Jul
1
The most difficult thing for me about writing fiction (other than the time constraints, the interruptions, the laptop-induced carpal tunnel, the unfamiliar and horrifyingly pervasive sense of writer’s block, and the gaping black hole in my brain where things like “grammar” and “punctuation” are supposed to live, that is) is the realization that my memory isn’t just bad, it’s terrible. It seems to me that one of the key elements in being a really good writer is the ability to draw upon past experiences with clarity and intensity, that even if you’re writing pure fiction describing events that never actually happened it’s immensely helpful if you can remember certain aspects of life you’ve experienced firsthand in order to create a believable, solid framework for your story.
Take The Glass Castle, for instance. I mean, even if it turned out that Walls’ book was not based on fact, you’ve got to hand it to her for creating a fully authentic, exquisitely detailed account of someone’s childhood, and a lot of that has to come from remembering what it’s like to be young, right? And if it’s all true, well what the FUCK, how does a person have such a phenomenal memory that they can vividly describe conversations and emotions that happened thirty years ago or more?
I wonder if spending 7+ years writing online has had an effect on how I think about that stuff. When you’re so used to writing down things that are happening at the moment, maybe it becomes harder to dig deeper for the things that require a different access method, you know? It’s certainly affected my patience; I feel like I’m trying to switch from having short conversations to carrying out a terribly long-winded monologue where my voice just drones on and on and ON and oh my god, self, shut UP. Plus, there’s this entirely different concept of having to keep coming back to the story, whether I want to or not—I can’t just merrily toss it out to sea like all the little bobbing bottles saved on this website.
In short, this whole writing endeavor is about a thousand times harder than I had guessed it would be, and dude, I was already operating under the assumption that it would be really damn hard. As for a progress report, I completely scrapped the first 3000 or so words of the story I was starting to write and went back to the drawing board so now I have, like, four paragraphs of this so-called book and it starts with someone with a gun in their mouth. Yeah, I’m not sure either.
Anyway, I have some ideas for where I’d maybe like to take the story and I could use some help from you guys, if you’re willing. I’m looking to talk with people who have worked interesting jobs and wouldn’t mind describing them to me. Anything that’s a little out of the ordinary but recognizable—like, say, a dog groomer, floral arranger, bike mechanic, rafting guide . . . that kind of thing. If you’re so inclined, hit me up in the comments or via email, I’d love to hear from you.
In non-writing news, we’re heading back down to Oregon this weekend for a long holiday at the cabin. I predict lots of whining about the drive, a complete disregard for eating healthfully, and the familiar epiphany that no matter how good of a time you’re having, if the kids are there, it’s not really a vacation.
Whatever you’re up to this weekend, may your fingers be fireworks-injury-free, your crappy food be plentiful, and your family not drive you completely batshit. See you next week!
Jun
29
• If you’re reading this in a feed reader and you’ve noticed that all of a sudden the feed is doing that asshole thing where you only get the first few sentences and then you have to click through, I’m sorry! I don’t know why this is happening, because the settings are configured for “full text” instead of “summary”, which is all I really know to check, so . . . yeah. Suck. I now embody one of my own pet peeves! Next up: possessive apostrophes on plural nouns, slurp-mmmmming my coffee, and blogging about blogging! Wait.
• Speaking of blogging (slurrrrrp . . . . mmmmmmm), are you going to BlogHer this year? I am, and I’m looking forward to visiting Chicago, albeit briefly. I’m also looking forward to seeing old friends and making new ones, and let’s not lie, I’m very much looking forward to forging a close personal relationship with my hotel bed and the room service menu. Yes, yes, the parties, but come on, the crème brûlée.
• The other day I was woefully picking at my chipped toenail polish and thinking how I wished someone would do the job of re-painting my toes for me and maybe filing the rough spots away and making the cuticles all pretty, like wouldn’t it be great if I could just outsource these tasks altogether, and I realized I was in the midst of inventing a revolutionary new concept in personal care. I call it: the pedicure. I think this is going to be BIG.
• It kills me how small children have no discernible elbows, knuckles, or knees. Dylan can run at full speed and climb and even jump, but he still looks like he’s formed entirely out of sake-fed veal. Pass the fava beans, Chianti, and toddler, please.
• I read something recently that I found immensely comforting and lovely and I instantly dog-eared the page so I could come back to it whenever I liked, and I thought some of you might enjoy it too:
She used to think she needed to know things to be the mother. How to fix things, make everything better. And she couldn’t, she just didn’t know how. She felt sometimes not like a mother but like an older sister with an impatient streak. But one weekend when her oldest daughter was afraid she was losing her baby, she spoke to her son-in-law on the telephone. Shyly she asked him, “Do you think I should come?”
“My wife needs her mother,” said her son-in-law, and in that second she understood all at once and forever everything she needed to know. And she got on the bus directly and went out to their house and she sat by her daughter’s bed and held her hand. She stayed in the room until her daughter fell asleep and she was there when her daughter woke. She is grateful forever to him for saying the right thing at the right moment because her life changed right there on that dime. And the baby is fourteen years old. Hallelujah.
— Safekeeping: Some True Stories from a Life, by Abigail Thomas
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