The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [17]
Using superhuman power, I kept my mouth closed and my eyes on my yellow pad.
He continued, his voice lifting. “In 1879, on a March evening, Alexander Graham Bell successfully completed his at tempts to send the human voice through a little wire. The following morning some frustrated playwright, unwilling to build the necessary construction plot, began his play with a phone call.”
A general deprecating murmur floated in the air.
“Aw, John” and “Don't be so mean” and “Ooo Johnnn, you ought to be ashamed.” Their moans were facetious, mere accompaniment to their relish.
Grace invited everyone to drinks, and the crowd rose and started milling around, while I stayed in my chair.
Grace called to me. “Come on, Maya. Have a drink. You need it.” I grinned and knew movement was out of the question.
Killens came over. “Good thing you stayed. You got some very important criticism.” He, too, could slide to hell straddling a knotted greasy rope. “Don't just sit there. If they think you're too sensitive, you won't get such valuable criticism the next time you read.”
The next time? He wasn't as bright as he looked. I would never see those snooty bastards as long as I stayed black and their asses pointed toward the ground. I put a nasty-sweet smile on my face and nodded.
“That's right, Maya Angelou, show them you can take anything they can dish out. Let me tell you something.” He started to sit down beside me, but mercifully another writer called him away.
I measured the steps from my chair to the door. I could make it in ten strides.
“Maya, you've got a story to tell.”
I looked up into John Clarke's solemn face.
“I think I can speak for the Harlem Writers Guild. We're glad to have you. John Killens came back from California talking about your talent. Well, in this group we remind each other that talent is not enough. You've got to work. Write each sentence over and over again, until it seems you've used every combination possible, then write it again. Publishers don't care much for white writers.” He coughed or laughed. “You can imagine what they think about black ones. Come on. Let's get a drink.”
I got up and followed him without a first thought.
Ten different conversations were being held in the kitchen.
The writers were partying. Gone were the sober faces and serious eyes. As John Clarke and I entered, another writer spoke to me. “So, Maya, you lived through your baptism. Now you're a member of the flock.” Sarah, a pretty little woman with fastidious manners, put her hand on my arm. “They were easy on you this evening, dear. Soft, you might say. Because it was your first reading. But you'll see, next week you watch how they treat Sylvester.”
Paule Marshall, whose book Brown Girl, Brown Stones was going to be made into a television movie, smiled conspiratorially “See, I told you, it wasn't too bad, was it?” They had stripped me, flayed me, utterly and completely undone me, and now they were as cheery as Christmas cards.
I sipped the cool wine and thought about the evening's instruction. Because I had a fairly large vocabulary and had been reading constantly since childhood, I had taken words and the art of arranging them too lightly. The writers as saulted my casual approach and made me confront my intention. If I wanted to write, I had to be willing to develop a kind of concentration found mostly in people awaiting execution. I had to learn technique and surrender my ignorance.
John Killens interrupted my thoughts. “Maya, how long will it take you to rewrite that play?”
I hadn't decided on a rewrite, or even whether I would attend another Guild meeting.
“I need to know so I can schedule your next reading.”
“I'm not sure. Let me think about it.”
“There are a lot of people ready to read. You'd better decide, otherwise you'll have to get in line.”
“I'll call you tomorrow.”
John nodded and turned away. He lifted his voice. “O.K., everybody. What about Cuba? What about Castro? Are we going to sit back and watch the United States kick Castro's ass, like it's been