Would You Date…Yourself?

I’m having a crisis of authorial faith. “Hey!” you might say, “maybe it has something to do with the strain of having seven children to look after yesterday and your mom recovering from double knee replacement and your husband having been at trial and your kids going back to school and you diving in to a new book!” OK, OK, you may (hypothetically, of course) be right. But humor me.

One of my favorite pieces of writing advice is to write the book you want to read. It makes me imagine that there is this room deep in your imagination and memory where you keep all the books that have touched you indelibly. If you get really quiet, you can find your way there – avoiding the forests of anxiety and the caves of intimidation, of course, not to mention the beasts of bravado – and edge your way into some corner to sit down and write in solidarity and hope. It has, in fact, got me through many previous crises of faith (are you noticing a theme here?).

But here’s where it gets sticky: I want to read a book I will fall in love with. I always do. Yet this falling in love comes from a place of resonating with someone else’s story and voice and experience, getting the sense that, across the great black distance of time and space, a little familiar light you never knew was there is suddenly shining out to you. I want to fall in love with new ideas and artistry. And as much as it might have seemed for a hot mess of an existential moment when I was sixteen, I don’t want to fall in love with myself.

I don’t even think I can, as far as my writing is concerned. For one thing, it’s impossible to read your work without the writing informing it. It’s kind of like trying to see the back of your hair in a single mirror. Each sentence – and in some places, each word – of a book I’ve written is chock full of the experience of writing it. So I’m starting to believe that I can’t write the book I want to read. That I shouldn’t, and maybe can’t.

Yet all is not lost! Because just as I’m letting go of this one lovely piece of writing advice, I’m reaching for another. I can’t quite make it out clearly yet, but I think it has to do with writing the book that reflects your love of words, of stories, and most of all, of readers. I’ll let you know if I get any closer. For now, tell me your stories to keep me company while I’m reaching out – to keep us all company! Because another thing I’m starting to think is that writing is much more of an act of profound social faith than I ever thought.

Purpose vs. Pleasure?

Over breakfast the other day, I took the liberty of informing my father that I was going to make it my mission to get him a hobby. I can do this because he can’t get rid of me and I love him enough that I don’t mind annoying him into happiness.

A little context: he turned 81 earlier this month, and has been retired for the past six years. Unfortunately, retirement hasn’t been all, er, fun and games for him. Not that any of us expected it would be. Pop decided he was going to be a doctor when he was seven years old, and he pursued that career with single-minded purpose until the day he retired at 75, when his four grown children and wife finally managed to pry his fingers from the blood pressure cuff. If it hadn’t been for the prospect of volunteering in the healthcare industry, I think he’d still be pottering around his office today, the usual cohort of impossible and charming older Jewish women trailing dotingly in his wake.

But as it turned out, he didn’t enjoy volunteer work. I think I understand why – he’d served in a certain healing capacity for so long, it rubbed him the rob way to be in the same environment with the same wealth of knowledge and a reduced ability to act on it. Still, there are other retirees who find or rediscover passions after their formal careers have ended. My dad, unfortunately, hasn’t been one of them.

I tried to peer deeper into his reluctance while he enjoyed his egg white and dry toast and I enjoyed my blueberry pancakes with bacon. I’ve been trying to get him to write for ages – he has a natural gift for storytelling, and a lifetime of incredible experiences to draw upon (he wasn’t just a doctor; he also immigrated to this country from Palestine in 1941 by boat, to mention just one other highlight of his long and full life). But he won’t write, or not for long.

“What’s the point?” he asked me. “I enjoy writing while I’m writing, but then what?”

“Why does there have to be a point?” I asked him.

He frowned into his coffee. “It’s like this,” he explained, “my whole life, I had a purpose. And now, even though I’m no different, what I do doesn’t matter anymore.”

I get it. My father comes from a family of High Achievers. And wrapped up in that high achiever mentality is the sense that the more you do, the more worthwhile you are. It’s impossible to escape this thinking in a society that is obsessed with titles and objects and labels. But what happens when you operate under that mentality and you retire or, say, realize that you have no business in academia and want to write stories, is that you come into this really barren and lonely place where you realize you’ve measured your self-worth against what you can offer, instead of what makes you want to get out of bed in the morning. In other words, you hesitate to pursue what makes you happy because, somehow, that’s just not enough.

But how did we get here? Why isn’t our own fulfillment worthwhile? Are we really all so afraid that we’ll become narcissistic Trumpian pigs if we stop checking in with everyone else to see if they’re ok with what we’re doing? If we give into our passions, will we devolve into a society of self-absorbed, selfish individuals who just grab at whatever they want no matter what the cost or value?

It’s hard not to give into those middle of the night worries that tell us all these things might prove to be true. But in the clear light of day, I know there’s a big difference between the kind of thoughtless, immediate gratification we think of when we speak of giving into our passions, and the kind of life-affirming, deeply satisfying work we embrace and inspire when we focus on what’s meaningful to us. And I’m beginning to think that, as usual, when we go too far in the opposite direction, we begin to see the very results we jumped into extreme behavior to avoid. By marginalizing our own experiences of how we spend the lion’s share of our intellects and talents and energies, I fear those intellects and talents and energies quiet down and get very small.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to get my dad to write, or pick up his camera again, or value where his mind goes when it wanders. But I hope he does. If only because there’s nothing better than seeing the people you love follow whatever lights them up, even if it’s only for the moment.

The Art of Imitation

As you can probably guess from the title of this post, I’m not a believer in true originality. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that we have been telling the same twelve or so stories since that first, fateful circle around a campfire, and that all of them are essentially around what I like to think of as the big four: love, loss, longing, and fear.

So I don’t toss and turn over originality when I’m writing, for this reason, and also because I believe that each storyteller has a unique voice. This is what I’m after when I read — a story that speaks to lived experiences, micro insights that gather together to help me see through someone else’s window into the big four. And because there are as many windows as there are people in the world, I know each writer has within her the ability to make hers clear.

What never ceases to amaze me, though, is how helpful the practice of imitation can be. I think it’s probably because, at their core, our subject matters don’t vary wildly, and if you pick up a book and absolutely love it, chances are that the writer is speaking from a window that resembles your own in some way.

I thought the first creative writing teacher to suggest that we should copy out a short story by our favorite writer was either nuts or just not so concerned about plagiarism (a subject my eighth grade teacher enforced with so much gravitas she had more than a few of us in tears (I know, how can the pitfalls of plagiarism drive middle schoolers to tears? Well, you never met Mrs. Stewart.)).

Anyway, I tried the exercise out, and was amazed by how helpful it was. Ever since, I keep trying to roll it out in front of my own students, though I get lots of crazy looks, too. But here’s the thing: when you transcribe the words of someone whose writing you deeply admire, it’s like peering through their window so closely you start to see the grains of sand, the tones and turns and timing and choices that he or she employed to make this fabulous work of art. And there’s tremendous learning in giving yourself over to another voice like that — it shows you the intersections, the significant diversions, and it inspires the HECK out of you. Seriously.

In fact, you’ll probably wind up writing a few pages or stories in the tone of that writer afterward. And then you’ll feel a little sheepish, a little shamefaced, thinking you got your story by unethical means. But there’s really no way you can copy another’s voice, just as there’s no way to copy another person’s appearance, or laugh. And what your imitation will show you is how your voice resonates with another, which will give you great comfort, and the experience of typing blithely when you’re transcribing will leak into your own work, and altogether you’ll have used this writer’s work for exactly what she wanted you to use it: to be inspired, to love the art of language, to see how the intersections of stories both complicate and unite us.

So in these last few weeks of summer, maybe you can bring yourself or a writer you love to try this exercise. As usual, it helps to drop your high standards at the door like so many heavy backpacks full of textbooks no one wants to read. Instead, take a few pages into the room and play with them. Don’t worry about how great the work will be or how imitative or how original. You’ll know your own voice when you find it, and if you keep light on your feet while you’re looking, you might just learn to dance to it.

Why Writers Hate Writing

When I was younger, I thought the toe-curling reaction I had to a few hours of writing time stretching out before me made me abnormal. Either I had confused what I thought was a feverish passion for writing with some other fever – a delusional one, perhaps – or I didn’t have the chops to make it as a writer. In fact, I hate to admit this, but the truth is that I avoided writing for many, many years because I was sure that my desire to run quickly out of the room with my tail between my legs every time I faced a blank page was a sign that I had no hope of growing into the writer I so wanted to be.

I’ve since learned that (almost) all writers hate writing. Bear with me here. I’m not saying that all writers hate all writing all the time, or that writers are mentally and/or emotionally challenged individuals who compulsively indulge in self-destructive behavior just for kicks (though that has been said before, unfortunately, since it’s such a gross misinterpretation of authorial behavior). But I have learned that almost every writer I know experiences an excruciating amount of unwillingness to just sit down and write. Even writers I don’t know own up to this. Amy Tan has a wonderful story in her memoirs about getting stranded in a cabin after a flash flood – when a rescue team finally arrived, all she could think was that if she got out of there, she’d have to finish her novel. Ann Patchett also says that she would frequently rather do almost anything but write, even though she has known since she was a very small child that she would be a writer, and has pursued her craft to great success ever since.

So why do writers hate writing? I want to know your thoughts, but I have a few theories of my own. First, I think many writers are perfectionists, because a writer must be incredibly driven and incredibly detail oriented in order to wrassle (not a misspelling: think alligators and jello pits) her thoughts down into the medium of language. This perfectionism does not, however, prove very helpful when one needs to step into a creative space that courts risk and the unknown. So there’s that (which I’ve written about extensively already), but I think I’m ready to expand on that theory. I think another reason why so many writers hate writing is because AT FIRST – and this is critical, since the rewards of a writing practice are too numerous to begin to list — writing demands so much, yet it promises so little in return.

Again, a moment to clarify: the act of writing can be thrilling and centering and inspiring, all at once. But more often than not, it’s just a slog, and the more you write, the more slogging you must do. Moreover, you must come into the slogosphere with your most heightened sensitivities tuned to their highest frequencies, and you must keep your heart open and either leave your assumptions and baggage at the door or find a way to authentically shape them into something that doesn’t resemble the tear-and-ink-stained rant of a diary you kept under your bed when you were fourteen. In other words, most of the time, writing feels a bit like working up the courage to share the contents of your heart with the crush of your life who has barely ever noticed you, or, I don’t know, showing up to middle school naked.

No matter what answer we come up with, though, I will say that I think it’s pretty amazing that writers write anyway. I think it takes real courage to enter the lion’s den with nothing more than a magic wand with iffy batteries. I like that in a person, and I try to remember that when I get hard on myself about avoiding my writing. It’s not always about how well you do what you do; I think it’s also about how well you manage to keep your head held high even when you’re constantly tripping.

Finding Your Words

I had many pet peeves when I was a writing teacher, and almost none of them came directly from the students themselves. They came, instead, from the students’ warped sense of what writing should look like, both in practice and in execution, and it still gets my knickers in a twist to think of them. Among the more disturbing habits I encountered was the compulsion to use words that students thought belonged in an essay but had never actually been uttered in their life experiences. For example, the word deinstitutionalization. Who wants to read that word, I ask you? Unless, of course, you’re doing a report on Boston’s homeless in the 1980s – otherwise, why? Just why?

In my estimation, great writing comes from that magical intersection of language and authentic human experience. It can be found in newspapers and novels and graffiti. Moreover, it can stem from anyone who has ever had an idea worth expressing. What really busts my buttons is when students – of any age, to be frank – say they ‘can’t’ write. It’s part of why I stopped teaching compositional writing, because it has such narrow expectations of the mind – and while it works for some, it most certainly is not a one-size-fits-all form of linguistic expression.

It took me a while to find my own words. I’ve been young for most of my life, and for most of my life I thought it was my business to sound young. I tried short sentences. I tried slang. I tried nearly everything I could to shut out those parts of my mind that used words that didn’t seem hip or urgent or sexy. But with the exception of the ability to swear like a sailor (which is every Bostonian’s birthright), I regularly use words like – well, let’s check above: uttered, knickers, and busts (I promise that was not contrived.) Some part of me seems never to have gotten over her past life as a Victorian spinster, and as unsexy as that is, it’s just me. I like elegant and lyrical words; I like big ideas; I regularly avoid small talk and then dive into deep philosophical questions peppered with stupid puns and offbeat humor because that’s just who I am. Slang and I don’t get along. And as if that’s not challenging enough in the modern world, I’m also, on the other hand, not a fan of diving deep into the language for esoteric words to trot out in an academic fervor. True confessions: I regularly have to look up words in the Douglas Preston and Lee Child Pendergast series because I stopped paying attention to developing my vocabulary in English class once the stories got really good. (My former English teachers are preemptively trying to enter their graves right now just so they can roll over in them.)

The point is, great writing comes from a passion for language, not necessarily a mastery of it, and language can take on as many personalities as it has speakers. It’s a crime to rob someone of their language, especially if that someone is you. So please, if you’ve been trying to pound your language into some narrow idea of what you think it needs to look like, loosen your lips a little and trust in your words. If you’re writing for approval, you’ll get very little of it anyway, and will probably just wind up tying yourself into knots. But if you write because you seek new ways to resonate with the world and some of the amazing people in it, you’ll have a lot more fun, and you might just find that unlocking what you have to say unlocks how you think and feel and see. Plus, it’s free. Isn’t that just a kicker? We have within ourselves the ability to grow and expand and express on our own terms. We have the ability to encourage our children to do the same. It sort of boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Imagine how many more voices might get into the world if we just learn to get out of their way.