Becoming a Collector

Where do the ideas for stories come from?  There are formulas you can use, workshops to help, and you can study the issue.  I did, in grad school.  I taught those same strategies in creative writing and composition classes for years. And I still don’t really know where it is that the indefinable spark finally comes from when it comes.  If it comes.

You can consciously construct a story – gathering all the elements essential for a precise story arc and gluing them together.  But HOW you choose to glue them together, what it is that makes you reach for that setting rather than this one, this structure rather than that one – how the story, how the heart of it, forms, is quite simply mystery. 

For me, becoming a collector was an essential step in eventually becoming a storyteller.  I have stacks of notebooks and writing pads filled with snippets, moments, observations, news clippings – things that strike me for reasons I can’t even pinpoint. They pile up there in notebooks and often, unwritten, in the back of my brain.  Then, something – a sight, a sound, a news story is an unexpected (sometimes even unwelcome) catalyst, and six or seven or ten of these disparate elements fly together from parts of memory and thought, and the process begins.  Begins, and leads me.  More often than not, purpose is the glue that holds draws them together and sets the story in motion.  The purpose may be what I hope the story will say, or how the reader of it will feel, or what the story will show of us and to us. 

One story began when I walked into an old and run-down trading post on a back road in Montana, and wondered what it was that was behind the eyes of the three old men who sat at the lunch counter.  Another began when someone asked me what it would be like to be the only one of your kind, anywhere.  Neither of these stories made it to paper till long after these incidents, but the process was begun, and the various pieces of memory and sensory impression and information began to move together to form a stage on which the characters could develop.

So how, when you want to make a story, when you feel that urge, do you make it happen?  He answer is both simple and a lifelong pursuit:   attend.

Pay attention. Attend.   To life, to people, to surroundings, sights, sounds, smells, instincts.  Listen to the words of your favorite writers, of the great writers, of writers you know, when they talk about what they do.  Young and old, modern and ancient, popular and obscure, working writers pay attention.  

A Recipe for Characters

I used to love to watch my late husband cook.  For years, he’d dreamed of being a chef, but had gone into computer science, both out of a love of technology and its possibilities, and a desire for a career that would best support our young family. But even deep in the years of software and computer keyboards, WANs and LANs, programming language and code, he found the most joy in the kitchen.  When he finally became a professional chef and we opened our own restaurant, his joy was even more evident. Watching him in the kitchen as he prepped up to create a new dish was truly watching an artist at work.

I think about this now because I have lately been involved in many conversations about the nature of art and the artist, craft and the craftsman, and the process of creation itself, especially as it relates to writing.  It is not likely that anyone will ever define “art” or “the artist” to the satisfaction of all, but it occurs to me that every person engaged in creative acts has much to learn from others who have mastered theirs.

I see him now, with bowls of prepped ingredients spread out, and a large salmon on the cutting board.  When developing a new dish, he never looked at a recipe, and he also never faltered.  He would begin with whatever was the basic flavor he wanted to add, and move from there.  If he began with that cut of salmon, he’d begin with that flavor in mind, and reach for whatever additive most seemed, in his mind at that moment, to enhance it in the most basic way he wanted, and then build his “recipe” from there. He explored and discovered each new dish as he went, and, if it was not what he’d hoped for, he’d start again. 

Recently, my writing group went away with an assignment in character development.  I thought about it, and sat down with thoughts of two of my most recent characters:  Sammy, the lead character in the novel I just finished (The Hapless Life of Samuel Joseph) and Carson, the main character in a novel I’d put away two years ago when it went off in the wrong direction.  I knew what made Sammy laugh – he’d laughed often in the course of his story.  Carson, a much darker character, was another matter.  I thought more. 

What ended up occurring to me was that I couldn’t fit the development of these characters into any one mold, any one ‘activity.’ When I began the Samuel Joseph story, I began with him, with the character.  I’d had a notion for some time of what the story should accomplish, and, as I thought about that, the character of Sammy emerged.  At the beginning of the Carson story, I had an image and a name, and no more.  The purpose of the story did not occur to me till recently, as I began to get back to my character and get to know him in the context of that image I began with. 

In both cases, much like my late husband as he began to develop a new dish, it was a matter of discovery, and I could no more use the same methods on both than he could have in developing a seafood dish versus a vegetarian dish.  The path of discovery is driven by the material you begin with, and the chef/the writer attending to that with clarity.  

Coming to the End

As writers, we strive to make our characters as real as possible. Authentic. True to life. We want them, in the eyes of our readers, to be people. Sometimes, this works better than others. Like an accomplished actor fully inhabiting a role, sometimes our characters inhabit us.

 This doesn’t happened by accident, and there’s nothing (well, not much) magical about it. My most recent character, Samuel Joseph, began to take form on the page after weeks and weeks of character development work, exploration, and (literally) many months of research about the world he inhabited.

 There were false starts – plenty of them. I would find myself sending him down roads that I wanted instead of letting the character develop on the page. More than once, I had to step aside and let the creative process drive the character, instead of my authorial intentions. This made the eventual book that I wrote very different from what I originally intended.

But it also made it unique in a way that only two of my other works have been for me, as the author. There came a point, after all these months of research and weeks of character development, when Samuel Joseph began to be a presence when I sat down to write, and, not long after that, Samuel Joseph inhabited me. I sat down (daily) to write at the typewriter (yes, I used an actual typewriter for the first draft of this piece) and just let go, and there he’d be, telling his story. It felt magical. It felt profoundly spiritual. But it took months of hard work to get there.

And then, there’s now. The book is done. It is in its very final edit. People read the first draft, and the things they said they needed more of were – all of them – things I’d already written in the rough drafts, but neglected to put in the first version of my manuscript. Sammy had told me a complete story – I’d just not passed on the complete story. But now, after many edits and three rounds of readers, Sammy’s story is finished. And there is a place in me that feels like I’ve lost a part of myself. It is very much like mourning.

 Only twice before has a character so fully inhabited me that I felt a real person was gone from my life at the end. The first was my first novel, Two Mothers Speak, published in the 90s, and based on true stories. The people I was writing about there were real (though heavily fictionalized) and I felt them with me as I wrote. The second was my main character, Theo, in my book Locus of Memory, just recently published, who, as I think about the time I lived with her, was like a window into the souls of two women who have been very important in my life. I’ve written other books, and I’ve liked my characters, but none of them came into my heart as deeply as Sammy. In fact neither Aggie (the main character in Two Mothers) or Theo were quite as deeply absorbing as was Samuel.

At coffee recently with a friend, she asked me what was so important about this book to me, and all I could say was, “It’s a book I was supposed to write. I was supposed to write this.” I want that feeling every time I write, but I know that it’s rare. And, Sammy, I’ll miss living with ya.

Storytelling, Stigma, and Selling Books

I’ve published books the traditional way.  Four of them.  I have two textbooks out there in the world of academia, a nonfiction handbook on peace activism, and a novel.  The novel went the traditional over-the-transom route until it found a home, and the nonfiction work was pretty much the usual write a query/get a go-ahead/write the thing/send it back route.

I haven’t done any of that in quite some time – years, actually -  but I do have three more novels out there, and another about to come out in about three months.  A while ago,  I decided to go the route of e-publishing.  I took my time at it;  I already had two manuscripts I’d been marketing, and another in development, but I 

didn’t put anything up on e-books till 2011.  I’ve been slowly building a base of readers and an online platform, and at least one of my books has been getting some pretty darned good reviews.

There is certainly a lot of debate about the place of e-publishing, especially self-publishing on platforms like Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing and Barnes and Noble’s PubIt. And a lot of criticism. Much of this is deserved, some of it (in the opinion of this writer) is simple resistance to change. Certainly the traditional publishing industry is going to resist a format that gives control back to the writer and takes it away from the elite editors in the publishing industry, though one has to admit that  there are a great many e-books out there that are, quite frankly, very badly written. There is also the undeniable fact that e-publishing has been a significant blow to book stores, particularly the independent ones. 

But, e-publishing has also created significant benefits.  Many people who do not have connections in the publishing industry are able to get their work out there when they otherwise might not have been able to.  Fiction is outselling non-fiction in the e-publishing market, breathing life back into the field for fiction writers.  More younger people are reading e-books (more reading is never a bad thing).  Then there is the issue of the market.  In traditional publishing, the market is guided by the literary tastes and political leanings of a small group of editors at major publishing houses, who set trends and guide the reading habits of the entire culture.  With e-publishing, in this writer’s opinion, we are much closer to a free market in fiction.   If your e-book is no good, people will post negative reviews, and it won’t sell.  If it is good, at least some will post positive reviews and your book will gain a wider audience.  It is, in other words, guided by the tastes and responses of the consumer, the reader.  And that is just fine by me.

Some years ago, I had the opportunity to engage in a discussion in a roomful of writers with a very famous writer (who, shall, here at least, remain nameless).  In the course of the discussion, he asserted that you could tell how good a writer was by how much money he made.  Just out of grad school and buried in the sense of the art in my work, I objected, and a lively and somewhat adversarial discussion followed.  Looking back now, I think there was a bit of truth in what he was asserting - the market showed what writing people wanted to read.  But, what he wasn't considering was how things got on the market in the first place, which then had no resemblance at all to a free market system.  

I am a storyteller.  When I think of what I do each day when I sit down at my keyboard, I don’t think of myself as an “author” or as a “writer.”  I am telling stories.  Let me tell you about Samuel Joseph, a stand-up comic who worked in television in the 60s, or about Sarar’l Camfir, a doctor who lives on a planet that is dominated by musical rituals, or about Arvin Samuels, an ex-marine who has an extraordinary experience when he shoots a cougar that is harassing his herd of cows.  I sit down, and though it is my own fingers on the keys, I am transported into another reality where characters tell me their stories and I pass them on to readers.  If the readers like the stories, fine.  If not, also fine.  

This is not to say that I am cavalier about the quality of my work.  I have test readers read my manuscripts, often multiple times.  I have others edit them, and I edit them myself dozens of times before I put them up for publication.  I care about my stories.  And I must admit there are some out there putting up books who appear not to care about theirs.  The point is, the reader will know the difference.  And it is easy, on e-platforms, for the reader to get their money back.  The click of a button.  So, the market speaks to the writer. Or the storyteller.

In literary circles, e-publishing is looked at as “lesser.”  There is a clear stigma attached to those who self-publish.  But, as a woman with thirty years in an inter-racial relationship, and one who grew up on the wrong side of town, this stigma bothers me not one bit.  When I get fan letters (e- messages) from those who’ve read my stories and love them (or even those who didn’t), I know that I am doing what I need to be doing.  I am telling stories, and they are finding homes in peoples’ hearts.

Speaking To Your Own Soul: A Writer's Journal

When I was about thirteen, a friend asked to see my journal, and I asked:  "Which one?"  I had, at the time, probably filled about a dozen of them.  It wasn't long after that day that I destroyed all those journals, burning them in a burn barrel out behind our home.  Like most teens, I went through a stage when I was mortified at the thought that anyone - anyone in the world - might find them and read them.  So they burned.

I didn't keep journals for some years after that, but then, as a young mother, I began again - and, once again, a few years later, destroyed all of them but a few.  And, began again.  I now have a shelf of my old journals, and from time to time, think of getting rid of them - but, these days, that's more because I'm tired of moving cardboard boxes filled with them every time my gypsy-soul decides it's time to decamp and go live somewhere else.

But I don't write in them anymore.  Haven't for some years.  A few years back, I went with World Teach on a program to go teach in Africa for one academic term.  While there, I made many friends - all of them much younger than I.  They wanted me to get on Facebook, so that we could stay in touch easily.  At first, I resisted, but I loved these people (you know who you are) and wanted to keep them in my life.  So, I signed up for Facebook, and got used to the once, twice, eight times a day posts.  Then followed Twitter, Tumblr, and more.  I posted musings, observations, overheard conversations.  And my journals gathered dust on the shelf.

Then, some events in the household this week caused me to get out a journal again.  I got out my old leather-bound Moleskin and went to the deck with my favorite writing pen (I still often compose my fiction by hand).  There were  some things I just couldn't muse about online, but as my late sister used to tell me:  "Judy, you think on paper."

I sat, I jotted a few lines, I sipped tea, and jotted some more. Before long, words of a type I hadn't written in some time flowed from my pen to the soft paper.  I found my brain going to places I hadn't been for a while. Reflection, cogitation, consideration.  My voice as it writes only for me, just speaking to my own soul, was and is a very different voice than my public voice, and certainly different than my online voice.  And I found I'd missed it.

This isn't about the evils of social media.  I actually love them, and as something of an anti-Luddite, I frequently defend them - I think any opportunity for human connection is a good thing.  This isn't about that.

I didn't solve all the problems I had that day.  But I did solve a problem that I did not know that I had.  A need to, quietly and internally, just for my own eyes and no others, give voice to my soul.  One way that my soul speaks is through my fiction, but in that form of writing my soul is a conduit for stories, and they're intended, from the first scratch of the pen, to be share.  The soul also needs to speak to and for only itself to be fully engaged.  Meditation gets there sometimes, but, for a writer, I think the most direct route is that bound book, kept with your dearest possessions, which sits there, just waiting to be your voice.  Just yours.

MASHED POTATOES AND THE WRITING PROCESS

When I make mashed potatoes, I always mash them by hand.  No food processors or electric mixers.  I strain the potatoes, add in the milk and butter, and get out my old hand masher, and mash away at the mess in the pot till they are nice, creamy, and delicious.  I never have complaints about my mashed potatoes.  Usually, no matter how many potatoes I peel and put in the pot, it’s scraped clean by the time the meal is done.

What does this have to do with writing?  Because, the other day, I was standing at the stove, mashing up the potatoes for dinner, and wondering why I do them this way.  I started thinking back.  Early in my young life as a young mother, I had to make lots of these pans of potatoes, and I had a lot of other things to do, too.  I worked, more than one job, and had all the other tasks mothers have.  When I'd make potatoes for dinner, I started out by dragging out the mixer, digging in the junk drawer to find the beaters, shoving aside toasters and everything else that had been shoved to the back of the counter to plug the thing in,  struggled to set the stupid beaters in the tiny little holes on the mixer, got it into the pot, turned it on, and then immediately off to the retrieve the beater that fell into the potatoes, and proceeded to whir it around in the pot till they were kind of mashed up.  

I am not (generally speaking) a lazy person.  But this process annoyed me no end.  I recall one day, trying to reach the electric mixer where it rested on the top shelf in the kitchen (I’m 5’ 3”), and pulling on the cord to get it, causing it to hurtle down to the floor, bringing a bag of brown rice with it.   I picked up the mixer, shoved it under the sink with the garbage can and mop bucket, pulled open the big drawer full of tons of unused kitchen utensils, and spied the big old hand masher at the back.  I grabbed it and started whaling away at the potatoes.  And it felt good.  It felt direct.  And, also, it felt a bit nostalgic – images of my grandmother in her kitchen, big bowls of hand-mashed potatoes steaming in the middle of my mother’s dinner table, etc.

There is something to be said for the direct, hands-on approach, the classic approach to doing things.  When I write a novel, I am not (as I am now) sitting with my netbook in my lap, typing away at an electronic keyboard.   I almost always start with a yellow pad and a pen.  The feel of the pen rolling around in my fingers carries some of the same sense of direct connection to the work as does the feel of my old masher in my hands when I’m making mashed potatoes.  Is it more work?  Of course.  When it’s done, each work eventually does have to be entered into the computer.  But when I watch the ink flow onto the page, I am completely connected to it in a way I never have been to a keyboard. 

Certainly this may not be true for everyone.  That really isn’t the point.  The point is that, whatever it is that brings us to our work in more than just “work” mode, is essential to the writer.  When I make mashed potatoes for my family using my old masher, each time it sweeps around the pan, I can see how my work, my muscles, are making something for those I love, and I love that feeling.  When I work with my pen and paper on a story, the sensation of the pen is like a umbilical between me and my character.  I can feel his thoughts, his emotions, his heart.  Whatever it is that gets you there as a writer – always working next to the window, gotta have the cat in your lap, holding a Tootsie Roll in your mouth – whatever it is that puts you in that sense of immediate undeniable connection – do that.

SOMETIMES I PAINT FAKES

 

Pablo Picasso

Yesterday in writing group there was a long discussion about what works, what doesn't work, what writers need and do not need from feedback or critique groups.
During that discussion, I had two moments that stick with me. As we're talking about the need for more discussion of writing, our purpose as writers, and building a writer's community, I made a comment about having had those kinds of discussion in my grad program, and that thought has been at the back of my mind since: how much I miss those long nights, sitting around a common room, with wine or pizza or soda, talking about what it was we really hoped, in our hearts and minds, to accomplish with our writing.

The other moment was when one of our members remarked to me that my current book, "I'll Fly Away" is one of the two best pieces of writing I've done. I thought for a bit, then shared that there were only three pieces of writing I've done that absolutely captured me entirely through the process, and this is one of them.

I write all the time - I am always working on something, but it is a rare moment, a rare treasure in fact, when a piece you are writing settles into your heart and stays there. For the last almost two years I've lived with this book wrapped around my heart. There is no happier time for a writer than when a book does that.

When I am writing on other things, I enjoy it, and it is still a labor of love. But it is to me, much like that (probably apocryphal) story about Picasso, who, on viewing a painting of his in a Paris gallery, proclaimed, "it's a fake!" and left. A protoge of his followed him out in distress, and said to him that he didn't understand, they both knew this painting was not a fake, as he had watched Picasso paint it. Picasso shrugged, and said, "Sometimes I paint fakes."

There are those works for anyone working on creating a piece that are things that we do, they are part of our process, but when it comes to profound expression of who we are as an artist or writer, are fakes.

I'll Fly Away is not a fake. I never expected to write it, and I certainly never expected a character like Samuel Joseph, a hard-swearing twenty-year-old, to live in my heart as he has. But I had a need to write about talented young people, and he began speaking to me.