mr. Blue, My freelance writing career is simply rejection after rejection after rejection, for three years now. It's just so difficult to penetrate the insular world of publishing, where talent seems to matter not nearly as much as knowing someone or having a file of published clips. I ask people I know -- published writers, former professors -- and they say, "It's wonderful," which only twists the knife in further. It pains me even more when editors respond positively to my queries, yet say they can't publish it because "it's not right for us at this time." Most editors only seem to want to work with writers they already know or who have a more established career than mine. I don't want to give up, but I feel my spirit being broken into pieces. Please help me. Dejected Dear Dejected, I could smooth your hair and stroke your cheek and put a cold compress on your forehead, but I'm not going to. Your spirit isn't broken, you're simply discouraged. Take a moment and look at it from the editor's perspective. Let's say I'm the editor. I'm 48. I expected to be editing the New Yorker by now and instead I'm editing Grommet Monthly and the New York Review of Lag Bolts. I smoke two packs a day and drink 12 cups of coffee. I am in terrible shape. My boss the publisher is a cheap vulgarian in an Armani suit who berates me daily about not winning more awards. My writers are a slovenly sniveling bunch who keep trying to fob off the same old re-refried beans. I want humor, action, beauty -- the ancient elegant grace of grommets brought to life on the page; the profound service that lag bolts have given to mankind, far beyond the usefulness of Donald Trump or Andy Warhol; but why can nobody give me this in writing? -- and I get sodden lumps of manuscripts that by superhuman effort I wrest into semi-readable form. And now you accuse me of being "insular"? My dear, if only there were an island I could go to for refuge, I'd go in a heartbeat. And I would give anything to read something about grommets that arouses even mild interest and amusement. But yes, barring the arrival of a brilliant newcomer, I prefer to work with the mediocrities I know than work with new mediocrities. It's fine that your old professors think your stuff is wonderful, but they're not the ones whose neck is on the block. Mine is. Editors are a dime a dozen. There are thousands of editors who once wielded power in corner offices who now toil as telemarketers in tiny cubicles. Write me something good and I'll print it. Dear Mr. Blue, I am a 23-year-old male student who, when I meet a new woman, easily becomes rather infatuated. But somewhere in the process, my intention is miscommunicated or something does not go right, and I become just her friend. It is a permanent exile. Am I too nice, too self-conscious? I have all these woman friends and no lover. I am surrounded by water and not a drop to drink. Probably Shouldn't Be Bitching Dear Probably, You're right, it's not the worse thing to be surrounded by women friends, and you should enjoy their company. Be a pal. You'll learn a lot. Men who know how to be friends have a great advantage when they find a woman they want to be amorous with. And when you get the chance, in a moment of warmth and confidence, ask your women friends why you don't have a lover. They'll tell you.
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