For those about to read, we salute you

Boise, Idaho, is located in the high desert, 2,700 feet above sea level. The trees (especially cottonwoods) follow the paths of the Boise River and whatever creek they can find. The high hills that surround the city support grass and sage, Basque wagons and sheep. In the summer, the air is blisteringly hot, but with so little moisture that you can smell a running garden hose a hundred yards away.

Spring arrives in Boise while it’s still solidly rainy in Seattle and Portland. The ground thaws and in the foothills where we walked our dogs when we lived there, there’s a season within a season: mud. The mud can suck your boots off your feet. Even if it doesn’t, by the time you return to your car, your boots resemble thick frisbees of mud. (Corgis are light enough to walk atop this quagmire.) By May, the land has turned to dust.

I mention this because this summer, writing in the Clarion West Write-a-thon was a lot like March in the foothills above Boise. I probably shouldn’t have done this, at a time when I’m trying to handle family illnesses, insane old people, and slow-moving bureaucracies. Trying to get the latter to do anything is like playing fetch with an arthritic dog. And then there’s the blogging I promised to do. And the dieting. And the family visits. And our annual safari on Mt. Rainier.

The quiet life is not for me.

I am hopeful

Everyone who participated in the write-a-thon has spent this weekend reading what they wrote. As for what I wrote, it wasn’t the word count I had dreamed of, but I like it. My novel is moving again, and faster than the Veterans Administration, too. I don’t regret signing up for this trip.

I reintroduced myself at the gym this afternoon. I’m ready to return to normal life, whatever normal may be, and to keep writing.

Way back in the first week of the write-a-thon (by the way, I fixed all the dates on my posts – I was about a week off), I mentioned that I wanted to master the art of writing a shitty first draft and moving on. I didn’t master it.

But does everyone have to write a shitty first draft? Not Dean R. Koontz, a man with more than 100 novels to his credit. Koontz is so prolific that Elvis Costello wrote a song about him: “Everyday I Write a Book.”* The man works about 10 hours a day, yet produces surprisingly few pages. This is because he rewrites each page 20 or 30 times.

“I began this ceaseless polishing out of self-doubt, as a way of preventing self-doubt from turning into writer’s block,” he once said. “By doing something with the unsatisfactory page, I wasn’t just sitting around brooding about it.”

Yes, I revised new pages before writing newer pages. It works for me and Dean.

Koontz also said, “Writing a novel is like making love, but it’s also like having a tooth pulled. [And] sometimes it’s like making love while having a tooth pulled.” I don’t agree – writing for me is a refuge – but I know people who would.

Awake and sing

My novel is back and so is my writing blog. I’ll keep working on both. I’ll try to be interesting in both. Thank you for reading along and thank you forever to my Clarion West Write-a-thon sponsors, Karen G. Anderson, Kate Schaefer, and Jerry Kaufman. Your thank-you notes will go into the mail the day after the next meeting of the local typewriter club. So long as those nerds own typewriters, I don’t have to.

* One of my favorite Elvis Costello lyrics:

All your compliments and your cutting remarks
Are captured here in my quotation marks

Day 41: What you get from your writing is what you put into it

Clarion West almost didn’t happen. My Clarion West – 1986. And when it did happen, we were sparsely populated. We were the Wyoming of writing workshops.

The original Clarion West ran from 1971 to 1973 in Seattle. It was relaunched in 1984, still in Seattle. Clarion West was an offshoot of the original Clarion, founded in 1968 in Milford, Pennsylvania, and now held in San Diego.

(Seattle and San Diego. Nothing says “catchy internet copy” more than Clarion West North and Clarion West South.)

Not long before the 1986 Clarion West, the relaunchers stepped back, and the workshop almost lost molecular cohesion. I know two of the people who saved it: queenpins Linda Jordan and Donna Davis, to whom I will always be in debt.

Unfortunately, this ninth-inning change in administration and the lack of time before opening day caused a problem in promotion and recruiting. There wasn’t much of either. My Clarion began with eight students. This was the only Clarion West class with fewer than 17.

Bonding was difficult. Everyone was either in their 20s or their 50s. There were only four or five people rattling around in the dorm. Group lunches were awkward. What little progress we made at unification was disrupted when two new people joined us for weeks five and six. (The workshop needed the money.)

This being 1986, we were all Caucasians of European descent. And this being 1986, I never noticed.

Enough complaining.

Linda, Donna, and their assistants (actually, I’m not sure they had any) were stellar, the readings were good, the parties were fun, and one of my teachers, Susie McKee Charnas, changed my life. Not only was she the first writer I’d ever met who wrote the way I wrote (growing stories forward and backward from the original idea), when she challenged me to write something beyond my reach, what came out was not science fiction. I was not a science fiction writer, despite what I had believed since I was 12. This knowledge was worth every penny I’d borrowed from my girlfriend to go to the workshop.

My Clarion had its faults (some of my colleagues probably held a dim view of me), but I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

I’ve been thinking of the current class. Today was their last day. I wish them luck and a not-too-bumpy transition back to civilian society.

Addendum

One of my sponsors is supporting me in memory of Vonda N. McIntyre. Vonda attended the Milford Clarion in 1970 and started Clarion West in 1971. I am also in debt to Vonda. Sleep well, Starfarer.

Day 32: Endorphin rush

When you win a game in a chess tournament – when you’ve been sitting across the board from a stranger whom you’ve been mentally engaged with for three or four hours, when the two of you have combined to dance the pieces around until one of you has found a solution, when the clock is ticking down and the penmanship on your scoresheet is devolving – you feel fab. You are on top of the world. Your brain triumphed.

When you write something that feels right – when you’ve been staring at an empty screen or a sheet of paper for so long that you’re close to snow-blind, or when you realize you haven’t been writing, you’ve been typing, and this is the first sentence that’s not only worth saving, it’s worth sharing – it’s a similar feeling. Your writing is not a pas de deux as in chess, but you’ve still triumphed.

I’ve been looking for a while for a knockout opening line for my book. I was thousands of words away from the opening when a candidate broke the surface somewhere in the back of my head. I tried it out. It works. And I can see the influence from one of my literary idols. My brain triumphed.

That’s all I wanted to report tonight. I wrote some sentences today. I hit one of them over the fence.

Special offers

Check out these opportunities to do some good in the hood in the Clarion West Write-a-thon (#writeathon).

Can’t let you go without a chess quote

From the fourth world chess champion, Alexander Alekhine (pronounced “Al-yekken”):

I would like to be able to create alone without the necessity, as in games, of adjusting my plans to those of an opponent, in order to create something that will last. Oh! This opponent, this collaborator against his will, whose notion of Beauty always differs from yours and whose means (strength, imagination, technique) are often too limited to help you effectively! What torment, to have your thinking and your fantasy tied down by another person!

In writing, we are all on our own. Thank God.

Day 30: Where am I going and why am I in this basket?

On July 18, 1877, Thomas Hardy entered the stadium in Dorchester, Dorset, England, to begin work on his sixth novel, The Return of the Native. The crowd applauded as the confident young novelist marched onto the pitch and settled himself at his desk, then went quiet as he dipped his pen in his inkwell.

But Hardy began by drawing a doodle, which, after some consideration, he signed. After he finally wrote a word (“The”), he crossed it out, gazed into space, then signed his name again. “It’s Tess of the D’Urbervilles all over again,” the play-by-play man lamented, until Hardy, seized by inspiration, rewrote “The,” changed it to “A,” and then galloped off toward his first verb. The crowd was on its feet as he finished the sentence, and after only three hours of writing.

This may be meaningless scribbles from Monty Python, but in some ways it describes my writing process. “A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people,” noted Thomas Mann, a man who had no trouble writing. Most of his books are thick enough to brain a horse. But I take his point.

When I sit down to write, I am dazzled, sometimes blinded, by all the possibilities. A story can go anywhere. I want to get the words down, write a draft that leaks and patch it later when the adrenaline has subsided, but I also want to write well. “All you have to do is write one true sentence,” Hemingway used to say to himself early on, in Paris. “Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Thomas Hardy and Ernest Hemingway might have been less distractible than me. I’m very distractible – not by television or the internet, not by dinosaurs or cheerleaders, but by my own thoughts. In yesterday’s session, as I was warming up, a sentence came to me for a new story. A week before, while carpooling to work, I had told my co-worker about an incident in an office from long before computers made it impossible for anyone to hide anything. I guess that that memory, which had been dozing for years, woke up and began to sprout, because suddenly I was off and writing fluently, easily, and 90 minutes later I had a 2,000-word story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. Another 1,500 words and one more character and it’s done.

This story has no relationship with my novel.

Is this procrastination? If it were, I’d still be doodling – spaceships, probably – and signing my name. One of my teachers once told our class her “red dress theory” of writing: She didn’t write her ideas down. Whatever idea was still in her head, still shining, when she started writing was the one she went with. When the red dress appears, wear it. I’m not sure what my red-dress equivalent would be. An Alpha Romeo? More like an album by King Crimson.

Writing is fun, and though my novel is starting to move I loved this sprint into the unexpected.

Clarion West box score

While the Clarion West class of 2019 slaves away in Week 4 in Seattle, 166 people (from Australia, Brazil, Canada, Croatia, Cyprus, France, India, Malaysia, Spain, Taiwan, the U.K, and the U.S.) are scribbling away in the Clarion West Write-a-thon (#writeathon). Two of those people are Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and Jules Verne.

Dead or alive, Verne is never going to improve.

The Write-a-thon has brought in $10,727 to help keep Clarion West going. My sponsors (all three of ’em) are doing their part: Karen G. Anderson, Kate Schaefer, and Jerry Kaufman. Bless you!

Day 25: A good heroine beats a good hero every day

Weeks ago, I took a vow before the head of my order to spend my summer participating in the Clarion West Write-a-thon (#writeathon), blogging about it, dieting, punching the clock on my last job, and coping with sick family and arthritic bureaucracies. I didn’t foresee that the one thing I’d be least likely to do would be blogging. I thought for sure it would be dieting.

The older you get, the more bureaucracies you get

Are you frightened of a future full of sick old people? Grow up, you big baby! They’re your responsibility. However, if you act early, you can decrease the number of people by following this tip from the professionals: Marry an orphan.

Set the controls for the heart of 1966

In that year, Roland, my favorite English teacher, attended a writing conference at Georgetown University. Decades later, he gave me his notes. “I have no further use for them,” he wrote in his elegant, slanted penmanship. I want to share some of what I’ve found on these faded steno pad sheets.

Remember James T. Farrell? No? He was a rock star of the Depression!

The opening address was given by the novelist James T. Farrell, author of the Studs Lonigan trilogy. Studs holds the 29th spot on the Modern Library’s list of the 100 best novels of the 20th century. I’ve never read Farrell, but I have read that Normal Mailer was inspired to write after reading the Studs Lonigan books, which makes me want to not read James T. Farrell.

Judging by Roland’s notes, Farrell gave a remarkable speech that encompassed social commentary and the nuts and bolts of writing. He said that much of our sense of the world comes from the movies, not conversation or direct experience. He divided the world into two kinds of people, the glamorous and those who admire the glamorous. He decried the manipulation of art and its takeover and cheapening by business – exactly what Ursula K. LeGuin was talking about when she attacked Amazon at the National Book Awards in 2014. “Man must strive to attain the full stature of his humanity,” Farrell admonished the crowd, quoting Robespierre.

If so far this sounds like a writing conference today, you’re right, but there were things that went down in 1966 that wouldn’t go down at any conference today. For example, the language all of the writers used, male and female, and that Roland wrote his notes in, was male.

Farrell, paraphrased by Roland:

In terms of public, all that is important in a writer is his mind and heart as it is put on paper. He should not be made a public spectacle.

Unless a writer retires to solitude he will not find himself. He must master solitude. He must accept that as part of his destiny.

From R.A. Knowlton, a well-known editor and writing teacher of that era:

The successful fiction writer must be an untrustworthy fellow who can tell a good lie and get away with it.

As far as I can tell from googling the names Roland jotted down, there were no writers of color present and almost no recognition of what today we’d call marginalized populations. I found two exceptions:

  1. James Baldwin was included in a mention of the hot new writers, along with Saul Bellow, Isak Dinesen, Bernard Malamud, Philip Roth, and John Updike.
  2. The Brazilian writer Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis was praised for Epitaph of a Small Winner, an 1881 novel that must have just been translated into English.

“Women’s magazines want emotion. Mass circulation mags want action!”

The particulars of writing for magazines in 1966 were fascinating to me. Writing for magazines is what I’ve been trying to do for most of my life.

R.A. Knowlton did not have a high opinion of what he called the mass circulation, slick paper magazine. Fiction in these magazines isn’t supposed to mirror reality, he said; it’s an escape. “Truth,” says Mr. K, “makes very poor fiction.” He said that magazine fiction doesn’t carry much prestige (“Amateurs get all the applause”) because readers still want “the old virtues and illusions in their fiction.” This is why writers should never use divorce and divorcees in slick fiction. “Your main character must want something, but not anything illegal or immoral.”

(Attendees were advised of various taboos: no curse words in Boy’s Life, no teenage drinking in National Future Farmer. Was it OK to switch?)

However, Knowlton noted that contemporary (as in 1966) editors “want more force and emotionally contentious stories.” “Cream puffs,” he predicted, “are on their way out.” How I wish I knew what he meant by cream puffs. Is that what I’ve been writing?

And we’re back to the old people

At one of the panel discussions Roland attended, he was told that your main characters must be “reasonably” young – certainly not over 40. “Older readers can remember what it’s like to be young but young readers can’t imagine what it’s like to be old.” This reminds me that it was Thomas Wolfe, of all people, a man who wrote millions of words without ever understanding the female half of the human race, who figured out why we rarely get heroes in their 70s and beyond: No one lives long enough to understand how to write them.

Other nuggets for the aspiring magazine writer:

  • “A good heroine beats a good hero every day.”
  • “Stick to your own sex, also to one viewpoint.”
  • “Frankness seems to be most desired in non-fiction…the trend is to things that where formerly said only in the confessional or a doctor’s office.”
  • “Women’s magazines want emotion. Mass circulation mags want action!”

The most compelling remark in the pages Roland sent: “The only sort of story you can write is one from yourself.” Amen.

Cashed out

In 1966, the best-paying fiction markets in the U.S. were McCall’s, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, and Cosmopolitan. The New Yorker could not have been far behind.

McCall’s, a zine with a bank vault straight out of Richie Rich’s basement, offered $3,000-$4,000 per short story. According to my inflation calculator, $4,000 in 1966 would be $31,000 in 2019. Now you know how the Johns – Updike, Cheever, O’Hara – made a solid middle-class living writing short fiction in the 1950s and ’60s.

You can bet your ass and six of your goats that no one writing science fiction, mysteries, or westerns made this kind of money in those kinds of genres. In one year in the ’50s, Philip K. Dick earned $1,500 from the sale of about a dozen stories. He mentioned it because it was a superlative year. At least he could say that the only sort of story he wrote was from himself.

On to Day 26 of the Write-a-thon

So we beat on, keyboards against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Day 17: You only fail if you stop writing

Tonight I turn to one of the finest philosophical minds to have emerged from postwar North America: William Shatner.

“Regret is the worst human emotion. If you took another road, you might have fallen off a cliff. I’m content.”

It would be easy for me to succumb to regret. How did I lose all this time? Why has it taken me 200 years to get this far into my novel, only to find myself at the bottom of a metaphorical mineshaft? A situation so desperate that the only way for me to bust out was to join the Clarion West Write-a-thon (#writeathon) and go on a diet?

These questions are impossible to answer, and anyway, according to Shatner regret is useless. He’s spent enough time in alternate universes to know.

All you can do is seize the day, as I did today, but one sentence at a time rather than trying to do everything in the world by 9 o’clock. I picked a goal of writing one scene and then I wrote the scene. I wrote a few paragraphs after that, too. I’m a big tipper.

This may not sound like much, but John McPhee claimed he rarely wrote more than 500 words a day, and he’s done fairly well for himself with his Pulitzer and his National Book Awards and everyone bowing down to him and showering him with swag bags and stuff.

“People say to me, ‘Oh, you’re so prolific.’ God, it doesn’t feel like it – nothing like it. But you know, you put an ounce in a bucket each day, you get a quart.”

How to write lots and lots or pretend that you do

McPhee once tried tying himself to a chair to force himself to write more. This scheme failed, probably because he became annoyed and untied himself. In 2019, it’s more important to disable the internet. Also, stashing a dog under your desk can backfire. As the dog sinks deeper into sleep, it will emit sleepion particles. Humans cannot withstand sleepion particles. There are other hazards as well. This is why I like coffee shops.

The title of this post is from Ray Bradbury, a man who knew something about putting one word after another.

Tomorrow: More sentences, more scenes, more seaweed and carrot sticks on my stupid diet.

Day 16: I am suspending my presidential campaign

My fellow Americans. After much soul-searching, I have decided that running for president is not where my skills are most needed in these perilous times. I must also acknowledge that my polling and fundraising numbers are not competitive with such candidates as Kamala Harris, Elizabeth Warren, Joe Biden, and Bernie Sanders. I probably don’t have time to catch up.

The hyper-competitive state of politics in 2019 was also a factor in this decision. Thirty years ago, I didn’t need a platform. As a white male, all I needed was a good suit. Today, I am expected to have “positions.” I am expected to defend them. The public is fickle, and no one gives a rat’s ass that I am against single-player chess.

My campaign, though over, was not without its indelible moments. Partnering with Amy Klobuchar on Dancing with the Stars. Riding along with Jay Inslee as he busted ivory merchants, especially Ismail Merchant and James Ivory. The night I got Cory Booker so stoned, he thought he was John Hickenlooper. Mud-wrestling with Bill de Blasio.

I’ll miss you guys and all those late nights on the team bus, looking for soul food and a place to eat. Kirsten, you can keep my J. Crew sweater.

I hereby pledge all of my delegates to Elizabeth Warren. And I pledge all of the time I am not going to spend running for president to the Clarion West Write-a-thon (#writeathon).