OnWriting

My New Book, Reviewed

2010-02-26T01:28:00Z

Any publisher worth its salt works hard to get its books into the hands of book reviewers before the novel is published. In publishing heaven, the book reviews (really great ones) show up the same day the book appears in stores. This hardly ever happens. So an author hopes for the best in terms of the reviews and their timing. My first novel, RED EARTH, WHITE EARTH, had extremely varying reviews (which might be the territory of a first novel with a lot of hype). I found one review in my home's sauna stove. It had been torn from a newspaper and wadded up in a ball of newsprint to be used as a fire starter; my wife had seen the review before I did, and in her own gesture of love, tried to prevent me from seeing it. The review was really bad, but I loved her all the more for trying to protect me.

What publishers look for in reviews are "blurb-able" phrases that can be extracted for later promotional use, including marketing materials and, importantly, the paperback cover. Below is my first review of my third Motor Novel for young adults. It's not starred, nor wildly enthusiastic, but Kirkus is one of the tougher reviewing organs and we might be able to salvage one or two blurbs. See if you can find them. . . .

CHECKERED FLAG CHEATER: A Motor Novel
Weaver extends his Motor Series with this full-throttle, stand-alone sequel. The summer points chase has begun in the Midwest circuit, and Super Stock rookie Trace Bonham, backed by Team Blu, is on a winning streak. While his sports-energy-drink sponsor is promoting him as the next wonder boy and he’s passed every inspection, Trace begins to suspect that his whatever-it-takes crew has rigged his car to win. He can feel it. Faced with an ethical dilemma, the teen must decide if he is “only the driver” or if he can still be a winner apart from his team’s efforts and corporate sponsorship. In the midst of his high-speed adventures, Trace reveals racing terminology, rituals and the “mental game” needed to overtake an opponent; his grueling life on the road; and his continued pursuit of Melody, the love of his life, all while keeping track of his “fence bunnies.” There’s no drag here. (Fiction. YA)

KIRKUS, March 1, 2010

Literary Miscellany

2010-02-18T14:04:00Z

After cautiously opening the door to manuscript evaluation, I've been pleased to hear from several serious writers. I've taken on a couple of projects, including a fine piece from a woman in India. I'm enjoying it. As I've gotten older, I come to see that a key matter in life is finding the right amount of "busy-ness"; my goal is not to be crazy-racing-around-the-country kind of busy, but have just the right balance of work versus contemplative "Zen" time. Easy for me to say, not having young kids or a full time 'real' job, but I've done that simultaneously and written novels at the same time, so I'm thinking I've paid my dues. If you're in the former category of full tilt work, parenthood and you're writing as well, all I can say is keep moving forward. Try to steal an hour here and there to sit by yourself on a park bench or by a lake and try to quiet your mind–and don't feel guilty about it. You need some time for deep thoughts. Time your inner life of the mind as opposed to all that you give to your hectic outer world....

Other literary tidbits: had to turn down a spot on the National Book Awards judging committee, young adult side, because I have a book coming out soon in that category (the third in my Motor Novels series). I likely will get the call for next year. Seems like it would be a fun gig in New York City.

Am increasingly pessimistic about boys and reading–and about the future of males in America. Check out the NYTimes article by David Brooks Feb 16, 2010 called "The Lean Years." In it he calls for a "social response" to our hard times, and frets, as I do, about young men in America. For every 185 women who enter college, only 100 young men join them. For guys, these numbers are great for meeting chicks, but it's no way to sustain a country.

Manuscript Evaluation

2010-01-10T20:53:00Z

Now Offering (Cautiously, Experimentally): Manuscript Evaluation

Malcolm Gladwell, New York Times best-selling author of The Outliers, writes that "10,000 hours is the magic number for true expertise." After twenty-some years of teaching fiction writing, and reading hundreds of novel manuscripts and a thousand short stories (a guess), I have my hours in and then some.

If you don't, and if you're trying to write, there are ways to shorten that 10,000 hour number–though not by a lot. You still need to put in the time. Lots of it. But a good editor can help you penetrate to the heart of why your story or novel is "close" but still not "there." An editor's job is to find that key technique, that missing component to a piece of fiction–and recommend strategies for revision at both the structural and stylistic level. A really good editor creates doorways in the corners you've backed yourself into.

Since I left the classroom, my "On Writing Blog"has been my body-double in the writer's workshop, the advanced fiction seminar, the lecture on the publishing world as it is right now. In the blog I've tried to give away everything I've learned about writing and publishing, including literary agents, fiction technique, dealing with editors,adult versus young adult fiction, writing the memoir, etc. There's enough in there for a short (and free!) book on writing.

However, if you have a novel or short story collection and are looking for more pointed help, I'm now offering manuscript evaluation on very limited basis. I will take on the occasional novel-in-progress (you must have a full draft) if it meets certain writing standards. I can't do true beginner's fiction–that is, you are a person who, because you speak English and suddenly have a grand idea for a plot, think you can write a novel; this sounds harsh but needs to be said. Margaret Atwood has joked about the same issue:

A surgeon, trying to be cheerful to his patient, asks if she's "still writing."

"Why yes, I am," shesays.

"When I retire, I thinkI'll write a novel," the doctor says.

"When I retire, I'm going to be brain surgeon," the woman replies.

Writing is a process, not an impulse or a miracle. Very few people–even if youngish and healthy–suddenly decide to be a major league pitcher. We know in our bones that it take years of practice to be competitive (here we're back to Gladwell again).

On the other hand, writing is a life sport, and we have to start somewhere. Ideally you have already started, and have put in some serious time on a serious literary project. You have a full draft, but it needs . .. "something." That something probably is the clear, objective eye of a professional editor.

The Editorial Process:

1. You submit a couple of chapters (maximum of thirty double-spaced pages). I read your submission and decide whether we'd be a good match; you have my writing blog and my published fiction to consider when deciding the same. Important note: If my fiction is "not your type," then I probably wouldn't be the right editor for you, either. Please note that I don't write, or read much fantasy and so would not be the best editor in that genre.

2. I'll try to read your submission sample on the spot. If it's a "go"–if I agree to evaluate your manuscript–I'll let you know immediately. I'll also give you the turn-around time, which should be a month or less.

3. My Fee:

$500 for a manuscript of up to 50,000 words

$750 for a manuscript of up to 75,000 words

$1000 for a manuscript of up to 100,000 words

4. "So,what do I get for my money, Mister?"

• a close, thoughtful reading of your manuscript with an eye toward its publication;

• an editorial letter, 2-3 pages long, single-spaced, of the kind you'd get from a New York editor: what works, what doesn't, and strategies for revision "before we can consider your work for publication," as they say;

• up to twenty pages of line editing; that is, an illustrated sample of how your sentences might (okay, should) read in terms of amplifying their effect. The goal here is to show you the techniques of fictional style (which I also cover in my"On Writing" blog).

5. The Paperless Trail, or "How We Do This":

• you send a sample chapter (as above);

• if I reply"Yes," you send me your full manuscript via email attachment. Manuscript should be generally in Modern Language Association (MLA) and Microsoft Word format, that is, double-spaced pages with appropriate pagination. Use a basic font such as Helvetica or New York Times. I'd prefer that your novel be one long file (though with your chapter delineations inside it, of course). Don't fret over making sure each new chapter starts at the top of the page; it's your prose I'm interested in, not the secretarial end, though I'll comment on that too if it's way out of whack. (While screenplay formatting separates insiders from newbies, the publishing world is a bit more forgiving);

• you send, by regular mail, a personal or cashier's check for 2/3 of my fee (I try to avoid Paypal and the like);

• When I get your check, I set to work. When I finish, I return your manuscript via email file with the sample of close line editing and summary comments on your writing style. The line editing will be done electronically via MicrosoftWord, under Tools/Track Changes; it's the standard in publishing nowadays. You send the final payment. When I receive it, I send your editorial letter.

• Depending upon my schedule, I might be available for additional line editing at $3.00 per page. But that gets expensive for you, and the purpose of my line editing sample is that, after reading, you can see what your prose needs and fix it yourself. Note that line editing is not copyediting (final proofreading).

To be totally frank, I might not offer manuscript evaluation except that my former literary agency, which had served me well for twenty years, went rogue and stole a lot of money from me. I have advice on how to avoid that, too.

p.s. There's nice blurb in my blog comment section from an aspiring writer whom I worked with recently.

Writing the Memoir: Part Three

2009-12-31T14:11:00Z

E.M. Forster, quoting a friend, wrote that "life is like playing the violin, except that you must learn the instrument as you go along." Same with writing a memoir, I'd say.

I'm 2/3 of the way along in my "sportsmen sketches" (check out Turgenev some day) turned-memoir project. I'm learning a good deal as I go along about the memoir as a literary form, but that has resulted as much from keeping my eyes and ears open for metaphors of the process as from actual writing. For example, I caught a snippet of the televised Kennedy Center Arts Awards wherein Bruce Springsteen was explained as "having a continuous conversation with his audience." Made a lot of sense to me in terms of writing the memoir.

The 'conversation' aspect dovetails with recently article about the memoir in the New York Times ( Nov 22, 2009) : ". . . Think of the memoirist as a person to whom you have just been introduced. . . . Size up as best you can the personality of the man or woman who is talking and take it constantly into consideration as you judge the truthfulness of what he has to say," wrote columnist Raymond Walters nearly fifty years ago.

Walters goes on to imply that a memoirist is a "raconteur" trying to strike up an acquaintence. The 2009 NYT writer adds, "There are a million reasons we might let her do so [strike up the acquaintence], but the obvious ones are: (1) because she might become a friend; (2) because we might learn something useful; (3) and because we can't help being curious about the ways other people go about reflecting on themselves and justifying their existence."

Take a close look at number 3. Deep stuff there–all about why we read in the first place: to see ourselves, our own lives more clearly.

In the same article about the memoir, the philosopher Hilary Putnam notes that a basic human impulse 'explains a lot about the autobiographical impulse:' "We are, most of us, interested in justifying at least some features of our own style of life, in the sense of giving a defense of them that would appeal to others."

Happy New Year and Good Writing To All!

Writing the Memoir: Part Two

2009-12-17T14:04:00Z

I've mentioned the new book I'm working on, a memoir about growing up as a hunter. A killer, some will say. I accept that, and it's fair game (so to speak) for a discussion of what hunting really is all about. There are some complicated male issues involved--don't get me started on those sick, hunting "shows" on cable TV, which are as to hunting as pornography is to love. And certainly any analysis of hunting has to be about one's relationship to the natural world. . . .

But the whole memoir process is fascinating. John Irving called it "memory dredging", which has negative connotations ( mud, "bottom layers", yucky things, hidden stuff, etc.). But I'm finding, not surprisingly, the more I write the more i remember. I'm lucky to have a bright, active 90 year old mother who can confirm matters of family history--such as the year I got my first "real" gun, a .22 rifle.

This is my first nonfiction book, and I am being rigorous in separating myself from fiction writing (certainly), but also from the more "creative" memoir approaches, including 'creative nonfiction'. That latter seems to me a problematic genre, neither wolf nor dog. The key to a memoir, I think, is finding a "through-line" of meaning. That requires us to address not our whole life but an edited version of it. Not cinema verite' wherein we let the camera run, but a shortened version of selected episodes that, strung together, create an arc of meaning. A direction forward through the totality of our experiences. A theme.

Which is to say that we could write several memoirs. Each could examine an important part of our life: mothers, as in MOMMY DEAREST; a father, as in THE FLORIST'S DAUGHTER (a book mentioned earlier); or addictions and bad behavior of various kinds; or our spiritual or our sexual journey. Mine just happens to be about hunting, which is important part of my life. And one that bears examination.

And now back to work....

Chekhov in Translation

2009-11-19T12:49:00Z

If you are at all a literary person, at some point you have to read the Russians. American literature feels like a boy among men when you stand the two side by side. And unless you've gotten your tongue and brain around the Cyrillic alphabet, which I have not (I tried, really hard, long ago at the University of Minnesota--enough to have a Minor in Russian Studies but I never made much headway in the language), then you must read Russian Lit in translation. Not a big deal, the variations in translations. Why fuss over the small stuff--this word here, that emphasis there. Or it is a big deal? If you believe that life is in the details, then you probably should pay attention to whose translation you are about to read.

Below, consider three translations of the first paragraph of Chekhov's story "The Lady and the Lapdog" (aka "The Lady and the Little Dog" aka "The Lady and The Pet Dog"--see what I mean?).

Give the three paragraphs a close read, mark some contrasts and make some judgments yourself, and then let's gather at the bottom of page and talk. . . .

1.

"The talk was that a new face had appeared on the embankment: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitrich Gurov, who had already spent two weeks in Yalta and was used to it, also began to take an interest in new faces. Sitting in a pavilion at Vernet's he saw a young woman, not very tall, blond, in a beret, walking along the embankment; behind her ran a white spitz."

Trans: Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky. Anton Chekhov: Stories. Bantam. 2000

"They were saying a new face had been seen on the esplanade: a lady with a pet dog. Dmitry Dmitrich Gurov, who had already spent two weeks in Yalta and regarded himself as an old hand, was beginning to show an interest in new faces. He was sitting in Vernet's coffeehouse when he saw a young lady, blonde and fairly tall, wearing a beret and walking along the esplanade. A white Pomeranian was trotting behind her."

Trans: RobertPayne, 1963. The Image of Chekhov: Forty Stories by Anton Chekhov. Vintage Russian Library. 1963

"It was said that a new person had appeared on the seafront: a lady with a little dog. Dmitri Dmitrivich Gurov, who had by then been a fortnight at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to take an interest in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw, walking on the seafront, a fair-haired young lady of medium height, wearing a beret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her."

Trans: Constance Garnett, 1945. Great Russian Short Stories. Ed. Norris Houghton. Dell. 1958.

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The span of decades, from the 21st century team of Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky (he's American, she's Russian) to the venerable Constance Garnett (1861-1946) whose name appears on much of the first generation of translations of Russian Lit, is of immediate interest. In terms of diction, notice Garnett's "fortnight" versus "two weeks" in the later pair.

But let's look for subtler contrasts. It's probably easiest to spot translation "issues" by a close explication with the phrasing side-by-side. Let's use a triptych pattern of newest to oldest translation:

"They were saying. . ./The talk was. . ./It was said. . . " Note the subtle decline of immediacy. The verb phrases recede from a fairly concrete 'they' (people) who were definitely 'saying' to a more general 'the talk was' (note now actual people are gone here), to the very passive and subjunctive construction 'It was said.' The latter (Constance Garnett's) has, I think, the better grasp of the psychological atmosphere of the summer seaside resort. Time has slowed down. One fellow, Gurov, has nothing better to do that sit and drink coffee and watch the sea and people who walk near it. 'It was said' has the larger import, suggesting that what was said might or might not be true, with a tilt toward the latter. The matter of doubt is no small thing: it gives the plot (the potential arrival of new person) a clear uptick in energy. 'It was said' also has the scent of The Period about it (late 19th century)–not so blunt or direct as modern expression. Overall, Garnett has the most pleasing mesh of language and manners contemporaneous to the story.

Next, "a new face. . ./ a new face. . . / a new person. . . " Not a lot to say here. Garnett's diction choice stays with reserve and distance; the more modern 'face' shortens the social depth of field.

And then intelligence of the woman who "appeared on the embankment. . . / had been seen on the esplanade. . . / had appeared on the seafront. . ." Here we have three quite different choices, of which 'embankment' seems the most over-thought and downright clumsy option. 'Esplanade' is a splendid word, and is my choice. It denotes a flat area along the sea (originally 'top of a rampart' ) on which people stroll for pleasure–which is what we do when we arrive at the beach. 'Embankment' means dike or barrier to hold back water, and carries no connotation of pleasure-walking. 'Sea-front' will serve, though could mean on the sand, the beach itself, rather than on a more civilized terrace (we imagine a walkway of paving stones, or brickwork underfoot suitable for leather shoes and perambulators–a word Constance Garnett would certainly have chosen).

Gurov (Dmitri/Dimitry/Dimitri Dimitrivich), the translators agree, has been at the resort two weeks. They differ slightly on the effects of his vacation. Because of the two week stay Gurov". . . was used to it/. . . regarded himself as an old hand /. . . was fairly at home there. . . ." Again, the modern 'used to it' feels flat. Lifeless. The psychological energy–an incipience– built up from two weeks' rest and reflection is gone. Garnett's 'at home there' will do, as we all know the feeling of finally settling into a vacation spot. But Payne's 'regarded himself as old hand' is the more pleasing choice. It carries a sense of playfulness; that Gurov's imagination is working and that he is open to adventure.

Gurov was "Sitting in a pavilion at Vernet's he saw. . . /He was sitting in Vernet's coffeehouse when he saw. . . /Sitting in Verney's pavilion, he saw. . . ." Technically speaking, Payne's 'was sitting' is most correct. Gurov is seated. The other two, especially Pevear and Volokhonsky's, feel slightly dangly in terms of their participles.

And by dint of his two weeks, Gurov "also began to take an interest in new faces. . . /was beginning to show an interest in new faces. . . / had begun to take an interest in new arrivals. . ." No huge contrasts here in the three verb constructions. At most, an echo of the more immediate to the more reserved expression.

He saw a "young woman, not very tall, blond. . . /young lady, blonde and fairly tall/. . . a fair-haired young lady of medium height. . . " Okay, was she or wasn't she (tall)? Not that it really matters, but one would think the translators could agree on that.

And I think "wearing a beret . . ." as opposed to ". . . in a beret". It's the kind of thing a good copy editor would flag.

Finally, ". . . behind her ran a white spitz/. . . A white Pomeranian was trotting behind her./ . . .a white Pomeranian dog was running behind her." Spitz or Pomeranian, no big deal--all three translators agree it was a small white dog. And slight variation again in the verb choice and construction (I prefer 'trotting', which fits the tone of the seashore life). But Pevear and Volokhonsky have made a rather serious syntactical choice: to end the paragraph with the dog rather than with the woman. This is troublesome. The story is not about the dog, but about the new woman who catches Gurov's eye and interest, and with whom he becomes entangled. It leaves the sense the modern translators have not penetrated below the surface of the story, and are slightly lost, well, in the translation. To be fair, the pair talk about their process of translation on a BBC interview "In Other Words" from CBC, podcast in 2007. It might be worth a look. Garnett has her own problems, noted by Joseph Brodsky, who said that non-speakers can't really tell the difference between Dostoevsky and Tolstoy "because they're not reading either one--they're reading Constance Garnett." Maybe the take-away here is to shy away from very old and very new translations.

Sometimes we convince ourselves that the shoes we bought and are wearing fit well, that we are happy with them. But our feet have their own opinion – as does the mind's ear when we read. If you feel a faraway but no less real discomfort, it might well be not you but the translation.

Deer Hunting and Therese of Lisieux

2009-11-13T14:43:00Z

During the November hunting season, when a day is done, I read. I'm too tired from sun and cold and miles of walking in the woods to move another step–a physical state good for a life of the mind. This year I had along in my duffel bag a new book called LEADING LIVES THAT MATTER, a thematic anthology tilted toward college students and choices of vocation (and "callings"), published by Erdmans Press 2006. My short story "The Undeclared Major" is in the book, which I had not yet looked through; I was quite curious to see where I fit among Aristotle, C.S. Lewis, James Baldwin, Willa Cather and Leo Tolstoy. The book's editors are from Valparaiso University, and their literary and philosophical selections form, in accretion, a religious-college type of ethos, though an understated and inclusive one. I'm finding it to be a fine book–well worth a look; one would have to be a hard-hearted lug not to be moved to personal reflection by some of the writings. I'm only part-way between the covers but among my favorites is a short piece by C.S. Lewis called "Learning in War-time", wherein he lays bare his Christian faith in sentences as clear as vinegar-scrubbed glass. (It never hurts any of us, believers or non-, to read about other people's faith.)

Which brings me to Dorothy Day writing about Therese ("the little flower") of Lisieux. Therese Martin (1873-1897) was a French school girl who went into a severe Carmelite convent when she was 15 and died there when she was 24, of tuberculosis. Largely through her letters and writings on the "little people", and her singular tendencies toward self-abnegation, her canonization was fast-tracked. She was beatified in 1923 and sainted in 1925. Dorothy Day, activist and advocate for the oppressed, developed a grudging respect for and then a true fascination with St. Therese--so much so that she (Day) wrote (yet another) biography of Therese.

I gave Day's piece on St. Therese my full attention, but just didn't get it–Theresa's life, that is. My wife, Rosalie of St. Paul, says it's because I didn't grow up a Catholic and have never read or studied the lives of the Saints. That's true. But I countered by saying that Therese would likely not have gotten tuberculosis and died young had the convent been heated in winter, or had she been given more than "one thin blanket."

"You're missing the point," my wife said. "It's all about self-abnegation, which, in the constructs of most faiths, is a good thing."

I show her some lines from the book, allegedly from Therese herself, how she prayed that God "turn all things in life bitter" so she would not be attracted to earthly things. "What kind of life is that?" I asked.

"Not mine," my wife said (she is steely in her former-Catholic resolve) as she turned away. She went on about religion as a man-made construct (emphasis on 'man', which is her biggest complaint against the Catholic Church), and as a way to maintain hierarchical order. Which all made sense. However, it didn't dissipate my jangly, agitated feeling left over from the essay–one akin to having gotten a major and unsettling peek behind the curtains of the Human Condition.

Then I realized where that feeling came from. It was from being in nature for several days. Several days sitting quietly in the little cell of the my deer stand, in complete silence, watching the rhythms of light, wind, clouds, birds, squirrels, the occasional deer (too small to shoot). Only by that "seat time" (woods time) can one join, understand, and appreciate fully the intricacy and completeness of nature a closed and perfect system–a living body– in which everything works. Maybe true religious faith is like that, too.... But coming from a perspective of and immersion in nature, religion is perfectly crazy.

A deer stand and a convent cell are both suitable to deep thoughts, and when I try really hard I can find one fundamental intersection between nature and religion. I do not think it's possible for the human animal (us) in the natural condition to conceive of life after death–without a little help. That help, logically, would have to come from a source beyond a this world, 'other' from it, i.e., from God via His messenger(s). Which if that really happened, as Flannery O'Connor's famous "Misfit" character observed, "Thown [sic] everything off balance."

Maybe that's what I was feeling.

The "All-School Read"

2009-10-28T14:48:00Z

Just got back from Anoka High School in north suburban Minneapolis where all 2,600 students got a copy of my young adult novel DEFECT. A free copy, thanks in large part to Garrison Keillor, the school's most famous grad. Keillor and the school came together to buy a hardcover book for every student and staff member. Then I landed for two days of meeting students and teachers to talk about the book. I've done this before, and it's a blast--exhausting but energizing.

I talked to the 9th grade class (all of it) in 8 sessions over three days, and met upperclass students informally before and after school. The AHS library staff was particularly progressive and pro-active in reaching out to students. It (the library) hosts a morning "Cafe'" with coffee, sweets and live music; various student organizations host, and this time it was the Amnesty International students. The library was buzzing at 7:30 a.m, and I signed books and mingled and schmoozed with a great bunch of kids. (Have to say that I still can't get used to having "food and drink" in a library–but why ever not, and what a great way to gets kid to come in).

The larger value of the all-school read comes from several directions. First would be the common text wherein we all meet. It used to be that everyone had read at least one book in common (HUCK FINN, the BIBLE), but no more. Second is the matter of meeting a "living author" (as opposed to the other kind). It's important for kids to know that writers are (at least most of us. . . ) normal people, and that writing is a process, not a miracle. Which brings me to number three: I try very hard to intersect with and reinforce what teachers are saying/doing in class. They love it when "somebody else" makes the same points--about the value of revision, for example–that they making.

The common reader concept is spreading in communities as well, and I've done several of those. However the community-read is always a bit more complex. Various "issues" (politics, religion, overall 'message' in the book) arise within the committee charged with selecting the reader, plus it's more difficult to get large numbers of readers in a community-wide event. . . .

But there's nothing quite like a well-organized all-school read. There's a concentration of energy and ideas and debate that's akin to Ben Franklin's "burning glass" used to kindle a fire--which, metaphorically speaking, is what a good school and good teachers do.

Writing the Memoir

2009-10-06T12:25:00Z

Wow. Way trickier than I thought. Fifty pages into my first nonfiction book, here's what I've learned:

1. There's no place to hide. In fiction, there's the reliable "Any resemblance to persons living or dead..." disclaimer, but in nonfiction it's life without make-up. Maybe some blush-on and eyeliner for the "creative nonfiction" types, but memoir writing (memory lapses aside) had better be the truth. The real truth. If I (you) starting leaving out uncomfortable facts, we're done. Might as well go watch football.

2. What has started as a straight nonfiction book is tilting toward memoir. Which is a process of editing life. We leave out the meaningless times (we all have years of them) in order to find a coherent thread. A narrative line that both makes sense of life, and amplifies its significance. Example: Patricia Hampl's THE FLORIST'S DAUGHTER. From the get-go we understand intuitively that this book is not about climbing mountains or inventing an AIDS vaccine; that it's a "small" book wherein the main character has forked no lightning; a book about family. You can never go wrong writing about family (we all have one), and with Hampl, the sentences alone are worth the price of the book.

3. One can write several memoirs. We can't--probably shouldn't--try to write the "definitive" memoir. Rather, there are multiple threads in our lives, and the goal is to pick one and follow it forward.

4. Nonfiction books can be placed on a continuum of the author's voice and visibility. For example, we could write a biography that, by nature, should have nothing at all to do with us. The far other side is the intensely personal memoir (the "confessional", ala James Frey) that is all about us. And of course there and endless gradations between those two poles. My friend, the late Jon Hassler, a novelist, was once asked, "How much of your fiction is based in real life?" His answer: "27.4 percent." (He was a wry, witty guy.)

4. One should not talk too much about writing in-progress. (This I've known for a long time.) Nattering on, describing what one is writing bleeds away psychic energy that you need for yourself and for the book. Don't give it away. Put it between the imaginary covers of your book-to-be. . . .

And now, back to work.

A New York City Literary Lunch

2009-09-28T19:26:00Z

I went to New York City recently. It was a combo trip to see my kids (my daughter works for NYU and my son, a musician, had a gig at a happenin' club), but also to meet with my editor at Farrar, Straus & Giroux. We've worked closely over the phone and via email on my young adult novels, but hadn't sat down to lunch for a couple of years.

My young adult fiction tilts toward boys, and I had made the mistake of drifting through the Teen Section of a big Barnes & Noble just the day before. The lack of quality, fictional realism for teenage boys was debilitating. A real spirit crusher. Of somewhere around 300 titles, about 275 were obviously "girl books". There were fantasy novels for boys, but one had to look hard to find any novel that a "normal" teenage boy--one who likes sports or the outdoors or cars or motorcycles–would want to read. In fact, I couldn't find one. Virtually no realistic fiction--no sports novels, no coming-of-age.

I knew there had to be something for boys, so I asked a clerk, "Where's the Gary Paulsen?" She took me away from the Teen Section, back into the frilly, "Kids" section. There was a good-sized shelf of middle level books and authors, including Avi, Christoper Paul Curtis, Paulsen, Sachar--and big selection of Matt Christopher, prolific author of thin, simple sports novels. But it was clear that Barnes & Noble had given up on teenage boys.

With that minor pall upon me, I had lunch with my editor, who confessed that he's up against it, too--that is, the strong bias toward girl books. He has begun to read manuscripts, he told me, with an eye toward "re-gendering." That is, 'I sort of like this book, but what if the main character was a girl instead of a boy?' He also said that to make a "boy book" work (i. e., sell well), the promotion/marketing side was "exhausting." In short, it was not an upbeat lunch, but we agreed to "keep the faith."

In the big picture, it's our American culture that's failing our teenage boys. The cumulative message throughout the media, advertising, sports, movies, etc. is that books and reading are for girls. A non-reading male population has dire effects at the personal level (young men who don't read fall behind in every way), but also upon citizenship and the nation (think of George W. Bush).

I remain convinced, however, that any young male will read if there is the right book for him–but if we don't publish them because book stores won't carry them, then the battle is lost. Luckily, my editor does not think that way. And neither do American teachers and librarians who are holding (just barely) the line against the tide of anti-intellectualism and cultural bias against boys. They are the ones who order books and get them into the hands of boys who need them--but just don't know it. Bless them for their work.

And Then There's Real Life

2009-09-17T20:31:00Z

It's all well and good to talk about fiction and writing and literature, but every once in awhile real life rears its cold, bony head and casts a dark look around. It's a cliche' but " bad things do happen to good people." Real people, such as Rebecca. . . .

THE BENEFIT

The fliers are everywhere: pinned on community bulletin boards, taped inside gas station doors, prominent by truckstop tills and especially in the foyers of drug stores. "Benefit for [fill in thename] following the [huntingaccident, brain cancer, leukemia, stroke]. Silent auction and bake sale to be followed by free-will-offering dinner." Often the fliers are side-by-side, competing for attention. Some are well-designed, with a color photo of the victim in a wheel chair or with bandaged head and a lopsided smile; it is not uncommon to see posters featuring only the survivors, smiling grimly for well-meaning friends trying to help them pay crushing, left-over medical bills from the death of child, a mother, a father. Often the posters are poorly constructed: a grainy photocopied photo of a man standing proudly, in better days, beside a new logging truck. Many times the accompanying narrative is internalized: "Benefit for Joe followingthe accident"– as if we all, in our small city of Bemidji, Minnesota,should know Joe and what happened to him.

Recently I went a benefit for Rebecca, a 26 year old mother struggling with thyroid cancer. She graduated from high school with my son, and played trombone in their short-lived Ska band that was far stronger on life force than musicality–a fine young woman now struck with very bad luck and insufficient insurance. Her benefit was held on a Sunday, after the morning service at a local church (another common setting and time is Saturday eveningat the American Legion or Eagles Club). The parking lot was full when I arrived, and a small queue stretched out the doorway. Inside, Rebecca greeted each person with a sometimes awkward hug; tradesmen and older men in particular were not entirely sure what to do with their hands and their caps. Though her face was puffy from medications, and her voice thin and raspy, her smile was bright and her manner strictly "We're-going-to-beat-this"cheerful. To the side, her husband minded their tow-headed, one-year old son.

Past the hugging station, the silent auction tables held all manner of donated items: a screwdriver set from the local hardware store; a Terry Redlin look-alike framed print; a bright, zigzag pattern, hand-knitted afghan blanket; and services such as "single-room carpet steam cleaning" and "free tire rotation with oil change" and "half-day guided muskie fishing trip." The precise descriptions–the boundaries– of the locally donated services left the impression that businesses get asked often for donations, and were mindful both of the cost of charity and of the opportunity for advertising.

Tothe side was the bake sale. Several tables stood covered with fresh-baked items on paper plates andcovered with tight, clear plastic wrap. Date-filled cookies, chocolate brownies, sugar cookies; apple pies, rhubarb pies, apple-rhubarb pies, berry pies, custard pies; chocolate cakes, angel food cakes, white cakes; and, at the far end, a few loaves of bread and rolls, their warmth fogging the inside of their plastic wrap. The cookies, a dozen per plate, were two dollars; a full pie, five dollars.

Crowd noise spoke to good attendance. The wide church foyer was filled with people chattering, talking, being of good cheer, the hum and buzz punctuated by the occasional shriek and laughter of small kids. Beyond, in the luncheon hall, plates clattered as people shuffled along the buffet line. The menu was roast beef cooked through (and then some),brown gravy, creamed corn, mashed potatoes, buns and butter. Beverages (lemonade, milk, coffee orwater) waited at the end of the buffet line, and were poured by a blushing young boy and girl about eleven years old, wearing their church clothes, andwho were clearly spending some quality time together. Condiments, pickles, relishes and trays of sweets(rice crispy bars, brownies, cookies) waited on the long tables.

As we ate, the silent auction progressed. A pretty young woman from a local bank called out names via a scratchy-sounding microphone; her voice was hard to hear, but people regularly jumped up and hurried forward with their little blue tickets to claim a prize: a fishing pole, a car wash, a one-hour make-over at a local salon. In the slow line for a second cup of coffee, I ran into a couple of former neighbors, a former student, and the guy who had poured concrete, years ago, for my house; eventually, back at my table, I had a moment with Rebecca herself, who came by to thank me again. In the din, I had to lean forward to hear that she was headed soon to a cancer center that specialized in "her type." I could only wish her well and keep our conversation short. She looked exhausted.

Afterward,I drove the long way home in order to think more about "the benefit" in specific and in general. As a local guy, I could find out how much money Rebecca's benefit raised–then lay it alongside a month's worth (a day's worth?) of cancer treatment. It would be easy pickings to show thefutility of "the benefit" for Rebecca's healthcare costs; to show the chasm–the absurdity, really– between good intentions and current reality. A darker argument could be made that such events are a cultural soporific that allows people to sleep easier, to avoid confronting our current healthcare problems because they had, after all,"done their part."

But my elderly mother always slips a few dollars in a sympathy card whenever she attends a funeral, and out of habit, I do too. Back in the day, such a community mustering could pay for a funeral, for the medical bills for afarm accident or a sick child. But not now, or probably ever again. At Rebecca's benefit, I spent a hundred bucks on a roast beef dinner and an Dutch apple pie. It was the right thing to do, I suppose, but I did not feel very good about it.

Any way, this is not about me. Good luck Rebecca. We're pulling for you.

Writing Output

2009-09-13T14:47:00Z

If you're writing fiction, what's a reasonable daily output? It's the issue beyond all others--all the technique talk, the strategizing, the research, the preparation. At some point you have to begin your novel (or short story), and put black words on a white screen (or paper). We all know authors with reputations for for high output: Stephen King, Joyce Carol Oates, Louis L'Amour (100 novels), Isaac Asimov (400 books). King recommends a minimum of 1500 words per day, six days a week, along with 4-6 hours of reading today, all well and good if writing and reading are the ONLY things you have to do all day.

Other novelists are known for the slimmest of bodies of work–and some for a single book: Harper Lee, TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD; J. D. Salinger, CATCHER IN THE RYE; Anna Sewall, BLACK BEAUTY; Boris Pasternak, DR. ZHIVAGO; Leonard Gardner, FAT CITY (a great example of a first novel). I purposefully did not list Sylvia Plath, THE BELL JAR, and John Kennedy Toole, CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES because both authors suffered from serious life "issues" that likely prevented a higher literary output. The authors at the top of this paragraph, however, lived long beyond their early works, but for whatever reasons did not write much more. One might forgive Harper Lee, whose novel would be hard to top; there is something to be said for stopping on a high point. . . .

But this is about you. How many words/pages should you be writing on day?

Let's start with the assumption that you have carved out some writing time for yourself. You have most of a day to yourself, and this for several days running–a five day week, let's say. If you're just starting your novel, your output will be smallish--but I still think that by week's end you should have one good chapter, or 15 or so pages. That's only 3 pages, or on toward 1,000 words per day. Not a lot, but a start, with good, careful writing that you're pleased with. (This latter point is no small matter; when starting, it's better to have a lower output of quality pages than a stack of rushed work--unless, of course, you are Jack Kerouac.)

When your novel is up and rolling, your output will increase--could easily double. You will be able to spend more and more hours at your desk. You'll have the urge to come back later in the day (assuming you writing in the morning) for a "second shift." You will be eager to get up the next morning and begin to writing. At peak stride, you might write up to ten pages a day, or around 2500 words. Commercial and pulp fiction writers would laugh at these numbers, but I'm talking about serious, thoughtful, literary fiction. And in the end, finishing a draft is much about math. If you write three pages a day, 100 good days of writing will get you close to a book-length manuscript.

Final thought: if you're a perfectionist, your output is going to be half or less of the above. In the end, your literary output is all up to you. Are you a writer, or aren't you?

Writing Nonfiction

2009-09-12T15:57:00Z

I've pulled the trigger on my new book-to-be, a nonfiction work on hunting. After some agonizing in a couple of earlier blog entries (I worried that readers don't hunt, and hunters don't read) I just had to dive in. Deadlines are a good thing, and my editor's winged' chariot is always hurrying near. But I'm greatly pleased at how it's going. I have a general arc in mind, an overall rhetoric (which is always comforting), and I'm taking real pleasure in writing prose.

As opposed to fiction. Fiction is, of course, written in prose (as opposed to poetry, though there are novels written in verse), but I mean nonfiction-style prose. Full-bodied paragraphs. Parallelism. Semicolons and even the occasional conjunctive adverb. The goal for any writer is what Orwell called "Windowpane prose": a style of writing by which the reader can see through, without distraction, to the subject matter under scrutiny. I personally believe that if we write well, we can write about anything--and have readers. I remember reading a very long New Yorker article by John McPhee on oranges and how they're grown. Afterward, I couldn't believe I had stayed with it, but was happy that I did.

My "hunting book", however, is a delicate dance. If it is true (generally) that readers aren't big into hunting, and hunters not big into reading, then I must (like Obama) find my way to a comfortable middle ground without losing my peeps on the far side of both sides.

I can do that....

Actors and Film People

2009-08-24T12:48:00Z

Had dinner this weekend with Ned Beatty and Ali Selim, who made (literally) my short story adaptation SWEET LAND. Nice to get caught up and hear the news. Ali had just finished a script, and Ned a couple of jobs including a Michael Winterbottom film set in Oklahoma ("not fun"), and voice-over work for Pixar on Toy Story III ("great people"). The current recession has made it tough for Ali to get a new film launched, but he has several things in the works and ready to go when things turn around. Ned continues steady work as a great character actor. Listening to him tell stories about selling accordians as a young man, and working in summer stock theater, it's clear why he (and most all good actors) are good at what they do: they have a deep interest in people, and a keen awareness of emotional valence of those around them. They are also the best conversationalists you'll ever meet.

On my film adaptations, I've met a few other actors, including Genevieve Bujold (tightly wound), Ralph Waite (gregarious), Timothy Daly (thoughtful) on Red Earth, White Earth, as well as Alan Cumming (life of the set), Alex Kingston (lovely and kind), John Heard (a bit odd) on Sweet Land. I also met Russell Johnson at a small, man-dinner in Seattle. Who? That's what I thought when I met him him--including the odd feeling that I had seen him before. Russell Johnson was the "professor" on Gilligan's Island. He never escaped that role, nor made much money on the show--filmed during "pre-residual" days--and so was relegated to bein an occasional "special guest" at openings of new shopping malls and car dealership.

That issue of residuals--money paid to actors each time a movie or tv series is screened--came up at the dinner with Ned and Ali. Ned mentioned that the "Radar" character on Mash told him that he had made a grand total of just over $350,000 on the series--which has run for years. This is a great crime against actors, and an issue that will never be forgotten by the Screen Actors Guild (SAG) when they negotiate new contracts with the studios. The most recent contract negotiations were much about DVD and other electronic rights, and who makes money on them. But the precedent will always be how the studios made billions on early television series, and never shared the wealth with the actors.

Anyway, lots of interesting and fun conversation at the dinner. Ned was telling how his last Winterbottom work required 40 takes on certain scenes. I was stunned by that, but Ned said some directors are known to do 100 takes or more. This is rare, but he mentioned Warren Beatty as one of those obsessive directors. In the same breath, Ned spoke fondly of "Warren' sister", Shirley McClaine, a "big, fun, strong hoofer." That word comes up often with older actors, who most all came up through summer stock and dinner theatres, and could dance and sing as well as act. Charles Durning, Ned said, was a great dancer. And that tradition continues, with lots of younger actors (Alan Cumming, etc.) who can sing and dance....

Hemingway and Fitzgerald famously argued as to whether the rich were "different" from us. The same question might be asked of actors and filmmakers. I would say yes, actually; they, more than most people, are focused on what it means to be most fully alive and deeply human--and are there, through their art, to help the rest of us with those same, knotty issues.

Lorrie Moore

2009-08-20T13:34:00Z

Sometimes we pester our friends with advice: "You must see this movie, you must read this book." I've done that many times with Lorrie Moore, whose writing I find extraordinarily funny in a dry, sly way (she and Gail Collins from the NYTimes have a similar voice). If you're on the path or even thinking about writing fiction, Moore's "How To" piece is a must-read. Below is a sample; you can track down the rest of it online....

How to Become a Writer Or, Have You Earned This Cliche?

By LORRIE MOORE

First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/ missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age - say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be having an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She'll look briefly at your writing then back up at you with a face blank as a doughnut. She'll say: ''How about emptying the dishwasher?'' Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.

In your high school English class look at Mr. Killian's face. Decide faces are important. Write a villanelle about pores. Struggle. Write a sonnet. Count the syllables: 9, 10, 11, 13. Decide to experiment with fiction. Here you don't have to count syllables. Write a short story about an elderly man and woman who accidentally shoot each other in the head, the result of an inexplicable malfunction of a shotgun which appears mysteriously in their living room one night. Give it to Mr. Killian as your final project. When you get it back, he has written on it: ''Some of your images are quite nice, but you have no sense of plot.'' When you are home, in the privacy of your own room, faintly scrawl in pencil beneath his black- inked comments: ''Plots are for dead people, pore- face.'' (continued...)

Responding to Critics

2009-08-15T14:39:00Z

Recently, while reading the NYTimes online, I became annoyed with an arts review. The piece took apart a new movie about ballroom dancing, something that is not big in Minnesota, and that I know squat about though I greatly enjoyed the Aussie film "Strictly Ballroom." My objection was with the tone and voice of the review, and I popped off an email to the arts critic. In it I wrote that the review was "all about him", and the voice, in the end was slightly "creepy." Okay, 'creepy' might have a bit strong, but one definition of literary voice is all about the author's personality and worldview as it shows through the writing--what the Germans call Weltanschauung. It's your gradual, implicit, accreting sense of the author's true persona as you read his or her work.

So I fired off my two-sentence email to the arts critic–after all, newspapers need all the reader response they can get--and went on with my life. I was surprised, later that day, to get a (very) personal reply:

Dear Will Weaver,

It seems you know a good deal less about writing and literary voice than you

think. What on earth does "I live in Minnesota and know little about

ballroom dancing" imply? Do you think life in Minnesota and ballroom dancing

are somehow diametrically opposed? Pull yourself together and stop trying so

hard to make Minnesota sound at once exceptionally provincial and entirely

smugger-than-thou.

Sometimes I just want to let my readers fight it out among themselves, and

on this occasion I'm sending you copies of the ten reader responses I've had

to this piece so far. Yours is No 5.

Sincerely,

---

I replied, very briefly, that I was "quite together, thank you, and had published several books with New York publishers, and so did know some about writing," but thanked him for his personal reply.

He replied with another acerbic comment that I deleted on the spot because of its toxicity (it ended with, "Good luck in sorting out your problems in Minnesota"). As if I want to continue that conversation....

Someone like Oscar Wilde once said that the role of the critic is to "suck the poison from the Work." If so, the aforementioned NYT guy needs to spit more. But I don't mention his name or include the full emails, because there is a larger fish to fry here: how do we respond to critics? Or do we? Should we?

In an earlier blog I carped about a review of a recent novel of mine wherein the reviewer not only didn't like the book but got a basic plot fact wrong. It was such an egregious error that I was a keystroke away from sending an angry email to the guy. But I know enough to run high literary dander first through my editor, who quickly talked me down. "Never let them see you sweat," was his reply, and it served me well (I didn't send my letter to that damn fool reviewer.)

And as I think about it now, my editor's advice works well beyond the literary world. What good did it do for the NYT critic to engage with an annoyed and possibly over-caffeinated voice from the hinterlands? It was negative energy for him, and certainly didn't achieve or create anything of worth. During my college teaching career, I watched a potentially very good writer spend a career--her literary essence-–trying to block and parry the achievements of others in order to advance her own work. If only she had concentrated on her own writing, if only she had accentuated the positive rather than the poison, she today would be the writer she always wanted to be. Everyone likely can think of someone in life who has focused on the negative at the expensive the positive. If Barack Obama had focused on taking names and punishing his detractors, he certainly wouldn't be president....

Any way, I let the NYT critic have the last word. He seemed to need it. And it was good reminder for me about how to I want to live in this world.

To Blurb or Not to Blurb

2009-07-27T11:48:00Z

The "blurb" , a short description of a book, written for promotional purposes and appearing on the cover, is a writer's dilemma coming and going. We need them--especially for our first novel–but we hate to ask other writers (especially those we know) to pony up a positive comment. And then, one day, it's our turn: younger writers, sometimes former students, inquire after a blurb; or sometimes it's an editor we have worked with who thinks this particular manuscript will "speak to us." It's written by some up-and-coming "original voice", and is the next best thing since papyrus became paper. Ever so often, a request for a blurb has a slightly hard-edged sell, on the order of 'better get on board because this writer's going straight to the top.'

From both ends of a writer's career, It's an agonizing matter. When I was breaking out with my first novel, and hob-nobbing on literary occasion with big name writers, I mustered up courage and asked Joyce Carol Oates for a comment on Red Earth, White Earth. She wrote a nice letter back, and turned me down. I figured it was worth a shot, and was happy to at least have made the gesture (my guess is that most writers hate to ask). Often, then, it's the writer's editor who does the dirty work (the asking). This happened recently with a young adult novel, and my friend Robert Lipsyte (author of The Contender and many other great YA titles); my New York editor got wind that Bob and I had had a few emails back and forth about my Motornovels, which Bob loved, and my editor wanted to hear more. I felt quite conflicted about the matter, so let him (my editor) get in touch with Bob–who cheerfully provided a testimonial.

Which is what a blurber really does: one writer "testifies" that this book is the real deal, the cat's meow, the tinker's hammer. As such, the blurber puts himself on the line with his own fans (her own fans). If readers go out and buy the blurbee's book and it's a dead fish, this redounds back on the blurber--casts a shadow, a hint of doubt about his judgment, his character, even his authority (which is all we have) as a writer.

Literary readers are also very savvy, and have great radar for the messy business of "log-rolling", whereby one writer does a favor for a friend and supplies a blurb--in return for a correspondingly positive blurb the next time around with her new book. As well, watchful readers are attuned to writers who supply blurbs to nearly every young writer who comes along. The overly generous blurber takes on the reputation as "easy", even "cheap."

I'm a real Scrooge when it comes to blurbs. Stepping up to testify as to the worth of a new novel is an intensely personal act filled with ethical issues and moral agonizing. On the one hand, a blurb means that my name shows up on the cover a new book along with an "author of ____." It's a jungle out there, and publicity of nearly any kind is a good thing–and maybe the new book will go platinum. On the other hand, if the manuscript doesn't quite work for me, but out of perceived duty or literary debt I provide a comment, I''ve let down myself and my millions of (imaginary) fans.

I recently read a collection of short stories that did not work for me at all. I said 'No,' and the editor was cheerful with thanks (what else can they say?). Now I have another manuscript on my desk, a nonfiction memoir about Midwestern life, that from its cover letter sounds promising. Must start on it today, and will do so with every hope that it's to be a great book.

Literary Miscellany

2009-07-08T13:31:00Z

A few updates on on-going literary matters:

1. my litigation against a former literary agent continues. With judgments mounting against her, she has dropped out of sight. My lawyer is slowly closing the noose. Our first goal is get paid missing royalties (serious, five-figure money), and if not that, justice. Prison, in other words.

2. the nonfiction hunting book I have been fretting about in earlier blog entries is coming into sharper focus. A book like that is much about artifice, a much-maligned word because of its connotations: "artificial", "trickery", "contrivance", etc. But a far down the synonym list is "artful device." And that's what writers look for--a larger device, or vehicle in which to carry the content. Notice I said "in which" as opposed to "with which"; an artifice is as practical for a writer as a wheelbarrow is for a gardner. At a fundamental, college-writing level you could call artifice by another name: rhetorical mode. That is, description, classification, compare/contrast, etc. Deciding on "mode" can be greatly reassuring, and, about my hunting book, I now am (somewhat) reassured.

3. The movie Sweet Land, based on my short story "A Gravestone Made of Wheat" , is in early development for a musical. You heard it here first.

Approaches to the Novel

2009-07-08T12:42:00Z

Sounds like a dry critical book by someone like Northrup Frye ( let us briefly praise the graybeard critics for getting us thinking about the novel form) but I'm talking about approaches to writing one. Which are many, messy, and with few rules. Oh, there are fiction techniques to apply once you get going (the idea of, say, a chapter), but the early stages of planning a novel are as uncertain as summer weather in the Midwest.

Right now, in preparation for writing, I'm reading novels. Actually "reading" is misleading. Tasting. Dipping. Sipping. Skimming. Looking for a voice. Looking for a tone, for a vision, for something. . . . What interests me more than plots and character development are (1) sentences and (2) authorial voice. There are lots of good sentence writers out there, including Toni Morrison, F. Scott Fitzgerald (and Faulkner and Hemingway in opposite polarities). And it's also interesting that the best prose stylists seem to have the most compelling visions of human nature. Maybe really good prose is a kind of window, even a doorway, into the meaning of life . Hmmm. . . .

But a really good novel--a lasting, literary achievement kind of novel--is about several things beyond its events. It's about place, milieu and country; and it's about the author's vision of the world as it leaks through the prose. Anna Karenina, Grapes of Wrath, Beloved--all are place-based and deeply rooted in the country and the times they are set in (with Anna Karenina, what it means to a woman in 19th century Russia). But all three novels are suffused with authorial voice that becomes nearly as compelling as the narratives themselves.

That's what I'm talkin' about (as we say nowadays). That's what I'm looking for in my next novel. . . . I have my plot; that's the least of my worries. It's bigger fish I'm looking to frye (ha).

Just Another Manic June Day

2009-06-17T11:19:00Z

Outside my window that is. After a late, cool spring, the birds are in full choir mating and nesting and feeding. It's a great time to be a birder (which I am, sorta), but not a great time to write–not when crazed robins collide against the screen, and Baltimore Oriole males whistle unendingly from their perches like Bronx construction workers remarking on pretty girls in their summer dresses passing below. And then there's the resident pair of loons on the river; they never seem to sleep, but then again they have their single, furry chick to protect from eagles above and large pike below. I've come, like the survivor of Crane's "The Open Boat" (the cook, the oiler, the Captain and the journalist) to be the "interpreter" of their calls.

Am I complaining? No. This flush of intensely loud and green spring is what Minnesotans live for. Snow and cold weather has receded in our minds so much so that winter feels like it's from another lifetime--certainly not this one. But mid-June means it's time to buckle down to the writing desk.

After very nearly passing on the nonfiction hunting book project, I've reconsidered--thanks to a persistent editor. There are still questions to be answered about audience, but at some point one must stop cutting bait and cast the line. That will happen as soon as I clear the decks of a long-overdue YA novel for HarperCollins, the sequel to MEMORY BOY. Have had several false starts on it, but finally have it up and running. Must deliver on July 1, and feels like about 80 pages to go. That's about six pages a day for two weeks straight. No pressure (ha). But it doesn't have to be perfect--it just has to be done. And there's the take-away line if you're an aspiring fiction writer, or are struggling with your M.A. or Ph.D thesis. The goal is the full draft, and then you can revise. Besides, your editor or your thesis advisor needs something to do; the more they feel a part of the process, the better things will go for you and the project.

Literary miscellany: the summer fiction issue of the New Yorker is out, and always worth a look. Love the poem "Don't Do That" by Stephen Dunn. Some good short stories in there as well, including one by Jonathon Franzen that is set in St. Paul; it's an oddly compelling story, one that slowly darkens as it goes along.

My new YA novel SUPER STOCK ROOKIE had a quiet debut, but should pick up with help from a feature article in the summer VOYA magazine. The three "Motor Novels" (one more to go) will form a trilogy, which is its own unique literary matter. But the orioles are calling for more grape jelly, and I have six pages to write.

Over and out for today. . . .