A Sense of Travel

My daughter and I are hitting the road tomorrow or really, actually, the skies. We’re headed to the Midwest for the long weekend and I am beyond excited. First stop: Chicago, one of my favorite cities and the setting for the last novel I completed. I think traveling is an exercise for the senses—no photograph or travelogue can compensate for the actual experience of standing in a different spot. The sights, the sounds, the smells. What do I miss about Chicago? Well, I want to hear this:

 

And see this:
 

 

And this:
 

 

And smell this:

 

 

                                              
 

Those of you who love the Windy City like I do know just what I mean. Happy long weekend and hope yours is a delight to your senses.

 

This Close by Jessica Francis Kane

Readers (and publishers) have had a long and ever-evolving relationship with short story collections. Stories may seem best suited for the places you usually find them—magazines, journals, and now, online sources. Short pieces are concentrated and self-sufficient, intended in most cases to be read in one sitting. In recent years, the rise of the short story has been announced by some in publishing who claim the shorter form is especially suited to our social media age, wherein information is doled out in bite-size nuggets and attention spans are decreasing. Yet, why shouldn't these writers compile collections and publish them in book form? Many recent collections have garnered national attention. It's an unwieldy and diverse form, just like the novel. Which brings up related questions: how should story collections be unified and organized? If the stories interrelate, at what point does it become a novel?

Honestly, I don’t lose much sleep over the labeling business. I’m happy to call a book whatever the author wants to call it. But I do lose sleep over finding the right package for my own writing ideas. Like many writers, I started out with short fiction and at some point, felt that my ideas needed more room so I made the shift to novels. I’m a long-time subscriber to a few magazines that feature stories and yet, I seldom read them. Why? I don’t know! Lately, I’ve been seeking out more short fiction for selfish reasons, because I’m working on my own collection. Periodically, I return to Flannery O’ Connor and Katherine Anne Porter for inspiration, and yet, I didn’t write anything in the shorter form until a subject seemed to call for it. (Oh, and reading the collected works of Lydia Davis a few years ago opened up a whole new world.)

It seems to me that subject dictates form, then, and there’s a great freedom in knowing other writers are stretching the boundaries, breaking established “rules” for different forms, and most importantly—being read. Jessica Francis Kane’s collection This Close is a good example. Kane unifies her collection with a central theme: the gray area in relationships, how people come “this close” to true communion with another soul and the ways they fall short, misunderstand and misinterpret. A young man agonizes over his interactions with the mother of a friend who has died, a woman is threatened by a neighbor’s relationship with her elderly father. Human connections and how they confound us at times. The longer pieces in the collection are perhaps on the short side and there are two pieces that come in under a page. Each story is focused and perceptive, its own world. Some of them interrelate with the same characters and show their progression; some don’t. The entire collection is 178 pages. So that’s the structure of it. The question is, does it work? It most certainly does. The writing is poignant and vivid and touching. The characters are relatable and in clear focus. I’d give Kane and these stories what is probably the biggest compliment I can give: I read it very slowly. I was completely content in the world of each piece and was in no hurry to get to the next one. I nodded my head several times while reading. I was surprised and perplexed and entirely engaged. She has a perceptive way of getting to the essence of a person, a situation, and holding us captive as we wriggle and watch and eventually, turn the mirror on ourselves.

Perhaps the shorter form isn’t really suited to a fast-paced world after all. If a story is done right, you shouldn’t want to rush through it. This crystallized form of narrative takes much polishing and care, and Jessica Francis Kane has offered a collection of gems with This Close. If you have a moment to spare, or several moments, I highly recommend you give it a read.

Snail's Pace

The last half of my usual run begins along a fairly busy, four-lane street. Ordinarily, I run in the morning, but the path is mostly shady all day. I run on the sidewalk; to my left—a small section of grass broken up by an occasional tree, to my right: expanses of flowers and landscaped bushes and ground cover.

And there are always, in the morning, many snails. Maybe every five to ten feet, you’ll see one making its way, left to right, across the dampened sidewalk and headed for what must seem like a wilderness at their height. In addition to my usual worries (breathing, not falling, not having a stroke), I have to watch for the tiny grayish shells on the gray sidewalk. Because stepping on one would make me feel very badly, and possibly would make me fall and/or stroke as well.

I wonder about what I imagine is a daily trek for the snails. From the density of the bushes to the grass patch (the street?), then back uphill to the bushes. Is it water they’re after? The gutter typically has a steady stream but you’d think they could get enough dew under the brush canopy. Are they avoiding predators—rats, rabbits, possums? But wouldn’t it be more safe to stay partially hidden than to expose themselves in the open? I’m no zoologist, obviously. (I did, however, pick up some snail knowledge at http://www.snail-world.com/).

For whatever reason the snails complete this arduous, daily journey—water, reproduction, survival, to gaze at the night stars—it seems like a lot of hassle. The sidewalk is dangerous, lots of foot traffic, and they risk life in a number of ways to make the trip. A ritualistic effort, probably tied to primordial urges, repeating and repeating, despite the fact that any moment, an unexpected sneaker can end everything. It’s life, that’s all.

On Writing: The Amateur Draft

If it’s one thing writers love talking about, it’s books. If there’s another, it’s the writing process. This dialogue is what drives writers to conferences—finally, a group of people who can commiserate over an unwieldy first draft or the pain of a sixteenth (or twentieth) draft! You’ve probably heard lots of writers talk about their “writing self” and their “editing self” and how they transform for each endeavor.

I’ve been working on a first draft lately. There is a constant push and pull, trying to keep the editing self at arm’s length. She watches over my shoulder, telling me when I’ve used a word too often or that I’ve started something I’ll need to resolve eventually. She makes me re-read sections when I should be moving forward. She taps her red pen on the desk when I’m trying to concentrate on being present.

There was an excellent essay in The New Yorker this week, wherein John McPhee talked about the insecurities of being a writer and his own process of writing and revision. “First drafts are slow and develop clumsily,” he writes, “because every sentence affects not only those before it but also those that follow.” He claims to have a four-to-one ratio when it comes to revision vs. writing (he spends four times as long revising), and he talks about the debilitating waves of self doubt that accompany a first draft: “If you lack confidence in setting one word after another and sense that you are stuck in a place from which you will never be set free…if your prose seems stillborn and you completely lack confidence, you must be a writer.”

At the point when the first draft is finished and your editing self takes over, McPhee claims: “Dread largely disappears. Problems become less threatening, more interesting. Experience is more helpful, as if an amateur is being replaced by a professional.” The experience is compounded, I think, because of the very nature of a first draft. Here you are, recreating the wheel, heading off into some vast expanse of your own design and if you’re really delusional (as most writers are), then you’re also trying something new in terms of style, narrative, something you haven’t tried before. It’s truly a brave new world and you feel like the sole inhabitant. A true amateur.

The editing self, on the other hand, has been through this before. She’s read hundreds (thousands!) of books. She deletes commas and unnecessary words without batting an eyelash and can slash through even the most inspired, flowery rumination, searching for the grain of truth. She’s a professional—unemotional, subjective, harsh. Her mind is always on the text. Again, McPhee: “You think of a better way to say something, a good phrase to correct a certain problem…You may be actually writing only two or three hours a day, but your mind, in one way or another, is working on it twenty-four hours a day—yes, while you sleep.”

I’d argue this is the case with the first draft as well, a constant obsession with the work, no matter which draft you’re working on. It's just that the professional, the editing self, feels more assured in her task. It’s a relief when she arrives.

This is a great article with lots of concrete advice about editing. And if anecdotes about grammar excite you, the second part of the article talks about McPhee’s experiences with The New Yorker’s editors and issues of house style. Really, a must-read for writers. Link to entire piece here.

Benediction by Kent Haruf

Last month, I traveled to Colorado for a writers’ conference. I flew into Denver and spent the day touring downtown and my alma mater, the University of Denver, then headed south for the 70-mile trip into Colorado Springs. It’s a vast, beautiful state with geographical variety ranging from startling peaks to endless stretches of flat land, and weather that changes in the blink of an eye. When I tell people about our time there, I always talk about storms and the way the sky really does feel closer at the higher elevation, nature intruding into your daily life in a bigger, more immediate way.

Kent Haruf grew up in eastern Colorado, and he’s spent the vast majority of his life in middle America—university in Nebraska and Iowa, work in Wyoming, teaching in southern Illinois and a return to Colorado upon retirement. He knows about ranching and farming and small town life. In fact, his novels take place in the fictional small town of Holt, Colorado; the most famous is Plainsong (1999), a finalist for the National Book Award. I count it among my most favorite novels and Haruf is a favorite writer.

Benediction is considered the third in a Holt, Colorado trilogy, beginning with Plainsong and followed by 2004’s Eventide, although earlier novels are set in town too. I’d argue that Benediction is really a stand-alone. Aside from the shared setting and a brief (and probably superfluous) connection to the earlier novels, the story really doesn’t overlap. Thematically though, the three novels work as a cycle. Plainsong: vocal church music, unadorned melody; eventide: evening; benediction: a final blessing, often at the end of a church service (my definitions). Stylistically, they have the same easy, spare urgency, the same attention to each character’s humanity, the same ability to reach in and grab a reader’s heart and give it an insistent squeeze.

I was trying to describe Benediction the other night, trying to say what I loved so much about it. I talked about the high plains of Colorado, its rough qualities and intrusive changes. I mentioned Haruf’s focus on the “precious ordinary” in life. I described his characters, so familiar that you know them from the start. Then I talked about the story, the old man dying from cancer while stories from his life come to light. I began to lose my audience. So I related a scene from the book that had the biggest impression on me—three women, two middle-aged and one elderly—take a young neighborhood girl for a picnic. They lunch, drink wine and take a nap outside under the trees. They talk about things that happened to them in life. And then they skinny dip in the stock tank, the water kept for cattle. And once they’re in, they begin to teach the young girl to swim. A routine scene, perhaps boring? Actually, it’s one of the most poignant things I’ve ever read.

And it occurred to me that Haruf’s representations of women in this novel are among the most fully realized I’ve ever read. The way women take care of what needs to be done, day in and day out. The way they keep families and communities together. Because really, on a broader level, that’s what I love about Haruf’s writing. It’s just about life and the connections we make for our short time here. Family, neighbors, friends. The mistakes, the lessons, the joys. I can't describe the effect of his stories any more than a photograph of Colorado can give a complete impression. Trust me, you have to read these books.

Kent Haruf is seventy years old but I hope he’s got many more novels in him, many stories to tell before the final blessing. Read some prior ramblings about Haruf on this blog here and here.

Hamlet: Old School YA?

I have a favorite Shakespeare play and I’d wager it’s not an uncommon choice: Hamlet. What’s not to love? There are excellent plot points—supernatural interventions, family betrayals, sword fights, confrontations, suicide—and an array of multi-faceted characters. There is the ongoing mystery of the king’s death filtered through the lens of the most unreliable of narrators, Hamlet. The play is funny, very funny. And of course we have Hamlet’s lovely soliloquies, his incessant waffling about action and inaction, “be”ing or "not to be”ing.

The role of Horatio is considered a minor one. Many critics claim the character is underdeveloped and intended only as a foil for Hamlet. Where Hamlet wavers, Horatio is steadfast. Where Hamlet seeks direction, Horatio is the poster child for loyalty and intent. As a younger person and student, when my love for the play was at its most ardent, I identified keenly with Hamlet. So many choices, so many people looking to him as he tried to decide what type of person to be. And he really loved Ophelia, didn’t he, in his warped, tormented way? How many current YA offerings have this same framework—disturbed but deep-feeling young man, innocent girl hoping to lead him to the stable ground of her love? Even the appearance of the ghost and Hamlet’s hand-wringing about life and dreams, life and death, and his self-assertions: “to thine own self be true”—all seem youthful diversions, the type of thing teens and young adults ruminate over when they don’t have to work all day and maintain a household.

Horatio, on the other hand, is resolute and purposeful. The appearance of the ghost does not rattle him. Instead, he badgers the specter about its purpose: “Speak of it, stay and speak!” He’s like, what’s the deal? Do you have secrets to tell? I don’t have time for this.

Even Hamlet recognizes the differences between himself and his friend and acknowledges him as a “man that is not passion’s slave.” And at the play's end, it’s Horatio who speaks over the corpse of the prince and sets the tone for the kingdom's continued stability.

I’ve been rereading bits from the play lately, and I find that maybe I’m beyond an age to fully appreciate Hamlet and his deliberations. Give me a loyal, calm friend like Horatio any day. Someone who knows his mind and purpose. There is work to do, after all, and only so many hours in the day.

Words and Movement

I’m currently reading a cultural history which deals with the start of what we’d term The Modern Age. Spanning the 20^th century, it begins with a discussion of the artistic climate, starting with Stravinsky’s ballet The Rite of Spring in 1913. The introduction of Russian ballet to European theaters (and consequently, parlors) had a seismic effect on artists working in all mediums, but some considered dance an ideal form of art. (Book here.)

“In the ballet, I would point to the elemental mixture of visual and aural impressions; in the ballet is attained the ideal of the Gesamtkunstwerk about which Wagner dreamed and about which every artistically gifted person dreams.” --Alexandre Benois, art critic

Gesamtkunstwerk:  noun, German.

total art work, an artistic creation that synethesizes the elements of music, drama, spectacle, dance, etc.

I’m a dance enthusiast so this is all good and true, but I’m a writer too. So I’m always looking for experiences to inform my writing. And anyone avidly seeking out art in any form is looking for that total experience, the one that fires brain synapses but lights your soul as well. The movie that makes you laugh and cry, the book that keeps you up at night and thinking long afterward, the painting you buy a reproduction of so you can look at it all the time.

At the risk of sounding dramatic, I had a life-changing art experience last night, at a performance by Spellbound Contemporary Ballet, an Italian company currently touring the U.S. The first offering in the program was called “Lost for Words.” From the printed material:

"Lost for Words is a full-length 43-minute piece. A mixture of graceful fluidity and stunning virtuosity, Astolfi’s Lost for Words is an abstract reflection on the role of language in human relations, echoing the dissonance embedded in a culture of communication dominated by empty words.”

I do a lot of thinking about words and art, and how to make art using words. From the opening moments of Lost for Words, I was gripped. Bodies expressing communication, sometimes in pairs or groups but ultimately, each alone. Bodies moving together in discourse, with intent and at times, entanglement or disengagement. Each dancer similarly clad and blending one with the other, because in matters of communication, we are all equal, male or female. The hope, the futility, the brief connections. It didn’t hurt that these were Italian dancers—dark, muscular, beautiful. What can I say? I spent the 40+ minutes (which felt like 10) on the edge of my seat, a tissue clutched in my hand to wipe tears. I realized what people mean when they say “it took my breath away” because at one point, I was almost panting.

I was deeply moved by this piece because it was personal and universal, exquisite and ragged, theoretical and immediate. It felt like it was about me. It shifted the planes of my foundation and I share an introduction with you below. I don’t expect you to feel as I do about it, but I hope you feel this way about something.  

Spellbound Contemporary Ballet " Lost for words " from Spellbound Contemporary Ballet on Vimeo.