Category: Writing

Disappearing Act

Like many college kids, I was in a hurry to get my piece of paper. By my last quarter at UC Irvine, I was taking 18 credits, working multiple jobs, and feeling the accelerated decrepitude that comes standard with silly 20-something social timing. I had to hurry up and “start my life.” I don’t blame myself for feeling that way, but it’s funny to remember.

I’m not looking back through time and saying, as a depressed, middle-aged relative once said to me, “After high school, the best times of your life are over.” High school sucked. And college more or less also sucked. But maybe the suction toward the end of my undergraduate years—of intense work, full course loads, worry, and frustration—was a bit less. And maybe in that margin, I brought a lot on myself voluntarily, like taking art classes I didn’t need to graduate.

In a moment of prescience, I thought, after this quarter, I’m never going to have time to take an art class. This is it. I petitioned for the right to take credits past the maximum and got turned down. So I showed up at Dr. Ladaner’s drawing and painting classroom on the first day and said, “They won’t let me take your class for credit. Can I just pretend I’m a student?” He gave me a long look, smiled, and nodded at an empty seat. Ladaner was great.

This is what he taught me. You have to air your work out. You have to let go. You have to be messy. You have to give yourself permission to draw and not erase because the line you draw is the line you draw. You have to accept it. And yourself. It’s the only way to get better.

I still can’t draw. But I took that lesson, which often came wrapped in some pretty harsh language, to heart. It has helped me in everything I’ve written. You have to be willing to make a mess of things. Neatness in the creative process (or really in any process) is, all too often, an expression of counterproductive fear. Ladaner didn’t get upset when we created something that didn’t work. He got upset at pretentiousness and stage fright.

You have to get over yourself, like the nude models we drew around midterms. A few were vampire-exhibitionists, sucking up the attention. But most were highly developed individuals who’d integrated being an artist’s model into their own process. They knew: you have to be willing to let people see you. It’s not about sucking up attention. It’s about exchange. And it’s about knowing how to get out of your own way.

We went outside to draw the cars in the parking lot. Ladaner didn’t tell us anything beyond that. His style: “We’re gonna go out and draw some cars today.”  Someone asked, “How should we do it? What should we use?” He smiled and said, “Let’s go.” 

So we went.  We drew some cars. He did, too. I snuck up behind him and looked. He was using a piece of charcoal, making a wobbly kind of grid. I thought, this doesn’t look like that Toyota over there. It looks like an oversized waffle that dropped down a chimney. But then I realized he wasn’t drawing the cars. He was drawing the negative space between them, the light on the windshields, the shadows of the tires. 

He noticed me and said to take a step back, unfocus, squint a little. I did and it all came together. I was impressed. On the way back to the classroom, he tossed it in the trash. That made me feel even more impressed. And I got it. Ladaner always did the assignments he gave us, but he didn’t dwell on his vastly superior technical ability. He was just hanging out, hanging loose, participating. He said, “Draw every day,” because that’s what he did. But he didn’t get hung up on it. He was more like a drummer doing his rudiments.

Years later, I was a writing instructor at a different university and had the privilege of teaching beginning fiction writing to his very quiet, buttoned-down, organized daughter in order to help her fulfill a gen ed requirement. On the first day, when I saw her name, I asked whether there was any relation (this university was in a different state). She said her father was a professor of art at UCI.

After regaining the power of speech, I said to tell him hi from me, that I once sat in on one of his fantastic drawing and painting workshops. She just gave me a look. I don’t think she ever said anything of the sort to him and I didn’t bring it up again. By the 15th week, she had a solid B in my class, only because she missed two assignments. I treated her like everyone else. She was a good student but largely uninterested in creative writing. Still, part of me really wanted to tell her that a lot of what I’d come to believe about the writing process and about life began with her father’s concepts.

Don’t be afraid to draw a wobbly line or write a wobbly sentence. Maybe you can fix it in the mix. When the time comes, maybe you won’t even want to. And maybe, if you’re really into it, you won’t think about yourself at all. That’s when I know I’m doing it right, when I disappear.

I try to have multiple projects going at once. I try not to get too self-conscious or fixated on whether I’m writing well, even though I sometimes can’t help it. A writing teacher of mine put it like this: “A writer can be shy and afraid of anything in life except writing.” So I try to be brave and let the project move through me instead of getting in the way.

In The Creative Act, Rick Rubin points out that we have to approach it with everything that we are: “We begin with everything: everything seen, everything done, everything thought, everything felt, everything imagined, everything forgotten, and everything that rests unspoken and unthought within us.” But it’s better if we’re not conscious of this inner substance. We don’t think, now I’m going to write a sad scene. We write a scene. And if the scene is sad, it’s sad.

Genre fiction writers call this “pantsing” (writing by the seat of one’s pants). They often despise it because the publishing industry does its best to make them deeply anxious about whether their work is marketable. But it’s a lot like making love. You can’t make love if you’re afraid of letting go. You can’t make art if you’re afraid of letting go. You can’t make friends, either. And you definitely can’t make love to artistic friends. 

I remind myself: you have to confront uncertainty. You have to allow yourself to get lost, step off the path, forget the editorial style sheet, fall off the outline. You have to disappear.

Actors understand this. Francis Ford Coppola described Gene Hackman’s performance in The Conversation as “the first time I saw Gene truly lose himself. He wasn’t performing; he was unraveling.” Hackman was so immersed in the role, he was able to go off script in a way that squared perfectly with the character. Many of the best scenes in that movie were more like channeling than acting. Then again, at the deepest level, is there really much difference?

Words and the Reunification of Words

College. I won an award from the German Department: “Most Improved Student of German,” oder Der Deutschlerner mit den Größten Fortschritten. Or something like that. It was an award for good character and endurance rather than achievement, a participation trophy given to students like me.

Students like me: generally those whose families didn’t have villas in Bavaria. My family had a villa in east San Diego on Cherokee Avenue and we had German Shepherds, but it wasn’t the same. Maybe I couldn’t afford to go on any of the sponsored international trips. Maybe I couldn’t manage to learn the language in any functional sense. But I had a pulse and was willing to sign up, course after course. Hence, “Most Improved Student of German.”

The German Department at UC Irvine needed students to keep taking German. So the Department sought to develop a novel pedagogical strategy: encouragement. Deployed effectively, it was intended to keep those of us at the bottom of every class ranking (the German Department wanted to be encouraging, but it would not give up its internal student ranking system) from becoming too hopeless and depressed.

But I soon understood that if your father was a diplomat and you spent your summers in Berlin, you wouldn’t need such help. Sandra von Hayden’s father, for example, really was a diplomat. She liked to ask me what in the world I thought I was doing in German. She sat next to me, quarter after quarter, from German I up through Post-WWII Literature B, asking versions of that question, until I realized that her constant rudeness was a mode of flirtation. Unfortunately or fortunately, the realization came too late. I mostly pretended she didn’t exist. But later I’d ask myself, “What in the world do you think you’re doing here?”

There was the aristocratic Belgian kid, Benji, who knew Jerry Garcia and a bunch of other celebrities and politicians, sad black-dress-wearing Lena, and cheerful Day-Glo anime lunchbox Cindy Chang, who was quite possibly the only German student worse than me. I recall some Swiss kid, living in Huntington Beach, who was trying to be a surfer dude for a year, and a gorgeous Italian exchange student who seemed to already know ten languages and was now studying Russian and German at the same time. I also have a vague memory of an older Canadian guy, who kept asking people to call him “Grumpy Bear” (Mürrischer Bär); though, the reason for that is lost to time.

The teacher, Herr Steiner, called me “Herr Davis” because of my constant comical seriousness and constant comical mistakes. He called Cindy, “Immer-spät Cindy” because of her constant comical lateness. Together, Cindy Chang and I were the two comical North Americans studying German in North America. I don’t remember the other students. When I think about those years, many things are blurry because I was trying to write a science fiction novel and I believed that required industrial-sized bales of marijuana and a comparable amount of alcohol.

Still, I got As in nearly all of my classes, including the ones in German. I studied hard during the week. On the weekends, I worked on my novel about a scientist who develops a process for communicating with an alien intelligence inherent in metals and then applies it to the iron in human blood. He becomes a kind of prescient vampire, someone who knows things that should not be known. I never finished the first draft, but I worked on it for a long time. On certain blurry evenings, I allowed myself to think it was brilliant.

But back to Bavaria. Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Munich. Shopping in Bonn. Hiking in the Black Forest. Concerts in gowns and tuxedos with Vati und Mutti. Such things were closed to me and, now that I think back on it, I’m pretty sure that was good. I wouldn’t be the questionable character that I am today if I’d been that respectable at age 19.

I should have taken Spanish and eventually I did. But I felt obsessed with German. And I am constitutionally incapable of stopping once I develop an obsession. The world gave me subtle hints—sometimes not-so-subtle hints—that I should quit while I was behind. But I am stubborn and prone to saying, “No, fuck that. I’ll do what I want,” even if I have to say it in a language I don’t fully understand.

Lean days. I didn’t own a computer. The UCI humanities library still had a glass room full of typewriters and one could see students in there, applying correction tape to their term papers every November. I had an IBM Selectric that my pot friend, Kyle, stole for me out of a car, and a Brother word processor with a LED screen half as big as your phone. I couldn’t afford the ink cartridges for the Brother. More often than not, it was the Selectric, which overheated every two hours. So that was my weekend work method: write for two hours, smoke, read, write for two more hours.

But the German Department award came with two interesting prizes. One was Wörter und die Wiedervereinigung der Wörter, a book of poems by Hans-Jost Frey, and $500. I should have bought a better Selectric at a yard sale and saved the rest of the money, but I believe I’ve established the sort of decisions I was making at that point in my life. Instead, I went to Sears because they were having a sale on used Packard Bell computers.

Little did I know that Packard Bells are historically regarded as some of the worst computers ever made. I didn’t know a thing about computers. I just thought, this is what I need to finish the novel. And, of course, once I completed my novel, everything would change. I had big dreams. All it would take was a little more perseverance, a little more fuck that.

I also didn’t know that the cleared-out area next to the garden section where they had the used computers on display was staffed by two guys getting paid on commission. I hadn’t yet explored the world of retail sales and had no idea what brutal exigencies of fate could cause a 30-year-old man named Ted to have to work in Sears, next to a wall of lawnmowers, selling the worst computers ever made.

He had supernaturally bad dandruff. I’ll never forget it. At first, I thought it was a white speckled design on the shoulders of his blazer. This was, after all, 1993, and you could still see styles like that from the the 80s.

Ted said, “Hey dude,” and we shook hands in front of a shelf of assembled Packard Bell systems. They were being offered as packages: computer, printer, monitor, keyboard, mouse, and I think some kind of plastic desktop organizer for pens and paperclips. $400 for each bundle.

We stood in the green garden show area, breathing the fertilizer from one aisle over, and nodded in mutual appreciation. This was it. I was going to be one of those people who owned a computer. I was a serious man now. I felt like I was one step away from having a cream business card with WRITER embossed on it.

Ted rattled off a number of technical details and I nodded like I understood. In fact, I’d expected nothing less. It had a modem inside it, you see, so you didn’t have to buy that idiotic phone receiver cradle that everybody knew about because we’d seen pictures of them in magazines. No, this was a Packard Bell. And that meant you could use this program called “Mosaic” to get on this other thing called the “Internet,” where everything was free. And, Ted grinned, you could see titties. So many titties. “Am I right?”

I felt over-stimulated. I grinned back and said, “Right!” not really understanding what he meant. I knew generally about titties but had no idea about the internet or how the two might work together. I was a babe in the woods, a foal in the meadow, a kitten of the universe taking his very first steps onto the windowsill of consequence. Titties, you say? Internal modem? Why this is precisely the reason I came to patronize your fine establishment, my good sir.

Ted and I had obviously become the best of friends, which is why, in the process of ringing me up, he felt he needed to mention that the system clock didn’t “work perfect” and there was “something up” with the floppy drive. But, really, I’d chosen the best model there. Really. I was gonna love it. He knew I would.

When I got to the parking lot, where Kyle was waiting in my ancient Chevy Blazer, I realized I was an idiot. He stepped out, coughed 100 times, waved smoke out of the car, and squinted. “You just bought that with the money?” he said to the giant cardboard box that had once held an orange ceramic planter. He said it as if “that” were something incomprehensible and yet horribly depressing. And in that moment, I realized he was right. It was both of those things. I turned on my heel and went back to the garden center.

Ted wasn’t as happy to see me when I walked back in. When I told him I wanted to return it, he looked even less happy.

“You can’t do this to me,” he said.

“I want to return it.”

“You can’t return it. It’s used.”

“I’ve got the receipt you just gave me. It says I can return it within 30 days.”

“No, you can’t. That’s not right.”

At that moment, Ted’s colleague, a very thin man with hard eyes, who looked like he should have been manning the desk of a motel with hourly rates, shot Ted a glance and said, “Yes, actually, he can.”

Ted looked at him and seemed like he was about to cry. Then he looked back at me from behind the sales counter and said, “My mother’s in the hospital. I need this.”

And I said something like, “Why don’t you buy her a Packard Bell?” At which point, he gave me a look like he wanted to stab me with one of the garden section’s hedge clippers and processed my return.

I dropped Kyle off and gave him $20 for coming with me to Sears—because unless he was stealing something for you out of the goodness of his heart, Kyle never did anything for free—and went home feeling twitchy and strange. I’d never had that much money at one time in my life and I felt like I’d almost given it away to a pathological liar with dandruff.

On Monday, I was back in Deutschstunde, watching Sandra von Hayden field strip and meticulously clean the inside of her mechanical pencil with a Q-tip. She noticed me watching and mouthed, “What the fuck?” I gave her an empty stare and turned back to the documentary Herr Steiner was showing on the development of the Saxon dialect. Unfortunately, the documentary was in Saxon and even the Italian exchange student was having a rough go of it.

Immer-spät Cindy was, unsurprisingly, spät. When she sat down on the other side of me, she whispered, “What’d I miss, huh?” and Sandra glared at her.

“They’re speaking Saxon,” I said.

“What in the hell is that?”

I’d noticed that Cindy had recently started to wear fewer florescent items and pepper her language with profanity, which vaguely saddened me.

“It’s a dialect.”

“Herr Davis?” said Herr Steiner.

And I whispered, “Sorry.”

That night or maybe the night after, I would attempt to read some poems from Hans-Jost Frey’s book about words and how they get reunified and how this was like the reunification of Germany. I’d succeed enough to understand how far I still had to go. I still had the Selectric. I planned to buy 10 Brother ink cartridges. Maybe that weekend, I’d give Kyle a $20 to keep me company on a trip to a print shop where I could get some business cards made. Cream. Embossed.

What if?

My fellow fiction writers, I’m not asking you to accept this, just to entertain it: what if you engaged in less self-promotion and diverted a little more energy to the substance of your writing?

What if you read more of what you love and also made sure to read some poetry? What if you stepped out from behind your shield of irony, self-consciousness, sarcasm, and cute internet lingo? What if you did something sensuous or dangerous, preferably outside your living space? What if you stopped numbing yourself and voluntarily felt some pain—perhaps only to see how far you could go?

You would slow down. You would be less monetized and your momentary publicity would decrease. Yes, the rat race of cynical, always-online, self-promoting content regurgitation would pass by for a time.

You probably wouldn’t die. You might live.

Government Cheese: There’s Only One Way to Write a Novel

 

Writing a novel is a sustained evocation of mental energy, of shifting energetic states, and you have to acknowledge that on some level if you want to do it. This isn’t me pulling out the crystals. I’m saying that the state of mind involved in writing a novel is very different than that of a short story or a screenplay. It’s sometimes compared to an endurance run, but that doesn’t fully encapsulate how it feels when you’re actually writing. Maybe nothing can truly convey the feeling. You have to experience it for yourself.

The act of producing creative writing (maybe of producing any writing) seems subjective in the extreme. But look at the multitude of writing programs out there. There must be something about the practice that’s objective and teachable. I think, maybe: grammar, spelling, punctuation, awareness of voice, economy of language, paragraphing, dramatic tension, plot structure, metaphor, concrete detail, chapter dynamics, dialogue, symbolism, mood, perspective, cliché avoidance, implicit characterization, theme, and narrative summary.

Those are probably the things that can be taught. But they can’t really be taught. They can only be presented and absorbed. You get them or you don’t. You get them by reading, by being quiet and listening, by discarding the methods, formulas, and nostrums that purport to teach you about doing them so that you can experience the actual, unmediated thing. You have to get writing at the soul level, if you’ll excuse me for shouting from all the way back at the crystal counter.

Yes, I’m being romantic. Making art is a romantic thing. It’s not replacing irrigation systems or baking pies or doing basement plumbing; though, I should note that if you treated basement plumbing like an art, like something you have to essentially intuit through doing, through long observation, through cultivating appreciation, even through love, it would be pretty damn romantic, too.  Basement plumbing can be an adventure like novel writing. Ready? Bring me the PVC Charlotte pipe and some Oatey. This draft isn’t going to write itself.

In my first university creative writing workshop, the instructor said to the class, “I know a lot of you want to be writers. If there’s anything else you can do with your lives, do it. Because this is no way to live”—said the associate professor on the tenure track with his third book being turned into a screenplay for Miramax. Oh, I know, I thought, hard times.

What he was really saying was, “I’m special. None of you are special like me. So don’t try to be.” That ditty gets sung in every creative field (maybe in all fields) by those trying to reconcile crushing impostor syndrome and sunk costs with the countervailing sense that they’ve had to make deep violating sacrifices to get where they are and now they’re due for some cheddar. Bring on the cheddar, the sugar, the cash, the dancing girls. You owe me. “You” being the entire world in general and certain key individuals who haven’t yet come across with the goods. I want it and I want it now. See this contract? It’s a two-book deal. Look at it. LOOK AT IT.

Sure. So while he was saying this to us, I was thinking that I didn’t know if I was a writer, but I did know that I never wanted to be the sort of person who tells a room full of young, optimistic people to quit while they’re ahead.  To my credit, as a writing instructor, I have never done that.  Because you never know what somebody can do and talent is mostly hype.

You (yes, you, my little cabbage) can write a short story today.  You can write a good short story maybe next year (if you write most of the days between now and then and read a lot).  If you lay enough pipe, maybe you can write a novel, too. And my message to you is not that you need to be special.  No one is special.  My message is simple: time is short. So get to it.  Don’t quit while you’re ahead.  Don’t quit while you’re behind.  Don’t quit.

But I’m starting to sound like a motivational speaker, which is not my intention. Yesterday, in one of those weird end-of-day office conversations that only make sense after a gallon of coffee and a greasy cafeteria lunch have brought one around again to a deep appreciation of the plumbing arts, someone said that nobody wants a conservative artist the way nobody wants a hippie CEO.

Artists need to be liberal and romantic.  CEOs need to be stapled down and pragmatic. Otherwise, the great chain of being will snap into the abyss.  Apples will fly up.  Sad clowns will laugh again. And all the stained glass in all the cathedrals of the world will shatter at once.  If I’m not up at 3:00 AM with Lord Byron, drinking Albariño Do Ferreiro out of a human skull and speculating about beauty, am I even human?

It’s the mental shifts that get you. Your life is a river of thought, of energy.  You cannot change the course of the river—even if the uncertainty and lack of agency implicit in that realization cause so much anxiety that you run to the methods, formulas, and nostrums for at least some semblance of control. In this work, there is no control other than revision, which comes as an afterthought.

First and foremost, there’s the river, which twists and turns, shifting through the landscape of your weeks and months.  You have to let it carry you.  And the only way to do that is to trust it’s heading somewhere. That sort of trust doesn’t come from the world telling you you’re special. It comes from being afraid and doing it anyhow.

Don’t all rivers flow to the sea? If you don’t believe me, listen to the King:

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea,

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be.

Which is to say, you need to let it happen and get out of the way.  Let it flow, holmes. What will be, will be.  There is nothing more authentically human than experiencing something with that degree of inscrutable inevitability. And being afraid.

My various writing instructors (assiduously not teaching novel writing, ever) over the years must have had the facility with language to express these things.  I suspect they didn’t because novels are what sell.  Novels are, as the abovementioned instructor put it on a different occasion, where it’s at. Novels bring the cheddar, the government cheese (in his case, the state college cheese).

Why teach 15-20 youngsters every semester how to become your competition when you could derail them into decades of story writing and frustration?  Instead, be sure to impart a short-form aesthetic that, while certainly beautiful, will also certainly not help them into an associate professorship and a novel optioned by Miramax.  Teach them scrimshaw instead of casting in bronze. You’re the bronze guy, after all.

We may not be special.  And the world may not need another novel (or another plumber, though, if I had to choose, the latter always seems like the better option), but when we get down to it, the world really doesn’t need anything.  It doesn’t need another accountant, another inflatable beach ball, another green-eyed cat with a striped tail.

Like the cat, you’re here because that river of energy coalesced into the shape of a person. You want to write a novel because that same energy put some mysterious sacred geometry in your head that makes you see in the dark with a writer’s eyes. And that means even if there’s something else you can do with your life, you don’t have to. You can do what you want.

Ang Lee wrote:

At one point, my in-laws gave their daughter (my wife) a sum of money, intended as start-up capital for me to open a Chinese restaurant – hoping that a business would help support my family. But my wife refused the money. When I found out about this exchange, I stayed up several nights and finally decided: This dream of mine is not meant to be. I must face reality.

Afterward (and with a heavy heart), I enrolled in a computer course at a nearby community college. At a time when employment trumped all other considerations, it seemed that only a knowledge of computers could quickly make me employable. For the days that followed, I descended into malaise. My wife, noticing my unusual demeanor, discovered a schedule of classes tucked in my bag. She made no comment that night.

The next morning, right before she got in her car to head off to work, my wife turned back and – standing there on our front steps – said, “Ang, don’t forget your dream.”

And that dream of mine – drowned by demands of reality – came back to life. As my wife drove off, I took the class schedule out of my bag and slowly, deliberately tore it to pieces. And tossed it in the trash.

Sometime after, I obtained funding for my screenplay, and began to shoot my own films. And after that, a few of my films started to win international awards. Recalling earlier times, my wife confessed, “I’ve always believed that you only need one gift. Your gift is making films. There are so many people studying computers already, they don’t need an Ang Lee to do that. If you want that golden statue, you have to commit to the dream.”

But back to drinking wine from human skulls: do it, mon petit chou, and have no regrets. Many people have uttered words over Albariño Do Ferreiro at 3:00 AM with Lord Byron regarding the subject of beauty. Why not you?

 

Oda a Frank McCourt

Ni un solo momento, viejo hermoso Frank McCourt,

he dejado de ver tu barba llena de mariposas . . .

Working at a state university provides certain unasked-for pleasures, certain unwanted fringe benefits, and a wide assortment of things you thought you’d left behind a long time ago, not unlike drinking turned wine instead of putting it in the compost. Why do you do it? You’re not broke anymore. But you have various poor-person habits, which are nearly impossible to kick. You don’t throw the past-date wine out. You drink it or it’ll go to waste.

Likewise, you know better than to have idle conversations with students dressed in black in punishing tropical humidity outside the big humanities building. But you have certain adjunct writing instructor habits, which are nearly impossible to kick. 87% of your digestive system knows better, but the idealistic 13% that’s still refluxing with teaching takes an interest. You don’t avoid an inevitably stupid and pretentious conversation. You start right up.

Oh, you’re MFA students? Fiction writing? I was something of a fiction writer myself a long time ago.

Working Monday through Friday in the admin wing of an academic department far removed from anything you studied, before you got old and late-stage adolescents stopped taking you seriously, adds an unmistakably robust bouquet with fruity secondary notes. But striking up conversations with grad students who actually are in your field—which should be a better experience but isn’t—finishes with a mouthfeel of straight vinegar. You meet Eden and Zan and speak to them about their writing program. You know you shouldn’t, but you do.

It’s hard being the sort of person who can find meaning in anything. Zan explains this when you ask him why he wants to be a writer. He snaps it out, the elevator pitch of a theater kid, which is what he was before he arrived to do a master of fine arts in creative writing. He smiles, condescending and awkward at the same time. He asks what you’re studying and you tell him you aren’t. You’re an admin in Obscure Social Sciences Related Department. Ah. He smiles again and puts his arm around Eden, who has the same smile, though perhaps slightly meaner, and gives off tentative girlfriend vibes or lost soul with boundary issues vibes. Because you are old, it’s hard to tell the difference.

Makes you think of something Harry Bryant says to Deckard in the first act of Blade Runner: “You’re not cop, you’re little people.” In that noir retroclone cyberpunk world, Bryant can back up his elitism with violence. In the insecure incubative MFA world, Zan backs it up by continuing to smile while meticulously rolling a cigarette. You’re a university admin office drone? You’re little people.

College kids these days don’t really smoke, which is why he does. Eden doesn’t, though. Her thing is just staring intensely at you over his shoulder until something happens.

Nothing’s ever going to happen. You ask if their names have always been Eden and Zan or if those are stage names or pen names. Zan says he doesn’t like being limited by personal history.

You notice Eden has a very thin ring through her septum and you try not to look at it. Every other student seems to have one. It’s not so edgy. It’s like a tramp stamp or various pronouncements etched on the upper arm, almost compulsory now. E Pluribus Unum. To thy own self be true. In loving memory of the world’s greatest grampa, Leonard Johnston, 1958-2020. Brad Is My Love. The Truth Hurts. Sure, sure, don’t be a jerk. She might have technicolor Foghorn Leghorn playing a harp on her inner thigh but she’s got the soul of a poet. You’re just old and cynical.

She does have Foghorn Leghorn on her thigh. Or a menacing chicken wearing boxing gloves who looks a lot like him. But you’re not staring at the nose ring. So don’t even start with the thigh. Let the kids smoke and sweat like they’re supposed to and tell you about how much meaning there is in the world.

You make things worse by asking what they’re reading. He’s reading the Marquis de Sade’s stories. Because of course he is. She’s reading We Were Liars, a YA horror novel. Zan asks what you’re reading and in a flash ofpreventive insight you say, “Spreadsheets, mostly.”

He expects something like that. Or, “Nothing. I don’t read,” which would also have been acceptable in the grand calculus of the little people, the wee folk up in some administrative office, who putter about in a haze of Obscure Social Sciences Related data. Neither cast ye your pearls before swine, ye Schweinehund. Cast ye them not. Nay.

She says she’s reading Angela’s Ashes in her narratology of memoir seminar and it’s cool because Frank McCourt was, like, 60 when he published it and then he won the Pulitzer. You say you think he might have been 66, not 60. And she looks at you.

But who gives a shit about Frank McCourt? “Not I,” said the cat.

I’m the Greatest Writer of my Generation

Bukowski wrote a scene in which Henry Chinaski attends a test screening of what would become the film, Barfly. He’s drunk and, fed up, starts shouting that he’s the greatest writer of his generation and don’t they realize this. I read it in my early 20s on a bus from San Diego to Iowa City because I’d gotten into the University of Iowa as an undergraduate and thought I might go to school there. Ultimately, I didn’t. But the week-long bus trip turned out to be an epic voyage unlike anything I’d experienced thus far in my life.

Large parts of it were also boring and gave me time to read Hollywood, Borges’ Labyrinths, a Dean Koontz horror novel, Midnight, and The Sun Also Rises. I didn’t know then that I was a writer; though, I’d already fallen into the habit of writing every day and had begun to form a sense of the literature I liked and that which I wanted to avoid. Years later, as a writing instructor, I’d come to see these two things as common traits in beginning writers—the need to write and strong preferences about reading. Interestingly, these qualities are not always present in students and scholars of literature, which is what I thought I wanted to be at that point.

And before you say, Really? Dean Koontz? with that look on your face, I’ll add that it’s good to explore what everyone has been bullied into agreeing is unworthy. I’ve read far more Stephen King than Dean Koontz. I think the former is a better pulp writer than the latter. But, even back then, I wasn’t going to allow myself to be shamed out of reading anything. Read everything. It’s not healthy to restrict yourself to the current, politically unassailable conversation-piece novels being extruded by the Big Six. That said, yes, Koontz is mostly a shit writer. But sometimes you have to excavate the shit to get to the good stuff beneath it.

I wanted to study English lit in the Midwest because it was far away from southern California, where I grew up and which I regarded as the locus of my teenage suffering. I hadn’t learned that the locus of one’s suffering is more ubiquitous and less tangible than merely the place where you did time in high school. Unfortunately, the early 20s are like that. You think there must be answers and that others must have them. How else could the world function? That’s one reason I still read fiction even though I know better. The search for nonexistent answers is a hard habit to kick.

So there’s Henry Chinaski, doing his enfant terrible routine in the back of a screening room in Hollywood, shouting with as much self-conscious irony as possible, Don’t you know who I am? Maybe Bukowski believed, at the time Barfly was being made, that more people should know about him and acknowledge his talent. But I suspect it was just the opposite: he felt that fewer smarmy media people should be kissing his ass while he nonetheless obsessively courted that attention.

In Starship: The Magazine about Science Fiction, Robert Anton Wilson describes this personality type:

Most of the characteristics which make for success in writing are precisely those which we are all taught to repress. These characteristics are denounced by religious leaders everywhere, by most philosophers, and by many famous psychologists. I refer to such qualities as vanity, pride, even conceit; to raw egotism and grandiosity; to the firm belief that you are an important person, that you are a lot smarter than most people, and that your ideas are so damned important that everybody should listen to you.

Wilson exaggerates to make a point about the necessity of getting past writerly impostor syndrome, which seems more prevalent in young writers now than ever before. Being a good, sanitary, moral citizen may be at odds with producing fiction that isn’t flaccid. Unfortunately, mannered writing is often rewarded by businessmen who think of books in terms of “units” and scholars who’ve exchanged their libidos for analytical abilities and an academic nihil obstat.

Nevertheless, it may be reasonable to say we’d like to write what we’d like to write.  And we’d like to feel less like impostors while we do it.  We might not need to indulge in Wilson’s “raw egotism and grandiosity” or, as Chuck put it in a 1964 letter to Ann Bauman, “New tenant downstairs knocks on her ceiling (my floor) when I type. This, of course, disturbs the thought context all to hell. Doesn’t she know that I am the great Charles Bukowski?” We would like the thought context, at least, to remain stable.

A few years after my fateful interstate bus odyssey to Iowa, I found myself standing in a one-bedroom apartment in Los Angeles with a Turk named Marat, both of us holding electric guitars plugged into enormous Marshall amps, which, if dialed up one or two more notches, would have disintegrated us at an atomic level.

Nobody cared.  People played loud music all the time in that neighborhood, mostly rap, which Marat hated.  Hence, his daily hour of deafening scales and perfect renditions of every song off his favorite practice albums, And Justice for All, Surfing with the Alien, and Seasons in the Abyss.  We could sometimes hear people outside on the street yell, “Turn that shit off!” or just “Fuck you, white boy!”  Those were more innocent times.

Marat was a fellow student at UC Irvine (my B-choice after realizing that Iowa wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be) and he had a record executive uncle back in Istanbul.  He’d supposedly gotten guitar lessons from Kirk Hammett and Eddie Van Halen.  Now, having established my worthiness, he’d decided to pass on the electric guitar darshan to me.  But I was hopeless.

He gave me lessons for about a month on equipment and instruments that probably three-fourths of Los Angeles couldn’t afford.  And I struggled to follow him through songs like “Always with Me, Always with You” and “Dead Skin Mask,” which Marat thought should be relaxing and teachable.  One thing he did tell me, though, which seemed extremely weird at the time but which made sense to me years later in a Bukowskian way, was “You’re holding it like a classical guitar.  That’s bullshit.  You have to hold it like your cock.”

Granted, he was as macho as he was romantic and he thought real artists should be willing to destroy themselves.  So, having listened to Marat’s aesthetic philosophies for almost a year, him saying I should hold the guitar like my cock wasn’t that outrageous. He could have just as easily said, “First, you have to dive off the roof and land on your face. Only then will you be ready for the arpeggios in ‘Eye of the Beholder.’”  Maybe so.  Maybe so.

I often think about this advice, something that could not be uttered publicly—if only due to its forbidden machismo, much less the fact that it wasn’t said by Lizzo, any post-1980s rapper, or a tranced-out John Fetterman. As such, it qualifies as an esoteric teaching on par with Wilson’s claim, in that same article, that society probably hates writers and wants them to fail if they dare believe in themselves:

The only thing most people hate more than success is self-confidence—a warning signal that you might be a success soon. This is not what they teach you in Sunday School, but it happens to be true: at any evidence that you might be a success, the envious will do everything in their power to destroy you.

Therefore, there is no chance at all that a high self-esteem will go unchallenged; it will be challenged on all sides, daily. On the other hand, if you have a low opinion of yourself, nobody will ever correct it. You will have it for life unless you correct it yourself.

Hold the guitar like it’s your cock.  Wave it over the crowd like a benediction. People will hate you.  Live, laugh, love. So goes the creative process, the harmonium of the spheres. You have the further option of staying up all night, drinking cheap wine, and listening to classical music on the radio, but that may be too much Henry Chinaski for comfort.

I don’t know what happened to Marat after he went back to Istanbul.  I like to imagine he became a rich music executive like his uncle before the record industry disappeared.  I still can’t play “Blackened” and I haven’t felt the urge to stand up and scream at groups of people that they should know who I am.  The sheer audacity of sitting down to write anything is enough for me.  It’s probably enough for people to hate me, as I discovered last year when a literary magazine nervously un-accepted a story of mine because I was openly critical of certain political figures on social media.

You are, however, encouraged to secretly regard me as the greatest writer of my generation.  I’ll do my best to hold the guitar properly and send you forth with writerly blessings.  Or perhaps with this thought from the opening of Bukowski’s “My Stay in the Poet’s Cottage”:

for those of you interested in madness, yours or mine, I can tell you a little about mine. I stayed at the poet’s cottage at the University of Arizona, not because I am established but because nobody but a damn fool or a poor man ever visits or stays in Tucson in the summer months. it averaged around 106 degrees during my whole stay. nothing to do but drink beer. I am a poet who has made it known that I do not give readings. I am also a person who becomes quite a jackass when drunk. and when sober I don’t have anything to say, so there weren’t many knocks at the poet’s cottage.

There’s never anything to say when you’re staying in the poet’s cottage.  Nothing.  No one knows you’re the greatest writer of your generation.  You don’t even know. It’s unclear how you got there and, goddamit, someone keeps tapping on the ceiling when you’re trying to work.  There are no answers and you feel confused about the questions.  Turn up the amp.  Land on your face. If you live, Rimbaud. If not, well, the thought context probably wasn’t right.  Too bad for you.  You’re in the poet’s cottage now, bucko.

Closer to Fine

 

A story that floats by, into the sun.

Kelsey sent me an email from Saint Louis, said did I want to come out there and do drugs.  She didn’t mention what the drugs were, just did I want to come out there and visit her and, by the way, there were some drugs.  It was fine and I could stay with her.  And the implication was we could do the drugs together.  Coming from Kelsey, that was just about a protestation of love.

But I didn’t want to do some drugs.  I also didn’t want to hurt her feelings.  I would’ve liked to have stayed with Kelsey for a couple months, fuck a lot, get up late, eat fancy breakfasts, and pretend we’re Seriously Involved With Each Other the way we’d done once or twice in the past.  But drugs made me nervous.  She didn’t say weed.  She didn’t say smoking in the oblique stoner way that meant mellow days and hazy good times.  She came straight out with it: There’s some drugs.  It’s fine.  Fine is the worst word in the English language.  Fine means trouble and misery.  It means bad shit.  Whenever there’s some drugs, it’s always fine.

She was staying with Grant, who I knew from Kansas City, and Denise, who I didn’t know, but who I’d heard of.  And I can say that both of them were fine.  So fine I might go far out of my way to ensure that I never encountered them in a house or on the street or in a bar or in the office of an attorney, all of which nearly happened back in KC but didn’t.  Not ever doing some drugs with them ensured that it wouldn’t.

But part of me might have still been in love with Kelsey.  Or, if not in love, then in a feverish kind of lust and affection that made me overlook things like her history of minor offenses and her ODing in my bathtub three summers ago and trashing the place because I said she couldn’t have a cat.

“What’ll you feed it,” I asked.

“I’ll feed it whatever.”

“No,” I said, “you’ll give it cheese puffs and then forget all about it and it’ll die or it’ll try to eat your ear off in your sleep.  And then I’ll have to kill it because it’ll have become a menace.  And once I kill it for your own protection, you’ll blame me.  And this’ll come up again in like a year and I’ll never hear the end of it.  So no.  You don’t get a cat.  Do you want a burrito?”

“No, I want a cat.”

“You don’t get one.  You may have a burrito.”

“Fuck your burrito.”

Then she proceeded to break all our windows, screaming about how she wanted a cat and fuck my burrito.

I could overlook all those episodes with Kelsey, all those fine moments, like when she tried to turn a party of horny Air Force helicopter pilots against me by flirting with each one of them because I had a cold and wanted to go home.  She didn’t want to go home because there was a lot of booze in the Air Force’s kitchen and, at the time, we didn’t have any in ours.  So many fine moments that almost ended in a fistfight or a car wreck or jail.  But still, still.  We all have those people who affect us like some drugs, and Kelsey had that effect on me.

So she was out in Saint Louis and there were the drugs and Grant and Denise and it was all just fine.  Kelsey thought I knew something about something.  She thought I could come back into her life and say this is good; that’s not; do this; don’t do that and everything would work out.  Like I exuded the gravity of a small moon.  It wasn’t much, but it could keep her from floating by, into the sun.

I bought a train ticket from Hauberk, Missouri, to Saint Louis’ Gateway Station.  I could have driven to Saint Louis in about three hours, but Grant and Denise were in my thoughts.  I wouldn’t have trusted either of them with a rusty bicycle, much less my ancient Dodge Dart.  My neighbor had a shed.  So I paid him $50 to keep the car locked up in there for a week and we shook on it.

Kelsey would eventually tell me Grant and Denise were deep into ketamine instead of oxy, if that makes a difference, like saying so-and-so is a Lutheran instead of a Catholic.  Different culture, different furnishings, same facial expressions, same doom loop.  Addicts, like expert oenologists or bespoke flügelhorn valve artisans, will disagree that it’s all the same.  They’ll see a world of differences between certain wines or horn valves.  But I’d been clean since the bathtub incident three years ago.  That was three years of meetings and calling my sponsor twice a week.  I didn’t want to think about one drug versus another.  I found myself thinking about it anyway.

In Grant and Denise’s case, and maybe Kelsey’s too,  I’d have guessed oxy or DMT or even old-school valium, because coke was definitely out of their pay grade.  But it didn’t matter.  They’d chosen ketamine.  They looked completely out of it when I arrived.  And I knew they wouldn’t not be out of it anytime soon.

I was sitting on the sofa, drinking a cup of instant coffee with Kelsey and Byron, who had a guitar instead of a shirt and gave off the powerful vibe of a person who sells some drugs, when Byron’s boyfriend, Petey, walked in wearing a yellow WWI gas mask and nothing else.  Grant and Denise were on the other sofa, sleeping again.  Byron strummed the same chord over and over.   Kelsey had her head on my shoulder and I thought she might also be asleep.

Petey had no body hair.  He presented himself in the middle of the living room.

“Nice,” I said.  “What are you, naked apocalypse guy?”

“Is it nice?”  Petey’s voice sounded tiny and flat from inside the gas mask.

“It’s nice,” said Byron.  “So nice.”  He strummed his chord.

Petey did some body builder poses.  He was skinny and had the rubbery look of someone who assiduously waxes and moisturizes, all sharp angles, smooth planes, veins, and stringy muscles.

Then Denise sat up.  She coughed, worked her tongue around her mouth because she’d been sleeping with it open, and gave Petey a look.  “Do us a favor and put on some pants, okay?  I don’t want to see that.”

“This?”  Petey thrust his hips at her.

“Yeah.”

“Why not?  You racist?”

I thought Denise was going to overcome the pill-head stereotype and physically throw Petey out the door.  She was a big woman, pretty and Midwestern-solid in spite of the T-shirt, sweats, and tangled hair.  She looked like once, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, she might have had her life together.  Maybe before she hooked up with Grant in KC.

“Don’t say dumb shit in my living room.”

“I’m Portuguese.  You can’t handle that?”

“Get going, Petey.”

He looked at her through the gas mask, then padded down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door.

“Can you get him out of here?” she asked Byron.

He stood up and nodded, slung the guitar across his back.  “Namaste,” he said.

I spent that first night far from any lust and affection or even conversation.  Kelsey said three words to me before she passed out: “Shit, you came.”  She’d gotten so high before I arrived that the sense of her as a human being was totally absent.  Her body was now a hollow thing, mind and soul elsewhere.  I carried her to bed.  Then I lay down next to her, listening to her breathe, looking at the tree-branch shadows on the wall.

The next day was better.  Kelsey’d sobered up and her usual wary look had returned.  She’s not telling me something, I thought.  Something’s messed up and she doesn’t want me to know.  Then I laughed.  Of course.  What did I expect?  Everything was fine.

Grant and Denise didn’t answer when I knocked softly on their bedroom door.  So Kelsey and I took the bus to the university to see Byron read his poems.  Byron had discovered a T-shirt and looked high and his poems were bad.  But everyone I knew seemed like they were high so often it had become an empty designation.  Byron frowned and said:

You are literally trembling.

I didn’t mean to be cruel.

That doesn’t mean you were kind.

Then he strummed his guitar a few times.  Nobody in the audience clapped or even moved.  It went on for 45 minutes.  There were a few professor types checking their phones, a few fidgety kids who might have been on a high school trip, and what were probably the students from Byron’s creative writing class—all sitting up front with shrewd, critical expressions.  Petey was sitting with them.  Without the gas mask, his shaved head gleamed.  When he looked back at us, I saw he had a bushy gray mustache.

Kelsey put her hand on my leg.  “This is killing me.”

“We can go.”  I put my hand over hers but she pulled away.

“No.  We have to be nice to Byron.”

I took a break to get a drink at the crusty water fountain in the hall.  The university auditorium was enormous but attendance was low.  I was surprised there were people milling around in the hallway outside.  But then I wasn’t.  They all looked the same: unnaturally thin, glassy, twitchy, like their train was about to leave the station but they didn’t have a ticket.  Ah yes, I thought.

Two girls leaned against the bulletin boards on either side of the hallway and stared at me without turning their heads.  The third, a guy farther down, was announcing board notices like it was his poetry reading, too: “University alterations.  A stitch in time saves nine.  Military discount.  Hey, a Navy recruiter’s gonna be here next week.  Do something with your life, son.  Human subject pool.  You can make twenty bucks.  Farmer’s market in Lot B.  Shit, vegetables.  They’re fresh.”

I got my drink of water and one of the girls came up to me.  She had a black mini-skirt, bright green rubber sandals, and a gray zip-up hoodie with a faded emblem of Garfield the Cat.  Her curly brown hair looked damp.

“Hey.”  She smiled.

I nodded.

“So you know Byron?”

“Who?”

“Byron.  You know.”  She looked at the auditorium door.

“I don’t know,” I said.  “I’m just a poetry aficionado.”

“What?”

“I’m Professor Burke.  Edmund Burke.  At your service.”  I extended my hand and she tentatively shook it.  Hers was clammy and, for some reason, made me think of Florida.  This is how they shake in Florida, I thought.  People need to catch a train.  But first they need to find Byron.  They’re nervous.  They’re trying to join the Navy and get some vegetables.  Parts of their bodies that should be cool and dry are warm and moist.  Their hoodies don’t match their green rubber sandals.

“Oh my gosh!”  She smiled again.  “A professor!”  I caught a little contempt in the corners of her eyes, thought of her smiling like that while thrusting a broken beer bottle.  “We’re friends of Byron.  The poet.”

“Ah, the poet.”

“Can you introduce us?”

“I thought you were friends.”

Confused for a moment, smile fading, she looked back at the other girl, who was still watching with her eyes but hadn’t decided to turn her head.  The guy farther down the hall continued reading: “Therapeutic massage.  Psych 463.  Learn about emotions.  Mousetrap at the Wilson theater.  Bagels.”

“Bagels sound good right now,” I said.

“So can you introduce us?”

“I’m a professor.  My job is not to introduce.  My job is to profess.”

“What?”

I went back in but the reading was over.  Most of the people had filtered out.  Petey held an unlit cigarette while he gestured at a very tall man with a gray bowl cut.  Kelsey stood by the podium talking to Byron, her face an inch from his.

In order to avoid running into Byron’s customer base in the hall, I went out the side door by the stage and then through a maze of stairwells and windowless passages.  Just when I was beginning to despair, thinking I’d have to backtrack and confront Petey’s gleaming head, I emerged in the lower lot.  This is it, I thought.  This is the hero’s journey.  I’ve gone through the underworld.  I’ve faced the minotaur in the labyrinth and survived his shitty poetry.  I’ve spoken to the fates in their rubber slippers.  Now it’s time to make the voyage home.

I took the bus back to Grant and Denise’s.  It was good that I did, since Kelsey went somewhere that afternoon with Byron and didn’t come back.  A party.  But a party at Byron’s house was what?  The K-hole and naked Petey in his gas mask?  We have to be nice to Byron, she’d said.  Sure, sure, we’re friends of the poet.  I got it.  I knew that kind of nice.  I watched downtown Saint Louis pass and thought about when I used to live there.  The bus went down some streets where certain things had taken place in which I hadn’t presented my best self.

Grant answered the door in a narrow black suit and a jade bolo tie, his hair slicked back.  He looked like a small-town mortician from the 1940s.  He didn’t recognize me.  “Hey, we’re really not interested.”

“It’s me.”

A look of confusion crossed his face, then anxiety.  Denise came up behind him and whispered something in his ear.  Grant murmured okay, nodded.  He had a long face and a chiseled jaw, but years of abuse and crime had taken a toll.  Being drug-thin made his head look too big.  He had a habit of squinting and sucking in his cheeks, like he’d swallowed something bitter.  Grant got confused a lot.  A far cry from the old days when he ripped people off on real estate deals and drove a big gold-rimmed Escalade.  His crimes got smaller over time and his drugs got bigger.

Denise waved me in, pointed Grant to the bedroom.  He obeyed.

“You want a cup of tea?”

“Okay.”  I never drank tea.

She brought out two ceramic mugs of bright red tea that smelled like chemical roses.  When she smiled, I noticed the dull gold tooth on the left side of her mouth.

I wondered if she was married to Grant, but I didn’t think so.  That’s not how the scenario went.  What was the point?  Marriage says you can stay with someone through various circumstances, that your decisions are strong enough for something like that.  It says you won’t need to change your personality, have to leave your job, have to sleep in some other place with someone else, or have to listen to someone’s shitty poems.  Those are things you do when some drugs are making the choices.

“This town’s getting tedious.”  Denise sipped.  I felt like I should take a sip, too.  It tasted like sweet hot perfume.

“I’m thinking of making a change,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I got a friend down in Texas.  She needs a boyfriend.  You ever visit Texas?”

I said I hadn’t.  Then, “What about Grant?”

She smiled, took a long sip of the poison perfume.  “Who?”

Then she put down the mug and stood.  Denise had on a polyester rainbow muumuu straight out of the 70s.  She let it drop around her feet and stepped in front of me in nothing but her bra.

“You into vagina?”

“Sure.”  I felt like I was on automatic, like I was reaching the natural outcome of my visit and I didn’t have the willpower or options for anything else.  Denise’s thighs were enormous and pale. Her gut made a crease over her shaved pussy.

“Kelsey’s never gonna fuck you,” she said.  “She’s all dried up.”

“I think she’s with Byron.”

She grinned, leaned down, and kissed me on the lips.

The next morning, Kelsey still hadn’t returned.  Weeks later, I’d discover that Grant had decided to use up the last of his secret heroin and that he’d shuffled off to eternity in the middle of the night.  Or, pill-head gossip being what it was, maybe it happened the next night or a few nights after that.  Or didn’t happen at all.  When I heard about it, I remembered Grant answering the door dressed like a mortician with his hair slicked back and that jade bolo around his neck.  And I thought that’s how he probably wanted to go, dressed as well as he could manage, dressed to the nines or, in his case, to the fives.

I got to Gateway Station early and drank multiple cups of coffee before the train started boarding.  I had a powerful urge to get drunk, which, I knew, would lead to worse things.  Kelsey’d thrown me over for some drugs.  Denise threw Grant over for me and a road trip to Houston.  Moving to Texas might have actually been a good idea, but not with her.  The effort something like that would take seemed enormous.  As for me, I’d thrown all of them over after a two-day visit that was supposed to last a week.  I knew, deep in my heart, that my days with Kelsey were done.

The train moved through a rock-filled gully and came up into Missouri farmland.  I watched the landscape go by and tried not to think.  In my haste get out of there, I hadn’t showered and I could feel Denise on me.  I could still taste the rose-flavored tea.

The conductor came by and punched a hole in my ticket, looked at me for a moment, said, “Had a good time in the city, huh.”

“No.”  I said, “I went to a poetry reading.  I’m a friend of the poet.”

“Right-o.”

“Yes,” I said when he handed the ticket back, “Namaste.”

Learning to Write Fiction

Things to do.  Books to read.

Vincent Price holding cats is better than a stock photo of someone trying to write.

Garbage

I’m still learning.  I hope you are, too.  If you’re struggling with wanting to write a story but feeling intimidated by it, you might start by attempting a three-page short short (about 1050 words) as poorly as possible.  Make it the worst story you’ve ever written and see what happens.

Quit trying to be interesting and brilliant.  That’s your ego at work, the same thing that subverts your writing process in lots of other ways.  Let it go.  Write trash.  Don’t be afraid of making garbage.  Just pay attention while you’re doing it.  You’ll learn a lot that way.  More importantly, you’ll have a moment in which you’re creating without anxiety, without the need for permission, which is a rare and wonderful experience.  Such moments are our greatest teachers.

This is part of the considerable inner work of being a creative writer.  The publishing industry doesn’t have blogs that talk about this because you can’t monetize inner work.  Even writers, so adept with words and images, can’t explain it, aren’t sure it’s real, and wonder whether they’re simply distracted when they have creative inner experiences.  They aren’t.  The inner work is ubiquitous and undeniable.  They’re merely trying to contend with self-doubt which comes from living a society that calls everything other than monetized productivity stupid and delusional.

You do your best creative work not through trying to impress your ego, which is worried about how acceptable you seem and about whether you’re going to survive, but through dropping those aspirations and getting to the unadulterated creative impulse that first called to you.  For a fiction writer, the way to a powerful creative state is not by going up into the light of concepts, ideas, and social approbation, but by going down into the darkness of urges, emotions, and impulses.  You can civilize your writing later, in revision.  For now, be a savage.  And write garbage first.

Books You Don’t Have to Read

Of course, there are books you could be reading.  Think of this as part of the “outer work.”  What books are these?  Only you can say, because your work, your artistic project and path belong to you—not to some voice on the internet preaching about life hacks and best practices (which is what most writing advice amounts to).  All of that is, as Ecclesiastes might say, vanity.  Or is, as we might say, marketing.  But here are some suggestions nonetheless.

Get a library card and read a lot of what you want to write.  No one writes without influences.  So locate your influences.  Originality exists, but fixating on it, such that the idea of “finding your voice” becomes a restrictive, overly romantic obsession, is another obstacle.  Instead, saturate yourself with anything you like and be honest with yourself about it.  It could be trashy (get away from literary status anxiety—read what you want to read, anything that speaks to you).  It could be classic literature (works in translation count, too).  It could also be the latest socially acceptable novel being pushed by Penguin Random House.  It absolutely does not matter.  Just immerse yourself in whatever stimulates your imagination.  And read vigorously.

Creative writing programs and English departments have a problem with this.  They’re in the business of stratifying, articulating, and hierarchizing products of the imagination.  So there will be an implicit bias there, usually coming from the careers, anxieties, and assumptions of the professors.  But repeat after me: “I will read what draws me, what stimulates my imagination, not what I am being implicitly or explicitly told is marketable and therefore preferable.”

I’m not bashing art school.  I believe in creative writing programs the way I believe in The New York Post.  It’s entertaining, often darkly absurd, and provides material for lively conversation.  MFA programs rarely amount to more than an interesting form of literary journalism—talking about writing and talking about talking about writing.  You can learn a lot from all that talk.  I believe the arts and humanities do matter and do offer a valuable education, in spite of what the misguided STEM fetishists may think.  But the MFA industrial complex is not where you discover the inner imperative that makes you want to create.  That comes from experiencing art and then attempting to create it.  All the talk (and discursive essay writing) in the world can’t make you an artist.  Only art can.

I rarely enjoy reading lists created by actual journalists, even by the journalists I like and think are smart.  What journalists consider new, important, and a “must read” (I hate that clichéd expression) is never important to me, since I’m the one that matters in this process.  Remember: my project is to go down into the darkness of my inner self and find that raw, creative impulse.  News publications focus on social tensions, explanations of current events, cultural trends, laws, politics and, when talking about art, how it relates to those things.  Good journalism is essential for a free, capable, concerted citizenry, but it does not understand art.  Some journalists are artists, but many more have no concept of art or how to think about it.

Tiresome Theory and Craft Books

Remember to keep the “you should be reading this right now” lists in perspective.  That includes the lists I’m offering you here.  You shouldn’t necessarily be reading any of these things right now (or ever).  But I recognize that in our culture of life hacks and best practices, we will inevitably go seeking authoritative methods.  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’ve read these books, too.  Besides, there are so many awful ones in the Self Help for Writers category.  The following craft books are less awful than most, in my opinion.

  1. Gentle Writing Advice: How to Be a Writer Without Destroying Yourself, Chuck Wendig.  Wendig is smart and he cares about writers.  In spite of the title, he’s not engaging in nauseating Julia Cameron hand holding.  He’s not doing a ridiculous “tough love for writers” Robert McKee performance, either.  Wendig’s in-between those extremes.  His advice is sane and even-tempered.  But he likes to be cute and thinks he’s funny.  That can be aggravating if you don’t share his sense of humor.  It doesn’t bother me and I actually find myself smiling a lot, especially when I read his footnotes.
  2. Writing Fiction: a Guide to Narrative Craft, Janet Burroway.  Useful, neutral advice.  By “neutral” I mean what I meant with Wendig’s book, but also that Burroway never seems to be lying, boasting, or to have an agenda other than describing a range of technical options.  Her example stories are great (at least in the third edition, which is the one I have) and she uses them like a gifted creative writing instructor to demonstrate what she’s talking about.  Her writing exercises are not boring and I’ve relied on a number of them in my own teaching.
  3. Narrative Design: Working with Imagination, Craft, and Form, Madison Smartt Bell.  Read this after Burroway.  Think of it as the intermediate sequel to her book.  In my opinion, Bell is a good fiction writer and much of what he says here comes from his firsthand experience.  I return to this book more than any others.
  4. The Art of Fiction: Illustrated from Classic and Modern Texts, David Lodge.  His excerpted examples are wonderful and he uses them to good effect in his discussions.  His opinions are solid and not beholden to any particular school, voice, or movement.

Read these four books and you will have a bellyful of exercises and theories about fiction writing, more theories than you ever wanted.  But you might also come away with a new repertoire of examples and references, which can be helpful.

I used to recommend McKee’s Story to people, but honestly you can get what’s good in his book from the four books I list above and skip his absolutist bluster.  I also don’t recommend John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction, not because it isn’t good, but because it’s very closely aligned to a particular fiction writing aesthetic.  And I think taking that as a guide can create counterproductive stylization in beginning writers.

Fiction

Saturating yourself with fiction you like is far more important than looking at craft books.  Here are some things I’m reading now, which may change at any time.  I follow my creative impulses above all else (i.e. I read permissively, not like a scholar).  If you don’t know where to start or what to read, you could start with these (why not?), but you should quickly diverge from this.  The value of starting here is as much based on not liking these books as it is on liking them.  Find out what speaks to you.  You can do this by starting anywhere with any reading.  Starting’s the thing.  Read multiple books at once if you feel that’s the way to go.  Or look at them one at a time.  There are no rules.

  1. Woman at Point Zero, Nawal El Saadawi.  Not sure what I think about this novel yet, but the voice intrigues me.
  2. Murder Most Serene, Gabrielle Wittkop.  This writer has no fear.  If you read her novel, The Necrophiliac, you know what I mean.
  3. The Collected Stories, Mavis Gallant.  I’m just getting into Gallant, but I already feel she has things to teach me.
  4. The Savage Spear of the Unicorn, Delicious Tacos.  You may find this one extremely offensive and valuable in that respect.

This list is idiosyncratic.  How could it be otherwise?  If you don’t like the look of these, compile your own list.  The point is to involve yourself with fiction that stimulates you.  There is no time to waste.

Final Thought

The world doesn’t need more artists.  It also doesn’t need more people trying to prove their worth to mom and dad.  It also doesn’t need more kids in law school, STEM worshippers, venture capitalists, or any other thing.  The world needs more introspection and individuality.  The rest follows.  My way should not, actually cannot, be your way.  And that is a beautiful thing.  Find your way.