Enjoy Tenth of December from the New Yorker, a short short story, with a memorable final line.   This is from a collection of the same name coming out in January.  I’ll be adding it to Pastoralia, his earlier collection I was supposed to get for Christmas (but couldn’t wait.)  For a review of  Pastoralia in the Guradian, go here.

When I taught creative writing to high school students I brought songs to play, both to set the overall theme, and to write to.  I was hoping to challenge comfortable starting points.  I was intrigued to see the violent responses many of the boys had to music that, while current, was not to their individual tastes.  I suspected this was an anomaly, that these were identity-sensitive teenagers needing to assert themselves.  Later I was surprised to find a similar revulsion response to music from many adults in writing groups.

It seems that music has a powerful ability to stimulate and stifle creativity.  I wonder if this is because music is reaching deep into emotion centres, “pushing buttons.”  And just because I’m contrary, this makes me think music can be a great resource.  Imagine writing a villain to music that makes you want to scream.  Or penning a death scene to some tragic classical score.  Or reverse the expected soundtrack, and see what happens.

I’ve often found it most helpful to write to music that isn’t my own taste.  Recently I wrote a story to xylophone music that automatically downloaded onto my Ipod from Itunes.  I never would have listened to this music recreationally.  No offense to the xylophone musicians of the world, but this music usually depresses me, or even makes me want to cut off my ears.  However, one day I found myself having a couple of disconnected words I wanted to write from, but couldn’t seem to make a start.  Suddenly xylophone bobbed up on my playlist.  Sure enough, it was just right.  One quirky and urbane tune initiated the whole process, mysteriously weaving threads I can’t begin to understand.  What emerged from the odd mood was a living character in a world I could not have generated intentionally.

When writing, anything that takes us out of our comfortable, familiar worlds is an automatic  win.  The sense of discomfort, if you can get past it, seems to force a disjunction.  Something interesting often comes out of it.  So here is a stimulus idea.  Go to Youtube.  Search a random word combination, and “song,” or “band,” or “music.”  And then write to whatever strange new thing you find.  It might be some dude in his underpants, sitting on the edge of the bathtub while playing the ukelele.  But hopefully not.  Unless he’s the broken hero of your next novel.

Raymond Carver (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Lately I’ve been browsing on Issyvoo.    A beautifully clean looking site, it distills out succinct insights by writers on their own writing, and that of others.   Many of the quotes link to articles, interviews, etc, from journals like Paris Review, or The New Yorker.  I’m finding it a great place to discover more about how writers work, and to bridge from authors I like to authors they like, which is often a happy journey.  I found a great interview with Raymond Carver there, and started reading some of his short stories online.  I’m sure I did some of his stories in high school, but can’t remember any of them off the top of my head.  Today I read Kindling, a posthumously published story he wrote years earlier, not long after he gave up drinking.  You can find it here, at Story of the Week.  For an excellent interview with Carver, have a look here.  In it he talks a lot about his methods of writing, and interestingly claims his first drafting to be rubbish, a scaffolding he would build up over months.

I find it inspiring to read the words of other writers, on their lives, on their processes.  These are people who take their work seriously, who are aware of their limitations.  They struggle with it, they make headway.   Over time they build up bodies of work, representations of their growth, of the evolution of their thoughts and beliefs.  Fascinating.

The other thing I love about Issyvoo is the black and white photographs.  Great.

If you use Facebook please visit my page, Burinsmith!  You can do so by clicking in the right column…and click Like if you do!  Then you’ll get updates as they occur.  I’ll be putting things on there to round out content here on the site, things like starting points, comps, commentary.  Today I put a post on there about Verandah Literary Journal’s outrageous submission fee.  I’d love to hear how you feel about that.

This is one of the wonderful things about writing from stimuli.  It forces us to sink deep into the unconscious and dig out memories, some of them things we didn’t realise we remembered.  And the vast repository of images, sounds, sensations, words, weather, pets, frights, joys etc. opens up.  We get temporary access to the treasure troves we’ve been stashing into since birth.  And whatever you write, memoir, fiction, poetry, etc., it all has to come from the same source.

I dislike the concept of imagination.  Many people have been made to think, “I have no imagination.”  Like imagination is a separate part of the mind, or a talent that some have and others don’t.  Imagination is simply the ability to access what we already know, what we have already experienced.  And to do that, all we need is a stimulus, and a will to try it.  

So if you feel you’re not creative, that you have no imagination, here is the challenge.  You can create, if you really want to.  Have a go, just starting with “I remember…”  Jot it on a page, and continue.  Write as fast as you can, with no editing, no judging, no criticising.  Whatever comes to mind.  No one need ever see what you wrote if you don’t want to share it.  It’s just you and your memories.  And the best part is, you never know what direction it will take you in, and what you might learn about yourself!  As time goes on I’m becoming more and more convinced that this is what writing is all about.

The ABR Elizabeth Jolley Short Story Prize is here.
The Alan Marshall Short Story Award can be found here.
Aesthetica is a British magazine, its short story and poetry competition is here.

These prizes have varied requirements in terms of word count, and range from 300 pounds to 3000 dollars prize money.  Entering competitions gets quite expensive, and it is a bit of a crap shoot, so don’t bother sending anything unless it’s your absolute best work.  That’s my motto, at least.  Good luck!

Image via Wikipedia

For a long time I’ve meant to write something about John Updike.  It’s not like I’m an expert or anything.  I haven’t even read that many of his books (just Marry Me, Rabbit Run, short stories, and the collected Maples Stories.)  That’s not a lot at all considering his output.   And his work isn’t even my favourite.  I have to say, some of it I didn’t even like (not that liking or not means anything, per se.)  What I’m trying to say is, his writing has had a profound effect on me.

Last year I read the Maples Stories and was astonished.  I wish I owned a copy so I could include some of my favourite quotes.  But anyway, that would be misleading.  It’s not the wittiness of it.  It’s something much deeper.  It took me ages to figure out what.

John Updike was to his death a Christian believer.  It’s quite ironic really.  Adulterous episodes are studded throughout his work like raisins in a Christmas pudding!  Despite this, there is something abidingly spiritual about his work, and it is the thing I admire most.  I would describe it as the kindness he shows toward his characters.  I admit, don’t know quite how he accomplishes it.  I feel it when I’m reading, this love he has toward them.  And I mean, all of them.  It’s all so even-handed.  And of course it is most noticeable with the main characters, laid bare in all their keenly observed weaknesses and selfishnesses.  I would go as far as to say the tone of it is a God-like magnanimity.

Did you ever read (or write) something in which certain of the characters were “set up” to be the bad guys?  Deliberately exaggerated, exposed, put in a corner?  I’ve noticed it feels kind of ugly to write/read these now.  It seems unjust.  Dishonest, even.  It’s like the writer is that kind of God-on-High many have as their default-setting God, the old long-bearded guy, who loves flinging thunderbolts of judgement in our directions.

Right now you’re thinking “Is this lady a kook or what? We are talking fiction here!”  Yes, it is fiction, true.  But what I’m saying is, I think John Updike demonstrated there is a higher way of telling a story.  If we’re completely fair, benevolent, generous, and open to all our characters, we offer the gift of seeing the world and its citizens in that same way to our readers.  Even if just during the experience of reading.  And, besides that, it feels so good to read.  It’s like a little gift of grace.  And the nice thing is, you don’t even have to be a Christian to get the effect.  So anyway, that’s what I got from John Updike.  And I want to finish by saying, Thanks John, for all you did.

At the time I didn’t have children, but I’d always felt suspicious while watching past safety demonstrations of the advice, “put your own oxygen mask on first.”  I had a feeling that, in a crisis, that would not be the intuitive choice a parent would make.  Now I do have children, and, after years of surviving a variety of small to medium sized crises I think I have finally got the message.  Put your own mask on first.

So the school year has started and since we’re doing home-education again this year, what am I doing to keep oxygenated?  A few new things.  The kids are doing some classes outside of home, that takes the pressure off a bit.  Also, I’ve got us organised with diaries and journals.  The journals are for thoughts/goals/plans/ideas, and the diaries are for making those happen.  One of my goals is to finish the children’s book I’m writing and illustrating.  I always feel better when I have a plan.

I would say the most important thing I’m doing this year is putting an emphasis on getting my health sorted out.  I’m on a quest to regain sensible eating and exercise habits, and to enjoy doing it.  So far it’s going great.  I’m following the Paul McKenna program, “I Can Make You Thin,” which sounds daggy as hell, but is not.

Does all this sound like writing is only playing a small part in my life these days? At the moment, I would say yes.  And blogging, as you may have noticed, has dropped even lower in priority than that.  But sometimes that’s just the way it is, right?  You get your oxygen mask on, and once you’re breathing again…

At the end of last year the two writing groups I attend had wind-up parties, and we all took turns talking about what we got out of our writing in the past year.  Until I had to say out loud what I’d been up to it didn’t sound like much.  But on reflection I guess I’m pretty happy with how it’s gone.  While I didn’t get through a lot of volume, I’m happy to have a project or two near completion, and even more important, a puzzle piece or two for new projects I’m excited about.  It’s gonna be a great year!

Last week Write! launched off again for the new year.  We started with enthusiasm and some inspiring writing on characters, stories and approaches from last year.  In the year ahead we’re looking forward to having a retreat or two, and schmoozing our stories into something finished so we can make an anthology.   If you’d like to join us, come along to Tom Collins House in Swanbourne, headquarters of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, WA, on Thursday evening at 7ish.  New members are always welcome.  For more information, eg. how to get there, go to FAWWA, here.

Those readers who submit will know what I’m talking about.   It takes a lot of guts to keep throwing your work into the publishing abyss.  And if you’re being very good and not multi-submitting your work the turn-around time can easily extend into years.  At this moment I have a number of stories I could send out.  Some of them have been awarded in competitions.  Some have already received polite rejections, or no replies.  All of them took months to get an answer (or not).  It’s a painful process, no doubt about it, and possibly worse than ever these days.  More people are writing, doing NaNoWriMo, and, if agents complaints can be believed,  swamping magazines, agents and publishers  with barely edited drafts.  Shocking!

When I go into bookstores I feel slightly sick sometimes.  I’m thinking Ecclesiastes 12:12 here.  Definitely way too many books.  Way too many people thinking “publish or die.”  Much of it won’t be reprinted.  The turn around in book stores now is in the months, not years, for new releases.  And for every book on the shelf, how many that never made it?  Apparently over 100,000 manuscripts circling the globe at any given time.  Most of those manuscripts will run out of fuel and crash land somewhere (hopefully not over a populated area.)  And some of them will actually be good ones.

We were warned.  Everyone said it would be hard to get in print.  After several years of writing I was dismayed to discover the damning statistics, how few writers get published, and even if they do, how little they get paid.  After a term of denial I have (sort of) accepted that.  I’m not exactly sure where I am in the Five Stages of Grief, possibly a little angry when I hear agents dismissive comments, or how editors usually get paid many times more than their authors. It doesn’t make sense, that is, until you look back through the history of writing.

Across many cultures it used to be the mark of an educated individual to be able to express oneself in writing, whether letters, journals, or poetry.  Doesn’t it just give you a warm feeling to take your place in the pantheon?  And believe me, I do think it’s wonderful for more and more people to write, to join groups, to do courses, even to do NaNoWriMo.  But I’m also thinking of the Chinese Art I studied in university, and the ideal of the scholar, the lone seeker sitting in a hut beside a river, contemplating nature, perhaps penning (er, brush-stroking) a poem.  It makes me wonder, could we find some purpose to writing other than being published?

Being in print seems to have become an issue of personal validation.  It’s a kind of fame that is available to people in all shapes, sizes and colours, seemingly.  All you need is pen and paper, right?  Unfortunately, if being published confers value, being rejected must confer the opposite: unworthiness.  I wonder just how damaging it might be to some to spend years hurling the dredgings of the psyche at a brick wall?  I’m so grateful to Natalie Goldberg for teaching me that there is another way of looking at writing:  it always has value if it is written truthfully and from the heart.  And perhaps the self-knowledge benefit we gain from it is actually its highest value.

I’d like to bring this all together with a couple of ideas I’m grandly calling The Burinsmith Manifesto.  This is the guide I work to.  If we all did this whole problem of not getting a reply and even not being published would become irrelevant.

BE REALISTIC ABOUT YOUR WORK.  Explore what the writing means to you.  Have you created something you really want to share with the world?  Have you spent time developing your skills, style and ideas?  Stripped of the romantic notion of writer as celebrity, and aware of the financial limitations of what is available, is this still something you want to pursue?  If not, maybe explore other ways of sharing your ideas:  journalling, writing letters, blogging.  Write poems for those you care about.  Tolkien wrote The Hobbit as a story for his children.  Join a writing centre.  Get together with other writers and make an anthology.  Self-publish.  You may even find that when freed from the pressure of getting published your writing starts to take on greater personal significance.  It might even become worth publishing.

ONLY SUBMIT YOUR BEST WORK.  So you have decided in spite of all you want to have a go at being published.  Now is the time to apply another layer of honesty to your work.  Sort the sheep from the goats, not everything you write will be great.  Clearly, the publishing industry is no crap-shoot so be hard on yourself.  Sub-standard, derivative, unoriginal, unedited or poorly presented work does not have a chance.  Ask, does the manuscript hold up to or even surpass the quality of published work you have read?  If you think it does, go ahead and submit.   Then even if the piece is rejected, even if it’s not responded to, at least you will know it wasn’t because you hadn’t done your part.

I hope that doesn’t sound harsh.  I certainly don’t mean to be.  Recently I met an idealistic new writer with his first manuscript in hand, just about to post it off to New York “to be made into a book and, hopefully later, a movie.”  I smiled, remembering a time when I shared that optimism.  Now, nine years in, I think I’m ready to relax a little.  I’m not exactly sure how it’s going to look in terms of my output, or even subject matter.  Deep, slow breaths.  It’s part of a healthy life to reorient one’s compass from time to time.

Image via Wikipedia

I’m still working on the proto-novel.  In fact working rather harder than usual because a couple of weekends ago I attended the first session of a three part workshop series with novelist Sue Woolfe.  (What a fantastic deal, even moneywise…three two hour group sessions with Sue for only $50!  Thanks to FAWWA for pursuing funding so we can have access to this great opportunity out west where there isn’t much for aspiring writers!)

Last year I read Sue’s book, The Mystery of the Cleaning Lady, about the neuroscience of creativity.  She researched it while trying to break through writer’s block on her novel, The Secret Cure.  Her base writing method is basically the same as mine (ie free-writing), but there are a few differences to her approach when it comes to subsequent drafting.  I won’t spoil it by telling you everything she said, but there is one idea you and I might like to consider.  If you’re into free-writing this might come as a bit of a shock, so hold onto your chair:  Everything you write goes into your draft.  Yup.  Everything.  Even that piece about the crack in your big toe nail.

The idea is that everything is interconnected.  It makes sense; you, the writer, are the source of connection, the common denominator. So everything that comes out of you has been filtered and integrated into a system of understanding the world.  Interesting.  My huge stack of notebooks is now looking more like a treasure trove than a dumping ground.  Looking forward to tomorrow’s session to find out more.