The Retreat from Berlin

The longer I write, the less I feel I know about writing. That's supposed to be comforting, yet every time I go through this process of doubt, it's always painful. With each new project I work on, I've tried to learn from what I did the time before. I wish it were only that easy. Ionce heard that you have to learn how to write from scratch with every new book. Each project has its own lessons to master, lessons that don't carry over to the next one you'll tackle. So far, that's been my experience.

I was lucky that when I wrote Stalin's Head, I had no idea of what I was doing. I simply wrote stories that meant something to me, and after I had ten good ones, roped them together into a collection, and sent them to an agent. I didn't realize how much heavy lifting would go into revising them until they were ready for publication, but I've always seen myself as the workhouse type of writer, anyway. I like having work to do, my desk full of projects to complete. Work doesn't scare me; it gives me a reassuring sense of purpose.

With my second book, Faith for Beginners, I started out from the premise that since so many of the stories in Stalin's Head were about sexuality, Judaism, and politics, I ought to choose a subject that combined all three of those elements: the gay community of Israel. Conveniently, no one had dealt much with Israeli gays in fiction. So I plunked down money for a plane ticket, arranged to stay with friends, and left. The only problem was that when I got to Israel, the gay community there didn't suggest a story to me. Great, I thought, all this time and money wasted. And anyway, who did I think I was calling myself a writer when (at that time) I hadn't even sold one book yet? I spent my last few days in Israel just being a tourist. It turned out those final few days resulted in the inspiration for my novel.

When I decided to write about Berlin for the novel I'm currently working on, I thought, okay, I'll learn from my past mistakes. I won't try to control the subject of my research so much. I'll just travel to Berlin, try to see and do as much as I possibly can, and wait for a story to emerge. Which is exactly what happened. And in the fall of 2003, while I was waiting for Faith for Beginners to be considered for publication, I began writing out a first draft for my Berlin novel. It's all a matter of putting in the work, I thought. You write, revise, write, revise, show it to people who tell you what's gone wrong, which you fix, show it a few more people who help you tweak the rest, which you do, and then it's reasonably okay and you're done.

The process of writing this book, however, hasn't turned out quite so easy. I was a little naive about how distracting the process of publication can be. First, I had to put the Berlin novel aside to do revisions on Faith for Beginners in the winter of 2003. Then when Stalin's Head came out, I went slightly insane, which is pretty good if you consider that most writers need to undergo a combination of psychiatric drugs and electroshock therapy when they make their debuts. Suddenly, when I typed in my name in Google, I got hundreds of hits, with people I didn't know saying things about me in reviews or on blogs. (And this is for a first collection of literary short fiction. I can only imagine what the process must have been like for higher profile writers.) I also had to do several readings and travel to promote the book (on my own dime), while holding down my regular job, all of which took some valuable time away from Berlin.

It wasn't until the summer after Stalin came out, I finally had some quality time to work on the new novel, but then in the fall, I began teaching creative writing classes at night in addition to my day job, which I enjoyed, but again consumed a good deal of thought and time. My Berlin novel was like a resentful neglected cat mewing at me from the corner of my desk for attention, which I gave when I could, but not as much as it needed.

Finally, this summer I've had a chance to really sit and face down this novel after a crazy two years, in which I've changed personally and professionally. What was in front of me, however, reflected an earlier version of myself. I liked the writing and some of the characters, but the ideas behind them didn't excite me anymore. The purpose of the book felt out of date. The books I've read since that writing that first draft, especially Sholem Asch's Three Cities, Michel Houellebecq's Platform, David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, and Graham Greene's novels, have tempted me to seek a larger vision from fiction, something with greater scope and daring, a goal that this current draft couldn't sustain.

Furthermore, the experiences of working on Stalin's Head and Faith as well as of teaching creative writing have challenged what I thought I knew for sure about literature. I don't want to simply repeat what I've done in the past. I have to grow and feel stimulated. Working on this new project, I keep feeling lost, unsure of what I'm writing about. It's become drudgery.

So I'm declaring my independence. I've come to the painful yet liberating conclusion that it's time to put two years of work aside and start over from page one. That doesn't mean the work I've put in is fruitless garbage. I suspect a lot of it will prove useful in the new book about Berlin I plan to write. But I've got to forge ahead unencumbered by the past. I know how difficult it is when you're editing to cut out a scene or even a sentence you've worked hard on. But in writing, hard work doesn't mean you've done your job as a writer. And correcting past mistakes or repeating past successes won't work either. You simply have to face the darkness again and again, and hope that inspiration will come once more.