From New Hampshire to Bread Loaf to Denver

Those of you who have been reading this blog for a while might recall that one of my very favorite authors is a New Hampshire native, named Ernest Hebert. He’s the author of The Dogs of March and eight more novels, all set in New Hampshire and about working class New Englanders. I love his work.

He teaches at Dartmouth and he’s got a web site that hasn’t been updated in a long time, but he's got a number of essays on it that bring me to tears. One of my favorites is a piece called, “How John Gardner Kicked My Ass and Saved My Soul”. I’d always remembered Mr. Hebert’s description of the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference he attended over thirty years ago:

“The conference was held in a compound in the woods up slope from Middlebury College in Vermont. Medora and I didn't have much money, so to save on coin we didn't lodge at the conference center but in a tent in a nearby campground, primitive living for three weeks. I was in an agitated state of mind. I imagined myself a prisoner going up before a one-man parole board -- John Gardner.

I didn't like the scene at the conference center. It was too much like a summer camp for adults with tennis courts and cocktail hours and schedules and a hierarchy that consisted of published writers, darned-near published writers, wait persons; at the bottom were myself and the other wanna-be's who had paid money to get in. The weather was sunny, the people civil, the talk gossipy, full of good humor, subtle irony, even joy. I would have preferred dark skies, austere surroundings, and serious conversation.

I particularly hated seeing other conferees enjoying themselves. In particular, I hated Poet Mark Strand. He was six feet six, handsome, kind, warm; he played tennis in white shorts and beautiful women fawned over him. I would have hated him less if he'd been a mediocre writer, but his poems were beautiful and insightful.

The daily workshops, nightly readings and lectures put me on edge. I went out of my way not to listen. I was hanging around for one reason -- my impending conference with Gardner.

He was clearly the number one pooh-bah here, even bigger than Mark Strand.”

The name, Mark Strand stayed with me, but since I didn’t read or write poetry, I never bothered to find out who he was.

A couple of weeks ago I got my monthly newsletter from Lighthouse Writers Workshop and in May, there will be a Writer's Studio event with former US Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize-winner, Mark Strand. Aha. This was a message meant just for me. I did a search on Mark Strand to learn more about him and found this essay he wrote on the Poetry in the World. If anything appeals to me, it’s the idea of a “serious” poet with a sense of humor. In the essay, Strand recounts the difficulty of coming up with talk for a speaking engagement he’s been invited to.

“Days went by. I wrote nothing. I began to think that I should come up with yet another title, but I knew that I'd be giving in to a weakness I had for reduction, that were I to let myself go, I might end up with a title like "A Couple of Words in Space" or "A Syllable in the Woods." In other words, the less inclusive the title, the less I would feel obligated to say anything. But I also knew that without the obligation to speak, I might remain silent. A silent lecture! The ultimate reduction! But, alas, beyond my ability to perform. I decided to stick with ‘Poetry in the World’.”

The rest is here and is excellent.

From Hebert in New Hampshire to Bread Loaf with Gardner in Vermont to Strand in Denver – all things seem somehow connected.

Frozen, Not Blocked

The New York Times featured an article recently about tiny dwellings that can be ordered online. They’re designed for use as low cost vacation homes, temporary shelter during construction of large houses, or to replace housing destroyed in natural or man made disasters. Most of the structures are modular and come with everything to complete them, including cabinetry, trim, flooring, bathroom fixtures, kitchen appliances, plumbing and wiring. Everything is packed, shipped and delivered to a building site where it can be assembled.

There is a recurring vision that won’t leave me. I’ve carefully selected the image of a finished house, ordered the best quality materials available and opted not to have the builder put it together. I’m standing on a vacant lot, piled high with framing timbers, flooring, copper pipes, electrical wiring, light fixtures, sinks, bathtubs, drywall, boxes of nails, screws, shingles and things I can’t even identify. I know exactly what the finished house looks like, I have all the components I need to assemble it and I have no idea how to put it together.

Words spill onto my vacant lot, rotting crates of plot elements sink into the earth in no particular order, spools of various gauge themes unravel and tangle and characters roam the property. Some attempt to take control of the chaos and others sit silently, looking pale and confused. Thorny weeds thrust upward, cracking barren soil and weave between the useless crates and spools. I search but can’t find instructions anywhere.

The more I learn, the more paralyzed I become. Edgar Degas said “Painting is easy when you don’t know how, but very difficult when you do”. I believe this to be true of all art forms.

It was exhilarating when I had good ideas about what my novel would be about, who my main character was, where she would go and how I would get her there. I tore into writing with more enthusiasm than I’d ever had for anything. The word count climbed and I was more excited with every thousand word milestone. The “click recount to view” button on Word was a treat I withheld until I felt I’d written long enough to see the reward.

When I began to study more closely the writing that I love and the work of authors I admire, I became more selective about what I read. The exercise helped me to shut out the overabundance of information and focus on the kind of help I need. I became discouraged, maybe even despondent. As I read John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction, I want to burn every word I’ve ever written. I have a lot of books on craft. Most of them are pretty straightforward and deal with the basic elements of writing in simple, upbeat fashion. John Gardner cuts to my heart from the grave when he talks about good writing and bad, clumsy, amateurish writing. He has no problem issuing praise and harsh criticism in equal measure and uses examples taken from modern fiction to illustrate each point. I read what he says, absorb it and wonder if I will ever be capable of writing a book that, if I were to read it for the first time, I could admire.

There is a footlocker among the weeds and rusting kitchen appliances on the vacant lot. I have the key and find it’s filled with great books. I understand that I can’t pound the first nail until I’ve read all of the instructions. I’m not blocked, I’m frozen.

What does it mean when a writer recognizes she’s reached the limitations of her education? I can go back to my manuscript and continue to hammer away, but my instincts tell me I need to read as much great fiction as I can and study what the great fiction writers have left behind before moving on. “Keep writing” is the mantra I hear from outside, but stop and study is the message I’m hearing from within. Can this be the right process to follow, or am I sending myself on a side trip that will only take me farther from my path?