I’m reading here a short story called “The Ghostwriter” by William Lychack, and it’s from a volume of his called The Architect of Flowers. Last week I read to you a story called “The Man Who Knew Belle Starr” by Richard Bausch, and afterwards Lychack wrote me a note saying that hearing me read that story aloud while he was still in college and considering trying to become a writer had been a crucial moment for him. Yes, I’m proud to say, Bill Lychack was once my student.
Before I read to you I want to point out a couple of extraordinary elements in “The Ghostwriter,” which is among my half-dozen favorite stories, ever. Here Lychack teeters along the edges of our disbelief and sentimentality, yet somehow does not go over. What I mean is, he gives us room to feel deeply moved – and perhaps you will be, as I still am - without feeling emotionally abused by a tale that seems on its surface preposterous. One key is that the narrator, the ghostwriter himself, becomes nearly as interesting as the tale he is telling. And he manages to quote a long passage from Walt Whitman, which I think any writing class would assert can’t possibly work within a short story. So, kudos to that technical feat! Also an extraordinary event in the life of Ralph Waldo Emerson is recounted. Wow. This story is surprising on so many levels.
[If you’d prefer using your eyes instead of your ears, the text can be found by searching the story’s name and author. It’s on the JSTOR site.]
I found this story here from William Lychack telling us the behind the scenes of his “Architect of Flowers”— a collection written with his mother’s voice ghosting in every scene, he says. https://rusoffagency.com/book-info/the-story-behind-the-book-42/
Once again, so great to hear your voice, BB
Wow. There's something fascinating happening with one of the tensions this story is built on: the difference between the genre in which the ghostwriter is working (cello) and what we expect from literary fiction (there's a quote I read once, about how the condition of a literary writer is such that we can't look on something beautiful without seeing the potential for horror beneath it...I can't remember who but it sounds very like Cheever in sentiment). This story is being written for an ostensibly more skeptical audience prone to finding the feel-good stories of religious publications too credulous, if not insipid. But it shows--and we can feel it in this very tension as the piece progresses--that what we want from stories is fundamentally the same: a feeling of a truth being revealed. I love this story for its ability to be both very clever and very earnest. I think a lesser writer would have been tempted to make the narrator a cynic, or his subject a liar, but there are no cheap shots here.