Ann S. Epstein writes novels, short stories, memoir, essays, and poems. Please use the links or site menu to go to the HOME PAGE; learn about her NOVELS, SHORT STORIES, MEMOIR, ESSAYS, and POEMS; find interesting facts in BEHIND THE STORY; read REFLECTIONS on writing; check NEWS for updates on publications and related events; see REVIEWS; learn about her END-OF-LIFE DOULA credentials and services; and CONTACT US to send webmail.
“Whatever the question, ‘writing’ is the answer. [But] how can little old me possibly manage something as vast as this pandemic? By writing one word after the next, the ending will appear” (Novelist Leslie Pietrzyk). I too am writing to the ending, but not to make sense of the pandemic. I simply write my way to the end of each story, much as I did before the pandemic. When the pandemic ends, I won’t have an answer for it. I’ll just continue to write. For more thoughts about writing, see REFLECTIONS.
Why writers write: “A word is never the destination, merely a signpost in its general direction, and that destination owes quite as much to the reader as to the writer.” – John Fowles
“You never know beforehand what people are capable of, you have to give it time, it’s time that rules”(Writer José Saramago). You might think that as a writer, I’ve spent the past eleven months documenting the experience of living through the pandemic. I haven’t. You might assume that my written words lament the year’s losses. Or, conversely, extol the benefits of isolation. They don’t. I write the kinds of stories I’ve always created. Some day, with the hindsight of time, I may write about the pandemic in fiction or memoir. But at present, my writing traverses independent paths. For more thoughts about writing, see REFLECTIONS.
Why writers write: “A word after a word after a word is power.” – Margaret Atwood
“‘For a while’ is a phrase whose length can’t be measured, at least by the person who’s waiting” (Haruki Murakami). We live in a winter that started last spring and will not end until this summer or fall. But spring will eventually follow winter, as it always does. And so I wait, for a while. In the meantime, I write. Not about the pandemic, but through it, tilling the fertile soil of imagination from which spring sprouts. For more thoughts about writing, see REFLECTIONS.
Why writers write: “An artist is a sort of emotional or spiritual historian. His role is to make you realize the doom and glory of knowing who you are and what you are.” – James Baldwin
In “Go Long and Cut, or Write Short and Add?” (The Writer, 01/14/21), Libby Cudmore asks several writers to share their approach to creating first drafts. Cudmore defines the two methods as the “vomit,” in which the writer puts everything onto the page and cuts later, and the “skeleton,” in which they lay out the main characters and plot before adding details on the next round. The authors she interviews are split in their approach. I’m definitely a “vomit” rather than a “skeleton” first-drafter, with some caveats. For me, revision primarily means cutting or “killing my darlings.” By the time I’ve finished the first draft and go back to the beginning, I can judge when a scene is overdeveloped, redundant, or even irrelevant because a character or plot point has emerged more organically later or taken a different turn. That said, by the time I’m three-quarters of the way into the first draft, I start to fret about its burgeoning length and begin to write tighter. Also, because the narrative is so well established by then, I no longer feel an urge to cram in the back story. Basically, that “vomit” first draft is me talking to myself, getting my thoughts on the page so I don’t lose them. I also keep a “Parking Lot” file where I jot down ideas for later chapters, or things to remember when I revise earlier ones. I’m a child of the 60s, when we “let it all hang out.” As I age, I’m more selective about what hangs out and what remains tucked in. The same can be said of my manuscripts. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.
Why writers write: “If my doctor told me I had only six minutes to live, I wouldn’t brood. I’d type a little faster.” – Isaac Asimov
Every writer strives to “nail the phrase” that captures an idea or clinches a scene. The writer-as-reader both applauds and envies when another author does. So kudos to Ian Frazier (“Rereading ‘Lolita,’” The New Yorker, December 14, 2020), describing driving down Old Route 66 as an adult: “I’ll see something I remember from my childhood, and the tiny neural address that held the memory in my brain will still be there.” I hope Frazier did a jig when the phrase “tiny neural address” danced into his mind. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.
A “tiny neural address” stored in the memory of childhood road tripsWhy writers write: “Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.” – Carl Sagan
“Creativity and ego cannot go together” (Jeong Kwan, Buddhist monk and chef, profiled on Chef’s Table, February 17, 2017). Kwan is an inspiring figure. Being in her presence instills peace and trust. To the extent that she sees ego as synonymous with competition, as trying to win or “be the best in the world,” I agree with her. Yet ego can also be a desire to improve without comparison to others. Ego is the self-satisfaction one gets from doing something well. My ego is tied to my creative writing. When I labor over a sentence until I find just the right word or phrase, I’m pleased with my accomplishment. I don’t linger or gloat; I move onto the next sentence. But I don’t negate that momentary charge to my self-esteem. I consider that healthy ego. Unlike Kwan, however, I’m not a Buddhist. I haven’t shed my unhealthy ego. Read more of my thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.
Jeong Kwan, Buddhist monk and chef, cooks from her soulWhy writers write: “Don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.” – Franz Kafka
“If you’re a storyteller, you face that notorious bugbear called an ending. Maybe you’ll write your way into it, or maybe you’ll plan it out in advance. Whatever your process, your ending needs to ring true. No tricks. No clichés” (“The Last Chapter” by Jack Smith, The Writer, December 2020). I begin with a general idea of how a story will end, but I write my way to the specifics. As I get to know characters and eavesdrop on scenes, the ending takes shape and changes. Whatever emerges, the ending must be earned to satisfy the writer and reader alike. Read more of my thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.
A satisfying ending must be earnedWhy writers write: “Cheat your landlord, but do not shortchange the Muse. You can’t fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal.” – William S. Burroughs
“[I prefer] open-ended conclusions, in which there’s some resolution at hand, but it’s not tied up in a perfect literary bow. A well written-ending offers a sense of where the characters end up and where they might be headed beyond the final page” (Midge Raymond in “The Last Chapter” by Jack Smith, The Writer, December 2020). In my own writing, I want to “nail” my endings, but not “nail them down.” Ambiguity allows the reader’s imagination to continue working. The book ends but the story keeps spinning. Read more of my thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.
The book ends but the story keeps spinningWhy writers write: “I write to discover what I know.” – Flannery O’Connor
“When I’m writing, I often think of endings in fiction like the close of a piece of music. Am I imagining a noisy, rousing crescendo? A minor melancholy chord? A single note that slowly fades into silence? And then I try to use language to create that same effect” (Alix Ohlin in “The Last Chapter” by Jack Smith, The Writer, December 2020). For me, music, more than any other creative medium, can discharge tears or release joy. So when I write, I aim to inspire in readers the same intense emotional reactions evoked by music’s magical powers. Read more of my thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.
Can words capture music’s power to evoke strong emotions?Why writers write: “Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled.” – Henry David Thoreau
A truism of writing instruction is “Show, don’t tell.” Anton Chekhov admonishes “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Ernest Hemingway exhorts “Show readers everything, tell them nothing.” But not every writer agrees with this advice. Alexandra Schwartz, interviewing novelist and playwright Ayad Akhtar (“Making a Scene,” The New Yorker, September 21, 2020), reports “Writers of the show-don’t tell school might worry about didacticism undermining artistry, but Akhtar has a different philosophy. ‘Telling is amazing — some of my best experiences have been being told stuff,’ he told me.” My view is that it depends on the skill and balance with which each form is executed. A skillful teller can be engaging; an endless monologue devoid of interaction. An inventive shower can be enthralling; the relentless hammer of action exhausting. As Francine Prose says of Alice Munro, “Needless to say, many great [writers] combine dramatic showing with long sections of flat-out authorial narration.” More thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.
Novelist, playwright, and autodidact Ayad AkhtarWhy writers write: “When I’m asked my advice for people who want to be writers, I say they don’t need advice. They know they want to be writers, and they’re gonna do it.” – R. L. Stine
