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.
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
Something From Nothing
Writers sit down every day and, even though their minds might be blank, they summon people, actions, settings, and stories to life. Professional writers, I mean. And it's a common mistake aspiring authors make, saying, "I need to enroll in a workshop class at the university so I have a deadline that will make me write." I used to say the same thing, I admit. But I've come to believe that writers must make time in their schedules and set deadlines for themselves. Intrinsic motivation is important. Authors who wait for inspiration, or for a particularly interesting idea to strike them -- well, let's be honest: Those writers don't get much written.
Part of the reason is that writers are naturally interested people. They are curious about others. About the world they live in. Writers always have an idea for some story or poem or article, even those who never write it down. The difference between a writer with a block and a writer getting work done is discipline. Sitting down to write, day after day, with no concrete direction, a writer may get discouraged. Better not to write at all, she thinks. I should spend my time reading articles on the Internet, or a new book, or sorting out the problems of my husband's finances. Maybe I'll just read etymologies in the Oxford English Dictionary.
Whatever the distraction, it's a temptation best avoided if you want to be a writer (at least for a few hours every day). The impulse to give up when lacking a direction is strong, but it can be overcome. Just sit down and type something. Type something, anything. Because writing is, more than anything, a habit. It may be an art, or a craft, but it is (above all else) putting words in order and making sense out of them. That's all. And that's something you can do every day for three to five hours.
If you don't know what to write about, take a deep breath: I promise, deep down, you do know. What interests you? What kind of people? What aspects of culture, history, or society?
If you still can't think of anything, pick an exercise. Writing exercises can sometimes help just by getting the fingers moving across a keyboard. I recommend John Gardner's suggestions from The Art of Fiction or (although I haven't read it yet) Brian Kiteley's The 3 A.M. Epiphany. You could also try the very well-reviewed Bonnie Neubauer book called The Write Brain. The important thing is that you keep writing. Keep the habit alive.
Because, like any habit concerned with experience and talent, writing needs to keep moving. If it stops moving, it dies. That may not happen overnight but it does happen eventually. A writer is only as good as the number of words he or she has written. As long as you're writing, then you're getting better. So, if you're still reading, close the Internet browser, open up a blank text file, and write something.
The Read Well Bookstore
Do you enjoy the posts on Write Well? The tips, essays, and, perhaps most importantly, the interviews on Ask the Writer? Did you happen to catch the interviews with Dennis Lehane, Kevin Brockmeier, and Benjamin Percy, among others?
Did it make you want to read their books?
And if you could give back -- at no cost or hassle to yourself -- would you?
I'm pleased to announce the Read Well Amazon-affiliate bookstore. It's just like Amazon, except a small percentage of the money you spend goes back to support the efforts of Write Well.
The prices are the same. It has the same hassle-free navigation as Amazon, the "We also recommend..." links, the customer and starred reviews, the ultra-secure shopping cart, check-out, and shipping. You can see the search box on the right -- an exact duplicate, isn't it?
You even use the same user name and password that you use on Amazon.
As a bonus, though, we've tailored the Read Well store to our site. For example, the opening page is populated by authors who answered questions on Ask the Writer. You can buy Dennis Lehane's Gone, Baby, Gone, Ben Percy's Refresh, Refresh, and Kevin Brockmeier's The Brief History of the Dead, along with all the other books and movies featured on those pages (be sure to click over at the bottom of the page, so you can see all of the section).
The second link, A Writer's Toolbox (again, pictured on the right) features all the best books on fiction technique, especially the ones referenced in posts on this site -- John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist, Francine Prose's Reading Like A Writer, and Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees. It also includes, on the second page, a link to the textbook Missouri State's Creative Writing faculty uses when we teach English 215: Introduction to Short Story Writing (this, of course, would be Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft, 7th Ed. by Janet Burroway and Elizabeth Stuckey-French).
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.
Failures & How to Overcome Them
By the end of the previous semester I began to realize, with the dim-witted expression of a horror movie's stock character, that I had let my students down.
Let me be clear: This is according to my personal standards and not to those of the department's. My students had learned to write. They knew dramatic structure, the tenets of fiction theory, the basic vocabulary. Most of all they wrote some fantastic stories. By anyone else's standards (including their own, if my glowing evaluations are to be trusted) I had done a wonderful, even exceptional, job of teaching them. Three of my students even switched their majors to creative writing.
But whose evaluation matters most to me? My own. And I received only passing marks in my own gradebook, not outstanding ones. I earned from my own hard conscience a C+.
I failed to return substantive comments on each of my student's stories. In addition to my students, I am constantly sent manuscripts by friends and acquaintances, more than you might think, and so I commented where and when I had time, but the praise and criticism was uneven. I tried to succeed as a commenter, but did not. I promised I would send them comments over the summer. I have not done this to any significant end. Some stories I did, but most have been lost in the digital tide of files ebbing and flowing over my desktop.
Now the new semester is na-nasu, which translates as "on the nose" in Russian, and figuratively means "upon us." My desk is filled with work and I don't have time to make it up to those students who deserve it.
This backward-looking approach to regret and self-pity won't do, and since I've taken the time to air my feelings -- and, I hope, to apologize -- I have a new strategy. It is, I am confident, the best approach to all mistakes, failures, missteps, and catastrophes.
It's secret can be found in three places.
The first is a creed from Thich Nhat Hahn's Living Buddha, Living Christ, where to calm an emotion, Hahn suggests mindful breathing. The exercise is in the thought behind it: "Breathing in, I recognize and accept my emotion. Breathing out, I calm my emotion."
Scholars may not often hear an echo of Jimmy Buffett in Buddhist/Christian meditation, but his songs have a calming effect on me, especially Track 13 on his album Take the Weather with You, "Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On." The message is remarkably similar to Thich Nhat Hahn's suggestion...
I bought a cheap watch from the crazy man /
Floating down canal /
It doesn't use numbers or moving hands /
It always just says NOW /
Now you may be thinking that I was had /
But this watch is never wrong /
And if I had trouble the warranty said /
"Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On"
The final piece of the puzzle is in my evaluations themselves. While positive, a clue had been left in the free comments, and, as evaluations should, the advice will benefit my future students. "Be more organized," one student said. "That's the only thing."
And I am confident I will be more organized.
On Becoming a Novelist
Like other kinds of intelligence, the storyteller's is partly natural,
partly trained. It is composed of several qualities, most of which, in
normal people, are signs of either immaturity or incivility: wit, (a
tendency to make irreverent connections); obstinacy and a tendency
towards churlishness (a refusal to believe what all sensible people
know is true); childishness (an apparent lack of mental focus and
serious life purpose, a fondness for daydreaming and telling pointless
lies, a lack of proper respect, mischievousness, and unseemly
propensity for crying over nothing); remarkable powers of eidetic
recall, or visual memory (a usual feature of early adolescence and
mental retardation); a strange admixture of shameless playfulness and embarrassing earnestness, the latter often heightened by irrationally
intense feelings for or against religion; patience like a cat's; a
criminal streak of cunning; psychological instability; recklessness,
impulsiveness, and improvidence; and finally, an inexplicable and
incurable addiction to stories, written or oral, bad or good. Not all
writers have exactly these same virtues, of course. Occasionally one
finds one who is not abnormally improvident.
John Gardner
On Becoming a Novelist
New: Reviews Section Coming Soon
I'm finally back from Anaheim, rested (somewhat), and ready to travel again this week. I'm tired, I will admit, and the words are coming slowly. I'm working on several short stories, including one called The Destroyer, which is based on the true story of a heavily-armored train in Siberia, and The Kurdish Shepard, about a boy and his dog in modern-day Iraq.
More than that, though, I will shortly be reviewing several new books -- some haven't been released, yet, so I'm hoping to build buzz for their authors -- that I picked up at the ALA convention. Top of the list is Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book, a young adult novel about a boy raised by ghosts, and Dennis Lehane's The Given Day, a novel about Boston circa 1917. both are fantastic; I will review them, of course, but first I'd like to check with the editor and publicity teams to make sure that's all right.
As always, keep posted for details on new "Ask the Writer" interviews, upcoming events, and more.
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...