Patrick Henry had to be brave because he was egging on a revolution. I’m just writing for the joy of it, so please—leave me in cowardly peace.
I’m thinking a lot about courage. I just endured two weeks of commentators referring to Olympic athletes as courageous. This week I’m reading a biography of George Washington. The American Revolution exists for me mostly as a soft-lens photo of blue and red coats, of powdered wigs and shoe buckles. I rarely think of what a frightening time that was and what that generation risked by defying Britain. Does slalom skiing really qualify as brave? Skating a clean program? What about writing fiction?
A year or so ago I was trying to revise an over-ambitious short story that gave me slit-eyed looks, then stalked off to take long, hot showers without me. I caressed that story, washed its feet. Baked my best pie. Still, it wouldn’t let me in. So I turned to expert advice. The experts told me to be afraid.
Not in so many words. What the experts really told me was how to conquer my fear. I read an article that described revision as recapturing a silenced voice. The writer encouraged deep breathing, lots of metaphorical pen-clutching. I pulled out a few of the craft books I’ve collected over the years and skimmed the advice on what to do with a rough draft. I found good, basic counsel that didn’t help me because I had already followed it. I felt even more frustrated and stuck but what I remember most clearly is how much the writing advice relied on the language of fear. You mustn’t let that story, and all the stories that will come after, defeat you, my guides told me. Be brave, Little Writer. Attack that keyboard. Don’t let the Unconscious scare you away.
Okay, but… I wasn’t afraid. I just didn’t know how to evaluate whether my subplot served the story, I wasn’t sure if my breaks in narrative form focused or distracted the reader, and I had this really funny scene that seemed… off… but why? I didn’t need a pep talk so that I could see through the cloud of terror wrought by the infant, unloved Claire who dwells inside the writer-me. I needed somebody to walk me through how to answer the questions that come up in revision. Fortunately, that’s what I got from my MFA faculty mentor in reply to an e-mailed cry for help. I put aside that article, those books, and got to work. Since then I’ve been much more attuned to how often writers and teachers talk about the importance of courage when we sit down to write.
***
No, the experts don’t actually tell us to be afraid. They assume we are afraid, they speak soothingly about how we must and will conquer our fear. They go all mystical or motherly. Sometimes they talk macho. Does it work? Do they succeed in inspiring beginning writers to hit the keyboard with vigor and enthusiasm? Do they convert staring wrecks with paralyzed fingers into productive novelists? Or do they teach us that making art is a fearsome thing that only the biggest and bravest among us can manage? Isn’t assuming I’m afraid a lot like telling me I should be afraid?
Sometimes, they do actually tell us we should be afraid. Last week I listened to a terrific Writer’s on Writing interview of Pulitzer prize winner Robert Olen Butler conducted by Barbara DeMarco-Barrett. Here’s an excerpt from the start of his interview (all um’s, er’s, and repeated words have been deleted):
DeMarco-Barrett: My overriding question is—you are one of the most prolific writers and you turn out one quality project after another and so I’m guessing you have no trouble staying in the chair.
Butler: Oh, sure I do. I mean I stay in the chair, but I mean it’s always trouble. If you do this thing right, and by that I mean if you write literary fiction the way literary fiction is supposed to be written, you’re scared every day. You go into a place in yourself. One of the fundamental things I preach to my students is that art does not come from the mind, it does not come from the rational, analytical faculties, art comes from the place where you dream, from your unconscious. And it’s scary as hell in there.
“Jealous Husband Returns in Form of Parrot” is one of my all-time favorite short stories, and Butler’s From Where You Dream is a craft book I highly recommend. But I just don’t buy this heart of darkness stuff. I hear so much terror-talk that I’m beginning to believe I won’t be admitted to the club unless I confess that I tremble when I sit down to my keyboard. There are certain things we writers must wear—a thick skin because rejection is part of the business, a clear head because we get as much bad advice as good, a composed face because we must listen while others criticize our work. And apparently we must wear fear. If we are not afraid, we are not doing good work. If you do this thing right, and by that I mean if you write literary fiction the way literary fiction is supposed to be written, you’re scared every day.
Maybe some of us are afraid to write. But if that’s so, I wonder what brought all these panicked people to the page in the first place. I came to writing, late, when I discovered that the page is the only place I really want to be. I feel most alive and life feels most worth living when I write. I’ve heard many other writers say much the same. Wouldn’t it be better to remind us, when we’re stuck, that we do this work because it gives us joy? If they’re going to tell us how we should feel—rather than stick to giving us the tools to improve our work, which is really what we want—I’d much rather the experts advise pleasure, talk fun. Tell me again, please, what a privilege it is to sit at this desk and write these words. Tell me that truth.
***
Yes, writing fiction is hard, we all get that. I never, ever come anywhere close to my vision for a story, and that can just frustrate me witless. I can live with that. But I worry that after hearing so much language of fear, we beginning writers might start to believe that what we’re doing requires more than patience and deliberation, sometimes almost painful perseverance, ruthless honesty. We already know we have to make ourselves vulnerable to ridicule and meanness every time we reveal our work to another pair of eyes. Now we’re supposed to think that just coming to the chair and doing the work—the part that’s all carrot—that’s “scary as hell”? I’m going to hear that and rub my hands in glee, rush to my desk with energy and excitement?
Writing fiction is hard, but it ain’t coal mining hard. It ain’t even ditch-digging hard. I can’t imagine a coal miner or a ditch digger experiencing the transcendent joy I get from romping through my own pages. And I don’t think I can even riff on why writing fiction isn’t scary because I find the suggestion so… silly. Okay, scary like a roller coaster, yes. Scary thrilling. But scary like a mugging? Or even like one of your mother’s long silences? Come on.
When I read my favorite writers, I see first the joy they took in the writing. That’s partly why I love them. When my writing is going well, I feel unconquerable—don’t you? I laugh at my jokes, cry for my characters, live my imagined world as though it’s real, because it is, it’s more real sometimes than my own life. To be honest, when my writing is going well, I think I’m basically drunk on my own power. And it is good. Really, really good. Right? What’s to fear?
***
I eat too many Doritos and play too little badminton. I like my couch far better than I have ever liked a pair of sneakers. So don’t talk to me about strength and toughness. I can be distracted by a hair from my cat’s tail, by a loose thread in the left elbow of my favorite sweater. I spent almost two hours yesterday comparing all the cheesecake recipes I could find (what is the perfect amount of cream cheese?). So not a word, please, on the steely mind I must cultivate if I want to make it as a writer. And stop it with all the crap about wrestling demons—the only thing I can successfully wrestle is a hot dog (I win every time).
When I’m stuck and frustrated, blocked because I can’t write a scene that doesn’t bore me, I don’t want to be told, well, sure, of course you’re stuck, this is all very, very scary stuff. Give me your hand, dear, because you are going to some dark spaces. No. I want to be reminded of how much fun it’s going to be when I finally figure out how to get Hank out of that damn pool hall. Maybe I need to be reminded to just skip the damn pool hall or cut poor Hank loose. Somebody, pluck me on the forehead and remind me of how much I’m missing when I’m not lost in my own flow of words.
Don’t you want to dance, Little Writer? Don’t you want to laugh? That’s the way to get me to the keyboard. Because I’m not swift, I’m not strong, my abs are soft. I’m not interested in fighting the good fight. I just love to write.
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
I think “fun” gets a bad rep. “Fun” equals play, something that’s for children or people in beer commercials. Fun is frivolous, something the serious-minded need reserve only a few hours for on weekends. I’m reminded of film critics who tie themselves into knots justifying their love for silly comedies, or the way we apologize for reading genre fiction instead of Proust or Joyce.
I gave a talk at a archives conference last year, and I ended it with some advice for folks in the profession. My last tidbit was “to remember to have fun.” I almost deleted it beforehand, thinking that I was being too frivolous. Instead, I left it in, and was glad I did, considering all the heads nodding in agreement when I got to that part.
I guess I feel that unless your life or health could be in jeopardy, why be afraid of what it is you do every day? Great post, Claire. Now you need to do one about other overused words, like “love”, “hate”, “genius”, etc.
That’s a great point. If it’s fun, it isn’t serious. Thanks for you thoughts. And let’s add “brilliant” to that list.
After reading this piece, I find it interesting to note that even though I will turn 70 this year and have been working in publishing since I was 32, almost always in some form of writing and/or editing, I have never found writing “fun”–even though I often wrote humor columns–for several different publications. To me, writing is rewarding–and something I could not live without doing–but I have never found it to be “fun.” I’m going to work on that.