PAULA WHYMAN
curiouswriter

In which we wonder about writing, food, music,  
& random curious events. 

From Graham Greene's novel, The End of the Affair:

So much in writing depends on the superficiality of one's days. One may be preoccupied with shopping and income tax returns and chance conversations, but the stream of the unconscious continues to flow undisturbed, solving problems, planning ahead: one sits down sterile and dispirited at the desk, and suddenly the words come as though from the air: the situations that seemed blocked in a hopeless impasse move forward: the work has been done while one slept or shopped or talked with friends.

Greene's narrator complains that he's having trouble with his book, in spite of writing 500 words per day (just as the author reportedly did), because he's preoccupied with thoughts that go "deeper than the book"--his unconscious is at work on a different obsession.

Certainly many of us have experienced this--that the day can be filled with mundane tasks having little to do with writing, which would seem to take one away from a focus on the work, and yet because those ordinary activities require little creative energy, they can serve as indifferent fuel to the unconscious. So your mind continues to work independently, crafting solutions to your creative problems at the same time you take out the trash. That is, I suppose, as long as you don't become obsessed with the deeper meanings to be found in the things you throw away.

Now that a fast and furious storm has left me with two trees sitting on the power lines in my front yard, as well as a broken driveway, I'm counting on my subconscious to continue working on my novel, while my conscious mind is taking estimates from the tree people... I must admit that I would welcome Greene's list of superficial distractions over sitting on hold with the insurance company any day.

According to the Authors Guild Bulletin, Plato rewrote the first sentence of The Republic 50 times.

Here's the first sentence of The Republic, as published:

I went down to the Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon, son of Ariston, to pray to the goddess; and, at the same time, I wanted to observe how they would put on the festival, since they were now holding it for the first time.

Now don't tell me that doesn't draw you in. I couldn't help wondering what that opening looked like 50 rewrites ago.

I know, I know. This is probably a ridiculous example of what I'm getting at. Someone is certainly going to explain the meaning of this passage and provide all the reasons why this is actually a perfect opening for the book. It telegraphs meaning, and it hints at things to come. But it's a long way from there, stylistically at least, to "Call me Ishmael." Let's just admit that right now.

Anyway, this got me thinking about openings, not just first sentences, but opening pages. If you're like me, you rewrite the opening of your story or your book at least 50 times, until it is absolutely the best dang thing you've ever written.

And then you toss it.

Because odds are, if it needed that much work, it was wrong wrong wrong from the start, and you need to go somewhere else with it entirely. Meaning Brand New approach. Not just different words.

But how and when do you make this determination? I mentioned Richard Peabody's approach before--he routinely cuts the first 3-5 pages of work he's critiquing for others, and he's usually right. Because one part of knowing how to begin the story is knowing that before you find what it's about, you're likely to put too much down on the page. Especially if you're less experienced, but even sometimes if you're not...You're going to be tempted to take the reader for a walk down the street, past the cracks in the sidewalk, the sprinklers that come on even when it's raining, the ugly Airstream in the neighbor's driveway, the misshapen hedge of Japanese holly, all before you get to the house where the important conflict will occur between the mother whose letters have revealed a secret life and her daughter who based her whole life on what she thought she knew about her mother. Most of that early stuff turns out to be wallpaper. Wallpaper that should be stripped to find what's underneath. Otherwise, someone better get pushed into the holly hedge and escape in the Airstream before too long. It can be very tempting to look at those early pages with a sort of love bred from familiarity, to keep going over them and over them, in case it's really just the words that are not quite right.

But no, it's not the words, it's the whole thing. If it takes that much going over, it's time to start over, in my opinion.

I like the way the novelist Benjamin Percy describes the revision process in a recent issue of Poets & Writers:

"So much of revision...is about coming to terms with that word: gone. Letting things go."

He goes on to describe what happens in terms that remind me of early medicine in the days of leeches: "...the professional writer mercilessly lops off limbs, rips out innards like party streamers, drains away gallons of blood, and then calls down the lightning to bring the body back to life."

And as everyone knows, when the body is brought to life again, it's irrevocably changed.

This is a replay in honor of my brother's birthday. Last year was the 40th anniversary of Neil Armstrong's moon walk.

On July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. My family has just about every souvenir you can imagine from this event, because while Armstrong was making one small step for man, my brother was being born.

My brother would have been 41 years old today. Instead, he died seven years ago in rather tragic circumstances.

When we were kids, since I was the older one, it was my duty to torture my brother and his duty to continue idolizing me, regardless. So I thought I'd take this moment to clear up a couple of things, and I hope he's paying attention.

Bruce: When I said circus clowns left you on our doorstep, I wasn't being entirely honest. In truth, when they brought you home from the hospital, I was sure that you were a devious character set on removing me from the household, and that if I could only catch you I'd prove that you were really a cigar-chomping midget con-man disguised in a diaper. But year after year, you pretended to like me and to mean me no harm. What was that about? It was a clever ruse. How long, I continued to wonder, before your true goals would be unveiled?

When I was ten and convinced you that we should run away from home, we wrapped some important items in a bandanna tied to a broomstick (how I'd seen it done on TV). You were perfectly willing to come with me, but only to the end of the driveway. Why couldn't I convince you that the end of the driveway wasn't far enough?

As it is, I wish you had stayed around a little longer and closer to home.

So, this is my birthday wish for you: I imagine you're on the moon, since it might very well have been the first place you saw when you were born; there it was on the TV in the delivery room. But wherever you are, I hope the Redskins are always winning, there are no stinging insects, they always play heavy metal music, and you've become a master shredder.

You rock.

Love, your big sis and biggest fan.

Carolyn Parkhurst is back from a whirlwind tour to promote her new novel, The Nobodies Album, which Liesl Schillinger reviewed glowingly in the NYT this past Sunday. Carolyn has condensed her on-the-road experiences into this list of hilarious book tour wisdom. Highly recommend.

A sampling:

Stay in character. When you call home, have your kids ask you a few questions about narrative voice.

In-flight writing exercise: Choose an item from the SkyMall catalog and try to imagine a character who might actually use it.

While you're on the road, you're functioning as an Ambassador of Literature. This means you can pretty much park anywhere.

(On my way to the DMV now to get one of those Ambassador of Literature hang-tags for my car...)

From the press release:

The American Independent Writing Prizes for 2010 were awarded at the June 12 annual conference in Washington, DC, to Mary Collins, Heather Lynne Davis, Herta Feely, Peter Galuszka and Paula Whyman. The annual competition is open to all AIW members and recognizes outstanding freelance work.

Whyman won the short fiction prize for "Statute of Limitations” [March/April 2009, Bethesda Magazine], which skillfully explores the “tension between surrendering to self-interest and taking responsibility for the life [people] have created,” the judges said.

More specifically, this story is about bad parenting, bad drugs, and bad sex. And I'm grateful to Bethesda Magazine's fiction editor, Susan Coll, and publisher, Steve Hull, not only for publishing fiction in the magazine in the first place, but also for taking a risk with the magazine's content. Bethesda Magazine may very well be the only regional glossy that puts short fiction in every issue.

This is my annual July 4th post, updated. I don't usually do reruns, but everything I wrote here still applies...especially about the Jell-O.

My novel is set in 1980 right around the 4th of July, and in the story, some pretty major events take place at the big neighborhood barbecue. I was thinking about this, and also thinking about how little has changed in the way I spend the 4th of July now compared with the way I spent it growing up. With the exception of the years when we used to go see the Beach Boys on the National Mall (very little of which I actually remember), what we do now to mark the day is pretty much the same. Except for the macaroni salad, which I do not miss at all. It's now PASTA salad tossed with balsamic and olive oil (hold the mayo, please!). And quite possibly, there won't be any Jell-O. But Jell-O is a variable I'm not willing to predict; it shows up when you least expect it. There will be cupcakes, both homemade and store-bought, mini and full-size. My son will want one of each, and I will say "pick one." Later, my husband and I will learn that we both said "pick one," and our son got away with it.

Unlike the cookout in my book, I'm assuming that no one will be telling bad Richard Pryor jokes while lighting the grill. And, probably, no one will quote Emerson. Or get stoned. Or have sex behind the pool pump room. Yes, this does all happen in my book. It did not happen to me. I want to make that clear, in case any former (or current) neighbors are reading this.

We have a parade on our street that starts in front of our house. All the kids ride bikes or scooters, and it's fun to see who got their training wheels off each year. One mom takes charge and gets everyone to stand still for photos (she always succeeds--I think I need her to take our holiday photo this year), and there's a boombox playing corny patriotic music. Then we eat a lot and swim, and the kids shoot each other with high-powered water guns while all of us liberal parents look on in horror.

So, on Saturday, I'll be wearing my 34-year-old American Bicentennial hat, which I pull out just for the occasion. I will patriotically drink beer and eat burgers and then feel patriotically overstuffed.

There's probably more to complain about regarding the State of the Union these days then there was when I was a kid (at least it seems that way), but for one afternoon, in keeping with the tradition, we'll only complain about property taxes.

Whatever your annual tradition is, or even if you don't have one, I hope you do something fun. And remember, if it contains mayonnaise, don't let it sit out too long.

I'm chatting with award-winning artist Tim Guthrie, over at Stephen Elliot's website, The Rumpus.net, as part of the new Mini-Interview Project. Check it out!

Tim does such a range of work, from subersive political installations to traditional Old Master style paintings, I could do ten interviews with him and not scratch the surface. I've mentioned his work before here.