Show You Care, Ban My Book

            Some people fantasize about making an Oscar speech and being applauded by millions.  I fantasize about being reviled.

            Or at least having my work banned.

            It’s possible.  Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is being pulled from school libraries in a North Carolina county because, in part, as one board member said, “I didn’t find any literary value.”  My books have way less literary value than Ellison’s.  Another board member claimed, “It was a hard read.”  My books are poetry.  Everyone knows poetry is a “hard read.”  Why my work hasn’t already been banned, I don’t know, but it’s time.

            I want to see my titles grouped with Beloved, Persepolis, Fifty Shades of Grey, and Captain Underpants.  I want my name to be included with Maya Angelou, Harper Lee, J.K. Rowling, and Kurt Vonnegut.  I want to be a presence during Banned Books week. 

            It’s not because it might mean a financial windfall.  Mark Twain famously said when the Concord Public Library banned The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, “That will sell 25,000 copies for us, sure,” and there are some writers and artists who consider controversy as profitable.  But, I don’t have any particular desire to make a buck this way.

            Nor is it because I take pleasure in annoying people (at least not ones that I don‘t personally know).  I don’t deliberately want to shock for shock's sake.  I don’t think that’s cool or valuable.

            It’s because the ability of a book to evoke discomfort, fear, suspicion, anger -- the primary forces behind censorship -- means that it is powerful.

            Censoring, “challenging,” banning, and even burning books are affirmations of their power.  These actions mean books matter.  The opposite of love isn’t hate, but apathy.  It would be much worse if people didn’t care about books, if, instead of outrage, there was simply a collective shrug.  The absolute worst response?  “It’s just a book.” 

            It will be a terrible sign if we reach a time when books are no longer banned.  It won’t mean that we’ve reached an age of tolerance, openness, and inquisitiveness, but one of indifference.

The board members who believe Invisible Man has the ability to affect people are right.  It does.  If someday my work is censored in some way, it will mean someone thinks it’s powerful and that my writing might move people, change them, stir them to act or think.  What a wonderful compliment.

Advice to Someone Who Has “Been Writing”

            This summer someone I’ve known for a long time said she wanted to talk to me.  This made me nervous, but it turned out she had “been writing” and wanted to know if I had any advice.

            I did, but almost none of it was mine.

I told her that I was continually reassured by two things Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird.  She says that she keeps a small frame on her desk and reminds herself to just write what’s in the frame.  In other words, a big project can be overwhelming, but if you concentrate on describing a small scene, what’s in the frame, that can be done.  Alex Haley, who wrote Roots, said that he never thought he could do a novel, but he knew that he could do a page a day.  And, E.L. Doctorow points out that “writing is like driving at night in the fog.  You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

            Doctorow also said, “Planning to write is not writing.  Outlining, researching, talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing.  Writing is writing.”  There’s no getting around it.  Writers write.  But one key to doing that writing, I believe, is the second point Lamont makes.  She says the key is shitty first drafts.  Don’t worry whether it’s good or not.  Just get something down and then you can revise (and revise and revise and sometimes revise a work all the way into the wastebasket, and that’s useful too).  The artist Lynda Barry says the two crippling questions for an artist are:  Is it any good? and Will people like me? You have to ignore these.

            One thing about advice is that it’s easy to find two writers who contradict.  One might say you have to write in the morning, and another will insist on night-time.  Some will say draft by pen and others will insist that a computer is the key.  Each of us finds our own way, but when we seek advice, we can't simply be looking for something that confirms our practices and beliefs.

            Samuel Johnson said, “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money,” and he’s frequently quoted by those who insist on getting a contract or an agent before writing a word.  This may be good advice, but it depends on why you’re writing.  For those of us who write poetry, it’s irrelevant.  A woman once asked me how she too could become a “professional” poet, and I explained that I didn’t know any.  No poet I know makes enough to pay their coffee bills let alone a mortgage.  But that’s not why we write.  Nor, initially, do I have a sense of audience.

            Consequently my advice is different than Johnson’s.  I’m of the “write-for-yourself-first” camp.  Don't worry about whether it will sell, or what might be popular, or what people might want, or if it's the same or different than other works.  Write it, and it will be what it is. But, the caveat, of course, is don’t be upset or surprised if other people don’t respond to it; after all you wrote it for yourself.

So, at a certain point, a writer wants and needs to see what readers think and to get feedback.  Although you shouldn’t pass around work for critique too soon, once you have a solid draft, and you legitimately want responses, then it’s valuable.  However, I’ve found that writing groups are useful primarily - not because of the feedback - but because of the sense of community and accountability.  They reassure you that what you’re doing is important and legitimate, and they provide you with deadlines and a sense of audience.  Unless I have a deadline, even if it’s self-imposed, I tend not to produce anything, or, at least, not complete it.

            When you do get feedback, take what you consider helpful, and revise. Then revise again.

            How much of this advice is useful?  I don’t know.  Probably very little.  I can give specific tips on craft, techniques, and mechanics.  If you ask for help on openings, titles, metaphors, etc., I have plenty to say.  But with this kind of general discussion, I struggle.  I once wrote a poem about these interactions that appeared in my collection Love and Other Collisions.  It’s still contains the only actual advice that I have.

On Finding Something To Say After a Reading

                              

She stops me at the door to ask if I have any advice

for a young poet, and, for once, before I say something

flip or trite, I ask, “For you?”  She nods, and I realize

she probably has been waiting all night to approach.

I try to think what might be useful, something beyond

the usual -- “read,” “write,” “listen.”  If she isn’t doing

these, telling her won’t help.  What about a koan? 

Write what the river says to the trees.  Write what

hasn’t been written and must be.  But I’m no monk.

I could shrug, insist, “No, I don’t,” but she’s waited

too long now.  Then I remember how before a game

my coach would say, “Run your ass off.  Ignore

the scoreboard and bleachers.  And damnit, have fun.”

It reassured us then.  Maybe it’s enough for her now.

Some Thoughts on Testing

The house needs to have old galvanized pipes replaced, so I have four different plumbers come and give estimates.  Each looks over the job and points out different issues, and, eventually, they all offer slightly different quotes.  None of these are so high or so low as to knock a company out of consideration.  So, unlike the stereotypical exam problem with its A,B,C, or D, there is no right answer.  Probably, any of the plumbers could do the job satisfactorily.

            This, to me, highlights one problem with school testing, particularly the end of the year exams that most school systems institute in the third grade.  They suggest questions have one right answer.  Most of us know this usually isn’t true, we say it isn’t true, but, again and again, we insist students act as if it is.

I wonder if this is why, as a college teacher, I increasingly see in some students an unwillingness, or at least a hesitation, to tackle open-ended questions.  Is the clichéd “What do you want?” more pronounced because they have been taught by the mechanics of the system that there is a “right” choice? Furthermore, there seems to be a reluctance to pursue a subject once they think they have the answer.  They "research" until they have enough quotations or points they think they need for support rather until they understand the topic.  It’s a rational response.  If you know it’s B, why spend time and energy to find out more about the issue?  Move on to the next hoop, the next obligation.

            Before deciding on a plumber, my wife and I discussed the quotes. We also talked to our neighbors and other people.  We got on-line and googled.  We sought advice and information.  This is how most people work, and this is another problem with testing.  Supposedly Einstein was once teased for not knowing his phone number.  Why, he asked, should I memorize something I can look up? What you know is not nearly as important as how you find something out.  If there must be a test, it should be one where the student don’t know the answers and must find them out.  We would learn much more about their capabilities.

            My wife and I talked to people because we learn from one another.  Education is a collaborative effort.  Every professional I know from the mechanic to the surgeon talks things out with colleagues.  We ask questions, we get advice, we tell anecdotes and stories.  If my doctor wants to consult with someone on my condition, that’s not cheating.  Testing, however, isolates people and says, “you’re on your own," but that's not how we actually work.  

            Finally, what did my wife and I do as we talked about the quotes?  We walked around the house and the yard.  We walked through the neighborhood.  Moving and thinking are connected.  Put me in a room and tell me I can’t leave my seat, and my primary desire becomes getting away, a desire that distorts my responses.

            Mark Twain once said, “I have never let schooling interfere with my education.”  Testing, not only has little to do with education, it often is antithetical to it.

The Title of This Blog

A confession.  I never was comfortable with the original title of this blog – “Icing and Ink.”  It was close to what I wanted, but it wasn't quite right.  I chose it because I knew that I was going to post about writing and books -- "Ink.”  I also thought I would write about baked goods – “Icing.”  And, to me, these two are related.  I remember eating an almond pastry in Marseilles, and it was a revelation.  There was a thin thread of chocolate in the middle.  Not a chunk.  Not chips.  Just a thread.  And I realized, "That's art."  When I got back to the States and saw a "chocolate croissant" with huge blobs of chocolate pushing out each end advertising its presence, I thought, "That's not art.  That's sales."

            Baked goods have often seemed to me to be both a literal and metaphorical artistic practice.  I’m not the only one who feels this way.  The writer Dawn Powell once suggested the plots of her novels were simply the flour keeping the whole together, a delivery system for the raisins and sugar.  And there are similar therapeutic qualities to writing, art-making, and baking.  A recent BBC article suggested baking combats depression:  “Can Baking Make You Happier?”

However, the blog title seemed too cute and not particularly informative.  As it became clear this blog might be a long-term project, I needed one that I liked better.  (It’s always bothered me that Charles Schulz disliked the title “Peanuts.”  He found it “"totally ridiculous” and felt it had “no meaning.”  He had originally called the strip “Little Folks,” but his syndicate changed it.)

 So, for those who haven't noticed already, I've retitled this blog.  It will continue to do what it does; consider issues involved in writing, teaching, reading, etc.  There probably will even be entries on donuts and cookies.  The content won’t change because I’m interested in the process of making things, but the title recognizes that attention takes practice.  It’s an activity that requires focus and active commitment.  Writing this blog is one way that I encourage/force/get myself to do it.

(Undead) Bodies of Work

           In They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, couples participating in a dance marathon must also run a “rally” each night which is a ten minute sprint.  The ones who come in last are eliminated.  The director of the film version, Sydney Pollack, makes the marathon a metaphor for life.  You try to endure as it goes on and on and on.

Sometimes this seems an apt metaphor for writing as well.  Long periods of tedious grueling activity that often seems aimless, interspersed with frantic sprints that get the crowd cheering, but leave you exhausted.

            At one point in the film, Gloria (Jane Fonda) is partnered with Sailor (Red Buttons).  During a rally sprint, he has a heart attack.  To ensure they won’t be last and eliminated, she puts him on her back and drags him.   Afterwards she realizes he’s dead, and she has been hauling a body around.

            This is how I came to regard a novel I was working on.  I created the first file for it in 2003.  At one point it was alive, but as we trudged through the years in a marathon of our own, eventually I came to suspect it had died, and that I was dragging it.  Hampered by this body, I was unable to pair up with any other project.  So, last year I finally decide to drop it and walk away. 

The decision was liberating.  I could move.  I could think.  I was no longer oppressed by this great weight.  I didn’t feel the need to explain my lack of progress  or talk about “the novel”  I started planning other projects:  another collection of poetry, a book of short fiction.

            Then, earlier this summer, I heard a familiar voice.  I ignored it, but it grew stronger.  My buried protagonist.  Then I had some thoughts about the manuscript.  I ignored them.  But they kept coming.

            Writers, perhaps inevitably, often see the world in terms of metaphors and narratives.  I had been thinking I was in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, but maybe I was in a different story.  Maybe . . . it was alive.  Or trying to be alive.

            Some manuscripts are zombies.  You can abandon them, bury them in drawers, and then, suddenly, they come lurching forward, demanding your attending, demanding you face them.  They won’t leave you alone.  They keep coming even as you recognize that they’re grotesque, deformed, rotting.

            And, sometimes, because of a trick of the light or a delusion, you even think, “I can fix them.  I know what’s wrong.  I have an antidote.  Just more time in the lab.”  Yet this is never how the story goes.  I spent part of the summer hoping that maybe parts of the manuscript were still viable.  That I could remove them, and they would function on their own or I could somehow transplant them.  I was wrong.

As summer ends, I realize that I should have ran away, buried the manuscript again, somehow finished it off once and for all, and turned my attention to something else.  It took time and energy and mental space and resulted in . .  . nothing.

Whatever story I’m in.  It doesn’t seem to have a happy ending, or, worse, any kind of ending or resolution at all.  It may need a better hero; certainly it needs a better writer.