The Fiction of Writing Fiction

image by h.koppdelaney

For the longest time, I thought I couldn't really be a writer. I had a narrow definition of what a "real" writer was: someone who wrote fiction, preferably novels. (Novels occupied a very high spot on my Totem Pole of Genres. I have chronicled this before.) Since I seemed incapable of writing fiction, I thought I was incapable of being a writer.

I have since reconfigured my thoughts on writing. In the past, anything labeled nonfiction occupied a lowly slot on the totem pole. But I now embrace nonfiction as a viable and noble art form. I even started working toward my MFA in creative nonfiction. Because the program is segmented by genre, I am relegated to writing nonfiction only, which means novels and short stories are off-limits in an official capacity.

So guess what happened in the middle of my first semester? I had my first novel idea. Actually, it started out as an idea for an article. While discussing it with my husband, it morphed into a story, a book, a novel.

A novel.

Shit.

I wrote this to my faculty advisor:

Something terrible has happened. I have an idea for a novel. 
In all these years of writing, I haven't had a single serious fictional story idea. And now I have one that I'm in love with and think has wonderful potential. Is this normal? To enroll in a creative nonfiction course of study and for the first time in life be called to write fiction? This happens all the time, right? Tell me it’s some perverse side effect of the creative process or a sort of rebellion against my chosen genre. I don't know what it is. ... Oh dear, oh dear. Where did this random fiction urge come from?

My advisor responded graciously to my frenzied tone. "I take your novel impulse seriously," he wrote. "It makes sense to me that when
you are being creative in your life suddenly all sorts of new creative
 ideas spring to mind."

Yes, creativity sparks creativity.

Suddenly, fiction, which all my life had seemed like a foreign language I could read but not write, was nudging me, urging me to lend it my voice.Oh dear, indeed.

I attended my second MFA residency recently, ten days of lectures, workshops, and readings. I'd signed up for a "fish out of water" workshop in which poets and nonfiction writers would learn about the short story. Here's the kicker: In our very limited free time, we each took a stab at writing a short story. I estimate that I wrote mine in about three.

There is something liberating and terrifying -- but mostly liberating -- about this combination of speed, structure, and freedom. (I've written about this phenomenon before.) It's like we had quickie swim lessons and then got to jump into the pool and playfully practice our strokes. Yes, we were employing what we'd learned, but we were really just splashing around and playing. Nobody was going to drown, and no one was expected to be an Olympian, either.

I used to think that fiction writers made up everything, that there was no connection between their real lives and their stories. Then I started hanging around fiction writers and realized that their novels and short stories were peppered with people, places, and things they knew. This isn't to say that their fiction is autobiographical. Far from it in many cases. But I finally saw that I was allowed to bring myself to fiction in a way I'd thought was off-limits. Now I know that I can hear an interesting news item or overhear a conversation and use those as jumping off points for stories. My workshop story was sparked by a pair of old goggles that our instructor had dug out of her junk drawer.

In 2007 I wrote a few thousand words of fiction for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I was winging it, just writing blindly. I'd thought this meant I couldn't write fiction. But this is exactly what I did with my short story for my workshop. I wrote until I found the story. Honestly, this is what I do with nonfiction, too.

Writers are writers because we write. We write until we find the story. We write truths real and imagined, suspected and known. We write from and for ourselves, from and for the world. Writers write. It's so simple is magic.

I plan to spiff up the rough draft of that short story. I may go back to those few thousand words from NaNoWriMo. And I keep glancing lovingly at my new novel idea. It's sitting off to the side, patient and calm, just waiting for me to write it. The best part is that now I believe I can write it.

For Now

I'm back from ten days in Vermont, ten days brimming with writing, learning, discussing, dorm living, cafeteria food, cold and snow, water outages, travel, delayed luggage, inspiration, exhaustion. This was the residency part of my low-residency MFA program. Now, back home in my cozy living room with two sweet, grey cats to keep me company while my husband is at work, I sit. I sit and acknowledge that I am tired. There is two feet of snow outside and a two-foot pile of dirty clothes upstairs. I am not shoveling the driveway or doing laundry. I am not really writing or even thinking all that much. Words whisper, stories beckon. Mostly all I can do is sit. I cannot tell if I am full or empty. For now I will sit. I will drink tea, fill myself up with sweet music, feel the soft, warm fur of a grey cat between my fingers, pick up a book, let myself -- and the world -- be. For now.

A Short Hiatus

image from ohdarling

This is the in-between time: Christmas behind, a new year ahead. I saw my neighbor's tree at the curb today, lying naked in the street. Ours is still decked out and lit up, shining softly in the living room, whispering to me to sit and breathe. I'm still listening to Christmas songs, still eating leftovers, still relishing some time away from work. I'm taking a short hiatus from blogging for the next two weeks to immerse myself in my studies. I may pop in here unexpectedly, but the safer bet is that I'll be back about a dozen days into the new year. Until then, may you dare to leave up the twinkle lights as long as your heart desires.

Treasure This

image by :mrMark:

This poem spilled out of me the other day. I'm sharing it here in case you're having a hard time keeping it all together. Take it as a reminder that we never know someone else's whole story. Nobody ever has it as together as we think they do. If you need permission to fall apart, give it to yourself and know that you are not alone.

Treasure This

Sometimes I wish I were more like Mary,

Who is said to have gathered the hard
Impossible things in her heart,
Like secret treasures,

And pondered them there.

Instead, I spill out everywhere,

All messy honesty and emotion. 

I gather and ponder plenty, 

But not quietly or

Beatifically or with any sense of

Holy decorum.

We think Mary was holy and pure, 

But maybe she was frightened and confused, 

Although to be fair, I suppose

Those things can all exist in tandem

One against another in her tiny beating heart.

I want to be like Mary,

Not a saint or mother,
But someone capable of holding her tongue
While holding the secret of the world in her

Innermost being.

I want this because I think Mary must
Have been long-suffering and brave;
How else do you harbor a heavenly fugitive

Without raising the alarm or
Demanding your due?

But I know, in my loud and messy heart,

That even this is an illusion, a ruse

Meant to lull me into silent complacency.
Pondering things quietly in your heart

Does not make you a better person,

Though some would say it would make me a better woman.

This is not the woman I want to be. 

The story tells of Mary who was quiet and pure

Only because she was a woman in a time –
Isn't it always the time? –
When quiet and pure were good.

I am not Mary. 

Even Mary was not the Mary we know.

We never knew Mary at all.


December Views: Birthday Meal

In honor of December Views, I bring you images from the camera of my cell phone. These were taken at the end of my birthday meal last week at Udipi Cafe, a South Indian vegetarian restaurant where the food is so scrumptious that my meat-loving husband happily scarfs down bowlfuls and never complains. I neglected to photograph any of the actual food, but here's the aftermath and the sweet chai ending.