John Williams Writes Back

The saga of writing the book takes an interesting turn... when I finally get a response from the Maestro himself.

Read the first post in this series here:

My heart started beating rapidly. The doctor was just about to come in and talk with me about some gut issues I was having (related to book stress? who knows!), so I decided to wait until after my appointment was over to open the email. When I finally did, I found a PDF attachment—a scanned image of a typed letter on John’s letterhead that was formal, polite, and considerate... and which finally declared, in John’s own words, that he had not changed his mind about not wanting to participate in my book. “I have no reason to doubt that your intentions are well-meant,” the letter concluded, “but the timing and authorization to allow a chronicle of one’s life, it seems to me, should be one’s own.”

There it was. In black and white. It wasn’t so much a kick in the teeth as a concrete piece of closure—and, I told myself consolingly, a small souvenir. I resolved not to let it get me down, and instead just to savor having a personal reply from John (and one that indicated he wasn’t going to take any kind of formal action against me)—and now to simply finish the book as planned.

One thing I felt absolutely determined about, at this point, was that I would never, ever write an unauthorized biography of a living person again. It was too stressful, too painful. I had spoken to several unauthorized biographers, and watched BIO panels with many others, and they were mostly all dogged reporter types who emphasized the importance of the first amendment, and who seemed to take some Fourth Estate pleasure in scooping the real story and even being threatened with lawsuits. I admired their chutzpah and felt less alone—but I just couldn’t relate. I want people to like me, and I only want to write things that celebrate artists and art that I love. The very last things I want in life are enemies and interpersonal conflict.

I actually flew to London that very weekend to vet my next book—this one an authorized memoir of a terrific singer-songwriter that I was tentatively going to co-write alongside the subject. It was a wonderful trip, and a blast of fresh air to be starting a new project with abundant access, where the person actively wanted me to be there. I was in my hotel room near Heathrow Airport when I got another email from John’s consigliere... asking if I was free on Thursday to have a brief off-the-record meeting with John at his studio.

What??? There was no explanation—this was literally three days after I got the rejection letter. I was equally thrilled and terrified, and I quickly wrote back explaining that I couldn’t meet John on Thursday since I was in London, but that I would love to schedule something when I got back the following week. The reply I got was even more mystifying. It essentially said that John had only asked for this meeting to clarify why he was opposed to my book, but that he’s pretty sure I understand well enough—so, basically, never mind. Just like that: offer rescinded.

At this point I was, I’ll admit, kind of furious. But I took a deep breath, and wrote back asking if we could please still meet.

The consigliere responded a few days later: How about Friday?

So, on Friday, October 7th, 2022, I drove to Universal Studios to meet with my idol, my favorite artist of all time, the subject of my regrettably unauthorized biography—at his longtime workplace in a bungalow on Steven Spielberg’s Amblin campus. I had no idea what to expect. I came armed with a battery of arguments for why my book was a good thing… with a mental list of all the hundreds of people I interviewed who were so glad this book was happening… with questions.

I was scared. I honestly thought John might be summoning me there to implore me, face to face, to kill the book—and I had no idea how I would respond if he did. If my idol asks me, personally, to do something, and me being such a people-pleasing good boy, I’ll most likely feel inclined to do it. I truly think I would have dropped it if he asked. But my (incredibly long-suffering) wife Ali gave me some great advice that morning. She said: just listen. It’s his life. He has every right not to want someone writing a book about it. Don’t go in there all guns-a-blazing, launching into why this book needs to happen. Just be quiet—and listen.

Past the employee entrance gate to Universal, past the security guard at Amblin, I parked in the small lot that served a few adobe-style bungalows. I walked past an empty parking space with John’s name on it and up a short sidewalk to the unassuming, unmarked door: and knocked.

John—90, white-haired, wizened but lively—answered and welcomed me inside. His energy immediately put me at ease; he was friendly and jovial, and as he took the rocking chair opposite the couch I sat on, it felt much more like a visit with Grandpa than an audience with The King.

I stopped myself from staring around the room too much, but besides his shiny black Steinway and writing desk I did notice a framed photo of him and Barack Obama, and on most surfaces there were stacks of papers and books. This was not the flashy trophy room of an egomaniac; this was a cobbler’s workshop, a humble craftsman’s studio and library.

“I liked your letter,” John said after we had cleared the pleasantries. “And I know you’ve been talking to Don” (his youngest brother). “I said, ‘Who is this Tim Greiving fellow?’ and Don said, ‘He’s nice. You should meet him.’”

John was smiling. He wasn’t tense. He was either deliberately or effortlessly putting me at ease. I was quiet… and I listened.

“I know you received my answer about how I’ve never wanted a biography... but I realized you were going to write this book regardless,” he went on, “so I figured I should get to know you a little.”

I was out of my body for most of that meeting, which lasted just under an hour. Nine-year-old Tim was in that room with me, gawking at the piano and the room where John wrote the score for Jurassic Park—my inciting incident. But the almost 40-year-old journalist was there too, trying to be present and grateful and attentive as the great artistic love of my life was telling me, in essence: It’s okay. Tell me about yourself.

It was one of the greatest days of my life.

He said things like, “Why do you want to write a book about me? Why not John Adams? Why not Alfred Newman?” I verbally stumbled over my lifelong obsession with his music, trying not to sound too much like a drooling fanboy. I’d gleaned from several people who know John that he doesn’t respond to flattery or fanaticism, and I also knew he was lavished with both all the time, so I tried to play it cool and stick with my more scholarly, historical motivations. He kept reiterating that he still really didn’t want any book written about him, and that to do this thing properly we would have to spend numerous hours together doing interviews, and he had no interest in spending his time that way—but that he would be helpful to me if he could.

As I was leaving, he said: “Now I’m going over to Steven’s office to try and convince him not to make a documentary about me.” This was the first I’d heard about it. I said, “Well, I hope you’re not successful!” and he laughed.

After my soul re-entered my body, I boldly requested another meeting, because I hadn’t clarified a few key things—like, how may I characterize his position on the book now, particularly with people who had turned me down for an interview, or especially people like Spielberg who I hadn’t even bothered to ask?

I was granted a second audience, and I came to Amblin armed with my laptop and printouts of articles and photos of a mysterious ancestor. (You’ll have to read the book for the details. I don’t want to give everything away!) This second meeting was even better. John had never heard of this downright prophetic figure just a few branches up his family tree; I gave him the printouts and told him how I had made and verified my discovery. He later told me that this was the “deus ex machina” that flipped him onto my side.

Then he said, “I’m sure you have questions for me. Fire away.” An interview?? I was so glad I had my laptop with me, and that I had a running list of questions for John; I decided to start with some of the harmless but puzzling details about his childhood, schooling, and early chronology. He cleared up several mistakes in the record, filled in gaps—his memory was remarkably vivid—and told me a few stories. He occasionally caught himself going into more detail than he intended. He was astounded, or maybe mortified, at some of the trivia I knew—like the four-hand piano score he wrote for Playhouse 90 in 1958. I didn’t ask him a single Star Wars or Jurassic Park question, and mostly kept it to his actual life.

He left me with an André Previn joke, about how he should have called his Close Encounters suite “Penderecki Gets a Passport.” I had with me a copy of my first chapter, which at this point I had workshopped and rewritten several times, and so felt pretty confident about it—especially since it was mostly about John’s grandparents and parents, and therefore seemed the least risky. I wanted to return his generosity by sharing some of the book, even though I was nervous to do so. I left on a high.

John read the chapter over that weekend, and on Monday I got a request for a third meeting. After such a long drought, I felt like I was becoming a regular at his Amblin bungalow. I was nervous, but mostly excited. I was not, however, prepared for the mode of John Williams on that day: the exacting tutor.

He started by asking me how thick my skin was, and warned me that he could be “a bit of a Dutch uncle.” He actually forgot to bring his printout of the chapter with all of his red markings, but he nonetheless proceeded to critique it from memory—down to the tiniest word choices and the occasional slang that he thought was out of place. He was critiquing my writing. I had expected, if anything, he might be bothered by stories or information about his family, but he was more offended by the prose. It was tinny in places, he said, cold. He was bothered that I made offhanded references to cultural figures like Kate Smith or the Central Park Casino without understanding their significance. He asked me, “Do you know what infra dig means?” I winced and said I did not. “Well, you should—you’re a writer,” he said. “It comes from the Latin: beneath dignity.”

It was an hour-long, very blunt dressing down of my writing. He was Professor Kingsfield and I was James T. Hart.¹ He asked if I might consider getting someone to co-write the book with me. I had walked into that appointment believing that, if nothing else, I was a pretty good writer. I admittedly even expected a light compliment or two. But instead, John served me a stiff cup of criticism without a speck of sugar. I left a little stunned and shaken, and admittedly sad. I wasn’t sure we would meet again, and now I felt that my favorite artist had no respect for my art.

As I processed everything he had said, though, I realized... it was pretty much all accurate. I had been a little too glib and careless with some of my word choices. I didn’t know enough about some of the bygone people I casually referred to in the chapter. I didn’t do an adequate enough job setting the stage for his grandfather’s story, or truly appreciating the impressive significance of his father’s career. Nothing he said was mean or insulting, and it was basically all true.

It also sunk in that: John Williams had taken the time to read my chapter thoroughly, and then spent the time to explain to me all the ways it could be improved. And wasn’t that kind of an incredible privilege?

I collected my thoughts and sent him a letter expressing all of this, along with my gratitude for the time and effort he clearly took in reading and editing my work.

This prompted a fourth meeting—and that was where things started to become great.

1. The Paper Chase, 1972. You should watch it! (John Williams scored it.)