The high volume of books on writing available in stores suggests we writers are an insecure, skittish lot, in constant need of reassurance. (I plead guilty.) It makes a lot of sense for us to feel lonely and insecure since writing is probably the most private of the major art forms as well as the one with the smallest earning potential. No wonder these guides tend to sell. Writers need all the help we can get.
Another reason for these books' ubiquity is that they seem fairly easy to write. Just jot down your random musings on what you do every day, with a brief nod to young, developing writers, and voila–you've fulfilled a book contract. I've noticed that the more famous the writer is, the thinner her book on writing tends to be, both in terms of length and content. Joyce Carol Oates's guide, for example, is a slim collection of essays already published elsewhere and doesn't get that much more specific than "Write your heart out." On the other side of the spectrum, John DuFresne's The Lie that Tells a Truth is chock full of concrete, eminently practical advice on everything from character development to finding your voice to step-by-step writing exercises to get your budding career started.
Recently, to get ready for some creative writing classes I'm teaching this semester, I looked over a few of these guides, starting with one of the classics of the genre, Annie Dillard's The Writing Life. Dillard's book takes the Oates approach, which depending on your point of view can be described as spare and poetic or cynically empty. Much of the book is devoted to describing Dillard's sojourns in quiet, tucked-away places like friends' vacation cabins, where she finishes her books. (Anyone out there have a cabin they'd like to lend me?) There are also several evocative anecdotes that lead up to cryptic maxims like, when chopping wood, aim for the chopping block and not the wood. That's definitely richly suggestive of something, though I'm not sure what. Dillard herself seems to be aware of a tendency toward obscurity in her work, which she highlights in a chapter where she confesses that the only people who seem to understand her writing are a few critics. So then why write? Stymied, she indulges in a bowl of popcorn with a few neighborhood kids, and then discovers to her surprise that one of them has read and enjoyed her work. I smiled in recognition when I read that story. You really can never predict who'll be affected by what you write.
I was browsing in Three Lives Bookstore in Manhattan when I picked up If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence, and Spirit by Brenda Ueland, whom I'd never heard of. The book was originally published in 1938 and was brought out again in paperback by Graywolf Press. Judging from her bio page, Ueland was quite a woman. She lived the bohemian life in Greenwich Village, then set a world swimming record for women over 80 years old, and was knighted by the king of Norway. Her book is a delightfully cranky exhortation to enjoy the art-making process, regardless of its ultimate product or material success. She cites the familiar Van Gogh example of the artist who labored seemingly in vain all his life to show that the work itself ought to be more than ample reward for its own sake: "By painting the sky, Van Gogh was really able to see it and adore it better than if he had just looked at it," she writes. That may be cold comfort to aspiring unpublished writers (or writers who have published but have found the experience less than life-fulfilling), but it's the best, noblest reason to slog away at this business. I also enjoyed when Ueland compared her writing students' work to published stories and essays and concluded that her students' work was more imaginative, passionately-observed, and wise. I was glad to learn Ueland's thoughts on how the imagination works (slowly and quietly) as well as the importance of long, solitary, and quiet walks. (Turn off your cell phones if you have them—I still haven't got one.) Most importantly, Ueland advises writers to write first and plan what they're going to write afterwards. I agree. I've found the surest way to kill a potential story is to think it all through beforehand and leave no room for improvisation while writing.
My favorite of these writing guides, though, continues to be Anne Lamott's oft-prescribed Bird by Bird. The first time I read it, I thought Lamott's insights and humor were a bit facile and coy. But the longer I've worked at writing, the more I recognize how wise this book is. What I like most about Bird by Bird is that it's a mix of the practical and spiritual, with chapters on jealousy alternating with advice on plot development. When I started out as a writer, I took solace from her thoughts on the necessity of writing shitty first drafts, a concept I'll forever emphasize to my students. When my first book came out, I studied her notes on the process of getting published, and laughed out loud at her description of how a bad review made her feel like streaks of feces on the underpants of life. Lamott makes you feel like you're not alone in this lonely craft, which I suppose is the true reason these books on writing are out there and do so well.
All in all, I've found each of these books on writing helpful in its own way. Someday I'd even like to write one, though at the rate new ones keep coming out, by the time I get around to doing it, I'm not sure how much there'll be left to say.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Saturday, January 08, 2005
The Romance of Solitude
I remember the thrilling sense of relief I felt when I first learned the difference between "lonely" and "alone." While growing up, I enjoyed spending much of my time on my own and I was beginning to wonder if there wasn't something wrong with me. I loved to read, think, and retreat into my imagination to make up stories. The world seemed to me a complex and confusing place, with so much to think over and try to understand. Being around other people could sometimes be a welcome respite from my own thoughts, but they also brought up new problems to consider.
Somehow I thought I'd lose my taste for being alone when I got older, but now as an adult, I find that I continue to gravitate toward doing things on my own. I eat out, shop, go to the movies, the theater, even go on trips by myself. Many people I know would never dream of doing these things without a partner or five, maybe because they're afraid other people will see them by themselves and think they're lonely, as if there's no difference between not being in the mood to see other people and not having other people to see.
Solitude is becoming increasingly freakish in a culture where singers appear onstage backed by a line of dancers in cute outfits, politicians front a backdrop of carefully-picked everyday people, live audiences clamber up to talk show stages to throw chairs at each other, win cars, or (if they're on Ellen Degeneres's show) dance, and news anchors come in pairs, triples, and quartets. The concept of the entourage has become so de rigeur that there's even a TV show by that title. When was the last time you saw anyone alone on TV or in a movie? (Answer: Tom Hanks in Cast Away, in which his alone-ness was considered something of a special effect in itself.)
What I love about being alone is that things get very still, even if I'm in a crowded restaurant, or walking down the street. I'm lifted out of the place where I happen to be physically into my mind's remove, where I can be in several different places at once. There's no one to negotiate with, to see your dumb mistakes, to hear your passing thoughts. There's nothing you need to buy (which may be why being alone seems so discouraged in America) or do or say or be. Time slows down and often seems to stop.
Is solitude a necessary state for a writer? It can be helpful for a writer to play the observer, to gain some distance from others to understand the world better, to note useful details about people and places to use in a story or essay. And certainly it's crucial for a writer to have space and time alone to produce her work. Sometimes when I answer the phone after I've been writing, people will say to me, "Did I wake you up?" As a matter of fact, they have woken me up from a meditative state, a dream I've willed myself into to access the hidden places in my head where my characters live, breathe, and speak.
However, solitude has its degrees, and each writer confronts solitude in his own way. Some writers are like coal miners who punch the clock, go down the chute, and come back up when they've finished their job. Others, like me, show up early, leave late, and come back to the mines at odd hours, not necessarily to do extra work, but because we like the condition of being underground. We're attracted to writing because it gives form to those odd hours we spend cut off from the world.
When I read certain writers' books (or look at their jacket photos), I sometimes imagine I can tell what kind of relationship to solitude they have. For example, I've often that that Bernard Malamud's work has a much lonelier quality than Philip Roth's (though from what I understand, Roth lives alone in rural Connecticut, spends hours in isolation working on his books, and shuns publicity). When I think of Dickens, Fitzgerald, Toni Morrison, as well as the slew of young writers like Dave Eggers, Safran Foer, and Shteyngart, I imagine them in a brightly-lit room filled with people holding drinks. On the other hand, Woolf, Joyce, Hemingway, W. G. Sebald, and frankly most European writers always strike me as detached souls shut up in drafty garrets and thinking deep thoughts. Jane Austen was famous for craving solitude and never getting any, while Proust retreated into it. Janet Frame, who grew up in a raucous rabble of a household, became something of a high priestess of solitude. Jonathan Franzen wrote a book with the title How to Be Alone, (which, embarrassingly, I have yet to read).
I was telling a friend my feelings about this subject, and he said to me, "But, Aaron, you know everyone!" I'm not sure that's true, but there are many times when I've been in group situations and felt like I was standing in the eye of a hurricane. I watched the noise and energy swirl around me, while I remained at the center in the calm and the quiet, where not a breath of wind or drop of rain could reach me. It's a scary, dizzying perch, not without its dangers, though if you can stand them, there are sometimes rewards.
Somehow I thought I'd lose my taste for being alone when I got older, but now as an adult, I find that I continue to gravitate toward doing things on my own. I eat out, shop, go to the movies, the theater, even go on trips by myself. Many people I know would never dream of doing these things without a partner or five, maybe because they're afraid other people will see them by themselves and think they're lonely, as if there's no difference between not being in the mood to see other people and not having other people to see.
Solitude is becoming increasingly freakish in a culture where singers appear onstage backed by a line of dancers in cute outfits, politicians front a backdrop of carefully-picked everyday people, live audiences clamber up to talk show stages to throw chairs at each other, win cars, or (if they're on Ellen Degeneres's show) dance, and news anchors come in pairs, triples, and quartets. The concept of the entourage has become so de rigeur that there's even a TV show by that title. When was the last time you saw anyone alone on TV or in a movie? (Answer: Tom Hanks in Cast Away, in which his alone-ness was considered something of a special effect in itself.)
What I love about being alone is that things get very still, even if I'm in a crowded restaurant, or walking down the street. I'm lifted out of the place where I happen to be physically into my mind's remove, where I can be in several different places at once. There's no one to negotiate with, to see your dumb mistakes, to hear your passing thoughts. There's nothing you need to buy (which may be why being alone seems so discouraged in America) or do or say or be. Time slows down and often seems to stop.
Is solitude a necessary state for a writer? It can be helpful for a writer to play the observer, to gain some distance from others to understand the world better, to note useful details about people and places to use in a story or essay. And certainly it's crucial for a writer to have space and time alone to produce her work. Sometimes when I answer the phone after I've been writing, people will say to me, "Did I wake you up?" As a matter of fact, they have woken me up from a meditative state, a dream I've willed myself into to access the hidden places in my head where my characters live, breathe, and speak.
However, solitude has its degrees, and each writer confronts solitude in his own way. Some writers are like coal miners who punch the clock, go down the chute, and come back up when they've finished their job. Others, like me, show up early, leave late, and come back to the mines at odd hours, not necessarily to do extra work, but because we like the condition of being underground. We're attracted to writing because it gives form to those odd hours we spend cut off from the world.
When I read certain writers' books (or look at their jacket photos), I sometimes imagine I can tell what kind of relationship to solitude they have. For example, I've often that that Bernard Malamud's work has a much lonelier quality than Philip Roth's (though from what I understand, Roth lives alone in rural Connecticut, spends hours in isolation working on his books, and shuns publicity). When I think of Dickens, Fitzgerald, Toni Morrison, as well as the slew of young writers like Dave Eggers, Safran Foer, and Shteyngart, I imagine them in a brightly-lit room filled with people holding drinks. On the other hand, Woolf, Joyce, Hemingway, W. G. Sebald, and frankly most European writers always strike me as detached souls shut up in drafty garrets and thinking deep thoughts. Jane Austen was famous for craving solitude and never getting any, while Proust retreated into it. Janet Frame, who grew up in a raucous rabble of a household, became something of a high priestess of solitude. Jonathan Franzen wrote a book with the title How to Be Alone, (which, embarrassingly, I have yet to read).
I was telling a friend my feelings about this subject, and he said to me, "But, Aaron, you know everyone!" I'm not sure that's true, but there are many times when I've been in group situations and felt like I was standing in the eye of a hurricane. I watched the noise and energy swirl around me, while I remained at the center in the calm and the quiet, where not a breath of wind or drop of rain could reach me. It's a scary, dizzying perch, not without its dangers, though if you can stand them, there are sometimes rewards.
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