Inspired Writing

Where do you do most of your writing? In front of a window? At a desk? On the couch? Curled up in bed?

Writers all have their own preferred method to the madness. I'm thinking a lot about inspiration. Where does it come from? What makes it stick?

Kent Haruf likes to write blind, literally. He pulls a ski cap over his face and works on a typewriter for days on end until he completes a first rough draft. Then, he goes back, without the cap, and makes changes and edits, finally retyping the new version on a computer.

Mary Gordon writes all of her novels longhand, in notebooks and with colorful pens she buys around the world.

John Irving still writes longhand too, waiting until a first draft feels well paced and then using up to six IBM Selectric typewriters to re-craft the tome.

Joyce Carol Oates goes jogging and envisions whole scenes of her novel as she rounds the Central Park reservoir.

Many writers were famously geared up after a good night's sleep.

Mary Shelley was inspired to write Frankenstein after having a dream in which she saw a "student of arts" standing over his unearthly creation.

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote and rewrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in ten weeks. His momentum, he has said, came from a single dream. He saw a man (Hyde) standing at a window, as yet unchanged. But, later in the dream, the man takes a powder in front of his "pursuers" and turns into another man entirely.

The plot for Stephen King's Misery arrived in a dream he had on a plane.

J.R. Moehringher posts photos of writers he admires above his desk to keep him afloat.

Walter Mosley says in an essay (Writers on Writing, The New York Times) that getting inspired is a lot like "gathering smoke". It is the smoke that initially gets the fire going, but the hard work and persistence that keep the flames alive.

Tough Love

It's Valentine's Day and I'm giving myself some tough love.

Time to quit complaining and time to start appreciating. No more - it's too cold outside. I have writer's block. This is too hard. I'm too tired. No more.

No more I can't.
No more I don't want to.

Conversation hearts are always written with active verbs. Hug me. Kiss me. Be mine. No waffling. No ifs or buts. No standing around.

So, let's get on with it, shall we?

I'm dusting the sleet (yes, that is sleet outside in New York City!) off my boots and gettin' a move on it.

First stop? Guerrilla Lit Reading Series II. I'll be reading my work aloud on February 21st.

A EuroCheapo Blog

This is a photo of my old stomping ground in London.

I've now started blogging about the old neighborhood and am covering UK news for an amazing site. Please visit often.

http://www.eurocheapo.com/blog/

Major Change

What did you think you would be when you grew up? Does it surprise you to see where you are now, compared to what you thought you'd be as a child? I've just finished watching the British documentary, 49 Up, a film that interviews the same people at age 7, 14, 21, 28, 35, 42 and finally, 49.

Not surprising to most, I always thought I'd end up on the big screen. Ha! Fast forward to freshman year of college at the University of Michigan. A professor assigned a paper on the liberal arts. At two in the morning the night before it was due, I still hadn't started it. I began instead to write a short story.

Years on, I can't locate a copy of the short story and neither can my professor (now a good friend). All I recall is that the story was a farcical take on the university environment. Professor Masterson is in his office on a cold and snowy winter's night. He's being interrogated by a police officer. A student has thrown herself into the "fish bowl" (think the Louvre's inverted pyramid only spherical) at U of M, thus ending her life. In a suicide note, she claims she did it because she couldn't decide on a major.

My teacher asked me to stay after class. I thought I was in trouble. Instead, he congratulated me and said I should consider a writing life. A few weeks later, I changed my major from theater to creative writing.

"A butterfly doesn't live very long, but delights in opening and closing its wings, being beautiful for everyone, enjoying the sunshine. Perhaps there isn't any more to life than that, just being what you are, realizing that life goes on all around you and there are millions of other creatures that have to find their part as well." - paraphrased from 49Up

Go forth and enjoy the sunshine.

Second Guesses

About six months ago, I spoke with Amy Benson, author of The Sparkling-Eyed Boy. Ms. Benson was the 2003 Bakeless Prize winner for non-fiction. The prize is given annually at the Bread Loaf Writer's Conference. Her memoir of love defies the narrative concepts of chronology and story arc.

Recently, I abandoned my own memoir project because it lacked arc, chronology, yada yada. I set aside about 50 pages of it, "to look at down the road, if I felt like writing essays" and the rest went into the recycle bin. Now, I'm second guessing that decision.

I'm thinking about the writers and books I admire. Amy Benson is certainly on the brain. Frederic Tuten, my teacher once again, comes to mind. They don't write your standard stuff.

What is it that I really want to write, then? I guess (there's that word again), in the end, I want to create something unique, something truthful, and something with meaning.

Ce n'est pas une pipe.

The Id and the Whale

I'm doing a lot of research on the American Indians of the Southwest. In the second arc of my book, the protagonist visits an Indian reservation in a fictitious town called Spruce, Wyoming. And, well, I can't give away anymore here. You'll just have to read and buy the book someday!

Native Americans believe we are guided by the spirits of our ancestors and by animal totems. When I was younger, I read quite a bit about Native American philosophy and religion. I found that no matter how much I tried to ignore it, I seemed to have lots in common with the spirit of the whale. Our societal interpretation of the whale is big with blessing. She is bloated and beached.

But, in the Native American faith, the whale represents the record keeper. She is haunted at times by the images of the past. She must record each new day, each birth and death, and even the most humdrum of experiences. She glides through the ocean on the waves of history.

The idea is that time never stops for us. But, if we follow the whale, we can leave a mark for future generations.

I've heard people say that writing is a selfish profession, but looked at from the tradition of the whale, how could it be? The record keeper takes any assignment. She's the perfect reporter. She'll sweep up after closing hours. She does not think of fame or fortune. She simply tells the story.

So, with the spirit of the whale at my side (god, she's heavy!), I'm beginning to write today. Trusting. Gliding. Sweeping up.

Back in Session

Call it writer's block. Call it procrastination. I've been away for a long, long while. Well, now I'm back. Back in the USA, back in my MFA program and back to the novel.

Each day brings a new-if only tiny-revelation about the writing life. There are the constant ups and downs of the profession, the days in which I can't even seem to craft one sentence. There are always the younger-than-me, more of-the-moment authors publishing acclaimed debuts. But, a wise man (my father) once said, "You'll only lose time if you look behind you just to see if you're winning the race."

We know writing is hugely rewarding and fulfilling, yet fraught with disappointment. Impersonal rejection letters pile up in file cabinets. Self doubt doesn't creep in, it does cartwheels. Yet, we trudge on. The work is in us even when we don't know where it may lead.

It takes years to finish a novel, so I'm told by my favorite writing friends and professors, and once it's fully realized, it takes more time to see it in bookstores. So, why bother?

Rereading a James Salter essay yesterday, I came across this gem: "At one time I thought frequently about death. It was when I was barely thirty and said to myself, 'More than a third of your life is gone!' Now, for a different reason, I have started to think about it again...Sometimes I think, when the time comes, what I might want to have with me. I can go without an expensive watch, without money or clothes, without a toothbrush, without having shaved, but can I go without certain books and, more than books, things I have written, not necessarily published?"

Write on.