How to: Write

I am not referring to the art of writing, but rather the physical act of it. Because if I could narrow down the art of literature into ten easy steps, I wouldn’t be paying an exorbitant amount of money to go to school so that they could teach me.

But I want to talk about the conditions in which we write. For instance: why do so many writers want to have a cup of coffee when we write? Or tea? Or a cigarette? Is it merely to fulfill some aesthetic, or is there something else to it? Does bringing a cup to your lips keep you aware of what your doing? Does it keep you from falling into your own ponderings and out of the story (or poem) at hand?

Where do we write? I can only write when I’m sitting at my kitchen table. I like to have the lights dimmed. I prefer to work at night. I can work at other times of the day, but it’s not as productive. Is this a hindrance?

Do you need to be intoxicated or high? Does writing under the influence really reveal anything that helps the piece? I would say no. Hunter S. Thompson might think differently.

Do you take Adderall, Ritalin, etc?

Do you write better if there is someone else in the room, or do you have to be by yourself?

Can you play music or must you have silence?

Do you write your rough draft in one long sitting, or in many short ones?

Do you take breaks?

Do you surf the Internet during those breaks?

Do you write on a computer at all? Or do you use a typewriter? Or maybe even a pen and paper?

I believe that these affect our writing more than we know. And I’d like to understand why we do the things we do in our routine. Perhaps it is not that important–to the writing, that is. But it could be really important to the writer. And to other writers.

Beneath The Stars

I’ve really grown tired of hearing that print is dead. Upon seeing Amazon’s kindle lying on the couch of a family that I baby-sit for, I didn’t even bother to sigh. I really don’t care anymore. I wonder how much it really matters if it “dies”. If it dies in the vague scheme of “society”, then it does. It vanishes, libraries will continue to lose their pertinence, and everything will be digital. Digital for who, though? Literature is a choice. If you want the physical aspect of the novel to stay relevant, then make it relevant. If the rest of society chooses to shrug their shoulders as the technology of the “future”, pours down upon them, then fine.
Who is making the rules, really? Is literature dead, is print dead, if it is alive for you? I heard someone complaining in the Emerson library the other day about the Boston Globe. The Boston Globe might be closing down because no one bothers to pick up paper anymore, and couple this with the economy… The person said, “The Boston Globe might be ending but the NY Post isn’t. That’s just how it is. The Post isn’t even a real paper.”
Somewhere along the line we became obsessed with the death of print. The ironic thing is, like most of America’s obsessions, is that we don’t do anything about it. Or, we refuse to look at it from a pro-active angle. I don’t care if print or literature dies because it’s still alive for so many people. I find it kind of funny, because for those that are clamoring around the water coolers talking about the death of the written word, with such moroseness, I have to ask: was it ever alive for them to begin with?
I think that if you appreciate and understand the value of something, it never dies. Even after it’s disappearance from the grand scheme of things. I still own and buy books, and I will continue to do so. If there comes a time when books are not even printed, then who knows, maybe I’ll make my own. There are so many like me out there that I’m not even concerned when a CNN commentary  piece  pops up on the issue. I don’t even want to hear about it anymore. I’m not saying that we should ignore this “crisis” in the literature  world. I just want us to embrace it, keep it with us, and maybe inspire us. James Salter, a lovely writer who wrote A Sport and A Pasttime, said in a piece on the subject,
“It was Edwin Arlington Robinson, I think, who when he lay dying asked that his bed be taken out beneath the stars. That’s the idea, anyway, not to breathe your last looking at some TV sitcom, but to die in the presence of great things, those riches — the greatest of all riches, in fact — that can be in the reach of anyone.”
Isn’t that true? I guess we can all schlep around and complain about how no one appreciates literature and print anymore or we can take this opportunity to stand up and stare back at what made us. Like the great riches of the stars, literature will always be there for us if we want it too. In some parts of the world the sky is too polluted to see anything, but does it mean that nothing is there? Newspapers are folding and books are becoming obsolete…but for who? I hope for this generation to die beneath the stars.

The Digital Short

            I suppose I have never stopped to consider that stories and the books they are in are separate. There was an article in the New York Times that, at its end, suggested that Amazon’s Kindle could revive the American short story.

“And just as the iPod has killed the album, so the Kindle might, in time, spur a revival of the short story. If you can buy a single song for a dollar, why wouldn’t you spend that much on a handy, compact package of character, incident and linguistic invention? Why wouldn’t you collect dozens, or hundreds, into a personal anthology, a playlist of humor, pathos, mystery and surprise?”

          As a writer, I worry about the death of the book. I like the aesthetic of the book. I like the smell of them when they are both new and old, and I both love and hate breaking the spine on a new purchase. I love the way they can be carried places with you, and also collected in libraries in your home to show off and remind you of why you write. I don’t think a computer can do those things.

            But this article is not about books. It’s about the short story, and how it’s been treated in American history. I’ve been studying O’Connor intently recently, and I have to say, for me, fiction is most satisfying in well executed brevity. If it takes an electronic product to change America’s attitude toward short fiction, then I will accept the physical change so that the form may survive. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.

How To: Read

Do you ever feel like you’ve forgotten how to read?

 

I don’t mean the actual sounding of phonetics into syllables, words, phrases. I mean the act of reading, of sitting down, picking up a book and reading. Can you still sit in a chair at home, pick up a book for pleasure, and consume it, without wanting to put it down?

 

I don’t know if I can anymore. First, I am required to read so much for class, that sitting down to read for pleasure, as much as I enjoy it, seems like I am adding to my already steep work load. It doesn’t feel like something I do to relax, but something I do to learn. Ideally, this would be both, but when you have so much else to do, it can seem little else than a burden.

 

Then, there is location. Maybe it’s because I live in New York City, and when I enter into my apartment, I want to enter into a mindless space, somewhere I don’t have to fight the bustle that comes with living here. So I want to watch television. Or maybe I do want to use my brain a little, but then I’m on the internet, where it doesn’t take long to get through someone’s blog post, and information you want is at your fingertips. You don’t have to work to get to the crux, the climax. This happens with writing in my apartment as well. The only place I can seem to write is at my kitchen table, sitting in a chair. Everywhere else feels too casual. What makes writing a formal act and not a casual one? Intention?

 

I do most of my reading while on public transportation: buses, subways. I’ve been working on this one book outside of class for almost two months. The only times I really pick it up are my weekly visits into Manhattan. Ironically, I think it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read. I sat down to read it the other day; I sat down with the sole intention of reading, and I had to stop after about three pages.

 

Mostly, once I get into a book, at a café, or on the subway, I can read it and find the reading pleasurable. After all, I am still working on becoming a writer, and reading is integral to writing. But if this begins to become more of a problem, I have to ask: is one more important, more crucial to livelihood, than the other?

Continuing

Since we’ve been talking about workshops…

What does it mean when you say you’ve had a good workshop? For me, this means that the participants responded to my story in a way that made them want to tell me how to fix it. That is, that I wrote a story that was good enough for the class to be interested. But that they also give me many, many suggestions that are specific and pointed in order to make it a better story. I am not interested in writing a perfect story for workshop.

This is not to say that you shouldn’t write the best story that you can before you make the copies and hand it out. Instead, this is to say that you should not have an expectation for perfection in your work. Let it be open for critique. What you do with your story is, in the end, your decision, but you must be open to the ideas of your classmates. You have to trust them to an extent. This does not mean you must trust every person equally.

A problem that we’ve had with the workshop setting here at Pratt, and that I imagine is common elsewhere, is that those who are workshopping the pieces do not put enough time into each read of the story in order to really grasp it and to critique it well.

But, is there a way to impose a standard? Is there a way to insure that everyone in the class has read the story? I’m sure there is, but teachers want to treat us as adults in adult education. They don’t want to have to check our homework.

Paralysis

It was my friend’s third week at Emerson when she had her first real conversation with the most intimidating person from our fiction class. It was a mere accident; they just happened to spot each other on the way to the subway stop. Out of obligation, they said hello, and then, to negate any awkwardness, they started to talk about our class. My friend comes from a big state school out west, and she had no idea what private school could be like. Before Emerson, she never experienced any legitimate creative competition. So, one can imagine how horrifying it was for her to be alone with this girl.

The first thing she asked my friend was, “Have you started your story yet?” My friend told her no, that she had some ideas, but nothing really to speak of. Our classmate then got quiet and said, “I would never turn anything in that I didn’t put effort into.” That, of course, is a valid thing to say. I try to operate the same way. It’s what she said next is the interesting part of their conversation—“You know, at Emerson, everyone is so terrified to hand in something bad. Everyone’s work has to be perfect. No one is going to hand something in if isn’t amazing. That’s why it seems like sometimes everyone is doing nothing sometimes, because instead of putting out something creative that we aren’t completely in love with, we rather put out nothing at all. It’s like we’re paralyzed.”

I had absolutely no idea that this conversation took place before yesterday, and for some reason, it really stuck with me. I definitely think that the climate of workshop is different here at Emerson. People are just as talented as they are at Pratt; the stakes are just as high here as they are at Pratt, yet, I do feel this paralyzed state of mind more here than I did at Pratt. I am trying to think of a way to describe the people here the best I can. Basically, an Emerson kid is the product of an over-zealous straight A student and an over the moon creative free spirit. One might ask, “What’s the problem with that?” The problem? Internal conflict. On one hand, you have the perfectionist, and on the other you have the risk taker. Can there be room for both?

Lately, I have been struggling in workshop with this. It’s weird when you have a story that is both creative and structurally sound. There is nothing you can say. I wonder if these “perfect” stories I have been reading so far are a product of this so called “paralysis,” where one is afraid to have a “bad” story, so, instead one produces a “perfect” story with no mistakes. I’m not sure if I’m making sense, because, theoretically, we are all in a place designed to make stories that will be in anthologies and literary magazines, so why am I getting all worked up over the fact that some people are at that point? Well, some of it just feels hollow to me, creating what we are expected to, no matter how damn well we meet these expectations. It’s like when a baby finds out how to escape from his crib. How many times can the baby amaze and shock his parents before it gets old?

Then She Looked At Me

On the first day of class, my spring semester writing professor introduced herself then told us we had to leave and we couldn’t come back until we did something splendid for someone. Everyone in the class sat silent for a moment until my professor said, “There’s a fucking reason for everything I make you do. Go.”

When everyone reconvened, my professor went around the room and asked us what each of us did.

The first girl who told us about her experience was stopped the second she said that she felt embarrassed when the homeless guy she decided to give ten dollars to wouldn’t take it from her.

“Wrong. That is exactly what I don’t want you to say,” my professor told the class.

Why she was wrong was because the basis for the exercise was to learn how to speak with out emotion, to let our stories express itself, and not the speaker. Basically, my classmate popped that imaginary bubble that surrounds a story for us before we even got the chance.

If the girl had simply told her story without any mention of how she felt, it would have been a completely different story, because everyone would have interpreted it differently. Some might have said that the character of the homeless man was inconsiderate, or that the girl was ignorant for thinking that ten dollars could count as doing something splendid for someone.

I have noticed that my stories have become more basic. I don’t write as vividly or emotionally as I once did. I have learned through writing and through damning life experiences that the most simply said things have the most merit—like the first line of Eyes of a Blue Dog, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The first line of the short story is, “Then she looked at me.” Before this year, I would have never accepted that as an interesting or attention grabbing first line. Now, however, this is my favorite first line of all time. Why? He doesn’t write, “Then she looked at me and I felt…” or some flowery description of the encounter. Gabriel lets the story write itself, and isn’t that how it should always be? Maybe the author is supposed to be as much of an audience as the reader.

Stress

So, winter break is over, and it’s back to writing for those of us in programs. With a whole new set of classes and concentrations, sometimes it can be hard to adjust back into the swing of things. Don’t stress over it! I always find myself getting stressed before I even have work to do. Anticipatory stress. This is nonsense. Prepare if you must: buy folders, supplies, more printer paper, new books to read, and take assignments one at a time. Or in bulk if you can dedicate a whole afternoon.

But the most important thing to do is to set aside time for you. Spend an afternoon in the library reading a favorite book, go to a café and do your own projects, or do something completely unrelated to writing. Go out; have a drink. Go on a date. Make each of your interactions have purpose. Or make the purpose be to not have a purpose. Re-affirm your own being. That’s the only way to escape the stress of projects.

What About Love?

I have already read two stories out of a used anthology I recently purchased; Nothing But You: Love Stories from The New Yorker. I generally don’t like anthologies, fiction from The New Yorker, or love at the moment, but I am enjoying myself so far with this book. Last semester, at least everyone in my class wrote about love in some way. If love was not the focal point of their piece, it was at least hidden in somewhere with a character or place, which has brought me to this question:

Why do we always feel the need to write about love?

Well, to start off, love has a lot of potential for plot. There can be loss of a love, guilt, re-birth. Most of us have experienced love, and therefore we are more apt to write about what we know. Sometimes I wonder if we are so self-obsessed that we write about love because we want our readers to know exactly what we feel about this enigmatic subject. Do we write about love just to prove our own opinions on it? Is fiction the vehicle of choice for own despair, guilt, and jealously? The anthology I’m reading seems to be perfect proof of this…

Look back at your stories. I’m sure that there will be some mention of a parent, friend, or acquaintance, in love, in a loveless marriage, a loveless divorce, or love affair. No matter how small or large love functions in your story, and even if it isn’t directly mentioned, you will see love in your words.

I wonder if we workshop writers or writers in general, can write a story completely devoid of love. Some days, I just want to read a story that feels like it’s made out of metal. The workshop writer in me wants to take advantage of our unique situation of having the opportunity to experiment with the conventions of the short story. I would like to see what it would be like to write a story with only forward action and no memories. I want a character with no emotional ties.

Lets try not to think about love in workshop.

The Sound of A Lone Dog Barking

A fellow workshop writer and I were talking over lunch today, and it had nothing to do with writing. We were talking about our parents names–her father’s name is Boden. She told me that his parents were born in the Ukraine. I asked her if her grandparents had a good marriage. She laughed and said, “Anyone from Russia, Ukraine, Poland…etc are cold people. They didn’t have a good marriage, but they cared for each other.” Now, how many times have you heard that excuse in your life? “They don’t love each other but they care about each other.” Isn’t that just how it is?
I had thought that all the Slavic grandparent talk was over until she got this look in her eyes and told me a story her grandmother had told her after her grandfather died, and I have to share it, because writers are storytellers, and I just can’t get over this story.
Her grandparents met in the U.S., but growing up they had unknowingly lived 10 miles from each other in different towns.
In the Ukraine, it’s tradition for young women to periodically sit alone in silence in the outdoors when they come of age to be married. The girls sit so they will be able to hear the sound of a dog barking. Whatever direction they hear a dog barking from (East, West…), is where their future husband will come from.
The ritual had worked for her grandmother’s older sister. Her sister’s husband was from where she had heard her first dog barking as a teenager. At the age of eight, excited by her older sister’s good fortune, my friend’s grandmother decided to listen for the sound of a dog one Sunday.
She remembers hearing a dog bark from the West. When my friend was telling me this story, I imagined a tiny girl sitting around on a sunless day watching the exhale of her cold breath while anxiously waiting in anticipation for the sound of a wild dog. I think that is beautiful.
Her grandfather ended up being from the town West of her grandmother’s. He only lived ten miles away. They had met in the U.S. many years after she had heard a dog’s howling from the West.
Why don’t we use these types of stories for our workshops? This semester, my friend wrote about mini-vans crashing and inward men getting beat up at the DMV, and even though they were earned, I now want to ask,”What about the barking dogs?”
I’m not saying that we should rip stories right out of our families mouths, all I’m saying is lets give ourselves a chance to interpret them. Lets make these stories as magical as they deserve to be. As fiction writers, we can do that, and I wish we would.