Category: Literary Thoughts

William Styron (author of The Confessions of Nat Turner and Sophie’s Choice) said, “I don’t think an historical novelist should be restricted to the facts; he should take liberties. The historical novelist works best when fed on short rations.” Yes! Give us a crumb, we can create an entire loaf. Give us a loaf, the best we can do is slice it and add sandwich filling. When I write, I freely mix fact and fiction. The best reward is when I finish a manuscript and can’t remember what’s fact and what’s my own invention. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

The July–August 2020 issue of Poets & Writers, in “Authors on Creativity in Quarantine,” features thirteen writers describing their experience writing (or not) during the COVID-19 lockdown. Many also shared general thoughts about the writing life. Among the statements that resonated with me: “Artists have written through world wars and famine, genocides and natural disasters, through dictators, through drought. We write not to find clarity, but to become comfortable in our confusions. Comfortable with the fact that there are no easy answers coming” (Author Joshua Mohr). In fact, this is true of all writing, in all circumstances, not just under these extremes. We ponder enigmas — particularly the vicissitudes of human relationships — every time we employ our words. Some people crave happy endings, others are drawn to apocalyptic finales. But most authors and readers, myself included, prefer works whose conclusions are open-ended. Goodness and grace without guarantees, tragedy and torment with glimmers of hope. Writing allows us to live with that ambiguity. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

The July–August 2020 issue of Poets & Writers includes a feature titled “Authors on Creativity in Quarantine.” Thirteen authors describe their (in)ability to write during the COVID-19 lockdown. Many include general ruminations on the writing life. Among the statements that resonated with me: “Writing is a form of dissociation. In the hours of real absorption, you leave behind your room, your body, even the mind you imagine as your own. I needed badly to experience that freedom precisely because I sensed how long it would be before I would have it again” (Author Adam Haslett). Psychologists define dissociation as “ranging from a mild emotional detachment from one’s immediate surroundings to a more severe disconnection from physical and emotional experiences.” In contrast to this mental disorder, writing more fully immerses me in the thoughts, feelings, and physicality of my characters, and the sensory attributes of the environment I’m creating. Hence I prefer the term “heightened engagement” to describe the writing process. Authors dissociate from the immediate world in order to associate more intensely with our imagined one. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

“I’ve always worried about all possible outcomes for anything I ever embarked on,” he said. Writing and directing appeared to be “a way for me to take chances without the same fear.” (“Charlie Kaufman’s Head Trips” by Jon Mooallem in The New York Times Magazine, July 05, 2020) Charlie Kaufman’s self-analysis rings true for me as a writer too, and I see how it would also apply to directing a film. If writers see something that isn’t working, they can delete or revise the text. Likewise, directors can cut or reshoot the segment. Most artists can change a work-in-progress, which allows us to take chances. The consequences of messing up are less dire in fiction or fantasy than they are in real life. After all, it’s only a book or movie (or painting, etc.). You can scrap it before you publish or release the work. Even if you put it out there, while you might get a bad review (and take a blow to your self-esteem), the risk to yourself is rarely higher, nor is it likely to hurt others. Creative work allows us to flirt with failure. We can even absolve ourselves of responsibility by claiming, “That was the character, not me.” For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

My safety mantra for writers and readers during the COVID-19 pandemic is Embrace Words, Not Worlds. Words are clear yet enigmatic, purposeful yet versatile. They heal and irritate, inspire and frustrate, prevent and push, encircle and divide, and divert and focus us. We bend words to our needs and desires; words mold us to their design and will. Please harness the power of words to care for yourself and others during these precarious times. For more of my literary thoughts, see REFLECTIONS.

As a fiction writer living alone, I’m so grateful for the company of my characters during this period of COVID-19 social isolation. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

If writers succumbed to charges of cultural appropriation, literature would be devoid of imagination and empathy. Says Hari Kunzru in The Guardian (10/01/16), “Clearly, if writers were barred from creating characters with attributes that we do not ‘own’ (gender, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and so on), fiction would be impossible. Stories would be peopled by clones of the author.” For more thoughts on writing see REFLECTIONS.

“When I finish something and it seems good, I’m dazed. It must have been fun to write. I wish I’d been there.” — “The Art of Dying” by Peter Schjeldahl (Personal Essay in The New Yorker, 12/23/19). Schjeldahl captures the “Did I really write that?” sensation that many writers, including myself, experience. Writing is a present/absent process. One is at once fully immersed in the act, yet also removed to another plane. For more of my literary thoughts, see REFLECTIONS.

In his profile of director Todd Haynes, critic John Lahr writes “When Haynes was in eleventh grade, his film teacher, Chris Adams, told him ‘that films shouldn’t be judged on how they conveyed reality, that films were not about reality.’ Cinema was a trick, almost like Renaissance perspective: a two-dimensional event that represented three-dimensionality; it created the sense of direct, unmediated life, whereas, in fact, everything in it was mediated. The notion, Haynes said, was ‘a revelation to me.’ He began to interrogate our ‘endless presumptions about reality and authenticity.’” (“The Director’s Cut: How Todd Haynes rewrites the Hollywood playbook” by John Lahr, The New Yorker, 11/11/19, p. 57). I think this observation also applies to writing fiction. The author’s challenge is to make readers experience a highly mediated story as a direct and real event. As a writer, I bend reality to my “narrative will” so that fact and fiction are equally plausible and hence achieve authenticity. For more of my thoughts about writing, see REFLECTIONS.

Reading a conversation between Christina Baker Kline and Lisa Gornick about “Historical Fiction” (Poets & Writers, September-October 2019, pp. 31-37), I agreed with Kline. Excerpts: “In writing about people from different eras, I’m less interested in verisimilitude than in exploring ways that the past resembles the present.” “There comes a point for me with any kind of research when I have to let go and trust that I’ve sufficiently internalized what I need to know. It’s like taking the tea bag out of the water when it’s steeped the right amount. Then it’s time to write.” “I don’t think novelists have a responsibility to be historically accurate. Fiction writers — people who make stuff up — can do whatever they choose. I need to allow myself the freedom in my own mind for flights of fancy.” Read more of my own thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.