Tip #2: Writing for Its Own Sake
At the Eckerd College Writers Conference, Stewart O'Nan told us something interesting. It's much healthier, he said, to enjoy the private side of reading and writing. You do it because you love it. Not because you want to write something people want to read. You write something you want to read and then if other people want to read it, well, that's great, but it's not the point. What struck me the most though was the word he used in the next sentence: "Publishing," he said, "is extracurricular."
As the author of more than ten novels, Stewart knows what he's talking about. He holds an M.F.A. in Fiction from Cornell. You can read about his tenth novel in The New York Times profile of him and his book, Last Night at the Lobster, by clicking here.
Stewart pressed that he didn't mean publishing was unimportant. But I think he's right that the writing is more important (maybe that's self-aggrandizing or naive, but I really don't feel like it is). It is better to worry about the story for yourself. Don't think about focus groups and marketing. Embrace the vivid and continuous dream and see if the writing you're doing creates that dream for you. Go deeper into the dream, use it to make the story stronger. If you write something good enough, you will eventually get it published. One of the mistakes writers make, I think, is trying to get their books out too soon.
In short, it's better to enjoy the private side of reading and writing. Publishing is important, but it is not the point. Writing is a job, but it's a job you do for yourself and hopefully in the end you make some money.
Tip #1: One Piece At a Time
In Ernest Hemingway on Writing, I read a small comment Hemingway once made, which I'll now paraphrase. Basically, Hemingway said, it takes me all morning to write a paragraph, 500 words. This made him doubt whether he'd ever be able to write something as long as a novel. In fact, Hemingway is remembered for his short stories, but his novels are also much lauded, including A Farewell to Arms, The Sun Also Rises, The Old Man and The Sea and For Whom the Bell Tolls. That last, actually, weighs in at over 500 pages in the edition sitting on my bookshelf right now. So, with a careful eye for language and an obsessive habit of re-writing (most if not all writers have this, to a greater or lesser extent), how did Hemingway finally write something so long?
My theory is that he wrote the books "one piece at a time," the same way Johnny Cash got his Cadillac in the song of the same name. A sentence here, then another, and another. One chapter at a time, maybe; the first chapter of For Whom the Bell Tolls is only 17 pages, which is maybe, I think, 2 short stories worth of writing. Not much happens except the young man (Robert Jordan) and the old man (Anselmo) inspect the mill-house. Then they climb on and meet Pablo, who becomes one of the novel's more troubling characters. There is also a 4 page flashback (!) where Robert Jordan remembers his conversation with the Russian, Golz, who has sent him on this mission. That's pretty much it. The setting is detailed; the people are detailed. The central conflict of the novel (blowing up the bridge) is pretty well established.
For me, when working on a novel, the sheer vastness of it can be daunting, this goal of putting a hundred thousand words in a cunning order. A hundred thousand words! But if you take, say, 3,000 words, then, by God, maybe you can get something done. In the example I've given above, think how much longer For Whom the Bell Tolls is than its first 17 pages, and how much more complex. If you're a novelist, and you're struggling with the vastness, the emptiness of those pages you need to fill, then slow down, be calm, and remember to write one word at a time, one piece at a time, or, as Anne Lamott suggests in her book on writing, bird by bird.
The Hemingway Solution
Two years ago compiled a plan on how I would write and, because of a quote in a Stephen King book, I called it "The Other Hemingway Solution." This step-by-step process, which describes how I write, may be helpful to other writers. That's why I'm posting it again. I distilled these tips from Hemingway's letters (reprinted in Ernest Hemingway On Writing).
The Hemingway Solution:
- Wake up early and work hard once you're up. Don't read anything but the paper, because you don't want to work with all the giants of literature looking over your shoulder. Just write or work until you wear out mentally. This should be a little after lunch, maybe 1:30 or 2 pm.
- Always stop writing when you know what will happen next. If you do that, and let your mind work on the story while you sleep, you will never be stuck.
- Eat lunch, something healthy.
- Physical exercise is next. Wear out your body and make yourself so exhausted that you can't think about your writing. Hemingway would fish and box, among other things. Anything will do.
- Read literature and catch up on your correspondence. Wait to check your e-mail until late in the day, just before or just after dinner. Find a good book and read it slowly.
- Don't think about the writing when you're not writing. This may be the hardest step. But endless plotting, dissecting, musing, and especially talking (to friends, to lovers, to family) will kill a book. It will shrivel up and die on you. This is not a joke.
- Spend time with that special someone who matters to you. As Hemingway once wrote, "I believe that basically you write for two people; yourself to try to make it absolutely perfect; or if not that then wonderful. Then you write for who you love whether she can read or write or not and whether she is alive or dead."
- Go to sleep. Repeat Hemingway's Solution in the morning.
Anton Chekhov’s Rules for Writing
On May 10, 1889, Anton Chekhov (already an influential literary figure in Russia) wrote a letter to his older brother, Alexander. His brother had taken up writing years before, too, but only with inconsistent success. In the letter, quoted by the translators in Anton Chekhov: Stories, the famous author laid down six principles that "make for a good story":
- Absence of lengthy verbiage of a political-social-economic nature;
- Total objectivity;
- Truthful descriptions of persons and objects;
- Extreme brevity;
- Audacity and originality (flee the stereotype);
- Compassion
"It is a remarkably complete picture of Chekhov's artistic practice," Richard Pevear writes. Pevear, incidentally, is one half of the best Russian translator team working today; his partner is Larissa Volokhonsky. Together they have translated many works of Russian literature, from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina (their translation was a national bestseller) to Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls (which was gifted to me by a dear friend) to Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov.
There's no telling if Chekhov's rules still make for a good story (as John Gardner said, "The god of novelists will not be tyrannized by rules.") But, even admitting there are no rules for a good story or novel, one can see the similarity in Chekhov's rules to the rules that governed the personal philosophies of Ernest Hemingway and Raymond Carver. In fact, Carver's short story "Errand," printed in his collection Where I'm Calling From, specifically deals with Anton Chekov. The lyrical short story (which tells of the moments following Chekhov's death) was written shortly before Carver himself died, and, in my opinion, it's as beautiful as anything he ever wrote.
Francine Prose also thinks highly enough of Chekhov that she included an entire chapter on him in Reading Like a Writer; so far as I can tell, this tenth chapter, "Learning from Chekhov," is the only one that deals exclusively with a legendary writer. Other writers are mentioned, of course, in previous chapters: that's the book's premise. But Chekhov is the only one who gets his own chapter.
It's interesting (and worth noting) that Prose leads off the chapter with a page-long anecdote about her life at the time. She was depressed, anxious, and forced to commute two and a half hours every day to her teaching job by bus. And Chekhov, she says, moved her, distracted her, and showed her the world -- his stories told of sorrow and, most importantly, of hope.
This is important because Chekhov is often mistakenly viewed as a pessimist or a fatalist or a cynic. His writing, it has been said, is too sad. There's an old saying this reminds me to include here: "In a Russian heart there is always winter." But Anton Chekhov's winter is not the winter of depression. This wintry landscape, this void sensed by readers, is a blackness so deep and overarching and crushing that nothing escapes it; when faced with it a man or woman can do little but - to borrow an image from Pevear - beat their heads against the cobblestones in despair. This calls to mind the endless sorrows in Shakespeare's King Lear. How can people carry on beyond their breaking points? Somehow, from this void, the men and women and children in Chekhov's stories do carry on. Slowly, painfully, the author and his characters grope their way forward in darkness. To the untrained eye, literary critic Lev Shestov, wrote, they might not even appear to be moving. "It may be Chekhov himself does not know for certain whether he is moving forward or marking time."
"His only hope lies in utter hopelessness," Pevear writes of Chekhov. "Anything else would be 'a lie or a form of violence,' a general idea or a utopia at gunpoint. And it is here, in this 'void,' that Chekhov begins 'seeking new paths.'"
Winter is often used by second-rate writers as a metaphor for death, the end of things, a trite extension of the human condition - that is, mortality. But by writing beyond hope, exploring the darkest winters of humanity, Chekhov was detailing a very different version of the void: A winter of stark beauty, resolute survival, and unyielding compassion detached from philosophy but indebted to the force of nature colloquially known as God.
If anyone is interested, you can buy Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky's Anton Chekhov: Stories by clicking here. You might also want to check out Lev Shestov's "Creation from the Void," an essay published in 1908, four years after Chekhov's death (it's the highly respected article I quoted above). The text is available for free by clicking here.
“The Writer is Lost”
First of all, the serious novelist can seldom punch straight through, write from beginning to end, knock off a quick revision, and sell his book. The idea he's developing is too large for that, contains too many unmanageable elements--too many characters... too many scenes... too many moments... He may work for weeks, even months, without losing his focus and falling into confusion, but sooner or later--at least in my experience--the writer comes to the realization that he's lost.
John Gardner, On Becoming a Novelist
"The Writer's Nature, Part IV," Page 64
I have been writing a novel for the past eight weeks or so--maybe more like six--and three weeks ago, after my novel-fragment appeared in KU's MFA workshop, I became hopelessly lost. This loss of focus occurred around the same time my students' papers were due and around the time I was conferencing with those students. I was putting in an extra 13.6 hours a week on teaching. The novel, as it stands, is something like 14,397 words long. 51 pages, give or take, and I anticipate the final product being upwards of 60,000 words (between 200 and 250 pages long).
By the time I figured out where the narrative needed to go and what needed to be done with the writing--Thursday last week--I was kind of a mess. I needed a friend to tell me it was going to be all right. Luckily, my wife is supportive of my projects. She always helps me keep things in perspective.
I'd also been thinking a lot about the ghosts of writers, the "refined and distilled spirit" of a writer that Wallace Stegner talks about in On Teaching and Writing Fiction, and I wanted to talk to another writer by reading his or her books and hearing, from the mouth of a professional, that these things I was going through are normal. At the same time, I was wondering, with a sort of detached bemusement, why the hell I even came to an MFA program at all if what I really wanted was time to write. I chose KU's MFA because I was promised the chance to write, write, and write more; I have no interest in being a professional teacher, which, up to this point, is mostly what I've been studying.
And I thought, Wait a minute--where have I heard those things before? And then it hit me--I needed to commune with the refined and distilled spirit of John Gardner.
I picked up On Becoming a Novelist that day. Rather than tear apart and fix my novel, I needed to get my head on straight.
During my last years in college, my adviser--he was just an acquaintance at the time, a novelist from the Iowa Writers' Workshop--recommended Gardner's books to me. Talking with Gardner, the older, experienced critic and author, gave me insight into fiction. His books helped me make the first leap from bumbling amateur to a professional--if somewhat inexperienced--freelance writer. Somewhere in his books, I remembered, I had decided I wanted to become a novelist.
Probably it was in the "Preface," which detailed a strange issue "young novelists" face, one I hadn't thought of (but one I was dealing with at the time; am still dealing with, if you want to know the truth).
The young man or woman who announces an intention of becoming an M.D. or an electrical engineer or a forest ranger is not immediately bombarded with well-meant explanations of why the ambition is impractical, out of reach, a waste of time and intelligence. ... And the discouragement offered by other human beings is the least of it. Writing a novel takes an immense amount of time... The writer asks himself day after day, year after year, if he's fooling himself, asks why people write novels anyhow... Almost no one mentions that for a certain kind of person nothing is more joyful or satisfying than the life of a novelist... More people fail at becoming successful businessmen than fail at becoming artists.
John Gardner, On Becoming a Novelist,
"Preface," Page xxiii - xxv
So, if you're wondering what's normal for a novelist, or for a writer, and you need some words of encouragement, you can't do better than the reassuring tone of Gardner, whose literary-firebrand-and-trouble-magnet reputation doesn't detract from his fierce, protective tone when he talks about the young novelists he taught in life--and that he continues to teach today.
The question one asks of the young writer who wants to know if he's got what it takes is this: "Is writing novels what you want to do? Really want to do?"
If the young writer answers, "Yes," then all one can say is: Do it. In fact, he will anyway.
John Gardner, On Becoming a Novelist,
"The Writer's Nature, Part V," Page 72
Early Morning
I'm up early again looking over the yard behind my house into the trees along the edge of the creek. Chipmunks, rabbits, and cardinals gather around the spilled birdseed under the feeder my wife hung on a decorative hook near the patio. She's away this morning -- I dropped her at the airport in Kansas City for a flight to Wisconsin -- but normally about this time she'd be headed to work. Me too, actually.
I've been reading a lot this past week but stalled when it comes to writing on my novel. I am 10,000+ words in though so hopefully I can pick it up this week. In the meantime, Brian Kiteley's The River Gods and Candice Millard's The River of Doubt: Theodore Roosevelt's Darkest Journey have kept me distracted. Wonder why I'm into rivers all of a sudden. Both of these are fantastic books and you should read them as soon as possible. You heard it here first.
San Francisco Writers’ Grotto
Two weeks ago, while on business in San Francisco, I took time off from my research to attend the San Francisco Writers' Grotto sampler course in Personal Essay and Memoir writing. The class, taught by Linda Fraser, was an excellent taste of San Francisco's literary scene.
For those who want to write professionally, I would recommend you seek out writers like those who populate the Grotto: professional writers, or, that is to say, practicing writers. By the same token, many universities have practicing writers in residence. Nothing offers practice in writing like the writing-intensive courses in an MFA. However you get it, from an MFA or from a Grotto-like community, advice from real writers publishing regularly is invaluable to the up-and-coming writer. Don't think you can go it alone. As always, the best way to get good advice is to be quiet and to listen.
If anyone is interested in the Grotto's classes, you can find a schedule of Fall classes online here.
The University of Kansas
Since I last wrote something here, in April 2009, much has come to pass. I decided to accept an instructor position at KU. The job will pay for my tuition and will also afford me a (modest) stipend. This is the best way to get an MFA and a PhD. My wife, Sarah, landed a wonderful job close by where we live. She's making more money and she's excited about her new job: marketing shoes.
Besides moving, and our wedding and honeymoon, I spent a lot of time with my father pulling up the carpet and laying down hardwood in our new house. My dad has been indispensable this summer; he knows how to do so much. And now, thanks to his hard work, the house is almost finished. All that remains is the odd job here and there.
I spent two weeks in San Francisco in July. Researching, walking around, absorbing the city. I'm planning to redraft some old stories set in the city by the bay soon. In the meantime, my short story "The Lexicon of the Sword" will appear in the upcoming Moon City Review 2009, which will be an anthology with award-winning and nationally-recognized authors in it. Reports of Updike letters showing up in those pages, though, were premature: Although MSU has the letters, Updike's estate is greatly restricting publishing permissions. From what I hear, Updike himself expected as much, but it means that what will appear in the book is a scholarly article dealing with the substance of the letters, not the letters themselves.
In other news, I will be participating in a panel discussion in the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference in April 2010. The panel, which includes Brian Shawver, D. Gilson, Jane Hoogestraat, and Linda Moser, will deal with the issue of standardizing a creative writing course curriculum. The conference will be in Denver, Colorado, and the keynote address will be given by Michael Chabon.
Now that I'm settled down, the wedding, honeymoon, and move are over, I'll try to keep up more with this blog.
Smoke and Cinder
Last night, in desperation, I turned the dial on my radio to a station that plays old country music. From the 1950s, '60s, '70s, and '80s. I heard the end of a song by Johnny Lee called "Cherokee Fiddle." It's so funny, the pleasure an old melody can bring. The same goes for "Looking for Love," which played next. I hadn't heard Johnny Lee in almost a decade, but I downloaded the songs and now I'm listening to the sad story of the train station fiddler.
Some folks say they'll never miss him,
Old fiddles squeal like the engine brakes.
Cherokee Fiddle is gone forever,
Just like the music of the whistle
That the old locomotive made.
So when you smell
The Smoke and the Cinder,
Just slick back your hair
And open up your case.
Play Cherokee fiddle,
Play for the whiskey.
Good whiskey never
Lets you lose your place.
On a related note, the other night I picked up a copy of On Killing, which is a treatise on the psychology of killing by a soldier-psychologist named David Grossman. The book contains, among other anecdotes, a fascinating real-life story about a CIA agent and a Soviet defector in a West Berlin safe house (towards the beginning of the Cold War). I was rivited. In my mind, I smelled the smoke and cinder... A story was buried here, I was sure of it. This happened to me twice more that evening as I read through Grossman's final chapters. Three stories? Two? I couldn't tell. I've been too busy to write them yet. That is, I haven't been able to slick my hair back and open up my case.
I have to write something now. I haven't got the time. But, as Johnny Lee reminded me last night, when the train pulls into the station, if you want to make a living, you got to put on a good show.
Writing Therapy
Sometimes, when I don't have time, I like to write a story. Not just any story. A narrative that has nothing to do with anything else. What isn't going on through my mind like a song repeated endlessly. With so much to worry about, so many pressures, I find it helpful to try and tell a simple story, to really focus on writing a well-crafted sentence.
Call it writing therapy. Story therapy. And don't wait too long. If an idea strikes you, write it down right then. Go to your desk, your computer, or your typewriter. Whoever you're with will understand, if they love you, even if it's late at night. Don't focus on what anyone would think. Don't over analyze the implications of the characters with literary theory. Just tell the damn thing, but only for as long as you know what's going to happen next. Maybe that's 300 words. Maybe it's 3,000. Either way, you'll have written something you can revise later.
And, if you're lucky, you'll feel better, too.
Recent Posts
- Burn Them Down
- Tip #2: Writing for Its Own Sake
- Tip #1: One Piece At a Time
- The Hemingway Solution
- Big Tent at the Raven Bookstore
What I'm Doing...
- Kansas City Race for the Cure 5k. 2010-08-08
- #Reading "13 Ways of Looking at the #Novel quot; by Jane Smiley http://amzn.to/d1O4KP 2010-07-22
- Ian McDonald's DERVISH HOUSE, superb novel of the mystical nano future of Istanbul - Boing Boing http://bit.ly/aIOp3u 2010-07-12
- Wow, fiction works!—By @colsonwhitehead (Harper's Magazine) http://bit.ly/cQUHjA 2010-07-12
- NPR: Michael Chabon: On What 'Manhood' Means-More at http://n.pr/128087770 2010-07-05
- More updates...