Archive for March, 2010

Have you read The Moon and Sixpence? No? What are you waiting for?

Somerset explodes the 1st-person-pov-is-too-limited argument. He does more than explode it; he sets it on fire, dances around the inferno, and rolls around in the ashes. Or something like that.

Saudade. My new favorite word. Better than nostalgia. Perhaps the most accurate portrayal of childhood ever compressed into a single term. Saudade. Notice the soft close of your palate at the end. When a word just happens to be physically metaphorical…alchemy is at work.

I mentioned it before, and I must do so again. Asterios Polyp by David Mazzucchelli is the finest graphic novel I’ve ever read. Period. I have a bit of bias, having written a short piece about an architect not too long ago and then having stumbled upon Mazzucchelli’s work, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been waiting years–decades?–for illustrations to become more than just a visual representation of action.

So my existential crisis continues. I’m a fan of the old EC (my first was at age 8, when I asked mom how she knew I wasn’t in a coma imagining the entire world; she said something like “Do you know what my answer is going to be? No? Then you’re not imagining any of this”). But the EC continues, having moved from woe to absurdity. Tonight I dine on wild rice and scallops. I boxed for eight rounds this morning. Scout chased a ball thirty-seven times this afternoon. That cannot be good for him–I don’t care how tough GSPs are.

Before parting, here’s a b&w early draft of that graphic novel project. Looks like things are moving ahead faster than expected, which always means slower than one wants. But this is publishing after all.

Dan did a terrific job with the panels–you should see it in color. And with words. More to come.

Recent correspondence with a well-know author (who will remain nameless, not by request but because I don’t like to attribute quotes unless given permission, and I don’t feel like even asking permission) revealed several interesting opinions about MFA programs.

1. They are almost certainly used as an excuse to not get any writing done; that is, once the program ends, so does the writing.

2. They don’t teach plot.

3. They should teach plot.

4. They are either very helpful, useless, infuriating, or all three. At the same time.

I’m not entirely sold on any of the four, though #3 sounds the most accurate. We’ve been down this path before; “literature” often ignores plotting, as if that’s a pursuit for airport authors (god forbid) and television writers (even more gods forbid). But if you can name me one book of any merit that managed to insert great writing into a lousy plot…well, then I’ll still insist I’m right.

So why isn’t plot taught? It might be that most writers can’t. Joseph Campbell helps, as does McKee’s Story, as do any number of movies (read any Billy Wilder script), pulp novels (avoid Chandler), and comic books. Yes, I said comic books. Comic books are all about plot. It’s what keeps them going. Where to start? Moore is as good a place as any, though Mignola and Gaiman are certainly up there.

My point (and, I’m assuming, the point of that anonymous author) is simple: if you want to become a “writer” then you must become a student of any and all aspects of the writing profession. I’m only lecturing because of this email:

Hi Mr. Nathan:

I am writing to you from Norway, where I finished reading your short story “The Love Life of Tigers” in a journal my friend brought. I was a little confused about the plot. Was it a dream? I ask because my friend insisted it did not matter. For serious writing, style is the most important.

What are your thoughts about this? Thank you, and I look forward to reading more.

Sincerely,

Jonas

My first email from Norway. Nice.

We’ve veered slightly from the beginning of this post, where I was talking about MFA programs (yet again). But that phrase “serious writing” raises my hackles. Is “serious” one of those hierarchical adjectives, used to defend a lack of sales/public attention? I think so. Of course I’m neither a best-seller (domestically, at least) nor do I receive any public attention, so maybe I should be defending the honor of “serious writing.” I dunno’, Jonas. Tell your friend the most important thing is enjoyment. If you enjoy a story, the author did his/her job. I’m glad you enjoyed mine. And no, it was not a dream.

ridiculous. Edits were supposed to be a breeze–thanks to the careful eye of my new editor Heather–but something happened on the way to the office. I got better.

I wrote Memphis is Burning (by the way, we’re working on a new title; how does Losing Graceland sound?) two years ago, and haven’t looked at it since June ‘09. It sold, I waited, I wrote some good and not-so-good short pieces, started my next book, finished editing Jack the Bastard, etc. The details are unimportant. Bottom line: sometime between selling and now, I became a better writer.

Of course, this should always happen. It certainly happened after I sold Gods. This is why authors don’t read their work once it’s allegedly-immortalized in print. We can’t fix it, so why bother?

But bad habits do linger, which I like to call stylistic quirks, and no matter how much we keep writing and reading, they stay hidden. Enter a group of new readers (my classmates), who throw back that dusty curtain and shine a light on the old stylistic quirks. We could also call those quirks words that suck. I wouldn’t argue. No, they haven’t read Memphis is Burning AKA Losing Graceland. Doesn’t matter. They still exposed my bad habits.

Now what? Chopping, that’s what. I’d hoped to get the edits done by this weekend. Pshaw. Instead, I’m chewing my nails and hoping the word count doesn’t plunge too low. We began at a trim 60k. Halfway through it’s dropped to 57k. Still trim, but getting close to anorexic…