Wet Ink

Success - Frankyl's Take

I'm just too busy to blog in depth right now, but I wanted to share a few lines from Viktor Frankyl's Man's Search for Meaning.  (Some of you are already in the know, so please forgive the following repetition).  The book is about his experiences in concentration camp.  Frankyl wanted to help people by conveying "by way of a concrete example that life holds a potential meaning under any conditions, even the most miserable ones..." (this from his own preface to the 1984 edition).  His take on success is thoughtful and wise.  I urge you, have a read:

"And so it is both strange and remarkable to me that - among some dozens of books I have authored - precisely this one, which I had intended to be published anonymously so that it could never build up any reputation on the part of the author, did become a success.  Again and again I therefore admonish my students both in Europe and America: 'Don't aim at success - the more you aim at it and make it a target, the more you are going to miss it.  For success, like happiness, cannot be pursued; it must ensue, and it only does so as the unintended side-effect of one's personal dedication to a cause greater than oneself or as the by-product of one's surrender to a person other than oneself.  Happiness must happen, and the same holds for success: you have to let it happen by not caring about it."

From Frankyl's own preface to Man's Search for Meaning

What a fascinating argument and one I relish.  Write for love, I tell myself.  Write because you feel.  Write because you hold a truth you want the world to know.  And perhaps that doesn't mean "Don't enter the contests," or "Don't send off the manuscript," or "Don't write to the agents".  Perhaps all it really means is focus on the love.  Because, as an end in itself, passion ain't bad.

Quite a long blog post for someone too busy to blog.  Snort!  That's what passion brings you...

Why I Believe In Monsters

Part of my fascination with monsters comes from the idea of difference.  As a child, I was touched by the BFG, and Ted Hughes' wonderful Iron Man.  I myself moved schools more times than I'd like to mention, and was used to being strange.  This is why well-intentioned monsters became a comfort to me.  Many such beings were special in themselves, and though not always appreciated, sought to do good.  The idea that a monster, though ousted by humans, still saw us as worthy of help... this taught me much about love. 

When Errol Morris interviewed Clyde Roper, a specialist on the giant squid, it felt like a true education.  (See First Person for the piece itself).  Roper knew that to be face to face with such a creature would mean a horrible death; and yet, this was still his most passionate wish.  In spite of being his destroyer, he saw the squid as beautiful; so much so, that he'd give his life for it.  Such complex kinds of love certainly prompt me to think.  I myself am an admirer of lions, and, if faced with one, would fully expect it to kill me.  This, after all, is what it means to be a lion.  And to love Frankenstein's creation or Caliban, in spite of their natures, to my mind teaches us a deeper kind of love.

I think there's also a place for the "absolute monster" -- the dark destroyer, the one we must overcome.  But I like it when this type is fleshed out a little.  That Frankenstein's monster is desperate for a mate is the a reminder of something very human.  No matter what our nature, we long for community: likeness, validation, or the simple roots of care. 

I Plan, Therefore I'm Not?

"For me, writing fiction tends to be like plunging into a forest without a map and emerging at some distant and unexpected point many months later. I always like the analogy that writing a novel is like driving across country at night. You can only see as far as the headlights." Jay McInerney, interviewed by Victoria Blake in Writers Ask (Glimmer Train), Issue 40

I'm a story-starter. I've a fair amount of completed short stories, but the number I've started and not yet finished is through the flaming roof. I love starting stories. Openings are fun. But what happens after that? In many cases, I don't yet know.

I guess what I'm saying is I don't plan as such. I experience something quite immediate in my head, and I write it down quickly, and that's that. Often, as I'm doing so, the ending will come to me. Sometimes, the story just continues like a film. But the notion of planning in a big, official way... well, when I used to write like that, it never really worked.

I remember we were meant to teach our students to plan. Stories "ideally" (according to the syllabus) had notes outlining opening, middle and end. This worked well for many, bringing focus and drive. Even though some didn't need to plan, for the sake of the exams I encouraged them to play -- jot something down at the outset, I'd say, and you'll get the extra mark. Then, one morning, I set a timed task. A girl in my class wrote an exceptional story, easily completing in the time required. Glancing at her work, I could see the brilliance of it. Yet once she'd actually finished, I saw her mocking up a plan. She looked up, blushing. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Should've done it at the start. But plans seem to block me, you know?"

At this point in my career, I'd just begun to realise the truth. Whatever the topic -- planning, spelling, writing style -- we work best when find our own ways. The job of our teacher, perhaps, is to help us seek these out, by saying, "Have you tried this?" or "Why not try that?" But ultimately, our talents are our own, and we have to learn what works for us.* This, I argue, is how we excel.

Don't get me wrong. Many just soar with a plan. Knowing how we operate strengthens our writing. The talented student could do without the exam marks allotted for planning. She could choose to play the game if she liked, but her way round was better.

*Metacognition (awareness of our own individual learning processes) is a way cool concept -- studies show how deeply it encourages our talents.

Cheers, Dude

Not long ago I was moaning about my shoulder. I'd carried too much baggage and sprained it a bit. "It's just poorly," I told my friend. She gave me a puzzled look. "Pully?" she said, blankly. Aha. Yet another Brit term that isn't known in America. When I explained, she laughed.

I was telling another friend about someone I'd met. "She's was cool," I said, "but we're just like chalk and cheese." Having never heard this phrase for stressing total opposites, my friend began to giggle. Her reaction made me think -- the saying is certainly creative, but because it's become an English cliche, I'd lost sight of how funny it is.

Not long ago, I wrote a very English story. Knowing that, in US speak, "trousers" are "pants", I used the latter when approaching US mags. Not long after the piece was accepted, the editor called me up. "Shouldn't 'pants' be 'trousers'," she said, "considering the dialect?" I agreed. The same went for "laundromat" -- in Britain, this is "launderette". But she also suggested a further change: The US audience mightn't know "ruffled sheets", she said. Why not use "rumpled"? An ideal edit.

I'm learning a lot from being in the US. Sometimes I say a phrase, and as soon as it's out, I know in my gut it's particularly British. The feel of a language, its idioms, its images... there's a delight in seeing it afresh; and of course it's also wonderful to learn the US dialect. (If you've never heard of "peanut gallery", take a peek below). But of course, dialect edits can be a dangerous game. I'm now returning to my old, solid rule: write what feels natural; later, it can change.

I've been bemoaning the fact I can't call friends "dude". I'm just too British. It really wouldn't work. But "mate" is pretty fun, and the last time I used "cheers" in a store, the guy burst into song. Guess what theme-tune? Oh my.

Here's one I learnt the other day: "You don't need advice from the peanut gallery." If you're a Brit and/or don't know it, do look it up. It's gorgeous.

Story Out

"The Moth Catcher" is now out in Salamander. There's a beautiful moth on the front cover, too, by artist Beth Balliro.

Three Fictional Characters and What They've Taught Me

Clarice Starling from The Silence of the Lambs, by Thomas Harris:

Clarice brings to mind my favourite kind of bravery.  She’s physically resilient, emotionally strong, but vulnerable and capable of fear.  When she faces Lector, the cruel and clever killer, she breaks all the rules and exposes herself emotionally.  This in turn is both her weakness and her strength.  Jung tells us everything exists in its opposite – if we are strong, a part of us is vulnerable; if we are determined, a part of us is shy.  We grow, he claims, if we acknowledge this.  As a writer and a human, Clarice reminds me: true courage isn’t blocking out your vulnerability.

The Joker from Batman, directed by Tim Burton:

It’s the fact that I loathe The Joker so much that makes me learn from him.  Madness devoid of feeling: this is what frightens me most.  The Joker has a smile scarred onto his face – one that never leaves.  No matter what pain he inflicts or experiences, it’s always glossed with a grin.  Unlike King Lear, who shows that madness can be a teacher, a punisher, a childlike escape - in short, meaningful in deeper ways - The Joker is dead in his madness, and that’s pretty tough.  If I can see the suffering, there’s much I can forgive.  But cruelty masked by laughter?  Hard layers to penetrate. 

(He also destroys art for fun.  No cake for him.)

Nance from Tipping the Velvet, by Sarah Waters:

Nance, in her quest to follow her heart and embrace her sexuality teaches me much about accepting myself.  In Victorian England, she leaves her family home knowing she’s attracted to women, not men.  Her quest to understand what this means for her leads her through many dark places.  Before she truly embraces herself, she must be owned and sold, must beg and crawl.  This, I have learned, is how it goes for most of us.  In order to grow, we must often struggle.  But like Nance, we can recover and find in us something more golden than before. And that, my friends, is creativity, right?  Nance is the truest of artists.

There are countless other characters, of course, who open me up and test me.  Just this weekend, we went to see the real Pooh Bear at the New York Public Library.  I was reminded, as I gazed, of what that bear taught me: "bears of little brain" can be wise.

Brief Silence

This blog'll be taking a break until next Tuesday. 

Sweet dreams.

Sometimes It Ain't Fictional

I recently wrote a story that has yet hit the spot.  It's a piece about my life, and at the moment it feels messy.  Not only that, but I'd somehow unconsciously drawn on a different work - a piece by Karen Russell, whose stories I love.  Once I realised this, I saw I was in trouble.  I know what it's like to have ideas lifted, and I'm not going to go there myself.  Scary to absorb like that and think a thing's my own.  Given all this, I'm too lost to rework.  Not a problem.  Set aside.  Wait for the distance.  But I couldn't help thinking there was something else...

The story in question draws on childhood memories.  A year back, I actually started a similar piece, but it was nonfictional.  I felt it had failed.  "I don't write nonfiction," I told myself.  "I'll read it, sure.  But I don't express that way."   Well, thanks to some chats with a couple of friends, I dug out the nonfiction piece and slowly re-read it.  I saw, in the writing, what I'd been trying to get across through a pretty zany story.  No harm in that, but here's a thought:  When the reality behind a story feels crazy,  launching into fiction might be premature for me.  What I need to do first, and maybe altogether, is place my truth on a page.

And you know, I'm hooked.  It's quite refreshing writing down exactly what happened.*  There's something rather grounded in the unadorned truth.  And as I write I'm finding out there's more here than I realised.  I can write nonfiction.  Maybe not well, maybe not gracefully, but certainly with honesty and that's a good start.  Will this end up as preparation for the story?  The one I'll go back to, when I'm ready for the fray?  Or will it be the start of a whole new genre?  I find myself hoping for both. 

As I collect the memoirs on my shelf and start to indulge once more -- Viktor Frankyl, Frank McCourt, Anais Nin  for starters -- I feel a new world opening.  We'll see.

* Though I have to admit, I'm writing without disguise and I know that's an issue.  We all need our veils; but for starters: total honesty.

We're So Social, Baby

Stephen King  has a theory that we're always writing for someone, and if we can find out who this is, we've discovered our ideal reader.  Psychotherapy theories also state there's often "someone in the room" (not physically but emotionally) in addition to client and therapist.  By necessity, to speak of ourselves is somehow to speak of others.  Even if we live an isolated life, we come from people, and we're touched by society.  The very notion of language is proof we're social beings.  In other words, writing can be seen as a social act.

Though I'm not a member of a book group, I spend a lot of time talking with folks about books.  It's as if the texts are bonding us, you know?  As for the feeling of being immersed in a book, well, the writing/reading process is a close relationship.  The writer may not be someone we'd truly get on with -- they may differ vastly from their chosen persona -- but a piece of them is transmuted onto the page, reaching and touching their audience.

Of course, storytelling, songs, speeches, plays are all clearly social acts.  (Not forgetting Elizabethan theatre, where viewers were expected to heckle and crow).  But I consider written texts as equally social.  The very notion of "The Active Reader", who doesn't simply absorb but also construes, surely makes writing and reading close to conversation.  The writer expresses, the reader replies, and at times we change each other deeply.  The people for whom I'm writing are present as I create.  They can touch us, affect us, before they've even read us.

So next time you're locked away tapping at that keyboard, or reading in the bath with a glass of red, and someone bellows "Stop being anti-social", if I were you I'd feel well within my rights to shout, "You're so wrong!"

P.S. I've been asked by a couple of friends, of late, if I'd add the ability to comment.  I'm shy of comments for many reasons, but if you feel strongly about this, drop me a line.  I may be open to it!

Life in Colour

A story I've just been editing feels packed full of colour. Every time I read it there's red, yellow, green. It's a kind of crazy world. Bold isn't always my way, though. I also like watery tones, and I love a bit of darkness. But whatever the palate, I try to see as a write. If it isn't in my head, it isn't in the piece.

Colour, of course, can relate to genre. Noir (which, as you may well know, translates as "Black" from French), is full of darkness and eerie light. The palette can be fierce or muted: there's less colour, perhaps. Many years ago I was spellbound by Chandler's The Big Sleep. As with much noir, the book is highly visual. If you've read it, you may well hold scenes in your head. I get a clear sense of the shades of the book from these few lines:

"Steps, a click, the wedge of light died at my feet..."

and

"At seven-twenty a single flash of hard white light shot out of Geiger's house like a wave of summer lightning. As the darkness folded back on it and ate it up a thin tinkling scream echoed out and lost itself among the rain-drenched trees."

Darkness, slant light. A world of threat and secrecy.

In one of my favourite Medieval poems, a knight who is green from head to toe arrives at a courtly banquet. For us today, the scene has its effect. But for a Medieval audience green meant so much more. It wasn't just the colour of nature, but that of real fairies, of devilry and witchcraft, of death and regeneration. When the Knight challenges Sir Gawain to behead him on the spot, and suffer the same dealings in a year's time, the audience would instantly be wondering "Is he devil, fairie or natural being? Bad, good, or a symbol of nature?" But today, we've lost much of this lore. Even so, did green become the colour of aliens because of these magical roots? Perhaps, in some ways, the old code lives on. (Find out more about Sir Gawain and The Green Knight.)

Moments of colour that have remained with me: The rose Kitty throws Nance from the stage in Tipping the Velvet; the red habits and white veils in Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale; Mrs. Coulter's yellow monkey in Northern Lights; Narnia's snow; Clare's amazing ginger hair, which Henry twists to a rope in The Time Traveler's Wife; and Cleopatra's barge, courtesy of Shakespeare, which "like a burnished throne, burned on the water...".

And at the MFA in Boston you'll find, above the stairs, a wonderful mobile by Calder. No primary colours, though. This one is totally white. It circles, slowly. Quite hypnotic.