I was tickled to learn recently that my story “Run, Little Girl” previously published in the literary journal Night Train has just been published in a new anthology, Night Train: The First Ten Years. The story appears alongside the work of these other fine writers: John McManus, Judd Hampton, Ed Falco, Tom McNeely, Glenn Blake, Pam Painter, Tom Cobb, Kerry Jones, Silas House, Mary Speece, A. Ray Norsworthy, Roy Kesey, Stephan Clark, Dewitt Henry, Steve Almond, Robert Boswell, Dylan Landis, Larry Fondation, Ron McLean, Jon Papernick, Laura Payne Butler, Mary Helen Specht, Curtis Smith, Bob Thurber, Mary Kelly, Brian Howell, Phong Nguyen, Heather Fowler, Roxane Gay, Andrew Scott, Steve Frederick, Jim Nichols, Olivia Kate Cerrone. I’m honored to be included. Heartfelt thanks to Rusty Barnes, Alicia Gifford, and all the fine staffers at NT.
I’m so happy to see a new semester beginning at Salem. This time, I’ll be teaching Intro. to Fiction & Creative Nonfiction, one of my favorite courses. I’ll be posting a few exercises and thoughts on writing that I’m sharing with my students, so come back again soon.
Moody Me: Chasing a Feeling
For all my efforts to understand what makes a piece of writing good or ways to break it down into lessons that I or my students or maybe even you might try to apply, sometimes I really think there’s nothing to know but that truth follows truth. The only time I really want to write is when I’m shrouded in a mist, when my whole being is caught up by a feeling. There’s a sense of euphoria sometimes, or maybe it’s bordering more on mania others. Sometimes it’s heavy and I’m blue. It’s hard to recall the many ways it moves over me, but when I feel this swelling up of emotion, this bottling up sensation, the only way to release some of the anxiety I feel, the frenetic restless pulse inside, is just simply to sit down at last and write.
It’s hard to trust this kind of writing, though, because I have a tendency to love it when maybe it’s only the release of energy I’m moved by. Even so, most of the things I’m proudest of were written this way. They still convey something that deeply matters to me, deeply moves me. Too much of what I wrangle onto the page later embarrasses me, but not this stuff, not usually.
My husband and I are about to take a trip to Ireland, and I’m steeping myself in the culture. It’s such a small country but one with such a massive personality. I’ve started a travel blog to record our experiences. I’m listening to the Chieftains, the Corrs, Van Morrison. I’m stopped in my tracks by Van Morrison, every single time. And this song I found tonight has totally eclipsed the light mood I was feeling just minutes earlier as we considered the possible perils of driving on the wrong side of the road or whether we should try black pudding or not.
There’s a nice interview with Morrison in the archives of Rolling Stone, which paints him as a poet, one of the few originals, who seems “a medium through which the voices of bards and mystics…; of children and lovers; of rivers and mountains; and of blues, gospel and jazz singers join and interfuse. “
At one point in the interview, Morrison says this: “You find that you’re pulled by different things at different times. You find that something is pulling you that you have to get to because it’s telling you different things about yourself. And I just kind of go where the pull is strongest at the time.” Later on, he says, “It’s hard for me to talk about because I don’t think it, it’s a feeling that comes through. It doesn’t come from any kind of intellectual thing on my part, it comes from folk lore and rhyme.”
How many more times will it take to hear this refrain for me to finally stop trying to figure it out and just let it lead me? Or as Van Morrison puts it, let the song sing me?
Some of Hemingway’s best writing advice is featured over at BrainPickings. Here’s one tidbit that comes with a prompt built in:
Listen now. When people talk listen completely. Don’t be thinking what you’re going to say. Most people never listen. Nor do they observe. You should be able to go into a room and when you come out know everything that you saw there and not only that. If that room gave you any feeling you should know exactly what it was that gave you that feeling. Try that for practice. When you’re in town stand outside the theatre and see how the people differ in the way they get out of taxis or motor cars. There are a thousand ways to practice. And always think of other people.
~ Ernest Hemingway, On Writing
Give it a go. Walk into any room and see if a feeling comes over you. Name it. What’s the emotion? Isolate it. Where is it coming from? Listen to people talking. What are they saying? What are they not saying? What are their bodies saying that their lips are trying to conceal? Describe the room. What’s the mood? Jot it all down. Practice another time. Another room. Another feeling.
It sometimes takes up to a decade to figure out how to write a first novel. I’ve been writing short fiction for at least that long, and I can barely bring myself to admit that during this time I’ve attempted to write not one but several novels that I’ve picked up and abandoned multiple times. Many writers who have persevered tell similar stories whereby, if the numbers were boiled down, it often takes something like six to eight years of fighting the process and two years of finally acquiescing and getting the work done. Author Susanna Daniel has written one of the most insightful articles I’ve read on this topic for Slate.
Here’s one of her most salient points:
There is surely a word—in German, most likely—that means the state of active non-accomplishment. Not just the failure to reach a specific goal, but ongoing, daily failure with no end in sight. Stunted ambition. Disappointed potential. Frustrated and sad and lonely and hopeless and sick to death of one’s self.
I wonder about strangers in similar situations, artists of all ilks. I wonder if they wake in the night, their hearts racing, unable to feel anything but the fear and frustration and disappointment of the fact that they haven’t finished anything in a month. I wonder if they’re anything like me. My guess is that many of them are—and naturally I feel tremendous empathy. Having been there, I know there are no magic words of encouragement, no surefire tough-love tactic. I wish there were.
So what exactly are we all doing during these eight years of active non-accomplishment?
Finding Our Stories: The urge to write a novel often precedes knowing what to write about. We may think we have a great idea, but often once we sit down to bang it out (and that’s what we dream we’ll do), we discover the story is not able to carry off all we thought it would. If I had to guess, I’d bet that the bulk of our “active non-accomplishment” period is spent trying to nail down the story we’re meant to tell. For what may add up to four or five years, we wander about aimlessly, trying to find the elusive story. To this end, we draw up character sketches and outlines. We research stuff. We read other novels and generally try to puzzle out the shape of our stories, which only seem to grow murkier. Ralph Ellison said it took him so long to write a novel because he had a deep uncertainty about what he was doing. This is the heart of the matter. We are driven by something we cannot name, a hunch, an instinct. And more than that, we trust this thing, this urge, even before we have a story in hand. We are compelled to say something, to speak, even before we have any inkling what it is we feel so urgently we must say. This creates that anxiety that Susanna Daniel refers to, that restlessness that wakes us in the middle of the night in a cold panic.
Losing Our Way: Once we do have a story in hand, we begin in earnest, working feverishly until at some point we realize we’ve stepped off the path. That’s when we tend to do one of a couple of things. We either go into a tailspin that makes us grasp at our novels desperately, or else we calmly step away for a little perspective until the story goes so cold we can no longer find its pulse. The results are the same, but our responses may be different. We may doggedly persevere even though we have utterly lost command of the ship, or else we may seize up so profoundly from fear that we avoid writing at all costs. We busy ourselves with writing-related projects. Freelancing gigs, editorships, academic pursuits. Or we may abandon writing for a return to real life where things have long been neglected. We whip our lives into shape. We get our houses in order. We work on our relationships again. We exercise, for God’s sake. We chase our tails in this manner, I’m guessing, for at least a couple years off and on.
Releasing Ourselves: Once we seize up, it can feel impossible that we’ll ever begin again. Writer’s block is like a Chinese finger trap. The more we struggle, the more firmly it grips us. If we’re lucky, we’re able to see this most holy of truths at some point. The burdens we carry for so many years — to find the story, to finish, to land an agent, to publish — all of it begins to burn away like morning mist. We realize that none of that stuff matters. All that matters is following our instincts. Early on we trusted them implicitly, but somewhere along the way we forgot what we always knew. And that is simply to put down one word and then another and another. To trust that our hearts and intuitive minds know more than our intellects about what we’re doing. We don’t know what we’re doing; that’s the rub! We have to learn to be okay with that. Learn to breathe, relax, and do as .38 Special advises: hold on loosely.