Tangled Rope

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I finished reading James Joyce’s “Dubliners” for the Feb/March Motley Read early this week, and am sending out what I’ve told myself is the last postcard this morning, to an overseas stranger.

I’ve enjoyed the Motley Read, and owe much to Chris for organizing it. The extended pace was a little stretched, but my winter has been busy enough that it has allowed me to actually kept pace, and over the weeks I’ve returned to more than one story to review, reflect, or even re-read entirely.

My own productive/creative activity has been limited blog posts and a total of ten roughly-illustrated postcards sent through out mailing list. Though I haven’t drawn anything seriously in over a decade, this practice has been liberating and enjoyable, as it’s freed me from the intellectual pressure of trying to write cogently on these muti-layered stories while allowing me to focus on key scenes as I visualized them, and even interpret or infer nuances from the story through my compositions.

I’ve been delighted with responses from the handful of fellow Motley Readers who have taken the time to digitize and publish these postcards on their blogs. Unfortunately, at least half of the postcards have been either lost or neglected, and I’ll probably never see those again except in my memory. If I had been more ambitious I would have made prints; maybe for some other work in some lesser season!

I never intended to produce one postcard per story, but now that I’m just 5 shy of a “set”, so to speak, I’m now considering illustrating “An Encounter”, “Araby”, “Eveline”, “Clay”, and “The Dead”, if only to keep or mail to myself.

Continuing my commentary on certain essays from Spreading the Word: Editors on Poetry I turn to the next essay in the collection, “When the Search Succeeds” by editor and poet Richard Foerster.

Foerster observes, “Literary editing … is at best a balance between disinterested judgment and an indulgence of personal tastes”, and most satisfying when it enables him to share “personal enthusiasms with others through the printed page”.

As an example, he offers Jane Flanders’s Pushcart Prize winning poem, “The House That Fear Built: Warsaw, 1943″. Foester first encountered this poem read aloud by poet herself. Foerster remarks on its sound and sound effects, and reminding us of Pope’s argument that “The sound must seem an echo to the sense”, and adding, “I wanted to see this poem after I heard it.”

The “sense” of the poem is deepened by use of “double-edged words”, chosen with care by the poet. But more remarkable is how this poem literally repeats itself (with a variation in point of view) each stanza, building meaning to a whole by adding new lines. Foerster remarks on this “unfolding of meaning”, explaining how the poem moves “from a close-up to a panorama”–this is, I think, how many good poems are effective, focusing on a specific part to relate a larger whole, perhaps directly through the poem, or by moving the reader to understand the world differently.

I recently sent a friend a birthday copy of Spreading the Word: Editors on Poetry, a collection of 16 essays by editors of literary magazines published in the late 80s and reprinted through 2001. Neither of us are literary editors; we are both fairly excited (and excitable) about poetry, and I at least fancy myself a writer of poems from time to time. This collection provides some fairly interesting insights into the business, but more importantly some clear ideas about what makes a poem “publishable”.

The essays each center on one or two poems by a single author published by the editor, with the editor’s explanation of why that poet was chosen, and what that choice reveals about their own particular process of selection and editing. I intend to summarize key points from each of these essays over the next little while, to both share the insights and maintain a record for my own benefit.

David St. John, poet and editor of The Antioch Review penned the essay “On Editing”, which features two poems by Jane Hirshfield “In that World, The Angels Wear Fins” and “In a Net of Blue and Gold”.

David includes the following reflections on the task of editing:

• read widely in literary magazines “to … have as complete a sense as possible of who is publishing what”
• publish a poet only once during editor’s tenure
• avoid falling into patterns
• “there are millions of ‘competent’ and well-written poems…the poems I wished to published were … more eccentric, demanding, difficulty…’risky’”
• good screeners are invaluable, must know what is and is not desired, what to exclude and what to let through

On the Hirshfield poems David reveals, “each time I returned…I learned something new about them, and about myself as well. … Like all the best poems, they yielded slowly, like blossoms unfolding.”

Chris Lott posted a list of “fine fifteen” novels–works that have “stuck with him”, conjured from memory in fifteen minutes or less. I was pondering this same subject on our first cold and rainy Sunday afternoon of the autumn as I listened to “This American Life”‘ (Episode 137, “The Book That Changed Your Life”) in the car. I happened to be recovering from the previous evening’s failed poem attempt, in which I scolded “books I claim I’ve read but can’t remember”. So here’s my indulgence, in which I trade off some of what I consider must-read classics (many of which Chris listed already) for a degree of novelty:

1. Moby Dick I first read this mammoth work when 15 years old, and it cracked open the world of American literature like a thirty-ton, whale-bone handled hammer for its depth, breadth, narrative, and unforgettable characters.
2. The Trial My German is poor, but the fact that I’ve stumbled and skimmed through Der Prozess in the original language says something about this novel’s importance to me. It epitomizes Kafka’s fiction in a purposely disjointed tale that sets an innocent-guilty everyman against the primal fear of powerlessness.
3. Pale Fire It’s difficult to decide which Nabokov novel to include here, and really, it’s a tie between Pnin, Bend Sinister, Ada, and Lolita, but I find that in some strange way Pale Fire represents what I love in each of these.
4. Victory startled me with its intensity, humanity, and language–even after reading Conrad’s more famous Heart of Darkness, Lord Jim, or The Secret Agent.
5. The End of the Affair I am a romantic at heart, and so its no surprise that The End of the Affair is near the top of my list, a story in which Graham Greene seduces me, entangles me, then drops me on my head to show me my brains.
6. A Farewell to Arms One of the few books that left me weeping. Hem culminates a fairly mundane story with resonant heartbreak and loss that still haunts me.
7. Catcher in the Rye I can’t deny it; Salinger changed my life. I read this in a single sitting on a hard chair at the public library. Then I went back the “S” self and checked out all his other stories.
8. Lord of the Flies I read this as a sophomore in high school in the two days after it had been assigned. Then I read it again. This is the book that taught me to read closely, decipher imagery, and search for symbolism. Oh, and it’s a riveting novel with strong characters and piercing philosophical strands. Thank you, Mrs. Riggs!
9. Fahrenheit 451 A short novel that still delights in its succinct dialogue, imagery, and form. This is the slot where A Brave New World or 1984 might have gone, because while I think Huxley and Orwell warned us, Bradbury prophesied.
10. Black Boy Richard Wright’s semi-autobiographical tale of resilience and individualism as an affront to racism and mediocrity. I don’t think there’s another book I’ve read more times than Black Boy.
11. The Picture of Dorian Gray Wilde uncovers a darkness of humanity that is shocking not for its immorality, but for its recognizeability.
12. Pride and Prejudice Austen’s ability to represent the human soul through what is both revealed and restrained in dialogue sets this firmly in my list.
13. Nausea Sometimes you bite into a novel, sometimes the novel bites into you. Sartre’s La Nausee shows a mark to this day for its surgical extraction and display of human futility. It is connected in my mind to Notes from the Underground, The Stranger, Amerika, and, of all things, The Sun Also Rises.
14. Lord of the Rings The Moby Dick of fantasy novels. Though I tend to abhor fantasy novels, Tolkien is one of few exceptions.
15. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes These are short stories for the most part, but Doyle’s inspired characters of Holmes and Watson inform my ideas about character motivations and mysteries to this day. And I could think of few detective novels to put in here that would better represent their importance in my education (though Rex Stout is close).
16. She The last slot could have gone to anything, (Stevenson’s Treasure Island was a close second) but I decided to throw in Haggard’s bizarre adventure/fantasy novel which thoroughly satisfies. In my mind, She connects to H.G. Wells, Robert Louis Stevenson, and H. P. Lovecraft.

Hey, that’s actually 16. I never was good at math (or following the rules).

The mud sucks my knees; during the last month I have made no real progress toward wrapping up the 2nd draft of the novel. This particular project began as a way to practice the craft while taking a break from an earlier, failing novel project that I was too in love with to simply abandon. My plan was to crank out this second novel in just three months, but as I enter into October I must remember that it has been nearly a year since I began.

But I am convinced that the final 60 pages–the climax, the resolution–must now be guided to entwine more cohesively than any of the previous chapters, and my brain is no longer nimble enough for the necessary artistry.

So I have committed to spend my writing hours of the next seven days entirely on poems. New poems, or revisions of half-started poems. Indeed, I have drafted one tonight (“The Ghosts’ Chairs”) that falls apart in six parts; I hope to post it here if only to testify of my commitment to keep on writing. And I must keep on writing, or I will not keep on at all. I have always been the sort of personality that tends to adopt little private chants that cycle through my head when confounded; the current mantra is, simply, “One way out.”

Many writers swear by the one-sentence synopsis, whether for the 30-second elevator pitch, or as a means of hooking an agent/editor/publisher, or even in preparation for a book jacket cover (should you be so lucky!). Randy Ingermanson may not have been the first to suggest the one-sentence synopsis as a seed for outlining a story, but he was the first that I read in my fledgling quest to write better.

I began my current novel project with a one-sentence synopsis, and it not only broke down the first great writing wall, it served as a compass on my (often meandering) journey.

Now, as I am confounded by a plotting error that threatens to sink the climax and resolution of my novel, I can think of no better writing exercise to return to than the one-sentence synopsis. So I spent today’s morning writing hour(s) drafting my single sentence from scratch. I did so with the instructive thoughts of Rachelle Gardner in mind, particularly her recent post, “Tell Me a Story”, which urges authors to answer Janet Reid’s three query musts:

1. Who is the protagonist?
2. What choice does s/he face?
3. What are the consequences of the choice?

These are compelling questions, questions that drive an author toward character-centric plotting. They were critical for me as I drafted and pared and switched and redrafted my one-sentence synopsis.

When the exercise was “done” (actually, when I ran out of time–this is, in my mind, an endless exercise towards a perhaps unattainable ideal) I reflected on a few personal observations:

• My sentence grew in length as I tried to answer Reid’s 3 questions.
• Chopping the sentence back down was like fighting a hydra, but forced me to focus on the most important, intriguing, and (potentially) exciting aspects of the story and its characters.
• Thus, the 3 questions pulled out characteristics and plot points that I need to emphasize or better articulate in my next revision.

I finally allowed myself to write two versions of the synopsis: one as a single, short sentence; another as a 2-sentence “pitch”. The 2-sentence pitch does a better job of reminding me about the important parts of of the story, and should serve me as I work through the third draft (presuming I finish this second!).

The exercise did leave me with some questions, the most important one being: how much do you reveal in the one-sentence synopsis? Like a long movie trailer, many book jackets reveal parts of the story that I prefer to discover through the narrative. I therefore avoid reading book jackets beyond the first sentence or paragraph. But I do wonder if describing or at least alluding to implications of the story’s set up might provide suspense, and hook readers into discovering how the setup arrives at its conflicts.

April has crumbled, and if I keep walking on it without noticing I might grind it into dust, which is good because dust is hard to keep track of even if you wanted to; more likely someone else sweeps it up and throws it away after you’ve left.

I’d say April is behind me, but it’s still on my mind. I’d say it’s behind us, as if claiming groupness would allow this to be true, but nothing past is ever behind us, and the world as a whole keeps connections to passed time with iron fishing line and jagged hooks.

I dwell on April for a moment because it was National Poetry Month, and, hoping to relive some of the private glory and joy I experienced last year, I had intended to mark the occasion with some particular effort toward increasing my understanding of (and exposure to) poetry, and sharing that on this web site.

Not much happened, though, and it is most honest and simplest for me to blame that on “my moods”, which sometimes shift in a day, or in a week, from indefatiguable enthusiasm to feeling much like the sticky residue on the floor that makes your shoes smack as you walk away.

At least its May now. Spring is here with rains that I remind me of being near the ocean, and I can look forward to the future when I will revisit the ocean, and pretend I am someone else, living a different life. In the meantime I will likely be generally happy to live my life, and try to make the most of it.

I’ve been reading a lot more lately, and getting the old satisfaction from it. I’ve been reading a lot of “young adult” literature, from Nancy Drew to Robert Cormier to more recent hip works, like Wake. I’ve been reading Ovid. I’ve been reading Nabokov. I’ve been reading short ghost stories and murder mysteries. I’ve been reading philosophical/critical tracts on poetry. I’ve been reading poetry that I haven’t even considered in the past.

I’ve been reading to fill the gaps in my stomach and my mind as I continue to work on a novel, which, as I’ve been saying for the past six months, is almost finished.

This is a second novel, the first, of course, I left unfinished last October in order to take a break and spend just two months on this new idea. Well, two has turned into seven, and this short, simple, easy idea has had its share of twists and turns and, more than enough confoundations. As often as not I spend my writing time and energy running away from myself, and dodging my own backward glances. When asked, How do you know if your work is good?, Juilan Barnes replied, “You don’t. All you know is that you have convinced yourself it is sufficiently good to sent to your publisher.” This I can accept. I know I can work hard, and I know once it’s drafted I’m pretty good at (and fairly comfortable with) revising.

Until then, there is the writing process, which is a lot like full-contact sparring without pads against someone who knows all your moves and any tricks you might hope to use to catch your opponent off guard. It is also a lot like expelling ectoplasm (I guess, for this is something I’ve never done nor even tried. But I can blame that failure on the act’s sheer implausibility). Not a pretty sight, and it’s done to understand the mystery of the thing, to satisfy the otherworldly urges that press out from the inside, but in the end you have to take it all back into yourself, even the gross bits, and pretend like everything is normal.

It’s May, and everything is normal, and everything, like the weather, is fine.

Nearly a year ago, at a peak of mental anxiety, I decided to cease flitting around and finally write a complete novel, a goal I’ve had since I was 8 years old. Let me be completely candid and communicate the importance of this challenge: while my love of the art of good fiction contributed to my desire, the critical motivation to embark on this challenge was far more personal, centering on my 15-year high school reunion (which I won’t attend) and the fear of mortal obliteration.

I started with a strong idea born of a dream that could sustain itself across a 300pp book, and probably beyond, in the autumn of 2007. I’ve been working on it with good regularity in the mornings before work, trudging through outlines, character sketches, chapters, and half-chapters.

But as this summer rolled in I knew I was far behind my own expectations. I was revising chapter after chapter of the first third of the novel incessantly. I knew there was something wrong.

Being an English grad and a lover of literature, I have a comfortable knowledge of how to write, what a storyline looks like, and why character development happens. I’ve read and benefited from Adam Sexton’s Master Class in Fiction Writing. But pulling off the writing of a complete novel was more of a struggle than I had expected, and I began to wonder:

• Would this be a book that I as a reader would want to read?
• Could I keep the increasingly disparate events and characters cohesive for the second and third “acts”?
• Would this novel be a book I would want to have my name on, or if I would try to disassociate myself with a tricked-out nom de plume?

It was then that I stumbled upon Randy Ingermanson’s snowflake method , which oriented me to perceive my idea as if I were a reader picking the book up off the shelf. I began by writing a single-sentence synopsis. That went well; however, at step 2 I froze: I could not write a summary of my novel in 5 cohesive sentences. There was just too much going on, and it was all over the map.

I forced myself to step back and said, OK, you have your main character, you have your scenario, you know the climax of the novel. Now write a 5 sentence summary around that, and make it intriguing.

My end result was not perfect, and it left most of my work on the first third of the novel unusable. But it is something I would want to read, and I am finally confident that I have planted the right seeds. I can now see how my summary fits into the traditional 3-act storyline that Peder Hill elaborates on in this diagram:

Very exciting.