The Art of Mystery: The Search for Questions (Maud Casey)

This is the fourteenth book in Graywolf’s “Art of” series. Some I’ve found useful (like Joan Silber’s The Art of Time in Fiction and Charles Baxter’s The Art of Subtext) and others aroused my curiosity but not a compulsion to read straight through.*

These are collections of essays on themes; some are short and dreamy whereas others are carefully arranged like term papers. They are the type of writing book which might be best approached as a casual coffee date, so that you pull the book off the shelf when you have time to sit and sip and think and you can select the right piece for that moment in time.

Read straight through, like a text, some pieces are bound to feel more satisfying than others, in the way that many readers rush through collections of short stories and say they are uneven, because each piece requires and rewards a different kind of attention.

The opening piece in Maud Casey’s collection is “The Land of Un”, a short and tight meditation on mystery. Perfect introduction. And it contains tidy little snippets like this: “If mystery, the genre, is about finding the answers, then mystery, that elusive yet essential element of fiction, is about finding the questions.”

The next piece, “Unknowing, or the Construction of Innocence”, is three times as long and begins with 1873 and moves into a detailed consideration of Isaac Babel’s “Awakening” and Dezsö Kosztolányi’s novel Skylark, in which “the extraordinary relies on the ordinary for its existence”.

An unexpected layer to these slim volumes is the sense that one has, after finishing the final essay, of whether or not one would have much to discuss with this writer. About the writing and about the work – and often the answer to that is not very mysterious because Graywolf chooses smart people, musers and meanderers, with whom you would enjoy sharing a decanter of wine – but also about everything else, the wider goings-on of the world.

Which of Vivian Maier’s images most intrigue her and which authors’ characters’ secret lives keep her up at night: these are the bits which offer insight as to whether I would like to seek out Maud Casey’s fiction, too. But it was her admiration of and fondness for the work of Barbara Comyns that sealed the deal for me. Yes, indeed. More Maud Casey for me, please.

Great stuff for writers.

*I’ve already discussed here one of my favourites in the series.

Maud Casey’s The Art of Mystery: The Search for Questions. Minneapolis: Graywolf, 2018.

The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life (Dinty W. Moore)

When I was very small, I had a little red hard cover book called The Wisdom of Charlie Brown. A Hallmark publication, it is a little larger than the palm of my hand now; then, it was probably the size of both palms but still smaller than other books. This is the book which came to mind when I first saw Dinty Moore’s smaller-than-usual The Mindful Writer.

There is something inherently appealing about a book this size. If it were not a library book, I would tuck it into the pocket of a heavy coat and contentedly rediscover it each season, and then throughout the season, on the most wintriest of days, enjoying a few pages at a time. Because it is on loan to me, I settled for reading it over a few evenings.

The volume is divided into four parts: “The Writer’s Mind”, “The Writer’s Desk”, “The Writer’s Vision” and “The Writer’s Life”. It begins with a recasting of the Buddhist principles of the Four Noble Truths into “The Four Noble Truths of the Writing Life”. I’m not Buddhist and there are plenty of other not-Buddhists in the book too: the list of authors quoted does include Thich Nhat Hanh (but only once) alongside a long list of writers like Margaret Atwood and Carlos Fuentes, Junot Díaz and Ursula K. Le Guin, stretching across genre and across forms.

Each chapter begins with a quotation and then a page or two (occasionally three) enlarging on the idea therein. Some are more about mindfulness and less about writing. Most directly refer to the art and craft of writing. Whether Joan Baez or Truman Capote, the anecdotes about creativity are versatile but they are not so generalized as to feel like a series of greeting cards.

The quotations from well-known writers are not familiar to me. A couple made me smile (like Auster’s, which apparently makes the author smile too): “That’s about as exciting a life as it is for a writer: You write sentences, and you cross out sentences.” And a couple made me wince (in recognition), like this from Philip Roth: “My page one can end up a year later as page two hundred, if it’s even still around.” (I have enjoyed Paul Auster; I’ve never connected with Philip Roth’s work.)

One that I particularly love is Vita Sackville-West’s quote about preserving moments, even though I’m not entirely sure that the butterfly metaphor works for me if I carry it forward. “It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over his fellows: he catches the changes of his mind on the hop.”

Which is why I appreciate this little volume. It got me thinking about why I write and how I consider the outcome of my work.

It’s good stuff for writers who are concerned with being mindful.

Dinty W. Moore. The Mindful Writer: Noble Truths of the Writing Life. Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2012.

A Self Made of Words: Crafting a Distinctive Persona in Nonfiction Writing (Carl H. Klaus)

He begins with an epigraph from Virginia Woolf’s “The Modern Essay”: “Never to be yourself, and yet always; that is the problem.”

Which sums up what I most admire and appreciate about this slim volume: the author’s willingness, enthusiasm even, to embrace complications, contradictions even.

It is designed to help you “create an engaging impression, rather than letting your written self take shape haphazardly in a form, style, or voice that might misrepresent you or turn off your readers”.

The book is divided into two parts: the first introduces the concept of a persona and the second considers elements of writing to employ in the process of creating your unique persona.

This structure of divisions repeats and flourishes. Each short chapter has two parts as well: paragraphs alternating between exposition and examples to illustrate that content. The exercise at the end of each section also contains two parts: first, the writing, and second, a reflection on your experience of writing that exercise.

As with all of my favourite writing books, there is a list of recommended reading in the back. This one presents resources under the following headings: “Mental/Spiritual Guidance”, “Types of Nonfiction Prose”, “Persona”, “Style and Sentences”. (There are only two resources listed under “Persona”: the author’s 2010 book and a 1969 volume by Walker Gibson.)

The copy I read was from the library and scattered throughout were short streams of ink, in various colours, as though each reader had a pen in hand while reading, occasionally using it as a bookmark and sometimes accidentally drawing the end of the pen across the paper while turning a page.

This is the kind of work that inspires you to keep your pen in hand, partly because the chapters are short (so the time between exercises is short) and  partly because so much of it feels as though it’s worth writing down.

This is the book I was looking for when I ended up with Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way (even though I wouldn’t’ve recognized it at the time).

So, keep your pen in hand, this is great stuff for non-fiction writers!

Klaus, Carl H. A Self Made of Words: Crafting a Distinctive Persona in Nonfiction Writing. Iowa City: The University of Iowa Press, 2013.

Notes in July 2019

In reading about writing, I’m engrossed in Natalie Babbitt’s Barking with the Big Dogs: On Writing and Reading Books for Children. Collected from 1970 to 2004, these are mostly speeches delivered to other literary folks. Not only is what she has to say about writing of interest, but it’s inspired me to request all the books of hers which I haven’t yet read.

In writing about writing, I continue making notes about my experience juggling the voices of seven characters, as I sink into approach the final stages of revising a book-length manuscript. Which aren’t so final, as I am still discovering layers of characterization to solidify those voices.

In reading about reading, I have been enjoying the Summer 2019 issue of World Literature Today, which has a focus on cli-fi (and its usual awesome interviews, reviews and recommendations). It sounds like hyperbole, but I want to add nearly every book they cover to my TBR.

And, in writing about reading, I have been working on a series of essays inspired by rereading books that I loved (and didn’t) when I was a girl: Revisiting. Like this one about Harriet the Spy. (There are a lot of ads embedded in the article, but their revenue contributes directly to writers.)

July 10, 2019

“It was midsummer then, as it is now as I am writing. The most magnificent time of the year had arrived.”
Selma Lagerlof’s
Saga of Gosta Berling

The Byline Bible (Susan Shapiro)

Bylines aren’t something I’m chasing right now. My focus is on booklength works, whether novels or themed essay collections.

If, however, my goal was to build a freelancer’s resume with a series of bylines, Susan Shapiro’s advice would be helpful. And not someday-when-I-get-around to it helpful. Rather, it is right-now-this-minute helpful.

One of the aspects of her approach which I most appreciate is her “Figure Out Your Main Goal” section, about ten pages into the body of the work. This is useful advice generally (but often the most obvious elements are overlooked in instructional works), but Shapiro delineates various goals and offers specific suggestions, which are both timely and informative.

And you can get started right away, with the first (of five) assignments, a 900-word piece about a humiliating moment. The irony of that appeals to me. After all, we’ve just met (although only on the page, of course), and here she is asking me to share something personal, to intensify my vulnerability right off.

Nonetheless, she includes many links to pieces that her other students have successfully published as a result of this assignment, in case you need incentive to do your homework.

In fact, throughout the work, Shapiro consistently refers readers to pieces authored by her students; this might annoy some readers, but I take it as an indicator of her success as a teacher, not only as evidence of her students’ publishing history (recent and topical) but as evidence of the good-will remaining between teacher and student, long after the course was complete. (And, if you don’t want to key in the links, there are several pieces reproduced in their entirety in this volume.)

The body of the work contains all the usual text boxes and lists, which makes The Byline Bible browse-friendly, but there is also a set of Top-Five Lists at the back, for those looking for a super-quick fix. (Consider: the Instant Gratification Takes Too Long list.)

And, at the very back? A glossary, which includes this definition of Nut Graf: “An abbreviated few lines at the beginning of a feature story that telegraph what the story is about.” So, maybe I’m not aiming for a byline any time soon. But at least I know what to call that little description above a feature.

Good stuff for nonfiction writers!

Shapiro, Susan. The Byline Bible: Get Published in 5 Weeks. Cincinnati, OH: Writer’s Digest Books, 2018.

Startle and Illuminate: Carol Shields on Writing (Anne and Nicholas Giardini)

For as long as I have been working to publish fiction, I have had sticky notes with advice from Carol Shields decorating my files and folders.

I pulled sentences from interviews, radio and print, and sometimes, after a particularly difficult rejection (you know the kind), I would sit and stare at one of those little scraps of paper until I believed that I could try again. Because the kind of advice that Carol Shields had to offer was the kind of advice that I most needed to hear.

Which is why, when I first heard of this collection, I was afraid to read it; I was afraid that it wouldn’t be everything that I needed it to be. But it is: it is everything that I hoped it would be.

Anne and Nicholas Giardini (daughter and grandson of Carol Shields) have gathered a variety of materials, from their personal papers as well as from Carol Shield’s archives, and they have carefully edited it into sections, which read in the author’s voice (and sometimes the materials are directly in her voice, pulled from letters to other writers, for instance, and an entire chapter of letters to creative writing students).

The book begins with a consideration of the significance of stories and storytelling, underscoring the need for writers to read widely and attentively. I began to make a lot of notes in this chapter but then recognized that each chapter is followed by a section which itemizes the key points for readers (very convenient).

Shields is not afraid to challenge conventional advice: “Write about what you know, people say, but how do you know what you know?”

Nor does she bother to fancy-up her advice: “You have to pay attention and have the patience to move the words around until they are both precise and allusive.”

She offers concrete and specific suggestions: “The use of public transportation can be extremely profitable to fiction writers, who are always looking to restock their supplies. And so are such public places as elevators or restaurants.”

And she also comments on how a writer should be: “Be willing to engage with vulnerability, including yourself in that vulnerability.”

And if I needed something else to scribble on a sticky note? There are plenty of contenders. Like this:

“The love story may have lost credibility, but consider the notion of a bird flying through life side by side with another, their wings almost but not quite touching, the two of them guided by an inexplicable binary radar, and an instinctive wish to join their lives together. That is a story worth risking.”

Great stuff for writers who are taking that risk.

Shields, Carol. Startle and Illuminate: Carol Shields on Writing. Ed. Anne Giardini and Nicholas Giardini PRH – RHC, 2016.

The World Split Open: Great Authors on How and Why We Write (Literary Arts)

This anthology is sourced from the Literary Arts organization, which was founded in 1984. A cornerstone of bookish culture, the organization began in Oregon as a lecture series and later combined efforts with the Oregon Institute of Literary Arts, which was founded by a lawyer (Brian Booth) and a group of writers.

One of those writers was Ursula K. Le Guin, who has an essay included in this volume: “Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?” The essay dates to 2000 but the content is still relevant today.

Some of it is standard: “Where do you get your ideas? From books, of course, from other people’s books. If I didn’t read, how could I write?”

Occasionally she pushes the envelope, playing both sides of an observation designed to provoke a response: “I am a human; therefore I lie. All humans are liars; that is true – you must believe me.”

This focus on truth-telling feels particularly salient now, with the current American government administration leading the United States into a “post-truth era”. But, then, I am drawn to Le Guin’s writing about writing; earlier this year, I considered her essay on writing at Hedgebrook and a few years ago I wrote about Steering the Craft (a longtime favourite writing resource) as well as The Wave in the Mind.

Perhaps it’s unsurprising that I noted more passages from this essay than the others; yet, the shortest section in my notes for this collection corresponds to the essay by Margaret Atwood, from 1994: “Spotty-Handed Villainesses: Problems of Female Bad Behavior in the Creation of Literature”.

This surprises me: having returned to Margaret Atwood’s Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing several times, I would have expected to find more notable passages in this piece, but it is of greater interest to the reader in me than to the writer in me.

With as few notations as Atwood’s essay, Marilynne Robinson’s “On ‘Beauty’” (2006) urged this note in my file: “Fiction is narrative freed from the standard of literal truth. In effect, it is the mind exploring itself, its impulse to create hypothetical cause and consequence.”

So, it would seem there is a theme here. One which carries into the next piece, Wallace Stegner’s 1990 work “Fiction to Make Sense of Life”. (This was a potentially aggravating read, for it reveals the endings of some classic short stories and to illustrate the changing taste of readers, who are now less amused by resolutions with a twist.

In fact, however, the pieces in this anthology are a satisfying mix of concrete advice and musings upon the bigger issues (like the social and cultural responsibility of a writer, Aristotelian unities, and Rupert Sheldrake’s “morphic resonance – and you can turn to Robert Stone, Russell Banks and Jeanette Winterson if that trio calls to you).

Many of the contributors comment on the importance of reading in the development of a writer’s craft and both Zadie Smith, in “305 Marguerite Cartright Avenue” (2012), and E.L. Doctorow, in “Childhood of a Writer” (1991), speak about the fundamental importance of reading and libraries in helping them to discover their voices as storytellers. 

This was also true for Edward P. Jones, who states in “Finding the Known World”: “The reading was simply a means to building a novel. I had a goal – that of writing the novel – and to get there I had to go through this forest of reading.” (He, too, has an observation which fits with the initial theme I addressed above: “The facts and the truth of a world are what I make up.”)

These pieces are pulled from across two decades, from some authors who are no longer writing and others who remain fervently active, and are accessible to emerging and developing writers while still offering inspiration and focus to more experienced wordsmiths. But if you don’t want to know how William Faulkner’s “A Rose for Emily” ends? Steer clear of Stegner’s piece.

Good stuff for writers.

Literary Arts’ The World Split Open: Great Authors on How and Why We Write
Portland, OR: Tin House Books, 2014

Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process (John McPhee)

If you’re a “New Yorker” fan, you probably already know what I’m going to say: John McPhee is a renowned non-fiction writer, nominated four times for the Pulitzer Prize (winning in 1999), who has been associated with the magazine since 1963.

There is a lot of detail in Draft No. 4 about essays and books he has authored, about his process and his craft, and those readers who are already familiar with his career will undoubtedly find that these references are both pleasurable and informative.

For those of us coming to Draft No. 4 as a writing tool, the anecdotes and examples feel like a constant reminder of what remains unread (or, maybe that’s just me and the chronic sense of never-having-read-enough), although his observations about the changes in process across a half-century-long writing career, simply from a technical perspective, remain fully accessible.

For instance, a discussion of how a writer’s use of a tape recorder can influence the interview process is not directly applicable, now that technology is ubiquitous, but it is still worth reflecting on how a subject’s overt awareness of the process can alter their receptivity and change how much or little might be disclosed if the process overwhelms their connection with the interviewer.

McPhee’s experience in a low-fi environment certainly influences his approach to the craft today. “Cumbersome aspects there may have been, but the scissors, the slivers, the manila folders, the three-by-five cards, and the Underwood 5 were my principal tools until 1984,” he writes.

A dozen pages later, he offers this advice: “Another way to prime the pump is to write by hand. Keep a legal pad, or something like one, and when you are stuck dead at any time – blocked to paralysis by an inability to set one word upon another – get away from the computer, lie down somewhere with pencil and pad, and think it over.” (This works for me, but I grew up pounding on a typewriter too.)

The book is divided into eight parts: Progression, Structure, Editors & Publisher, Elicitation, Frame of Reference, Checkpoints, Draft No. 4, and Omission. I made notes from each section and particularly enjoyed the anecdotes and advice about fact-checking (perhaps because I felt a little less pressure to make notes, being more of a make-it-up writer, so I didn’t pay such close attention).

He writes in a matter-of-fact tone. “When am I done? I just know. I’m lucky that way. What I know is that I can’t do any better; someone else might do better, but that’s all I can do; so I call it done.” There is no silver-bullet solution here, but the simple statement is true and the humour comes through.

I especially appreciate his comment on competition between writers: “No one will ever write in just the way that you do, or in just the way that anyone else does. Because of this fact, there is no real competition between writers. What appears to be competition is actually nothing more than jealousy and gossip. Writing is a matter strictly of developing oneself. You compete only with yourself. You develop yourself by writing.”

On these issues, the straightforward tone is essential and powerful. Perhaps less so in more general observations: “For nonfiction projects, ideas are everywhere. They just go by in a ceaseless stream.” Then again, that’s true too.

As one who has long appreciated Anne Lamott’s shitty-first-draft directive, I also appreciated this classier way of describing the same process (and his of words like ‘nucleus’ and ‘interstitial’ elevates it even more):

“Blurt out, heave out, babble out something – anything – as a first draft. With that, you have achieved a sort of nucleus. Then, as you work it over and alter it, you begin to shape sentences that score higher with the ear and eye. Edit it again – top to bottom. The chances are that about now you’ll be seeing something that you are sort of eager for others to see. And all that takes time. What I have left out is the interstitial time. You finish that first awful blurting, and then you put the thing aside.”

I’ve always called it simmering, and I’ve read other descriptions of it, but McPhee’s rings true for me. It’s not just putting the manuscript away in a drawer: somehow ‘interstitial’ captures a little of the magic I feel there, too.

Great stuff for John McPhee fans and really good stuff for other writers too.

McPhee, John. Draft No. 4: On the Writing Process (NY: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013).

The Enchanted Life: Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday (Sharon Blackie)

Most of my reading about writing this year has been about concrete aspects of the craft, how to summarize your work for the pitching process, for instance, or how to prepare a book proposal.

Sharon Blackie’s book is not a to-do primer but a to-be primer. It’s about foundational rather than executional work.

Which makes it sound a little intimidating, doesn’t it? And that’s appropriate. Because despite the blooms and bunnies on the cover, this is a heavy read.

Heavy partly because of the style (the author is a “reformed academic”) but heavy mostly because it requires a lot of readers.

Sharon Blackie observes that we tend to focus on horizontality, on our positon on the ground, but she reminds us that we can change our two-dimensional way of looking at the world into a recognition of its depth and complexity.

One of the ways in which she became aware of her personal embeddedness in the world was to more fully inhabit the space in which she now lives (on the Isle of Lewis, in the northern Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland).

She came to realise that she inhabits a biosphere within a biosphere, that she is living in a ‘weatherscape’, not simply a landscape. Reading about her experience in this new space is interesting on its own terms.

“The wind and rain that I was railing against are the forces which had shaped its physical attributes over the millennia, and determined the nature of the land which I loved so fiercely – the water-logged moors and bogs, the hundreds of tiny lochs scattered like fragments of broken mirror across the peatlands to the north, the vastness of a vista that stretched for miles, and across which your gaze could travel uninterrupted by trees or shrubs.”

Blackie, however, presents her personal experience as a doorway through which readers can step to more fully and completely inhabit our own familiar spaces.

One important habit to readopt/nurture is the habit of play. (It’s easy to see how this connects with creativity to bolster a writer’s work on multiple levels.)

“Above all, no matter how foreign it has become to you, and no matter how challenging an idea it might be, learn to play again. We find so many things to occupy our days that have purpose, but unstructured play has no purpose other than pleasure. Practise it with a child, a dog, a cat, your lover, a friend. Or practice it alone: just learn to mess about, to fiddle with things, to splash in puddles, make sandcastles or snowmen, paddle in the shallows, like a child.”

She also encourages the art of attention. (Observation certainly strengthens creative work, adding to credibility and fostering fresh possibilities.) A set of exercises follows each chapter, encouraging reflection and sometimes requiring concrete work. This is not the kind of book which instructs you to go to the store and purchase a journal, but it is the kind of book that makes you think so much that you will want to write.

“Wonder is different from awe, which is usually defined as the sense of having an encounter with some presence larger than ourselves, something more powerful, and a little bit frightening. In a state of awe, we feel humbled. In a state of wonder, we feel possible.” 

There – in that state of possibility – that’s where the value of this work for a writer lies.

Sharon Blackie’s book is what I wished to find in Women Who Run with the Wolves; it is a book I will return to at intervals, perhaps even more often than those craft-oriented volumes.

Great stuff for contemplative writers.

Blackie, Sharon. The Enchanted Life: Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday (Ambrosia, 2018)

“The Hope of Rabbits: A Journal of a Writer’s Work” (Ursula K. Le Guin)

The last of the pieces in Words Are My Matter: Writings about Life and Books 2000-2016 and one of the longer ones, “The Hope of Rabbits” is a record of the time Ursula K. Le Guin spent at Hedgebrook, on the coast of Whidbey Island north of Seattle.

She was invited there for a month, more than twenty years ago, and she agreed to stay for a single week.

“Seven days with no obligations, no routine, no society except at dinner time – but not exactly vacation days, not holiday: workdays for the real work, without any distractions except those I invent.”

Much of the week’s writing is filled with her observations about her surroundings, in particular – as one would guess from the title – the many rabbits that live there, watching the writers come and go.

Her writer’s eye also captures other situational details that invite the reader into her space there, like the type of wood from which a door is made or the sort of work done in the garden on the Saturday.

Living arrangements there are integrally connected to the natural world, which seems largely peaceful and contemplative.

Although there is room for some self-deprecating humour too.
“I suddenly realized that I can get rid of the flies in my windowseat windows, which come in the door and buzz and distract me, by opening the windows. The flies fly out. Ma che stupidezza!

(This is just the kind of “discovery” that I can imagine myself making, caught in the flurry of a draft, irritated by some detail, for which there is a simple solution that only later becomes clear to me in an embarrassingly obvious way.)

There is some consideration about the fact that only women writers visit Hedgebrook (and the introduction to the piece debates the merits of and need for such a space, in this patriarchal society) and about how a male writer who might have stayed in her particular cabin might have responded to the space therein.

She explains the process of decision-making which governed her packing, which books she chose to bring with her and which she left behind. And almost immediately she notices differences in her work habits which appeal to her.

“I think about the humane pace of longhand, and how one is constantly looking away from the notebook a things around it, near or far, changing position as one sits, doodling in the margin while working out a transition, half-consciously noticing the slant of the sunlight, the advance of shadows, the color of the sky, fully absorbed in the work, and yet open to the surrounding world, as we are not when working at a computer screen.”

The emphasis, overall, in on her interior experience of the week, with only brief mentions of social interactions (which made her anxious in advance but which were, ultimately, positive experiences).

“I am nearing the end of my story, which may be accommodating itself to my time here – I suspect it of doing so. But it’s 41 pages now and should not go on forever, surely? It leaps about strangely, as it is, I think I know what it’s about and then I am not certain.”

The emphasis is always on the work and she is not afraid to question and explore, not afraid to say that she still questions and explores even as an accomplished and decorated writer. (I’ve written about Le Guin’s about writing about writing here and here, as well.)

Good stuff for writers.

Le Guin, Ursula K. “The Hope of Rabbits: The Journal of a Writer’s Work” in Words Are My Matter: Writings about Life and Books 2010-2016 (Small Beer Press, 2016)