Free A Writer's Life by Gay Talese

know.…
    After I had faxed the memo, I wished that I had deleted the last two paragraphs. My phone call had been entirely prompted (or so I told myself) by my desire to have my idea accepted by Pearlstine, with the assumption that he would later turn it over to be developed and written by members of his organization. In a sense, I had been doing him a favor. I had come up with an uncommon approach to a story that the rest of the press had apparently overlooked, and I was giving it to him gratis.
    But at the end of my fax I had gracelessly insinuated myself into the assignment, promoting the notion that Pearlstine might like to send me halfway around the world (at his expense) so that I might “assist” his China-based correspondents with my story idea. How utterly
stupid
of me to propose that! If his China-based correspondents needed my assistance, they were unqualified for their jobs and should be fired. I was also appalled by the tone of false modesty in my final paragraph and the obviousness of my opportunism in seeking to take professional advantage of my personal relationship with the magazine czar at Time Warner. It is one thing to make a suggestion and quite another to belatedly try to horn in on anassignment or reappropriate a story idea after I had relinquished my proprietary claim to it with my call soliciting Pearlstine’s help in publicizing what was of interest to me.
    Maybe I was making too much of this, I reasoned, and for all I knew Pearlstine had liked my memo, and had already forwarded it with his approval down to one of his magazines, and soon I would be consulted by the corporation’s travel department, asking me how soon I could leave for China.
    A few days later I received a call from a high-ranking Time Warner executive who explained that Norman Pearlstine was traveling but that the editors had found my idea very interesting and were grateful that I had contacted them about it. Even though they would not be using it, he assured me that they were sincere in wanting me to continue sending them ideas in the future. I promised that I would.
    As I hung up, I was quite disappointed, but also relieved. China was very far away. I had my overdue book to deal with. The World Cup was yesterday’s news. Liu Ying had invaded my thoughts for more than a week, and now I could thank the Time Warner people for bringing me to my senses. Who wanted to read anything centered on a little Chinese soccer maiden who could not kick straight? The twenty-first century was upon us, and I had new things to think about.
    If this was the case, why did I soon find myself on a jet airplane flying toward China (at my own expense, without an assignment, and without knowing where in that vast country I might find Liu Ying), anticipating my rendezvous with her?

3
    I N TRUTH , AFTER I HAD LOST ALL HOPE THAT THE MONETARY COST OF my potential wild-goose chase in China would be underwritten by the largesse of Time Warner, I procrastinated for nearly three months before dipping into my own pocket to pay for the trip—which, until the day of my departure (Tuesday, October 12, 1999), I decided I would discuss with no one, including my wife.
    It was not that I was shying away from whatever might be her reaction. I doubted that my wife would find anything about me to be shockingly out of character after forty years of marital familiarity with my various impulses and errant ambitions. It was rather that I myself had misgivings about my motives. Did I seriously believe that this was a valid story worthy of my involvement? Or was I merely reaching out to Liu Ying as a kind of muse, an alluring figure in a mirage that would inspire my meanderings across the mainland of China while I avoided my main professional obligation at home, at my writer’s desk, where I was struggling with my book? When there is a creative lapse in a writer’s work, I reminded myself, a writer can be very creative in finding ways to escape