Marital Reading Habits

I just received another of those gifts that every writer lives for: an email from a stranger, writing to tell me how much he or she enjoyed my novel. Whenever I get one of these, I always think of what Mark Twain once said: "I can live for two months on a good compliment."

This message, though, was a little different from the others. "This is the first book my wife and I read together, aloud to each other," the sender wrote, "and  it couldn't have been a better choice."

They read it to each other? Aloud? I tried to imagine a similar scene with my wife, Joanne. And as I did so, I felt a stab of guilt. I've worked out of my home for the past 24 years and, as a result, I not only have dinner with Joanne almost every night, we also often have both breakfast and lunch together. (And, yes, we still get along; in fact, we celebrated our 26th anniversary last month.) At breakfast and lunch, my nose is usually stuck in a book; hers, a newspaper or magazine.

Here's the problem: Joanne is a vocal reader. She loves to share what she reads. A health tip. An inspiring profile. A sad story. My reaction, I confess, is more impatience than interest. My attention span is so short that I must guard it jealously. Interruptions that take me away from a story I'm immersed in are just that: interruptions.

There's more. If I appear to be enjoying whatever I'm reading, Joanne will ask me to read a passage to her. Any guesses as to my response? If you guessed something along the lines of, "You can read it yourself when I'm finished," you win the Spot-the-Insensitive-Spouse award.

So when I received the email from the read-aloud couple, I envisioned a happy husband and wife, laughing and cuddling over a good book. I made a vow to respond more enthusiastically when Joanne reads something aloud to me. And I intend to keep that vow... right after I finish this page...

Immersion Writing

Enjoyed this from Michael Chabon, quoted in this month's Poets & Writers:

"To do your very best work as an artist, whatever the discipline, takes complete immersion in the work. You need to get caught in the slipstream, to draft along behind it as it carries your forward. You get into a state where, even if you're not writing, everything you see, read, hear; every place you go; every newspaper you pick up; every conversation you chance to overhear feeds the work, because you are so saturated in it."

Support This (Other) Site

Slight break from my usual moaning and groaning about writing to ask you to help support an important website. As you may have noticed I steer clear of politics in my comments here and on Facebook, but among the websites I visit every day is Politics Daily. Reason:  balanced journalism and civil political discourse.  (Full disclosure: Its editor-in-chief, Melinda Henneberger, is a friend.) 

Given the often skewed and decidedly nasty tone of other sites focused on politics, it’s really important—especially at this time—to show the poobahs who control the purse strings that there are a lot of people out there who still appreciate journalistic standards and integrity. 

To do that, visit the Politics Daily fan page and click on "Like."  And if the spirit moves you, add a comment about how much appreciate the Politics Daily approach. Thanks. Here’s the link. 

Thank you. And spread the word!

A Cathedral Full of Fire

Thanks to a fellow tweeter, I came across this great article in the Guardian featuring writer Michael Cunningham. One quote in particular stood out:

"I always find that the novel I'm finishing, even if it's turned out fairly well, is not the novel I had in mind. I think of lot of writers must negotiate this, and if they don't admit it, they're not being honest. You have started the book with this bubble over your head that contains a cathedral full fire--that contains a novel so fast and great and penetrating and bright and dark that it will put all other novels written to shame. And then, as you get towards the end, you begin to realize, no, it's just this book. And it has its strengths, it has its virtues, but there's nothing about the Crimean war, there's nothing about interstellar travel. It says what it says and that's it. And it joins all the other books in the world."

This sums up how I feel about my current manuscript. It is already so much different from what I had in mind when I started and what I wrote in my first draft (previously known as the Vomit Draft). I've already eliminated entire chapters, killed off some characters I thought would play central roles, and have even changed some of the key motivators driving the main character to do the (often stupid) things he does.

Despite how frustrating that may sound, however, I find the process invigorating. The story is becoming a story, not an attempt to become the Great Novel. The characters are becoming who they will be, and chances are they aren't going to be Madame Bovaries (apologies, Gustave) or Brothers Karamazov or Willy Lomans. All I can do, at this point, is get the story down, and be grateful if it's given the opportunity to "join all the other books in the world."

How do you handle your own cathedrals full of fire?

The Privileged Pain of Writing

Over on that delightful distraction, Facebook, one of my friends, Melinda Henneberger, expressed pseudo-annoyance with people who claim they just luuuuuuv to write. She later expressed the sentiments about writing I share: I prefer having written to the actual writing. One of  comments described writing as a "privileged pain."

Where do you stand? Privilege, pain, or both? Do you just luuuv writing so much that you would write even if you knew that you'd never get published, that no one was ever going to read your work? Is the drive to write so strong that you cannot bear the thought of going for more than a day or two away from the keyboard or pen and pad? If you were stuck on a desert island, would you write anything more than "Help!" in the sand?

Do you write in hopes of fame? fortune? an excuse to drink? a reason to flout the rules, cheat, act all artistic? Do you write because you want people to say, "S/he's a writer." Do you write with visions of your serious-looking mug on the back of a book, of people recognizing you as you stroll through malls, run through airports, search for seats at movie theaters? What's your excuse for the time you spend alone instead of in a soup kitchen, for spending more time with imaginary people than with your own family?

Samuel Johnson weighed in on the question this way: "No man but a blockhead, ever wrote, except for money." What say you?