On Endurability
In 1985, the great editor Ted Solotaroff wrote an essay in which he mused about why most of the talented young writers he had known had disappeared, vanished from the literary landscape. The essay, called “Writing in the Cold: The First Ten Years”, found its way into the hands of nearly every young writer I knew at the time. A bracing news bulletin, a source of intense discussion, a cautionary tale, Solotaroff wrote that the main quality separating those writers who persevere and those who fade away isn’t necessarily talent, but rather, something he called endurability.
Last week, I published an essay for the Los Angeles Times in which I revisit Solotaroff’s 1985 essay, and take a look at where we stand today. What does it mean to endure as a writer in 2010? Read it here.
Of course, there are many different ways in which writers are called upon to endure. One needs this quality of endurability in the face of creative blocks; or emotional distress; or in the face of a steady stream of rejection, or criticism, or just plain lack of interest. The only answer I have ever found in the face of all this is a steady, unwavering relationship to the work. As Annie Dillard writes: “A work in progress quickly becomes feral. It reverts to a wild state overnight. It is barely domesticated, a mustang on which you one day fasted a halter, but which now you cannot catch. It is a lion you cage in your study. As the work grows, it gets harder to control; it is a lion growing in strength. You must visit every day and reassert your mastery over it. If you skip a day, you are, quite rightly, afraid to open the door to its room. You enter its room with bravura, holding a chair at the thing and shouting, ‘Simba!'”
It takes a lot to be a lion tamer: bravery, courage, quick instincts, a blind–perhaps idiotic–take -no-prisoners belief in one’s own power. But more than anything, this: the ability to endure.
Exhale
|
106.
Lately I’ve been having trouble sitting still. Oh, it’s always a challenge, but these days my body feels twitchy, impatient, my mind racing with its endless to do lists. So be it. I still need to sit down–the hardest part is sitting down–and never once have I ever regretted the five, ten, twenty minutes of stillness, even when I rise from my mat afterward, my mind still banging around like trapped bird. Certainly it helps to practice yoga before even attempting to sit down–though I don’t always have the luxury of carving an hour and a half out of my day. But here’s a question: is it a luxury? Just exactly how much better off am I–and everyone around me–when I have made sure to prioritize my practice? Just the other day, I was in the middle of a reverse triangle pose and realized that I was taking mental notes. I had forgotten all about breathing. Gotta cancel the dentist. Need to call that magazine editor. It got so bad that I actually stopped for a moment, walked from my yoga mat in my bedroom into my office and wrote a few things down. That way, at least, I could release my mind from the futile, slippery slope of holding onto thoughts. Breathe in, I am breathing in. Breathe out, I am breathing out. So simple, really. And so elusive.
On Multi-tasking
So my loyal readers of Moments of Being may have noticed that I have begun a new blog in which I continue Devotion. I thought about combining the two blogs, but decided instead to maintain each one separately. Writing, of course, is a practice, its own act of devotion. But because Moments of Being is very much about the craft of writing and the psychological and emotional life of being a writer, and because I so love writing it, I didn’t want to mix the two. It strikes me, particularly today, that we writers need constant reminders that we live by our own peculiar rhythms and that we are, in many ways, outsiders, our noses pressed to the glass. For the past couple of days I’ve been at a literary event in Florida, and have met a bunch of writers I hadn’t known before–fascinating, warm, wonderful people, I recognize them all as having that quality peculiar to writers, which is to say, we spend most of our time alone in room, except when we’re suddenly in front of audiences, trying to articulate what it is that we do. We’re introverts and performers. Outsiders and teachers. Requiring solitude but longing for company.
I keep copies of old Paris Review Interviews near my desk for the same reason that I so enjoyed the company of these new writer friends over this long weekend in Florida. We’re all in our tiny solitary rafts doing our work, living our lives–but it’s good to remember that we’re all in the same boat.
105.
While in Florida on this first stop of my book tour for Devotion, I’m staying with a friend I’ve known since eighth grade. She and I had lost touch over the years, and we’ve had a lot to catch up on. Husbands, children, dogs, careers, winding paths through young adulthood and now, midlife. As I write this, I’m sitting on her daughter’s bed in a room surrounded by cookbooks and yoga books–her two passions. My friend has become a gifted yoga teacher, and yesterday, before my book panel event, she led me through a beautiful yoga practice. What a full circle! Judy and I played field hockey on the same team in high school. (She was the team captain, I warmed the bench.) We went to the same Bar and Bat-Mitzvahs, pool parties, proms and graduations. And here we were–two mothers in our forties–doing yoga together by her pool, overlooking a Florida nature preserve. Near the end of our practice, she gave me a new meditation tool, one I hadn’t heard before: think to yourself, breathe in, I am breathing in. Breathe out, I am breathing out, said my high school friend. So simple, so powerful. I closed my eyes, heard the sound of rushing water, and felt the past and present touch hands.
104.
Yesterday was a first. Michael, Jacob and I drove together to the airport, and then they got on one plane going in one direction, and I got on a different plane, going in another. We said our goodbyes at the gate–my men and I–and then I engaged in a process which has become increasingly second nature to me over the last few years. First, I settled in my seat, feeling edgy, a bit anxious, fearful, my mind full of “what-ifs”, but instead of succumbing to those feelings, I closed my eyes.
May you be safe, may you be happy, may you be strong, may you live with ease — I repeated silently, again and again as my plane took off. Safe, happy, strong, live with ease — over and over again, thinking about my husband and son. I knew I wasn’t praying–not exactly–but rather, expressing a wish, a fervent wish, that we all have safe travels. What else is there to do, really, but express these wishes? Earlier in the week, I had spoken with a wise friend who does a lot of traveling, who is constantly on planes heading away from her family. I asked her how she does it, and her response was this: I think about today, she told me. Only today, only this moment. I don’t get caught up in what I have to do tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. After all, we only have this. Right here, right now.
103.
Devotion is a book written in 102 pieces, structured–depending on how you look at it–like a puzzle, a patchwork, a list. Truthfully, I have been feeling bereft ever since I finished it. Oh sure, I always feel a little at odds when I finish a book. I miss the characters in my novels. I have too much space in my head. But this…this is different. The years I spent writing Devotion were enormously absorbing, exciting, unnerving. The book is a spiritual journey–and like any spiritual journey, there is no end to it. There’s an end to the book, because the narrative of the book, crafted as it was, had come to it’s proper conclusion. But an end to the journey? I can’t imagine a point where I could ever possibly say: ok, this is good. I’m done now. The view from here suits me just fine. So I am going to continue the journey of Devotion, here in this blog. Welcome to 103 and beyond. Let’s continue the journey together.
On Getting a Great Review
This just came in from Publisher’s Weekly–a starred review!
* Devotion, Dani Shapiro. Harper
Shapiro’s newest memoir, a mid-life exploration of spirituality begins with her son’s difficult questions—about God, mortality and the afterlife—and Shapiro’s realization that her answers are lacking, long-avoided in favor of everyday concerns. Determined to find a more satisfying set of answers, author Shapiro (Slow Motion) seeks out the help of a yogi, a Buddhist and a rabbi, and comes away with, if not the answers to life and what comes after, an insightful and penetrating memoir that readers will instantly identify with. Shapiro’s ambivalent relationship with her family, her Jewish heritage and her secularity are as universal as they are personal, and she exposes familiar but hard-to-discuss doubts to real effect: she’s neither showboating nor seeking pat answers, but using honest self-reflection to provoke herself and her readers into taking stock of their own spiritual inventory. Absorbing, intimate, direct and profound, Shapiro’s memoir is a satisfying journey that will touch fans and win her plenty of new ones. (Feb.)
On Habits
There are a lot of things I’ve done wrong as a writer. I published my first book before it was ready, and my second book too. I stayed with one agent far too long, and jumped ship before I had fully considered what I needed. I didn’t plan out my literary career, to the degree that such things can be planned, but rather, allowed myself to be buffeted by the winds of other people’s ideas and projections. I don’t regret any of it, because seven books later I am aware that the bends in the road are part of the process. Change one thing, in the light of retrospect, and everything else changes too.
But one thing I have always been pretty good at is creating habits that support the work. People often assume I must be disciplined, but really, it’s all about habit and routine.
What do I need to get my work done?
This is different for everyone, of course, and life circumstances also dictate some of the possibilities for routine. For instance, I once had a student, a psychologist and AIDS researcher, who wrote in the mornings–by which I mean 4 in the morning–before she left for work. She has published two novels. I don’t know how she did that. I really don’t. I have other students and friends who write in the middle of the night, when their families are asleep. I don’t know how they do it either. But it works for them. Me, I keep banker’s hours. I like to wake up in the morning, get my family settled in their lives for the day, and then make myself a strong cappuccino and sit down at my desk. If my cappuccino machine broke, I might have a problem working that day. I might have to drive to the Nespresso store and buy a new one. It’s that much of a habit. Another habit is my yoga practice. At some point during the mid-morning, I try to unroll my mat and practice an hour of yoga. On days when I do that, my mind is clearer, longer. And I try–though this is a losing proposition–to stay off the internet while I’m working.
We get used to whatever it is that we do. Anything can become a habit, for better or worse. But the most important habit of all–whether night or day, yoga or no yoga, cappuccino or not–is the sitting down to write.
