My friend Jo-Ann Mapson did a Q&A with me, too. (Do y’all even like Q&A’s??)
Last week when I wrote about blogging and does it make for less “real” writing, I mentioned visiting with your work. Someone commented on this and got me to thinking even more about it.
I do find visiting with my work vital to keeping the momentum of the story going.
Among my other writing, every day I try to work some on my novel. I never have blocks of hours for this. But no matter what amount of time I do have–even 15 minutes–I’ll pick up the pages or go to my new draft and futz, or simply read. It keeps me in the story, and keeps the story breathing.
Walter Mosley has a wonderful essay about this in the book Writers on Writing: Collected Essays from the New York Times (no connection to my show). In his essay, “For Authors, Fragile Ideas Need Loving,” he says:
“Nothing we create is art at first. It’s simply a collection of notions that may never be understood. Returning every day thickens the atmosphere. Images appear: Connections are made. But even these clearer notions will fade if you stay away more than a day. Reality fights against your dreams, it tries to deny creation and change. The world wants you to be someone known, someone with solid ideas, not blowing smoke. Given a day, reality will begin to scatter your notions; given two days, it will drive them off.”
The man’s a poet; I love this essay and would love to print the entire piece here, but copyright laws say no. The book has lots of wonderful pieces. I also love Roxana Robinson’s “If You Invent the Story, You’re the First to See How It Ends.” I can’t think of any other essay I’ve read that contains such a startling twist.
Back to the topic at hand: Visiting with your work. Do it daily. Don’t use the excuse, “I don’t have the time.” No one has the time. Take 15 minutes from somewhere else. Skip lunch if you need to–or do it while you eat lunch.
It’s very hard to take yourself seriously when you don’t have an exterior deadline. I find it difficult putting time into my novel when it’s such a long work in progress and there’s other work that needs doing right now.
But if we don’t take our work seriously, who will? And how will it ever get done if we don’t do it now?
This weekend I went camping with my 10-year-old son Travis and the Boy Scouts. We went out to Joshua Tree, the desert north of Palm Springs. Eight hundred thousand acres adjacent to the Mojave and Sonoran deserts.
Our campsite was surrounded by humongous, rounded boulders that stretched into the sky. Looked very prehistoric. Travis spent most of the time “bouldering”–climbing, jumping, skipping about the boulders. I took many deep breaths as I looked up and saw him, a 100 feet or more into the sky, standing atop a boulder, his ten-year-old body against a blue sky. Mostly I didn’t watch as he jumped, mountain goat-like, from boulder to boulder.
When it grew dark, he wanted to go bouldering again. I told him no. He got upset. I said, Imagine you’re a parent. It’s just before dinner time. Your son tells you he’s tired, his feet hurt, he would love to sleep. You have dinner as It grows dark and your son says he wants to go bouldering again. What would you say?
He saw my point. So he ran around the camp, instead, or sat by the fire as a dad who’s also a cowboy poet recited hilarious poems and played guitar.
Meanwhile, I brought along the rough draft of a book proposal I’ve been tinkering with for the last couple of months but making little headway on. Not sure why. Perhaps it’s that a proposal isn’t “real” writing, exactly. And, in a way, it’s more work–trying to figure out what you intend, what you want the book to be.
But something about being outdoors in the crisp Southern California winter air, miles away from anything, including numerous distractions–just out in the middle of the desert with few belongings, or projects, and I was able to get myself into a frame of mind where I realized what I intended. I began revising the proposal and made actual progress.
I returned home with a resolve to go camping more often. Sometimes getting away makes you relax enough to see what you need to do. I like hotels and motels and inns because of the lack of distractions, but now I’m thinking camping might even be better because there’s even fewer distractions and you are so in nature, which makes you more connected with your thoughts and feelings about things.
Maybe a writers camping getaway is in order. Those of us with kids will just have to discipline ourselves to concentrate on our work and not look up as our offspring leap through the air above us.
If that doesn’t train you to focus, I don’t know what will.
I’m still thinking about the columnist, V, and the way he/she uses humor to avoid the heart of the matter: why he/she won’t put time and attention into the project that keeps calling him/her, that he/she obsesses over.
Afraid of success? I asked him. Which is when he went on and on about not being afraid of failure.
I liked V so much, found him/her funny and bright–but worried, beneath it all, that life is slipping him/her by and there’s still that project, calling for attention, being ignored. And how many more years will pass with the project still on the shelf? There but not there.
Is confidence the problem? Maybe V has utter confidence in his/her column-writing abilities but this other thing, the screenplay, the novel…what if? What if he/she worked on it, and it stunk?
In my current Inner Game class at UCI, I have a student I shall call Sue. During introductions the first night, she said she was “just a mom.” She felt everyone else was so beyond her.
At the start of the second class, she said she almost didn’t return, so inadequate she felt.
Tonight, at the break, she left. Her spot was glaringly empty.
After class, another student, Sara, and I walked out together. She said she had really liked what Sue had written that first night and that it was too bad Sue felt so awful about where she perceived herself to be, writing-wise.
We so get in our own way. We all do it. What a waste.
I hope Sue returns next week.
Yesterday I was invited to lunch with a friend whom I met when he was an editor at a major metropolitan newspaper I freelanced for and one of that newspaper’s columnists.
The columnist (let’s call him/her V), whom I consider successful, has had a column for many years but is bored with her job (she may be a she…then again, she may be a he…). What she’d really like to do is write a screenplay or a book or something else! Instead she comes home and spends her night watching TV. She says she knows all she has to do is DO IT, but she can’t. Something holds her back.
What motivated you to finish your book? V asked me.
I looked beyond the basket of bread. The restaurant was crowded with a couple hundred people, probably. Frank Sinatra crooned beneath the din of voices.
We remember different motivations at different times, but yesterday, what came to mind, and what I said, was, My mother and father were unhappy when they died. I didn’t want to die with a load of regrets. If I didn’t get this book published, I would have always regretted it.
But how’d you do it? V said. How’d you make yourself do it?
I made myself stay in the chair, I said. You gotta stay in the chair.
I know, V said. I know what I have to do but I don’t do it. Instead I turn on the TV.
Do it first thing in the morning, I said.
I don’t want to get up at 4:00 a.m., said V.
Leave your house, I said. Change the environment. Do your “other” writing someplace other than the newsroom or your home–someplace where you can attach your creative persona.
I know I need to do it. I just don’t, V said.
You ever have a critique group? One writing buddy?
V started joking about therapy, which is when I said, I know just the therapist for you and talked about friend, author and LA therapist, Dennis Palumbo. V joked some more.
I tried seeing the blockage in V. Maybe it was success. V is doing so well as a writer on staff, why hassle it? Yet, V longs for the fire again, the fire that is sparked when your writing moves you, when you are drawn to the chair because your writing is on fire.
This all struck me as an interesting quandry because V has a job writing a column. How many writers would love that? And yet V is bored and just can’t motivate him/herself to do the creative writing she/he constantly thinks about.
V is funny and talented and if only he/she would do it, V’s sorta downbeat (but funny) demeanor would transform.
Stop thinking too much, I said. Freewrite. Don’t think.
Yeah, I think too much, said V.
Here’s your prescription, I said. Read the chapter in Pen on Fire on freewriting and every day, get out a timer and write for 15 minutes. Stop thinking.
I know I should, V said.
Do it, I said. And stop thinking, too.
I’ve known Jo-Ann Mapson a long time and I always love to hear her take on things. She has published eight books of mainstream fiction as well as many freelance articles, national book reviews, and has been included in several anthologies. Blue Rodeo, one of my favorite books of hers, was made into a CBS television movie starring Kris Kristofferson and Ann-Margret. Hank & Chloe, The Wilder Sisters, and Bad Girl Creek, were national bestsellers. She teaches in the MFA program at the University of Alaska at Anchorage.
BDB: You have had a number of novels published. You’ve been prolific–even before your first novel when you were working, raising a child…. What do you account for this?
JM: I have always known I wanted to write, and thus have made room in my day for writing, even if just for a few minutes a day. Working part time—my husband sometimes worked freelance in addition to his regular job—was a help, as were times our son was in school. To write toward any kind of goal—be it short story, poem, novel, or memoir, sacrifices have to be made. Television, reading the newspaper every day, socializing. Give up one or two of those and a chunk of time is waiting.
BDB: So many people can’t find the time. What do you say when a writer says this to you?
JM: I used to say “that’s nonsense,” but now I recognize that some people are simply not ready to face up to the commitment that writing demands. Some people are not ready to be so introspective, or to slog through the boring stuff to get to the few minutes of magic. Lately, I recommend your book, Pen on Fire. If they can’t find the time after reading how to claim minutes for writing, perhaps they don’t really want to write.
BDB: You’ve been teaching at the University of Alaska for–what? two years? three?
JM: This is my fourth year teaching in the MFA Program in Writing. It is an incredible job, fun, challenging, and sometimes frustrating. It is so exciting to be with writers making such big strides. I get to see the light come on. The moment they know one truth or another about their writing. It’s indescribable.
BDB: How does teaching help (or hinder) your own writing?
JM: I learn a ton from my students. Their work informs me as a writer. Their comments, critiques, and papers often lead me into directions I might not otherwise have taken.
BDB: How do you teach writing?
JM: It depends on the course. In workshop, I explain how to critique, and we read, talk, and sometimes do exercises. In 490—the Craft of Fiction—I often focus on one aspect of writing, such as narrative, and we read books and discuss them while closely examining the chosen area. We also write several stories. In Form & Theory, a difficult class to teach, we examine form and the theories that led up to that form. For example, this semester we are looking at love and death in the American novel. Leslie Fiedler’s book of the same name is fun and irreverant. Some of the books we are reading include : The Time Traveler’s Wife; Leaving Cheyenne; Little, Big; Lawnboy; Fingersmith. Each are quirky books about love and dying. Since those topics are huge in terms of writing, it’s fun to examine them and try to emulate the process.
BDB: I would assume that your MFA helped you land your stellar teaching position. You were writing, prolifically so, for years before you got the MFA. Are MFAs necessary, do you think to getting novels published?
JM: Absolutely not. I got my MFA because I was tired of working crappy jobs. I wanted to teach. I knew it would strengthen my writing as well, and it sure did, but my primary aim was teaching at the college level. In some ways the MFA allowed me to experiment in ways I might not otherwise have. I had already written a novel that did not sell (thank God), and I tried writing another while in the program. It turned out to sell just a few weeks after graduation. But an MFA is not a guaranteed entrance into publishing. My friend Earlene Fowler is a prime example. She has no MFA. She has a career because she pushed herself to write and it paid off.
BDB: Any other words of wisdom you might offer?
JM: Read like crazy. Become an astute reader, one who moves beyond getting lost in the story to one who asks, “how did she do that?” I tell my students to break things down to syllables if necessary. Be open to your experiences. Listen, eavesdrop, tell lies in your writing in order to get to the truth underneath. But mostly it is a matter of sitting your behind down in a chair in front of the computer and putting your fingers on the keys. One thing that is essential—and hard to explain—is learning and nurturing intuition. It’s an essential writer’s tool, that kind of knowing. To foster it, you have to come to reading and writing without judgment. You have to listen with your soul, I think. Pretty soon, you will recognize things in your own work that don’t ring true. Then you have to listen and change things.
Jo-Ann’s Web site is www.joannmapson.com.