I finished reading the fourth draft of a novel this weekend. It was amazing to see, even at this stage, where the writer held fast to her vision and where she was willing to make some radical changes. As well as many small changes. And how those small changes changed everything. I’ve always nursed a pet theory that writers exaggerate about how much they revise, how much they throw out, and how much editing they actually take. Put another way, there’s revising your work and playing with your food. Reader, this writer revised.
I was weeping at the end of this book. The power of it caught me off guard. Every moment in the novel found its fulfillment in the last seven pages. It was like watching a master chess player dominate the board in a series of swift, confident moves. What is the sound of a marble King falling upon a marble board. I reread those pages again, slower the second time, looking for the sleight of hand, the bouquet up her sleeve, the doves released. How the hell did she do it?
I will always be a sucker for this: for words to take me away from me as they console me, to make me forget myself and remind me who I am, to be trustworthy and manipulative, to seduce and destroy, to implicate and complicate, to come alive. When a writer does all this, and when I have had the privilege of clocking it, I am reminded of why, even after years of sweeping shit, I’ll never leave show business.
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I’ve known authors over the years who balk at boiling down their book to a few sentences. “I”m not good at it,” they cry. I’m sympathetic; it’s extremely difficult to do, and may be impossible when you are in the middle of it. It takes time to figure out what a book is really about, as they are often about so many things. But it’s critical if you want to hook someone. Just imagine yourself at a party. You discover someone writes. You ask, what is your book about? They reply with a five minute plot description. I would guess that by the end of thirty seconds you find yourself wishing you were never born. Now imagine the writer responding, “It’s about a woman who kills her therapist.”
Can you teach writing? Asked another way, is talent god-given or genetic? How much does hard work matter? Where does drive come from? Are some people hopeless? What is a gift? How important is publishing in the writing equation? Asked another way, is writing fulfilling enough on its own or is it only consummated when you see the words in print? And what is it, exactly, to see those words in print? What is the charge?
You park the car at Walgreen’s, can’t remember what you came for, trying to remember feels like trying to do quantum physics. Four boys, young men, cross the parking lot. They are thin and own the asphalt with their enormous untied sneakers as big as boats! They will grow into them like puppies into their paws. They will be great lovers or crappy lovers; they will never remember the feeling of being this loose. I get out of the car. Moth balls for my husband, hair conditioner for my daughter. Swick and swanky, long and lustrous, mango peach. Didn’t I need something?
Today, I met with a writer who said she read my book, Food & Loathing. She said she couldn’t “go there,” and that it must have been very painful to write. Defensively, perhaps perversely, I said that I had fun writing it. I loved figuring out the structure, moving the story along, recreating scenes. Okay, maybe a few fat tear drops fell on the keyboard from time to time; that too was satisfying.
