Between us
Into the valley of char
By Walter Wangerin Jr. H
erman said, “But isn’t writing a lonely craft?”
I said, “No, not really.”
He said, “But you sit alone in your room, staring at a blank computer screen.”
It was late May. We were hiking in the Cascade Mountains.
Herman is a heartier fellow than I. He has the boots for it and a wide- brimmed hat. He needs no compass and carries his enormous backpack lightly. That backpack is well provi- sioned: a pup tent, a first aid packet, a sleeping bag capable of withstanding a freezing temperature, dried fruit, granola, matches, a single change of clothes, a topographical map. I said, “When I write I am sur- rounded by my cast of characters. Better than that, I sit with a good friend right beside me.” “Your wife?” “Oh, no. A friend.”
“But I am your best friend. I sat beside you once, and only once, for a quarter hour. Walt! I was bored to tears.”
Wangerin, an author of many novels and books of essays, is an ELCA pastor and senior research professor at Valparaiso [Ind.] University (
walterwangerinjr.org). His “Between us” col- umn appears quarterly in The Lutheran.
SHUTTERSTOCK “My best friend, Herman, is my
reader.” We could see smoke rising in the
distance. A forest fire, I thought. I was nervous. He was unconcerned. Herman had been a smoke-jumper in his younger days. He knew the ways of fires.
“By writing,” I said, “I am ask- ing my reader for companionship. By reading the reader is answering, ‘Yes.’ ”
“Doesn’t your reader have to wait until the stuff is published?” “Of course. But my relationship with my companion is a covenant in which we owe each other a kind of strict obedience. The covenant is already in my mind. I write to that and within that. Hence, the spirit of my reader is already present.” “Your reader ....”
“Is exactly as intelligent as I am.
We love the same things.” •••
You, who are right now reading this column in The Lutheran—you are my companion. I write with you
30 The Lutheran •
www.thelutheran.org
in mind. And that you’ve read it this far gives me purpose for my craft. In Albert Camus’ novel The
Plague, an old man sits in bed, cheer- fully counting dried peas from one metal pot into another. When his second pot is full, he repeats the task, dropping each pea back into the first pot: ping, ping and pop. This is the way he occupies himself until he shall die. What could be simpler? The narrator of the novel is impressed by the old man’s honesty. Life holds no meaning for this old man. Therefore, he has created a ritual of nothingness. Its meaning is to while away a meaningless time. Now, an author might suddenly be struck with the fear that he is doing nothing more than counting peas from one pot to another, counting words, as it were, from his brains to the computer screen—and that he does not know whether his practice has value beyond the absurd. Is he just a fool defrauding himself? But it is you who redeem my work. You give me place in the
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