All Writing is Re-Writing

When I first began teaching writing at the University of Illinois in 1987, I used a freshman reader that encouraged students in the revision process.  It did this by describing a piece written by E.B. White in The New Yorker in 1969, in the Notes and Comment section.  Here is that small essay, which celebrated the July 16, 1969 moon landing:

“The moon, it turns out, is a great place for men. One-sixth gravity must be a lot of fun, and when Armstrong and Aldrin went into their bouncy little dance, like two happy children, it was a moment not only of triumph but of gaiety. The moon, on the other hand, is a poor place for flags. Ours looked stiff and awkward, trying to float on the breeze that does not blow. (There must be a lesson here somewhere.) It is traditional, of course, for explorers to plant the flag, but it struck us, as we watched with awe and admiration and pride, that our two fellows were universal men, not national men, and should have been equipped accordingly. Like every great river and every great sea, the moon belongs to none and belongs to all. It still holds the key to madness, still controls the tides that lap on shores everywhere, still guards the lovers who kiss in every land under no banner but the sky. What a pity that in our moment of triumph we did not forswear the familiar Iwo Jima scene and plant instead a device acceptable to all: a limp white handkerchief, perhaps, symbol of the common cold, which, like the moon, affects us all, unites us all.”

The word count of this essay is 213, and according to the editors of the reader, was revised so extensively by White that only 10% of what appeared in the first draft survived in the published version.

Ten percent.  That means that White, considered by some, including myself, to be our most celebrated American essayist, at least in recent memory, left 90% of his first efforts in the wastebasket.

I’ve forgotten the name of the book I first read this in, but have never forgotten that number.  It has given me much comfort over the years, as I’ve slogged my way through every one of my own writing projects.  I hope it gives comfort to readers of this blog as well.

 

The Man Who Opened the Bag

On the L car, about 11:30 am, heading south to downtown.  Busy in my head reading and writing all over a private client’s draft.  We meet tomorrow at 11 am and I want to have a few helpful comments to make about her piece.

It’s Tuesday, the first interesting snowfall of the season, the L car crowded with people wrapped in all manner of fleece, scarves, colorful knit hats. 

I’m alone in my seat, the one ahead of me empty.  Directly across the aisle, someone goes to sit down and picks up a black bag, apparently left on the seat, though it’s anyone’s guess as to when and by whom.  He asks the person behind him, “Is this yours?”  “No,” she nods.  He gingerly lifts it—it’s black, plastic, like a small garbage bag, and obviously has something in it.  He then places it across the aisle, on the empty seat in front of me.   He doesn’t open it.

Next stop, a woman gets on, goes to sit in that very same seat, the empty one save for the black plastic bag.  She turns to me and asks, “Is this yours?”  “No,” I say, “it’s been getting moved from seat to seat, don’t know who left it.”  She briefly picks it up, considers, then puts it down, and moves on to another seat.  She doesn’t open it.

Next stop, a big burly guy with long braids and a puffy black jacket gets on the car, goes to sit in the empty seat in front of me, though not quite empty of course.  That small black bag is sitting there.   He turns to me, “No,” I say.

He sits down, moves over to the window side (the bag has been riding in the aisle seat), picks up the bag and opens it.  I lean over to look.  Inside is a neatly ironed and folded denim shirt, like one, we both say aloud, that you would pick up at a thrift store or Salvation Army.  He takes it out, unfolds, then re-folds it, places it gently back in the bag, and onto the aisle seat.   Then the man who finally opened the bag settles in comfortably, and closes his eyes.

 

Keeping At It

As we near the end of The Mind at Work, the essay writing workshop I regularly teach at The Newberry Library, the conversation turns to “keeping at it.”  Inspired by the workshop—by drafts submitted, helpful comments given and received—my students want to know how they can stay committed to their writing.

For years, I used to give a long list of suggestions, such as carrying a writer’s journal, attending literary events, reading broadly and deeply across genres.  And while these are fine and fun recommendations, I now just say one thing: have a reader waiting.

There are many different ways to do this, including taking more workshops, joining a writing group, enlisting a writing buddy.  But one of my favorite ways to stay writing is to enter writing contests, no matter who sponsors them or how I learn about them.

For instance, earlier this fall, while chatting up a former neighbor on one of my urban bike rides, I learned that a local theatre was sponsoring an essay writing contest related to their current production.  The prize winner would receive two bottles of wine and a gift certificate to a nearby indie bookstore.

Booty enough for me.

And so I went home and onto the theatre’s website, took note of the (spare) writers’ guidelines and submission date, got to work, and two weeks later sent in my essay.  And, Dear Reader, I won.

Then just last week, my friend Melanie, designer of the fabulous dog-cozy, the eco-friendly dog “bag” for wet and muddy Fidos (www.dogcozy.com), sent me a link to Modern Dog magazine, which is running its first ever writing contest.  Not only will I be entering it—I certainly have a dog story or two in me—but I’ve forwarded the info on to some of my writing students for their consideration.

And if you don’t want to wait for writing invitations to show up in your in-box, or during random conversations on the street, just check out writing magazines like The Writer and Poets & Writers.  In addition to listing writing markets, they also include information about writing contests.  Caveat:  Many contests charge a fee.  Obviously I prefer those that don’t, but depending on the sponsor and the odds (and the fee), it might be worth it.  What is definitely worth it, though, is the purpose and focus such contests give to your writing.

 

Stories Goes Kindle

The Stories book has gone Kindle and, truth to tell, I’ve mixed feelings about that.  Books as objects—with pages that turn, that can be stuffed into the meshed pockets of backpacks, that show the wear and tear of earnest reading—these I treasure.  And have since I first worried my Dick & Jane reader to pieces.

Nothing calms like being among books—in bookstores, libraries, in my modest studio apartment.  All those stories, great thoughts, and comforting humor.  I’ve likely bought, sold, borrowed, and lent more books than is rational.  Then of course, I went and wrote one.  And hope to write another.  And maybe even a third.

Aye, and there’s the rub.  For as a book’s author—at least once it’s out the door and on a shelf in one of those bookstores and libraries—I’m thinkin’ “royalties,” I’m thinkin’ payment for my efforts.  For as I tell my writing clients who want to write books:  Be prepared.  It’s a slog.  

So a person can’t help but think they should be compensated at the end of that, and maybe more than the 6% they signed on for.  And that’s where Kindle comes in, and the concomitant mixed feelings.  For with that format, my royalties jump considerably.  Maybe not so much that I can say I make a living from being a writer.  Besides, I am a teacher who writes, not a writer who teaches.  I’d be bereft without the teaching.

But, still, that jump?  It calms in a very different way.

A Sliver of Ice in the Heart

Graham Greene has been quoted as saying that writers have—or must have—“ a sliver of ice in the heart.”   It sounds ominous, but all it really means is that writers use the material from their lives in their work, whether fiction, poetry, personal essay, or memoir.  In doing so, they stand a bit apart from their lives, always observing, thinking about how their experiences might be transformed into something artful.  

This reminds me of what I once read about James Thurber who, while at a cocktail party, stood alone by the hors d’oeuvre table, looking out onto the assembled guests.  Just looking and listening.  His wife allegedly came up to him and loudly whispered, “Thurber.  Quit writing!” 

To me, this all connects in some way to what Vivian Gornick has to say about the “detached narrator” in her book The Situation and the Story: The Art of Personal Narrative:  “The voice I lived with—whiney; grating; accusatory—could not be the voice I wrote with.  Our detached narrator becomes the instrument of our illumination.”

Gornick describes that detached narrator as also a reliable one, and as I tell my writing students, all readers want to be in the hands of a reliable narrator, one who is detached enough from the experience to gain meaning from it.  Once that happens, she can then share that meaning with her readers.  

This is especially true when writing about personal experiences.   I refer to that “meaning” as the “what about it?”  In effect, we as readers say to the writer, nice story, but what about it?  Why should I care?  It’s up to our detached narrator to discover the answer to that question.  It is in that process of discovery that the writer-narrator becomes reliable, someone we trust to illuminate something important for us.

How To Get a Writing Gig

Easy, show up with some beer.

People who know me know my fondness for beer, preferably lager, chilled, and straight from the bottle.  I’ve written about the story of beer for this blog, and about its relationship to the invention of writing.   And so I was pleased to learn recently of yet another connection between beer and writing.

From the November 9 issue of The Writer’s Almanac:

The first issue of Rolling Stone was published on November 9, 1967. It was started by 21-year-old Jann Wenner, who dropped out of Berkeley and borrowed $7,500 from family members and from people on a mailing list that he stole from a local radio station, and with that money he managed to put together a magazine. The cover of the first issue featured John Lennon, and in it, Wenner wrote, "Rolling Stone is not just about music, but also about the things and attitudes that the music embraces." He printed 40,000 copies, and 34,000 were returned unsold. But soon Rolling Stone had a devoted group of readers, partly because there were some great writers there. Probably the most famous of these journalists was Hunter S. Thompson, who showed up at Jann Wenner's office in 1970 with a case of beer and an offer to write for Rolling Stone. [emphasis mine] The next year, he serialized Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in the magazine's pages. Today Rolling Stone has a circulation of about 1.4 million.

 

 

It's All in the Art

From a recent NYT review of Mary Karr's latest memoir Lit:

"Lit is a story of addiction and recovery, by now familiar in outline from the many A.A.-like autobiographies produced during the memoir craze of the late ’90s. Whereas many of these lesser efforts were propelled by the belief that confession is therapeutic and therapy is redemptive and redemption somehow equals art, Ms. Karr’s own work demonstrates that candor and self-revelation only become literature when they are delivered with hard-earned craft, that the exposed life is not the same as the examined one."

Or as British writer V.S. Pritchett said about the memoir form:  "It's all in the art.  You get no credit for living."