Recently in Writing Category

In the next few hours I plan to start work on my first novel. I haven't attempted to write a novel for a while -- maybe six months or a year. At least, I quit working on the book after an unpleasant experience in a community group. I won't belabor the point; I'll sum it up by saying, rather than look over my fiction with an eye for helping, I was ridiculed, embarrassed, and insulted. Partly with the aim of improving my writing, I think, but also with a hint of genuine resentment.

That's in the past now and it doesn't bother me. No sense in whining about being treated unfairly. The now is a good time; so I've decided to take today (except for the class I teach) and write as much as I can for as long as I can. Wish me luck.

The narrative is a mystery and a story about families, cultures, the past, the future, and San Francisco. I've been working hard to reconstruct the city based on literary traditions (adding a little something of my own; a personal twist). Now, since this is the beginning, I'd like to share with you three possible epigraphs, all of which work, in their way, to frame the themes of the novel. The second epigraph, I'm sure, will be this: "Russians have always made good policemen," from Paul Klebnikov's The Godfather of the Kremlin.

Please, if you have a moment, post a comment on my blog, and tell me which Arthur Conan Doyle epigraph you prefer. I have selected these three by hand from my favorite Sherlock Holmes adventures.

"You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed."

Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Red-Headed League

"I have found it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime is, the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive."

Arthur Conan Doyle, A Case of Identity

" 'No, no. No crime,' said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. 'Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal.' "

Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

Research is important to writing. Not just checking Wikipedia, of course, because the information on Wikipedia is wrong (any moron can edit it). Often a Google Search is a good place to start. But right now I'm talking about true research: Going places, meeting people, reading books libraries forgot existed. Yesterday, while researching my novel, I found several books in the stacks, which provided me with writing about the city of San Francisco. Believe me, I don't want to read all these books. But of course I will, with a smile on my face, and I'll be glad I did.

I want to say, Let's call this research, but since the Wikipedia Era is upon us, let's call it Deep Research instead. This is the same reason I say Rewriting or Redrafting instead of Revising: Too many people think revising means checking for misplaced commas. So we'll use the term deep research to mean "getting your hands dirty," or, for the brevity-inclined, for experience (also known, in the writings of Rollo May, as encounter).

Here's another example: Right now I'm working on an article for Signature. I bravely took the job because it offers me a chance to stuff my face with good food. I need to revisit my favorite eateries for a start, in person, and "be someone on whom nothing is lost," as Henry James said.

Everyone knows people, culture, language, and food are closely connected. This article requires more research, again, than just talking to my friends and saying, "Hey, friend, what cool local restaurant do you recommend I promote shamelessly?"

For personal experiences, try to be mindful while you're experiencing something. Writing can come later. You don't want to be jotting things down in a notebook while you're researching in person. You'll miss something. You probably want to write immediately afterward, instead, so you don't forget anything important. Or, if you're just reading a book, then it's all right to take notes.

In my own writing, I'm in the process of finding out, tracking down, and personally tasting. So remember, writing is hard work. Don't slack on the research.

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.

Today I finished the first draft of The Memory of Liars: A Night with Grigori Efimovich, which will be performed next April (2009). My close friend Andrew Paul Jackson, who is finishing his master's at the Boston Conservatory, asked me to write the libretto for his senior opera.

Both he and I are greatly interested in Russian culture: He in the composers, I in the writers. When he said to me, "I want to do an opera about Grigori Rasputin and the five conspirators who killed him, I said, "Sign me up."

Writing the script has been one of the most enjoyable projects I have taken on. The characters interact with each other in such striking ways. Here, dear readers, is the cast, based on the definitive scholarship of Andrew Cook:

Felix Yusupov - The spoiled, pampered Count fancies himself the savior of Russia, and his fanciful account of Rasputin's murder reads like an early draft of Bram Stoker's Dracula. He is a homosexual in love with Grigori Rasputin, whose sexual magnetism was legendary. Also, his wife, Grand Duchess Irina, was a large factor in luring Rasputin to his death.

Dmitri Pavlovich - Dmitri Pavlovich was a close friend (and possible lover) of Felix Yusupov. He was a Romanov by blood, and was once in line to marry the Tsar's niece or daughter (reports conflict), until Rasputin revealed his homosexual tendencies to Nicholas II. Rasputin also helped to undermine Dmitri's uncle, a field commander in World War I.

Vladimir Purishkevich - The speaker of the Duma, a pompous leader, and the man who ultimately revealed to authorities that Rasputin had been murdered. Purishkevich's bumbling -- along with the screw-ups of Felix and the rest -- would be comical, except it is so inexcusable.

Lt. Oswald Rayner - an English agent for MI-5, Rayner is concerned primarily with Russia's involvement in the Great War. He cannot afford to have Rasputin convince Tsar Nicholas II to withdraw troops. Therefore, Rasputin must die.

Stanislaus Lazovert - Army doctor and close friend of Purishkevich, it is he who provides, allegedly, the cyanide which fail to poison Rasputin. Insubordinate and resentful of his lowly position as driver and accomplice, Lazovert mocks his superiors even as he works with them to bring about the final solution.

Grigori Efimovich Rasputin - Friend or fiend? Angel or devil? Rasputin remains one of the most complex historical figures scholars puzzle over. A sexual deviant and man of God, Rasputin is said to have healed Tsarevich Alexei and, while unable to rid the boy of hemophilia completely, at least saved the boy from death by the blood disease. While most doctors today attribute his "cures" to psychological calmness, etc., Rasputin is said to have healed Alexei at least once from 1,000 miles away! No one has ever explained this dramatic "cure."

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

"You have to say 'this is what I intend; this is what I will do if the universe is willing for me to do it.' So an intention is not a wish, and it is not a hope, it is the conscious use of your will." ~Gary Zukav

The words above are taken from what Gary Zukav told me when I asked him how people achieve fame. First, he taught me an important lesson. Being famous, he said, is not important. Not in the slightest. Being a positive influence in the world is important. Then if the universe wants you to be famous it will make you famous.

At the time I didn't know if I believed him. I was 17 years old. Mind you this was years before Oprah popularized The Secret, although she was friends with Mr. Zukav. For years motivational speakers have espoused the benefits of positive thinking. Mind over matter. Intention. But is any of it true? Although I deplore that some would capitalize on it as self-help authors and self-appointed gurus, I have come to believe it is true.

Years later, when I revisited the interview, I began to understand what Gary Zukav meant. This is what people speak of when they talk about the Law of Attraction, or about things seeming 'meant to be.'

Almost everyone I know can think of a time when things started to fall into place. When the pins and tumblers clicked and the locks opened. When things were going right. I would wager everyone who reads this can think of some time like that, and, probably, the feeling of rightness will be coupled with extraordinary coincidences.

It isn't magic. It is what it is. And, as Alexander Pope said, "What is, is right."

Many people don't believe in the law of attraction, even though they succeed by it. There is no need to. The universe doesn't care whether or not you believe. It cares about what you do. The key is posture, and -- you guessed it -- intention. Not to mention, I think, humility. Being humble may be the most important component of all.

And one more thing...

To make dreams a reality, something more is needed by the dreamer. Some internal harmony. Intentions within and without must coincide. And there must exist a drive. I will call this force Torque (known as intrinsic motivation to psychologists). Without torque, intention is nothing. If intention is a conscious use of your will, then torque is the energy that translates into willpower.

For my intention,

I will write as well as I can, as much as I can. People will read my stories for mindfulness; I will communicate with them. In the Fall of 2009 I will, if the universe is willing, attend a writer's workshop at the University of California - Irvine, or at the University of Iowa. I will be a positive influence in the world. I will be mindful. Above all, I will try my hardest every day to reach these goals, especially watching, as my father reminds me, for signs that I'm traveling the right path.

This is what I will do, if the universe is willing for me to do it.

In the final chapter of his book On Becoming a Novelist, John Gardner addresses a question often asked by aspiring writers. "Do you write with a pen, a pencil, a typewriter, or what?" He says, and I agree, that the question is more important than it appears.

It calls to mind the kind of things professional gamblers are said to worry about, Gardner writes. Should one where a lucky hat? Which color of shirt is best when playing poker? And so on. It asks (without asking) if there is any hope at all for the beginning writer.

Desktop computers and blogs have made writing fast and easy. Is this a good thing? Yes and no.

Remember, just because you can write easily doesn't mean you should. Our world is fast-paced, chaotic, and always has been. But writing is not. It shouldn't be. Writing requires slow, careful concentration. This is as true for you writing e-mails in the 21st century as it was for Lev Tolstoy writing War and Peace.

I compose my stories, articles, syllabus, and  blogs on a Sony Vaio laptop computer. Usually I write in Microsoft Word 2008, and I keep the files on a titanium jump drive that, if not on my person, is usually close to me (on my desk, my bookshelf, something like that). Most people write on computers, these days, whether in the library or at home or at work.

It's important to remember (this is a friendly reminder) that writing is a process, a habit, and an act of mindfulness. It is not a physical process. Writing with a pen may be different in some ways than writing on a laptop. The important difference in the physical process, or the actual activity of writing, is a difference, too often, of quality.

Pencils and pens force us to go slowly. To think, compose in our heads, and to move forward with ideas instead of going backwards. Who wants to rewrite the first chapter of a novel 100 times in ink?

Yet computers are important. Remain mindful of computers and research venues (Google Scholar, Lexis Nexus, etc.) as tools. Only tools. A computer may help you write a novel faster, and it may even be good, but in some ways it may also harm your ability to write.

The best artists in this age of technology (and here I mean graphic designers, painters, sketch artists, photographers, and writers, too) understand the power of tools like Adobe Creative Suite and Microsoft Office, but they never forget that the programs cannot make the art for them. They still pour in the attention of Tolstoy or Picasso, and the new technology takes them in different directions. In all its complexity, this is the one element that will never, ever become digitized.

A few days ago, Steve Rucker invited me to lunch at a small Italian café downtown, near the square, and I was in such a good mood I said absolutely without consulting my dwindling cash supply. For once didn't think about spending money. Dollars are tight, but not so tight I would turn down a steaming plate of spaghetti. Nona's is a narrow building painted white and trimmed in robin's egg blue, with some of the best food in Greene County for under ten dollars inside.

I had just finished up a meeting with my thesis committee chair, Brian Shawver. He read my proposal and gave me ideas for my thesis. Mostly we just sat around and talked. He talked about concerts in Kansas City, old professors of his from the University of Iowa, and Michael Chabon's The Yiddish Policeman's Union. We drank some coffee and talked about genre fiction and literary fiction, and the coming Fall semester. He gave me his thoughts on how to build convincing characters, and we talked about several points from his books Aftermath and The Cuban Prospect, and we debated the pros and cons of using tricks to burn a character into the reader's mind.

I left feeling wound up, ready to write, excited to tackle this new novel I'm planning, which is titled Atlantis in the Sands. It would have to wait for Nona's, of course.

When I met up with Steve, we fell to talking. I could listen to people like Brian and Steve talk all day long and never get bored. It came up that I had been reading the new The Atlantic article, "Is Google Making Us Stoopid?"

This article isn't what you think--it's not memory-based, really. But the opening bars struck a chord with me. You see, for a while now I've been feeling less sharp than I was. Not that I'm a genius, you know, just that I wasn't always so flaky. The author, Nicholas Carr, suggests that hyper-links and Internet, while making research easier, is actually altering our brain chemistry, and gives several instances of shortened attention spans, etc. You can read the whole article here and I hope you do.

The answer I had been seeking to my questions ("Why can't I finish what I start?" and "Why is it so hard to focus on writing sometimes?") was right in front of my nose. I knew it had something to do with the article, but I didn't know what. As he often does, Steve pointed this out to me. He's got that built-in, shock-proof shit detector Ernest Hemingway loved so much.

Writing is paying attention to a fictional setting moment by moment, with non-judgmental awareness. In mindfulness, when a mind wanders, you bring it back patiently, time after time. In writing, you have to keep closing the Firefox window with Wikipedia in it. Or Google Earth. Or Merriam-Webster Online. Or all those books you checked out from the library.

Mindfulness is hard enough. Writing, too. So why make it more difficult?

Steve said he always had to write late at night. No music, nothing. He said, "It was like I had to be in a bubble." I said, "I should try that." I thought of Stephen King's locked door, which he says is all-important. A locked door to keep distractions out and to keep the writer in.

Apparently, I sometimes need to lock the door in my head.

When I write now, I refuse to open other windows on the computer, even for research, unless the question is very small and easily answered. An example of that would be "When was T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom published?" Answer: "1935." But for something more complicated, like, "How does a steam engine work on an old train?" I do that research before I start writing. Otherwise, it's too easy to get distracted.

When I got home, I tried locking the door in my head for the first time. I wrote 10 pages, 2,000 words, and I plan to write more next week.

On The Huffington Post I ran across an interview with Pulitzer Prize-winning (and Nobel Prize-winning) novelist Toni Morrison, author of Song of Solomon and The Bluest Eye. The interview is reprinted from Time magazine. You can read the full article here. As they say, Toni Morrison will now take your questions.

Recently I found out that people read this stuff I write (you shouldn't, it's not good for your brain) and I have to be careful now. What I want is to write a testimonial. Please, skip this post if seeing people happy makes you want to throw up.

I don't want to brag. I had no idea it was like this, I had no idea it could be so good, so completely satisfying, and I think I need to write about it. I mean, I always knew, but it's something else to experience first hand... No, it's not a born-again religious thing. No, it's not sex, but it's sort of like sex. Yes, I know it's 1:19 am.

It almost happened to me once before. Not that long ago, I wrote a story based on my fascination with (I can't say my participation in) the ancient art of fencing. The story revolved around a single event, a modern day duel in Los Angeles, and the action leading up to it was largely descriptive. The lead character was called Nicolai Kolovin. The story was titled "The Lexicon of the Sword."

The story was pretty good. I tinkered with the language, which was thick, even florid, and I redrew the characters. I could feel that I was right on the edge of something special. The pie was half cooked. For the first time in my life, the pieces were clicking in that way writers always describe. I realized that I hadn't been writing all these years. I had been working up to writing.

It was like this: Imagine you live in a house on the seashore. You chose the home because you knew it (you thought), admired friends who bought similar houses, and the shacks all offered some special view. From the back door you can see the ocean, the mountains, whatever you desire. You say to others, "I live in a house similar to yours. The house of a writer." And you're pretty proud you chose the neighborhood.

 Then one night, when the sun goes down, you notice a strip of light along the dark bottom of your back door. But you have no door there. Only endless horizon, an infinity of opportunities. You go to the door and you see that your view is just a seascape painted on the wood, and the paint is peeling. The horizon on your mural is really just a horizontal line the landlord drew for you with a brush.

I never could get the door open while I worked on "The Lexicon of the Sword." I could see the sunset glow under the door. With some fierce work I began to see the glow at each of the door's four sides, even some through the keyhole. I punched holes is the wood and let in light. But I never opened the door. The story became more streamlined. The prose grew sharp, but remained elegant. The word count was just under 3,000. My writing group offered some enthusiastic reviews.

Then, without warning, the story received several rejection letters. Finally, it died. I knew it wasn't working but not why it wasn't working. My friend and sometime editor Justin Moody offered a few ideas, and so did Sarah, my Reader. Both urged me to move forward. Usually Sarah and Justin are right. When they agree, I know they're right. I didn't think about Lexicon and I went back to writing.

Without warning a few days ago I started to write a story about the Amazon set in 1947, with a Brazilian mercenary and a Russian Jew as principal characters. I tried what Ernest Hemingway suggested and I quit writing when I already knew what would happen next. The next day I wrote more. The story surprised me and took a graphic turn. The writing seemed right, somehow. I tinkered a bit and left in the shocking stuff. Then I quit for the weekend (when I still knew what was coming next).

Over the weekend I traveled to St. Louis. I subscribed to Poets & Writers and One Story. I felt alive, energized, and ready to face a tough week.

Today I finished the story and it all came together nicely. 2,800 words give or take, double-spaced. Round characters, clean events, logical action (from what I remember).

The story just needs to cool, set, and then be sliced up into perfect language. I opened the door and I can see the horizon, the real horizon, and I know exactly how it feels to create something that could maybe be called -- God, forgive me -- art. Even as I write this, I know I'll look back in a year and think, "I was so arrogant. Man, I hate me."

But I don't care, because now at this moment I'm just relieved and happy. I can write something worth reading after all! I'm not a fake, a pretender, a charlatan. Even though in a year or so I might hate it, especially for being another false horizon, right now I love the story and I'm calling it "The Red-Bellied Piranhas."