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.
“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
Ask the Writer with Dennis Lehane
Dennis Lehane is the bestselling author of Mystic River and Gone, Baby, Gone. Mr. Lehane graciously agreed to take some time and answer a few questions for "Ask the Writer," including his thoughts on the movie business, his upcoming novel The Given Day (Sept. 2009), and whether there is in fact any hope for the aspiring novelist.
Just what does it take to make it as a writer? What are the perks and pitfalls of a writing life? And, perhaps most importantly, does Dennis Lehane hate ballpoint pens? Read on to find out.
Q: In your forthcoming novel, The Given Day, you vividly bring to life
an expanse of Boston history, from the Spanish influenza outbreak to
the Police Strike of 1919. What was it like to write such a sweeping,
complicated, and intricate novel?
A: The
short answer is it sucked. I would strongly recommend nobody ever attempt a
historical epic. It's for crazy people. Way too much hard work. I'm glad it's
done. I hope it's good.
Q: What is your favorite aspect of writing, or of
being a writer? Can you think of a specific story to go along with that part of
your writing life?
A: Sometimes,
you go to your desk first thing in the morning and there's nothing in your head
but the lyrics to Viva Las Vegas.
Yet, somehow by the end of the day, you've created characters from nothing but
ether and had them walk around doing interesting things. That "somehow" is why
I love what I do. I also like having a job that doesn't require shaving. I
enjoy being able to crack a beer at work if I feel like it. If I wore pajamas,
I could spend my entire work day in them; I don't wear pajamas, but the
principle still applies.
Q: Events
in The Given Day sometimes eerily
parallel 21st century America. As I read the book I came to understand that
this is not the first time America has faced such broad insecurity. To what
extent did these parallels--the immigration tensions, terrorism threats, and
economic uncertainties, to name a few--inform your writing for a contemporary
audience?
A: The
parallels reared their head very early. I had no hand in that; the gods wrapped
me a gift. All I had to do was put it to paper; editorializing or commenting on
the parallels in any fashion would have been redundant. History proves that,
time and time again, fear or the perception of powerlessness produces fascist
impulses in people and societies. The more afraid you are, the more vicious and
infantile you usually become. I don't think I say anything revolutionary in
that regard with The Given Day, but
that doesn't mean it shouldn't be said and said as much as possible.
Q: Two of your previous novels--Mystic River and Gone, Baby, Gone--were made into major Hollywood films (to critical
acclaim). How was your experience with those films, from preproduction to
premier, and how do you view the relationship between film making and
publishing?
A: Film
and books share a narrative identity, but that's about it. Film is passive
entertainment; books are active. Film is interpretative of the book it adapts,
but the book itself is procreative in a way that film can't be. Put another
way, if a film is an omelet, the book is the hen. My experience with film, thus
far, has been overwhelmingly positive. I've been blessed with two terrific
scripts, two exceptionally talented directors (who, oddly, both came from an
acting background) and their interpretations have been respectful of the source
material without making the mistake of being reverential. Can't say enough
about Señors Eastwood and Affleck really--both were true gentlemen in every
sense of the word, both were very determined to deliver visions of my novels
that were decidedly un-Hollywood, and both invited me into the process at the
earliest stages and kept me involved through the premieres and, in the case of Mystic River, well into awards' season.
In both cases, outstanding omelets.
Q: John Gardner once wrote that the question he
was most asked was, "Do you write with a pen, a pencil... or what?" He said he
thought this question delved into the mystical aspect of writing, and
questions, at its deepest level, whether there is in fact any hope for the young writer. So I have to
ask, do you write with a pen, a pencil... or what? Is there any hope, and, if
there is, what is your best advice to students and aspiring authors?
A: Why
wouldn't there be hope? You wake up, you decided you want to tell a story, you
try that thing. Right from Jump Street, you are involved in an act of creation
and what's more hopeful than that? Where people make a potentially catastrophic
mistake is to think they can take shortcuts. Sorry, but there aren't any. No
matter what the How To Write a Bestseller books tell you (normally written by
people who've never written bestsellers; interesting) or the "10 Tips to
Writing the Perfect Thriller Every Time!" articles in writers magazines, the
truth is that this is hard, hard work. It is not for the lazy or those who
confuse wanting something with earning it. Good writing is about depth--depth of
character and structure and insight and language. If you're not willing to
accept that and earn your keep, well, maybe there is no hope. But if you are
willing to work, then, heck, there's no reason you can't be the next Toni
Morrison.
I
write with a pen and it's got to be a rollerball. I hate ballpoint like I hate
cilantro. In fact, if ballpoint was all that was left in the world, I might
never produce another line.
You Already Know
You'll feel better if you do it. Don't think too much. Don't talk about it too much. Discussion kills the magic, robs it of power, slows down the momentum. Worst of all, don't think about those who are doing it when you're not. The world is full of talent, but most people lack conviction.
I'm sitting right now at my favorite spot, behind the glass windows of the Mud House coffee shop, typing on my laptop. The chairs around me are fairly empty, except for two young men, one blond, one brown-haired. I was ignoring them until five minutes ago. I've been writing on my novel Atlantis in the Sand and a thousand words came out pretty smoothly. For fear of continuing when I don't know what will happen next (and a fear of becoming too seduced by the sound of my keyboard) I decided to knock it off for today.
I can hear the guys talking about writing. I'm going to write this in my script, one says. This kind of character is best. The other guy says, Yeah, that kind of character is best.
Don't get me wrong. It's fine to talk about writing. The process, the ups and downs, the way it rolls around in your head. I discuss it all the time. It gets you fired up.
Just today I was talking with Steve Rucker again about the novel. And his short stories. We're considering writing something together, even, co-authorship, something I'm interested in. So, yeah, I talk about it. And I read about it, too.
Then I'm fired up. But I know if I get too fired up, I need to do it right then. I can't wait too long or the enthusiasm flags. Right after talking with Steve I came down here and got down to business. No time to waste, etc., etc.
I don't mean to give a ha-ha-I'm-writing-and-they're-not kind of post. I'm not bragging. What I am saying is this: If you want to write, you need to get yourself wound up, and then you need to write the thing. It's hard for me, too. But you have to force yourself, sometimes. Otherwise you won't get it published. The short story. The essay about your Dad. The screenplay that will make you a million dollars. Don't plot it. Don't think about it. If it's been cooking in your head, and you start to type, it will come out. I promise it will.
Sarah always tells me, Have faith. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Today, talking with Steve, I didn't know what would happen next in my novel. I wanted so bad to open it up and keep moving forward. But I had set it aside for two weeks. So I came into the Mud House, switched on my laptop, and waited for it to boot up. Except Google searching the Arabic word for Snow, I did not open the Internet (all good writers should know when to keep the Internet browser closed). I forced myself to write Chapter 2.
Now I'm exhausted again and I'm back to square one. But I did write. I'm that much closer to the end of the book.
So remember: If you want to finish that piece you're working on, that poem, that novel, or whatever, then you need to do it. No plotting. No fancy software. Just you, your mind, and a computer (or paper, or typewriter).
Don't move. Don't get up. Keep the locked door locked.
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...