On Confidence

I think there is a difference between approaching the page with confidence, and actually possessing confidence about the work itself. One of the above is good for the writing; the other can be quite disastrous.

A writer has to approach the page with something like confidence, otherwise why approach the page at all? There’s a feeling inside all of us who write, as small but determinative as a gene, that one has something worth saying. That there is a possibility that wrestling with words will produce a result that might be worth reading.

But there is a different, deadly kind of confidence, in which the writer believes that if she simply commits her thoughts and feelings to paper, those thoughts and feelings will have a universal coherence–simply because she’s had them. I’ve seen this again and again–I can only call it a mess on the page. And I’ve come to realize that when a piece of work is impenetrable, often it’s because the writer suffered from over-confidence.

Sorry to say that self-doubt, bordering on self-loathing, insecurity and a general sense of terror are completely appropriate…no, more than appropriate, necessary for good work to get done. A contented writer is a deluded writer. Because the truth is that the work can always be made better. That a finished piece of work is simply the best the writer could do at the time. And confidence–while it might be a very nice way to feel–is no help at all. It’s only the queer, divine dissatisfaction as Martha Graham once put it, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the rest.

On Doshas

Over the weekend, I had a consultation with an expert in Ayurvedic medicine, an ancient form of traditional medicine native to India. I went on a whim. Call it a midlife crisis. I had just had a birthday. Anyway, I had been interested in this form of medicine and philosophy for quite some time, but didn’t know very much about it. I was also curious to have my dosha identified and explained to me. Doshas are concentrations of elements in the body, and people generally have one dominant dosha, which influences their emotional, psychological, spiritual and physical life. For the curious, you can even get a sense of this by taking this quiz.

After talking for quite some time, then reading my pulse, the Ayurvedic consultant identified my primary physical dosha as Pitta, with a strong elements of both Vatta and Pitta in my mind. This made perfect sense to me, particularly in relationship to my life as a writer. Vattas have airy, spacey, creative, anxious natures. Whereas Pittas are organized, disciplined, possibly tending toward the overly controlling. As the consultant described the personality traits of these two doshas, I found myself thinking about my relationship to my work, and the very delicate balance I constantly try to maintain between air and fire — between a kind of spaciness and a need to control. Between free form and structure. Too much air and nothing gets done. Too much controlling and…you guessed it…nothing gets done. At least nothing worthwhile. The relationship, see-sawing between the two, is where it all happens. I felt like she was describing not only my internal make-up, but a combination of doshas that is probably in some proportion the make-up of most creative people who actually manage to get their work done. Of course, some days are better than others.

Today, as I sit down to work on my book, I will try to take my Ayurvedic temperature, so to speak. Am I more pitta today, or vatta? Maybe this will be one more tool in my tool box. One more way to find my way into my work, each day.

On Tenacity

When I was in graduate school, I read a great essay by Ted Solotaroff called “Writing in the Cold: The First Ten Years”. I used to give a copy of that essay to all my students, and I probably still should. In it, Solotaroff muses about where all the promising young writers he’s taught over the years have gone. A decade goes by, and he finds only one or two of their names occasionally in print. Did they give up? Disappear? Call it a day? Did the cold get…too cold?

I think one of the most overlooked traits that separate writers who find their way to publication and writers who don’t is tenacity. Of course there are other important–some would say more important–traits, such as an ear, an eye, a sensibility, a creative gift. But these all are useless without tenacity. In fact, it seems to me that in certain cases, tenacity replaces talent and there are certainly some writers whose whole careers are based solely on it.

But what is it, exactly? Yesterday I worked and worked on one very small section of my book. Even though I’m nearly finished with a draft, I went back to the beginning because something wasn’t quite right. And as the day wore on, as I moved sentences around, cutting them, replacing them, ditching them, loving and wanting to hold onto them, ditching them anyway… the image that came to mind was that of a dog with a bone. (It helped that my puppy was lying next to me, chewing contentedly.) But I wasn’t content. I was rabid, quite insane, really. I wasn’t going to stop until I got it right–or at least as right as I could get it for that day.

A writer with her work needs to be like a dog with a bone all the time. She needs to know where she’s hidden it. Where she’s stored the good stuff. She needs to keep gnawing at it, even after all the meat seems to be gone. When a student of mine says (okay, whines) that she’s impatient, or tired, or the worst: isn’t it good enough? this may be harsh, but she loses just a little bit of my respect. Because there is no room for impatience, or exhaustion, or self-satisfaction, or laziness. All of these really mean, simply, that the inner censor has won the day.

On Sitting Down

I’ve heard it said that the most difficult part of writing isn’t the writing–it’s the sitting down to write. This is complicated for many of us by the fact that sitting at our desks can involve all sorts of other things. Paying bills, filling out forms, surfing the web. I recently read an interview of a writer who has two desks with two computers in his study: one for non-fiction, which is hooked up to the internet, and the other for fiction, which isn’t. This struck me as a really good idea, though my study isn’t big enough for two desks. I like the idea of work spaces kept separate for separate activities. I try to keep the surface of my desk neat, and to keep only calm-inducing, non-distracting objects and papers within my sight lines.

This doesn’t always work out. This morning, as I write, there are forms to be filled out for all sorts of things. (How many camps can one child attend during the course of one upcoming summer?) Bills to be sorted. A pile of books, a pile of notebooks. Piles are never good. My datebook, open, scattered with piles of extra little pads and post-its upon which lists are scribbled. Doctor’s appointments. Jacob’s tennis lesson times. Dinner party list. The stuff of domestic life.

For the past few days, as I’ve been getting back into my book and breathing into the home stretch, I have been practicing yoga first thing in the morning, then sitting for at least ten minutes in meditation. After that–without stopping to check email, or pick dirty laundry up off the floor, or even take the dogs out–I sit down with the intention of starting to write. And it works–it really does, to sit down with that intention. I may not have the two (or three) desks that I need for each of the different aspects of my life, but I can set that intention. Once I’ve started, once I’ve gotten that foothold, I often find that the distractions don’t set in. I can check email, straighten up the house, walk the dogs, and then just come back to the work. The work is waiting for me, because I’ve already started.

On Returning to Work

I’m back from Sirenland and just about recovered from jet lag, and my promise (mostly to myself) to continue blogging while I was away went right out the window. The conference was such an intense experience, so busy, so stimulating, so…over-stimulating. Not in a bad way. Not exactly. In fact, I loved every minute of it. The teaching, the fantastic students, the dancing until the wee hours.

But it does make it difficult to re-enter the cave. I often think that’s one of the most emotionally and psychologically taxing aspects of being a writer: the going in and out of the cave. The cave being the place where real work gets done. The place of disconnection from the outside world. Many writers have rituals to allow them access to the cave–their own special “open, Sesame” tricks of the trade. I, for one, need certain things to happen.

I need an empty house.
Check. Today is Jacob’s first day back at school after a three week break.

I need order in the empty house.
Check. The beds are made. The kitchen sink clean.

I need the dogs to be calm.
Check. The puppy settled down on the floor this morning with a soft thud of fluffy hair and bone, and looked at me dolefully, as if he knew it was time.

I need a cappuccino.
Check. My second cup of the day is next to my computer.

I need to avoid the internet like hell.
Check. So far, all I’ve read this morning have been a few paragraphs of Virginia Woolf’s diary.

This morning’s entry, which I happened upon by randomly opening the book, reads: “I think I shall initiate a new convention for this book–beginning each day on a new page–my habit in writing serious literature. Certainly I have room to waste a little paper in the year’s book. As for the soul; why did I say I would leave it out? I forget. And the truth is, one can’t write directly about the soul. Looked at, it vanishes; but look at the ceiling, at the cheaper beasts at the Zoo which are exposed to walkers in Regent’s Park, and the soul slips in.

That’s what all the habits and rituals are meant to do, really. Create the space, the possibility, for the soul to slip in.

On Sirenland

I’m writing from Positano, Italy. It’s early in the morning–very early–and room service coffee is on a tray in front of me. The windows are flung open to the balcony overlooking the staggeringly steep coastline and the sea. In the distance, my favorite islands. We are at Sirenland, the conference Michael and I started three years ago, along with our friend Hannah Tinti, editor of One Story.

Each year, I am amazed when we arrive here. We never set out to create something like this. It wasn’t a goal, or a dream, or even a faint ambition. It happened over dinner at a friend’s house in Connecticut a few years ago, when we met the owners of Le Sirenuse, and they asked if we’d like to bring a few writers over to Italy for a class. Those few writers have turned into this:

Jim Shepard and Peter Cameron are here, teaching workshops. Students are laughing and crying and learning–and staying up half the night in the bar, drinking tea and cognac. Bonding. Last night, one of them pulled out a guitar and began to sing. This year’s Rome Prize Winners—Brad Kessler and Dana Spiotta–are visiting from The American Academy. They gave a reading last night, and joined us for a few days.

How did this happen? The way the best things happen. By accident. Without agenda or motivation. It happened organically–built from the smallest seed of an idea–the way, come to think of it, fiction is written. By following the line of words.

On Readiness

The other night, at a dinner party, I had a long conversation with a wonderful new friend about readiness. She’s a highly-regarded photographer who has been working and teaching for thirty-odd years, so she knows something about this. I had been telling her about a former graduate student of mine who published her first book before it was ready. It was a cautionary tale, ending in the second book never being published, and the first book eventually going out of print. I also knew something about this, because I had published my own first book before it was ready. No one could have told me that, at the time. I mean, my literary agent and publisher thought it was ready…so who was I to disagree?

I learned to write in public. On the one hand, it was an enormous privilege. It’s so hard for young writers to get published. I hear bulletins from that front every single day. Nonetheless, if I could have a do-over, career-wise, what I would choose to do over is my own impatience, my own need for validation when I was in my mid-twenties. I would strike my first two novels from the record. Most people don’t even know I wrote them. They’re out-of-print, and I would prefer for them to stay that way. I know my blog readers will accuse me, as you often do, of being too hard on myself. Surely there were good things about those first two books. Several critics even liked them. But I now know: I wasn’t ready.

I remember once interviewing Peter Matthiessen, a literary hero of mine, and with the sweep of his hand, he said of his own work: the first five books aren’t worth reading. At the time, I had written three books and was working on my fourth. I was in my early thirties, Matthiessen was in his seventies. I realized with a jolt that the number of his own books that he was dismissing was higher than the number I had written. It was horrifying, but also edifying. Because what he was really saying is that he had gotten better with each book. He felt more in control of his craft than he had earlier in his writing life. That’s a wonderful thing to be able to feel and to say.

Of course, all of this can only be seen in hindsight. How do we know when something we’re working on is really ready? I think we know by listening. By seeing and hearing the signs around us. By having trusted readers and being unafraid to hear what they have to say. By trusting the little voice inside of us — the quiet one underneath all the fear and insecurity — that tells us we’ve taken this thing as far as we can. For now.

On Balance

I’ve been thinking about the idea of balance. Is it possible to live a balanced life as a writer? Does balance even exist, or is it just some sort of marketing strategy? Magazines–even magazines I write for–tell us this is possible. Shrinks talk about balance. But…really?

On an given day, I want to do the following: work well, spend quantity and quality time with my son, do yoga, meditate, read something nourishing, put a delicious dinner on the table. And on any given day, I usually manage to accomplish two of these things, in ever-different combinations. Writing and spending time with Jacob. Spending time with Jacob and doing yoga. Meditating and putting a delicious dinner on the table. Oh, and did I mention my husband? A day in which three of these happen is a fantastic thing, a gift. A day which includes all of them? I can’t remember the last time that happened.

This morning, I sit at my desk in my bathrobe. My work beckons. My yoga mat beckons. The refrigerator is empty. A pile of books I’m dying to read sits at my feet. This is the last week of Jacob’s school before Spring Break–which means that after-school activities are suspended, and pick-up time is at three in the afternoon, which means…even fewer hours than usual. In less than a week, we depart for London, then Positano for our writers’ conference. I have miles to go before then, and the trick–it is a trick–is to remind myself that there is no such thing as balance. Not for a writer who is a mother. Maybe not for a perfectionist like myself. Maybe not for anyone at all.

On Interruption

Last week I got no writing done. Oh, I wrote my monthly column, I took care of some other magazine business, I taught my private class–in other words, I took care of other pieces of my life as a writer. But I didn’t work on my book. There were hours, here and there, during which I might have been able to sit down to write. But the shape of the week didn’t allow for it. My beloved Uncle died last Sunday, and the funeral was in Boston on Monday. Tuesday, Michael spent the day reading the first 200 pages of my manuscript, so I was paralyzed, waiting for his response. Wednesday, we were in New York for a day full of meetings. Thursday–the one day I had the hours to write–I was so exhausted, so emotionally and physically drained from the sadness about my Uncle, the relief that Michael thought my manuscript pages were good, the busy day in the city–that I curled up into a little ball and…slept. For hours. Friday was Jacob’s 4th grade field trip to Ellis Island, which began at 5 in the morning and ended at 9 at night. So. It was a week full of interruption.

How to keep the thread, when life intervenes? I no longer even imagine that I will have stretches of weeks with no distraction, no lost days. There are always lost days. The question, really, is now to tolerate them. How to breathe into them and simply understand them to be part of the process, rather than to allow them to get the better of me.

Today is a snow day. (I feel less alone in this than usual. Usually here in our little snow-belt micro-climate, I call my friends in New York and they have no idea what I’m talking about.) Most of the Northeast is blanketed today, and kids are home from school. Chances are, I’m not going to get work done today. I’ll get other stuff done; stuff that needs to get done, that always gets shoved into the corners: camp forms, school contracts, haircut appointments, banking. In a way, I’m making room for the writing by taking care of all this other business that clutters up my head. But really–enough already with the snow.

Today will be full of household activities. The making of fires, hot chocolate, soup. Downstairs, my husband is cleaning his office; Spring cleaning during an early March blizzard. I’m reminded of something Sharon Salzberg said during a meditation retreat about a Buddhist teacher she had met in India, a woman who had many children, little time, and much hardship. When asked how she maintained her practice, her focus, she responded: I stirred the soup mindfully.

On Distance

Question: How is it possible to see one’s own work clearly, while living in the middle of it? Answer: it’s not. Sometimes it’s important to take a step back. But how can a writer distance herself from her work enough to read it with a clear eye? I’ve been living with these questions since I first started writing. We all struggle with this. The other day, in my private workshop, we ended up discussing the idea of distance and clarity. Several students who are working on novels weighed the benefits and the risks of looking through their whole manuscript as a way of getting up and running, before moving forward. My response was that this can be a good–or terrible–idea, depending on the day. Sometimes, going back into my own work leaves me paralyzed. Other times, it’s helpful. This has entirely to do with my mental state, which is hidden even from myself. I can read the exact same pages and think that they “don’t suck” (sadly, this is my highest form of self-praise) or…well, that they do suck. The same pages. Nothing has changed except for my highly volatile consciousness. I have lost whole writing days because suddenly my book feels dead to me. If I were to just sit down and get to work with blinders on, that might be a better way to at least get through a first draft. But then would I just end up with a big mess of pages on my hands? There is no way of knowing.

This is where that elusive thing–distance–is called for. But how to achieve it? How to cast a cold eye on material that is still very much alive? Sometimes, when I need distance from my work, I’m able to play a trick on myself. I imagine that I’m someone else. Someone particular. Someone (this is very important) benign. Inclined to like me and my work, but also capable of incisive criticism. And then I read my own work pretending to be that person. It’s a sleight of hand, really. A suspension of disbelief. But sometimes it works. Other times, I just need to get away from it. Pretty soon, we’re leaving for Europe and I won’t be working on Devotion for three entire weeks. Though right now this sends me into a bit of a panic, in the end I know it’s a good thing. Three weeks may be just long enough for that cold eye to emerge.