Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Economy And Chicken

Friday, September 10th, 2010

Whenever I’m trying to get the first third of a story into shape, I think of how my mother-in-law eats chicken. Having been raised poor, she claims she was taught the proper way to eat without waste, which in the case of the chicken involves devouring the bird right down to the marrow.

There is absolutely no room for waste when you’re both starting the engine or your story and dolling out exposition. To this end, story elements should serve two or even three purposes. I saw a perfect example of this recently in The Karate Kid. Daniel, our hero, has just moved with his single mom to Southern California from his native Queens. He is unhappy with the move; his mother is constantly reassuring him that everything will be better. When they arrive at their new apartment, Daniel wants to get a dish of water for a dog he saw by the pool (the delivery of which leads to a plot point).  When he turns on the faucet, waters shoots from the handle (reinforcing that the place is s dump, that the move was a bad idea). “Don’t worry,” reassures Daniel’s mom, “there’s a handy man in the complex who can fix it.” The handy man turns out to be Mr. Miyagi, Daniel’s soon-to-be karate teacher.

The storyteller in me nearly applauded the economy, as well as the sleight-of-hand. Not only did this one small incident involve two plot points (he turned on the faucet because of one plot point; it being broken introduced another), but by emphasizing the conflict between Daniel and his mother at the moment it occurs, the writer did not tip his hand that the faucet was really broken to bring Mr. Miyagi into the apartment. Bravo.

Writing is not about tricks and gimmicks. But in my experience, rewriting is often about making the most of what I already have. That is, if I realize that some plot element needs to be introduced around page 20 instead of page 120, I always look first to what is there on page 20. It is often the case, by some magic of narrative intuition, that a paragraph designed to create ambience can now be used to introduce a love interest as well. Sometimes it seems as if that was the paragraph’s purpose all along.

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Creative Truth

Thursday, September 9th, 2010

Much gets said in the name of The Truth.  Andre Dubus said that most writers are truth seekers. This sounds about right to me. From comic books to romance novels to post-modern cyberpunk, every writer must strive to root their story in what they understand to be the truth or risk losing the reader, who will sniff a lie sure as a bloodhound.

I have a friend who likes to tell me stories. He always tells me stories about people neither of us have met and places neither of us have been to. These are “true” stories, he assures me. He is the dutiful messenger of doom. In these stories, the powerful conspire in silver towers, plotting the further exploitation of the world, devising more and more devilish ways to destroy the meek.

It is hard for me to believe these stories because I never recognize any of the characters in them. I have never met anyone as evil as the men responsible for the conspiracies and ruin, and I have never met someone both so helpless and so good as those being taken advantage of. But my friend believes these stories completely, is devoted to them, and to tell a contrary story is tantamount to burying your head in the sand.

It is impossible, I believe, to seize the physical truth of any given moment. That is, to portray what “actually happened.” What actually happened is a diamond, and every participant in that moment a facet refracting the totality. I do believe, however, that there is a larger truth within which all moments must exist, and it is that life is ineluctably creative. I see creation in the rich and the poor and the black and the white. Life is incapable of ceasing this creation; it occurs continuously, every single waking, breathing, farting, writing, loving, weeping moment.

For this reason, I reject any facet of the truth that would ask me to give up. It is impossible to give up unless you die, and even then creation may well continue in some other form. If I cannot give up, I would seek only that truth which compels me forward with the most speed, the most joy, the most light. To seek the truth of despair, meanwhile, is to seek the darkness so that you might see.

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World Without End

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010

I wrote yesterday about the trouble with middles. Equally troubling, I believe, are endings. In fact, as I have written many times in this space, I believe ends are the difference between a good story and a great story. To me, the ending is why the story was written, a promise fulfilled that the reader will be left in a better place than where he or she started, whether that ending is comic, romantic, or tragic.

There is no such thing as a formula for a good ending, but the one piece of advice I have read on the matter came from one of the best story-enders I’ve read: Ernest Hemingway. To me, what separated Hemingway was as much his endings as his “style,” from stories like “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” to the novels, The Sun Also Rises, A Farewell to Arms, and The Old Man and the Sea. In A Movable Feast, Hemingway wrote that in Paris he “discovered” the technique of “ending a story before the ending.”

I like this. For one thing, you avoid the horrible, tedious trap of the story that won’t end, a symptom of the writer not being certain the reader yet understands what he was trying to say or worrying that he has not yet left his reader in the best place possible. So it’s economical. But more than that, it actually puts the ending in the imagination of the reader, which is where I think it belongs.

Life doesn’t actually end, after all. Someone may die, but someone else is always born; after the wedding, there is a marriage and maybe children and then maybe a divorce. Endings don’t actually exist. But our stories must end, and the question for the author is how quickly can I get out and leave the reader with the feeling of what has been learned, and what is to come.

That feeling is the gift. Because as your reader finishes the story in her imagination, feeling the message you haven’t spoken but have inferred, the character’s change becomes hers. Now you have done more than merely tell a story; you have ignited the spark of potential within a stranger by appealing to the power of her own imagination.

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Let Them Fail

Tuesday, September 7th, 2010

I think it was H. L. Menken who said every novel has three parts: a beginning, a muddle, and an end. Fair enough. The beginning of a novel has the advantage that everything is new – if your exposition skills are honed the reader should be drawn along by the desire to learn what’s going on. The end of the book, meanwhile, should have that gravitational pull of the impending climax. The middle, meanwhile, has neither of these advantages: we’ve met all the characters, the setting is established, but the end is still a long way off. How do you keep it interesting in this placid limbo?

There is a popular writing trope that goes: put your hero up a tree and then throw rocks at him. This would seem to be the answer to the middle. Make things worse. And indeed, in a traditional narrative, one in which the protagonist goes through some sort of change to solve his or her problem, things should begin to look rather dark about the middle. The problem with the throwing rocks metaphor is that it assumes things are just happening to your protagonist. I understand it’s a bit picky, but I think the difference is actually significant. Instead of throwing rocks, I say, Let your hero fail.

Every story is a question. Am I strong enough to conquer evil? Am I lovable? What is justice? What is compassion? Usually, the hero begins believing something that is not working for him or her. She might believe she should marry for money, or he might believe marriage is a burden. The middle, in my opinion, is where we get to watch this false belief taken to its darkest outcome. The middle is where the ending, the ending many a reader has already perhaps predicted, appears in doubt.

So let them fail. They must fail. In fact, because the belief is always based on fear, the heroes actually want to fail to prove to themselves that fear cannot endure. So instead of throwing rocks, simply let those characters follow this lousy idea right into the gutter. In this way, you will be adhering to what Falkner believed was the only thing worth writing about – the human heart in conflict with itself.

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The Silent Gift

Monday, September 6th, 2010

Every kind of work has it’s inherent traps—doctors can begin to see patients as broken machines rather than living organisms; lawyers can forget that winning an argument isn’t actually an end worthy of any means; teachers can come to see children as widgets and not individuals. For writers, the threat of rejection – from agents, publishers, reviewers, readers – can lure one into feeling powerless. After all, so much of your livelihood is dependant on so many other people liking what you have written.

I also believe that everyone chooses their line of work as much for the inherent traps as the inherent joys. That is, we all want to be free, and somewhere in all of us we know exactly what it is we need and wish to be free of. So a lawyer might choose to practice law precisely because he wishes to be free of the idea that he must be right to be happy. A doctor might choose medicine because she fears we are nothing but a ticking time bomb of disease and atrophy.

And writers might choose to write in part because they wish to understand where their actual power lies. Do not believe for a moment you are only writing because you like to tell stories. You are no different than the characters you create. In the best stories, no one ever does anything for only one reason, and you will always be more layered than Hamlet, Madam Bovary, and Jay Gatsby put together.

There is not a more unoriginal thought in the world than the belief that other people are responsible for your happiness. This is the democracy of helplessness. Sometimes it’s the government, sometimes it’s your husband, sometimes it’s a publisher. This is a belief that spans generations, color, nationality, class, and religion. No matter how much money you have someone can rob you; no matter how high your walls, bullets can still kill you.

The silent gift that publishing – not merely writing – offers is the opportunity to dispel this nightmare. Perhaps you have already dispelled this somewhere else in your life, or perhaps the belief simply hasn’t followed you into the world of writing and publishing. But if like so many writers the question of, “How can I be happy when other people control my future?” haunts you some sleepless nights, understand that the moment the question arises is not a threat but a portal. To cross it safely is to see that you came here to this place, to this desk, to answer it once and for all and claim back that which you gave away long ago.

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On The Beam

Friday, September 3rd, 2010

For many years I studied Aikido, a defensive martial art based the premise that all attacks inherently take their attacker off balance, if only slightly. The job of the Aikidoist when attacked is to remain balanced, or within his or her center, and guide the attacker to a place where neither party can be harmed. It’s a very Seattle kind of martial art.

Aikido was founded my Morihei Ueshiba, a ferociously skilled martial artist who was referred to as Ōsensei by his students, which means “great teacher.” My favorite story about Ueshiba was this: One day a student turned to him and said, “Osensei, I watch you train, and you are always on balance. I train and train, but I am always going off center. How do you do it?”

“No, no,” replied the sensei. “I am also off balance frequently. I am just very quick to back in balance.”

So quick, apparently, that it appeared he never left his center to begin with. I feel like this is the lesson I am trying to learn in my writing, in my marriage, with my children, at the grocery store—everywhere all the time. In writing, my center and balance is the story I am trying to hear and tell. Like a gymnast crossing a balance beam, I am in a constant state of rebalancing, of finding the story.

The trouble begins when I wonder why I am off balance, why I have lost the thread of the story. There is no meaningful answer to this question. That is, pouring my attention into why I am not hearing the story is like the gymnast crying out “Why?” every time she wobbles left or right. A better use of my attention would be to search for the center of the story again.

There are days when you are on that story so fully you require almost no effort in telling it. These days are productive, but not instructive. The best days, in many ways, are the ones where you begin far away from the center of your story and must bring yourself patiently and steadily back into balance. This journey is largely the journey of your entire life. To fear the distance between where you are and where you must be is to fear life itself. We will spend most of our lives off balance, but if we are kind to ourselves we understand the unique joy not in always being on center but, like the stories we discover, in finding ourselves over and over again.

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The Search Begins With You

Thursday, September 2nd, 2010

Tatjana Soli spoke several times during our interview about the need to stay true to the story you are trying to tell.  This is perhaps doubly true in literary fiction where the tension between commercial viability and artistic intention can make for heated writer/editor emails. Soli took the position – a position reiterated by editor-turned-author Brando Skyhorse last month – that in the end one has no real control over how many copies one’s book will sell, but a writer does have control over whether she tells the story she most wants to tell.

I have to agree. I also happen to believe that you are more likely to attract a larger readership the more firmly you hold to your narrative vision, whether that vision is literary or otherwise. Imagine for a moment the entirety of the world’s reading population. This is too vast a number to picture. But you aren’t trying to attract all of these people; you are only seeking those readers whose own interests, curiosities, desires, ambitions, and perspectives most closely align to yours.

How do you reach those people? By being authentically you. Let’s imagine all those people are not looking for a story but a piece of fruit – to be precise, a Braeburn apple. They are searching the world for the best Braeburn apple they can find because for reasons they cannot articulate to anyone else, they love the Braeburn above all other fruits. If you hand one of these people a Granny Smith, they may eat it, but they won’t love it. They love Braeburns, and once they find the genuine article, they will, by some means or another, let all the other Braeburn lovers know where to find this fruit they have sought for so long.

Your story is a delicious Braeburn apple, but only if you tell it authentically. If you try to please the lovers of all apples, or of all fruits, you will only succeed in creating something washed out and unrecognizable. You must allow those people who want to read your story to recognize it. You don’t have to know who these readers are, or what they look like, you only have to know they are out there, and once your story finds its authentic form, distinct in ways large or small from all other stories, then and only then will your audience find you.

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History Of Love

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010

I enjoyed studying history in college as long as the professor doing the lecturing was a reasonably good storyteller. For instance, I had two excellent professors my first semester-and-a-half of Western Civilization. These two men made everything from the Greeks to the Enlightenment sound pretty interesting and I generally looked forward to their class. But when we came to the 20th century a specialist in modern history was recruited to do the lecturing. This man always wore the same rumpled brown sweater and made World War II sound like a dinner squabble. I daydreamed my way through Stalin’s purges.

But I think my falling out with history, and college in general, occurred in the middle of my freshman year. On this day I received a letter from my girlfriend informing me that our long distance relationship was not going to work. The letter flattened me. I should point out that I would marry this very girl ten years later, but I did not know that at the time I received the letter. Carrying this news in my heart, I trudged off to history during which I had to take an essay quiz where I was asked to offer my thoughts on the impact of liberal democracies on the French Revolution. Unfortunately, my only thoughts were, “None of this means anything whatsoever.”

History is a story we are constantly telling ourselves about all that has ever happened to everyone. We cannot repeat it because there will never be another Hitler or Julius Caesar or Joan of Arc. What repeats itself over and over again is the desire within every human being to express their unique and inimitable life at the same time every other human being is trying to express their unique and inimitable life. This confluence creates infinite challenges and potential, from wars and famines to cathedrals and symphonies, all of it in the name of humanity’s desire for authentic expression.

At eighteen I had begun to understand that love in some form or another was the only thing that mattered to me. There is, after all, no more authentic expression than love, whether love of stories, food, politics, or another person. I’m sure my professors loved history, but there we parted ways. If you love the story we call history, then love on, but know that we retell the story of our past for the same reason we tell all stories, whether real or wholly imagined: not to understand what has happened, but to acquire a lens of metaphor through which to see the present moment and reveal in its new refraction what we love most.

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Measurable Value

Tuesday, August 31st, 2010

In a writing class I took once, the instructor began the course with what I have always thought was a wise perspective: If just one person in the class gets what you have done, your work was a success.

With twenty or so students in the class this may seem like a paltry ratio, but true success is not a numbers game. After all, success is such a shifty, intellectual concept to begin with. Until we say, “I will be successful if I get an agent;” or, “I will be successful if I publish a book;” or, “I will be successful if I sell 200,000 copies of my book,” success simply doesn’t exist. It is a line we imagine in the sand that we decide, sometimes arbitrarily, that we must cross. The sand is real, we are real, but the line exists entirely in our imaginations. Despite that, whether we can cross this imaginary line becomes the metric against which we measure our current value.

So if we fail to do what we imagine we should, we are no good; if we succeed in doing what we imagine we should, we are good.  You can spend your whole life measuring what you are worth. You can measure yourself by your bank account, by the years you’ve been married, by how many Facebook friends you have. But you would never measure your worth unless you suspected on some level that who you were and what you were doing was perhaps not worth much at all.

You can never know and understand the value of anything you do. No work of art, no marriage, no symphony sprang fully formed from nothing. Everything grows from what was planted before it. The sentence you delete from your story today still lives in the recesses of your imagination and may return in ten years to end a novel you have not even begun to imagine. Judge what you are doing or have done as having no value and you deplete the well of fuel required to propel what you will some day attempt.

Here it is: Your value is, without exaggeration and quite literally, beyond measure. Trying to measure the value of anything you will do is like trying to predict the total of a hundred dice cast simultaneously. So forget it, and measure instead what is known to you. All that you can ever know is what you like and do not like, and everything you do not like pushes you back toward what you do like, and everything you do like points you to yet another thing you may love. That is the true value in everywhere you are and everything you do.

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Writing Life

Monday, August 30th, 2010

As you may know, in this space I like to explore how what it takes to write the book you most want to write is also what it takes to lead the life you most want to lead. I had yet another example of this recently. I had reached a crossroads of sorts in my life where I needed to decide What To Do. Specifically, about money. I don’t tend to think about money very often, but to my own surprise I looked up one day and thought, “Bill, you need more of it.”

So there I was.  I had a goal – money – but no road toward it.  First, I did what I have done so often and what has always proved useless: I came up with ideas.  These were things that I could logically do and for which I knew I would be paid. This depressed me and I stopped. I felt as though I was trying to come up with a story whose sole purpose was to make me money.

Next I did what I should have done at the outset, which was stop thinking. Instead, I searched for the feeling that would lead to an idea. Because every idea, every thought, every memory I have or have ever had carries with it – sometimes forcefully, something subtly – a feeling. The idea of meeting a friend is accompanied by a feeling of anticipation and familiarity; the idea of going to the grocery store carries the feeling of productivity with a dash of tedium. So to make more money I sought the feeling I wanted to experience while making the money, and that feeling was what it felt like to help people. Once I had that feeling in me, new ideas started coming.

And what did this process remind me of? Writing, of course. I was starting a new chapter knowing where my characters had to go but not knowing how they’d get there. Whenever I reach such a place in my writing I decide first what I want that chapter to feel like, then let the ideas rise to meet that feeling. So my search for money was precisely the same process but without characters and stories. The characters and stories have never been the point. The point has been aligning action to feeling. My whole life is nothing but what I feel, never what is happening, just as a story is a flow of emotion, not a string of events.

Writing teaches me how to live, and living teaches me how to write. You don’t stop living when you write, and you don’t stop writing when you leave the desk. Rather, you change the expression of your continuous creative desire, from words to recipes, or from stories to money.

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