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.

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?   

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.

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.

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....

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. 

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.'

A few updates on on-going literary matters:

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.  

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.