Admit it–do you make lists and then ignore them? I do. Almost every morning as I do my morning pages, things pop into my head and I jot them down: travel plans, to-do things for the day/week/month, shopping lists, calls to make. I think there is an area in my cerebral cortex that specializes in listing. Writers live with lists that we don’t call lists, but they are: tables of contents, book outlines, marketing plans (my toughest list to maintain). A calendar is a list of days and events. Listing also means tilting if you’re on board a ship or boat. I tilt often, go right off course despite listing my duties and desires.
Here’s a thought. Use a list to write from. No, not that book outline. I’m referring to that scrap of paper in your pocket that says something like duct tape, eggs, tomatoes. It’s not just a list. It’s a skeleton. Can you write something that fleshes out that list? It might lead to a bit of fiction–a scene for a novel or short story. (I have a scene in which a man is making a grocery list and collapses under the weight of parenthood that keeps him shopping for the needs of his children and ignoring other things in his life that had once been important.) Such a little list could become part of a memoir or a family history. Why did your aunt always take her list to Coolbroth’s Market in Cornish, Maine, and did they carry every item on her list? What if that market ran out of her favorite brand of toothpaste? Would she go without or move on to a different store, maybe feeling a shadow of guilt for not shopping at her usual place?
Lists can nag us into getting things done. They can remind us of our failures when we ignore them. They can telegraph our interests to an observer. Way back, we had proto-writing such as hieroglyphs, runes, quipu and oracle bones. Such early writing seems to have been lists of food stuffs, taxes, military records. Gradual development led to true writing and our lists could also grow into true writing, even if what we make from the list is grand, outrageous fiction.
Don’t crumple that shopping list or honey-do list. Use it.
Yesterday was the fifth and final day of my summer writing intensive at Front Range Community College in Westminster CO. I had five students, all grownups, all there because they are writers or plan to write. Four of them were recidivists, having taken other courses with me. This one was bittersweet because FRCC is discontinuing its continuing ed in all but the Fort Collins campus, two hours away. I savored every minute of each class. Each of the days we paid close attention to one of the five senses and talked about how to use this sensory awareness in writing. We read excerpts from fiction, poetry and nonfiction. Diane Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses was a good resource and got plenty of mention. I discovered Perfume: The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Seuskind, a tour de force for the sense of smell. We talked a bit about how each sense might affect a character in fiction or memoir. And we told stories.
One prompt–your earliest food memory/your worst meal ever–really got us going. We heard about tomato soup prepared by Grandma for a sick kid and another special dish of carrots from another grandmother for another sick kid. I talked a little about my Grammy Boyd’s mixing a raw egg into hot mashed potato for me because she thought I was too thin. (Must have worked; I’m not thin now.) We heard about being part of an ethnically German family and not liking sauerkraut, a drawn out sick reaction to macaroni and cheese (not something I would have thought possible, given how much my family loves mac’n’cheese, but it happened in California where anything’s possible). And there was the child who met her first wonderful plate of spaghetti and meatballs in the presence of the smell of perm solution and could not eat anything for some time, so offensive was that combination. We told each other stories about food in other countries, other cities, other decades. We talked about the soundscapes of our lives and played with the possibilities of sound for plot, scene and character development.
Mostly, we were a group of writers sharing techniques and experiences. I cannot think of a better way to spend my time. I’m sorry to lose the chance to do it again at Front Range, but I’m thinking, thinking, thinking about an independent writers’ workshop, small and comfortable. Probably starting in September, probably south of Boulder and north of Denver, which sort of means south of the moon and north of the equator.
The argument between Amazon and the Big Five book publishers (Hashette, HarperCollins, Macmillan, Penguin and Simon&Schuster) is like watching parents fight. I just want to go outside and play and pretend that my world is not in turmoil. For those writers who have been in suspended animation for the past few weeks, you might want to catch up. You could start with Jeremy Greenfield’s article on this book publishing/selling nightmare at theatlantic.com for 5/28. If you are of great stamina, read the comments that follow. Mom and Dad are very angry with each other and the whole house may fall around us.
Amazon is apparently dragging its heels to ship titles from Hashette because Hashette wants a bigger cut of the profit. The other four Bigs are sitting by chewing their nails because their contracts with Capital A will inevitably come up for renewal and they too will have to negotiate with a company that now controls 50% of all US book sales.
Where do the author and the reader fit into this argument? Nowhere comfortable, it seems. Those of us who publish via Amazon’s Create Space do so for a variety of reasons: creative control, better return on our investment, greater visibility, impatience with the traditional publishers who are slow and who seem impossibly isolated from all but the gatekeeper agents and those authors with a guaranteed following. Yet, the word monopoly makes it hard to breathe. I won’t even play the board game.
I, too, want readers other than the ones in my personal address book. But I also want that creative control that independent publishing offers me. Then there’s the fact that I’m old and getting older. Waiting years for a manuscript to wend its way through that primeval forest of agents, editors and publishers seems sacrificial. For an emerging writer, there is little profit at either end of this cudgel.
While I don’t feel ready to choose a side in this battle of the titans, I plan to keep my ears open to a world gone mad over profit and market share. For me, at this moment, independent publishing makes good sense, but while the “adults” stew and storm, I plan to first write a good book and then figure out how best to offer the world access to that book at its completion.
My week in New Orleans was mostly good, even though I walked too much the first day and very little the second. I often ate too much and not from the healthy menu. Of course, in NOLA a fried oyster poor boy and beignets are not only healthy, but also compulsory. I rode the street cars, went to museums and heard live jazz, annoyed as I was that one of the performers asked for requests but knew no lyrics by Irma Thomas. Shameful and chauvinistic. She is the only female musician who has a statue in Music Park. I stayed through three beignets anyway. I saw way too many beggars and homeless people on the streets of the Quarter. I stepped around too many deep potholes in the old sidewalks and passed too many gift shops with the same feathery gewgaws. At times I was hungry for something other than fried and sugary sustenance.
Other than walking too much on the very hard and often hazardous sidewalks of the Big Easy, I spent many hours writing or worrying about not writing. How did my retreat/vacation become a burden? I don’t know. I came home yesterday with good intentions of continuing the work and writing faithfully to the end of the novel in progress. The TO-DO list includes typing up all the handwritten pages I lugged home. But today the fussy child in me says, no, don’t want to. So maybe I’ll take a little stay-cation from that project and finish some of the non-writing things on my list: reading grant applications for the cultural council, submitting poems for publication, sending off a new poem (about NOLA) to my critique group, hearing about the family’s stay at the cabin, reuniting with my dog.
Then again, knowing me, I’ll sneak in a few ideas for the novel as I write my daily journal, and that long, challenging project will haunt me until I sigh, pick up the pen and get back to work. Long fiction offers more problems and puzzles than does poetry or short fiction. Solving these problems draws me in. I can use some of what I saw in NOLA to enrich a story that takes place in Providence, RI. People are people everywhere, and what I saw on those broken sidewalks will stay with me and become, as does so much experience, part of the gumbo that is fiction. And it will be delicious.
Writer Jim Harrison in Brown Dog has done the highly improbable: he has me cheering for a hard-drinking loose cannon who will “poke” any woman who’ll have him, and plenty will, who prefers cold weather and a frequent dose of isolation, who is known and unknown. So far I don’t know his real name, BD being the initials for his childhood nickname, arrived at because he dogged a girl he had a crush on. He’s a loner, yet highly visible for his outrageous opportunistic, illegal stunts, like trying to sell a corpse and stealing a refrigeration truck to transport it. The only physical description of note is that BD has hair that won’t behave any better than he does. He is not registered or recognized by any Native American tribe, although he “might” qualify, has no SSN, earns his living by hard labor, often dangerous, like diving in Lake Superior or cutting pulpwood alone. He doesn’t know much at all about his parents.
So why do I like this guy? For one thing, he’s not a whiner, hence his motto handed down from his grandfather: “Don’t Doggett”–don’t whine like a cousin who always complained. No, BD takes his lumps, which he generally creates for himself. He’s a strong worker, inventive, quick-witted, kind to kids and animals, apparently attractive to women, whom he definitely appreciates. He’s literate in a mostly illiterate world. He’s one of those elusive characters we call well rounded. He believes, “There ought to be more open spaces between events.” Ah, there’s a credo to live by. He is, for all his emotional neediness, not greedy or acquisitive in a bureaucratic, consumerist society. This is a book I don’t want to end. But there is, in a sense, no end. Fictional characters, unlike fleshy ones, stay with us. Whether we know their names or not, their lives become part of our own. BD is an Everyman who’s no one at all, but for me, he’s immortal and very real.
Vacation time–packing lists, new shoes to try out before I go, it’s all expensive and exciting. I can hardly contain myself. Say what? I had to go, so I told myself, to The Container Store, more exciting to me than any amusement park. I came away with a purse-sized planner to contain my appointments, a neon-green scratch pad to contain my random thoughts and to-do lists, a tiny bag that holds a bigger bag and a battery-operated toothbrush in the cutest little case. Things that I didn’t know I “needed” until I saw them. Poorer and no wiser, I have the new shoes on my feet and the other things inside what will be my shoulder bag en route to New Orleans. Within the next day or two I’ll take the small suitcase out of the large suitcase and fill that container, which must fit into the overhead luggage bin inside the big airborn tube.
Art, like my life, is often about containment. A book contains pages, a story contains detail and action and emotion–the contents. Content comes from the Latin contentus, satisfied. My how that word has morphed, sprouted legs and wings. So much depends on the accent: CONtent or conTENT. I’m rarely contented with the content of my early drafts. And lately I am aware of the containers within a piece of writing. Of course there are the parts that contain the contents, the chapters, paragraphs, sentences, phrases, nested like ubiquitous Russian dolls. And there are the scenes within a story that are contained. For example, in The Glass Castle (Jeanette Walls), the opening scene is narrated by a woman from inside a cab. She sees on the street her mother picking through the trash. That the narrator is contained within the cab limits her ability to describe her mother. She can only report the visual, not the sound, smell, or texture.
This containment interests me and I find myself wondering now how much of what I write is restricted by what contains the action. I would welcome other examples of this walling off of a scene and the effect of that containment on the story. Ideas? Anyone?
Even the words business plan give me hives. But I’ve just read most of an amazing book, which I plan to review on Goodreads when I finish it, and Pamela Fagan Hutchins (What Kind of Loser Indie Publishes? and can I be one, too?) has convinced me that I need better organization to get on with indie publishing, which I believe in. So I have redone my project board. I use a piece of foam board, in which I punched two holes and added a ribbon (red because it’s important) and hung it on a wreath hanger on the door to the storage closet adjacent to my office space. I’ve been using stickies to remind me of the my projects, but this method did not keep me moving as well as I might have. So I stripped off those stickies and put up a big one for each of the next twelve months. Smaller stickies remind me to anticipate three months in advance of when I hope–no, I plan–to publish the next book.The blue ones remind me that there are projects that don’t yet have a deadline or are ongoing.
My project board
I took from Hutchins’ book permission to publish more than one book a year. I’ve got two novels “done” and a third in the works. That one in progress will get four hand-written pages a day in order to hit my goal of publishing it a year from now. Meanwhile, the other two will go public this year. And early next year I’ll publish a volume of poetry, new and selected. It’s time for that. With such a striking reminder in view every time I walk into my office, I have no excuse not to be more productive.