Literary DC

Hemingway on Writing in the Morning

2007-12-13T04:03:00.000Z

"When I am working on a book or a story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. . . .When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have e made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again..."

"Work every day. No matter what has happened the day or night before, get up and bite on the nail."
--Ernest Hemingway

I used to do this. Actually, before it was light, just as the sun was coming up, in my bedroom in my little house on Oakland Street in Arlington. I need to do this again. It's a good way to write. I felt energized the whole day. That early, I didn't even know what I wrote until I looked at it the next morning. And then, I didn't remember it again because it was so freakin' early! Eventually, I had all these pages of manuscript, good stuff, created by me, but somehow magically. The editing and rewriting I could do in the light of day. But the writing, in wee-hours.

A Writer's Washington

2007-12-13T04:01:00.000Z

Eric Maisel’s 2005 book, A Writer’s Paris: a guided journey for the creative soul, addresses an all too common experience among struggling writers: finding the time and motivation to write. “At home,” Maisel says, “you can keep yourself busy with the rigors and routines of ordinary life and not quite notice that you aren’t writing. There is always another errand to run, another meal to prepare, another corner of the garden to weed. Time is abundant and easily squandered, and also fleeting and hard to grasp. There is always tomorrow, but never today.”

Washington is full of would-be writers and closet novelists who I’m sure can relate. Anyone who has ever tried to squeeze a writing avocation into the slivers of time between a day (or night) job, family, friends, dry cleaning, groceries, and sleep will understand the fleeting nature of abundant time.

Maisel’s antidote is to go to Paris for an extended sabbatical and write. This may seem like a radical solution to what could be summed up as a simple self-discipline problem. But he is quite serious about it, because Paris is, as he says, “home to the entire intellectual history of the West” and “is the place you go when you mean to put your creative life first…Paris is the place to write.”

Maisel also advocates writing in the public spaces of Paris, for three or four hours a day, because, he writes, for “even for the most productive, published authors, three or four hours of writing is often the maximum.” Write in the cafés a la Hemingway, or in the Louvre, or relaxing in the allees of the Tuileries. Between writing stints, he instructs us to stroll around Paris, taking in the sights and sounds of the city of light, allowing us time to contemplate the larger questions of existence, and maybe find the perfect baguette, too. This is the advice I’m now taking, only I’m doing it right here in Washington.

Washington, believe it or not, compares quite favorably to Paris. While there’s no city on earth quite like Paris, Washington holds its own, a world capital full of energy and creativity. Washington boasts a large population of people from every part of the world, who bring with them their cuisines and world views, infusing Washington with a vitality found in few other places. People from all corners of America flock to Washington as well, whether to further their careers or to attend one of the fine universities within the city. And we can’t overlook local Washingtonians, whose families and traditions and neighborhoods inspired the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, Toni Morrison, and Edward P. Jones, to name just a few. The diverse denizens of Washington make it a cosmopolitan place, not so much a melting pot as a stew pot, rich in culture and thick with ideas.
There are world class museums scattered throughout the city, and embassies that host art shows and concerts. The largest library in the world, the Library of Congress, is a Metro ride away. Wonderful food abounds, from traditional French to soul food to Ethiopian to little places where the cab drivers congregate for lunch. (If cabbies eat there, it’s good food.) Washington has a vibrant theater life, behind only New York and Chicago, and also boasts a world class symphony, opera, and ballet company. Finally, Washington is a wonderfully walkable city, famous for its triangle parks and green squares, its fountained circles and city gardens, its monuments and architecture. Washington, I would argue, has everything to feed a writer’s soul, and his stomach.

Like many other writers I’ve met in Washington, I’ve got a problem of time and motivation. I keep my lap top on a table in my apartment next to a stack of unpaid bills and mail. Next to the table is a chair piled with laundry that needs to be folded, and next to that a stack of unread books has toppled over on the floor. Because writing, by its very nature, is hard, I’ve found it easier to occupy myself with not writing each day after work. I’m not motivated to write in my apartment. But strolling through the mad swirl of happy dogs in Lincoln Park, my spirits rise. Gazing at the city laid out before me from the big window in the Hirshorn Museum or watching the sparrows soar and dive under the great canopy inside the National Building Museum, or simply having a chili dog at Ben’s, and I am positively inspired.
So I’ve taken to writing in different places around the city. One sunny Friday morning in January found me at Murky Coffee near Eastern Market, writing among the cops and law students and hill staffers who filed in and out, buying their morning doses of caffeine. On such days, I’ll eat lunch at the Southwest fish market, buying a sandwich from Captain White’s and eating it with a view of the Washington Channel and the circling gulls. I might find myself under I.M. Pei’s little pyramids at the National Gallery, the tiny, lopsided cousins to the Louvre’s. At a table facing the rushing cascade behind the glass wall that fascinates children who can’t help but try and touch the water, I sip coffee and write. And I’ll stroll the streets of DC, the Hill in all it’s Victorian glory, colonial Georgetown, the European flavor of Upper Dupont, the eclectic energy of Adams Morgan. I’ve tried coffee all over the city, Love Café, Tryst, Open City, Murky, and I’ve got more to try.

My plan seems to be working. I’ve been writing, and, more importantly, I look forward to doing it. I’ve found that I can’t wait until I have more time to write, because I will never have more time than I have right now. And I can’t wait until I’m in the perfect place to write, either. DC may not be Paris, but it’s where I live right now.

George Orwell: Sincerety versus Truth

2007-12-13T03:52:00.000Z

Note: I first posted this on aportablesnack.

“For a creative writer possession of the "truth" is less important than emotional sincerity.” George Orwell

I find it quite surprising that George Orwell said this, the writer who told the “truth” about a lot of things. He lived the truth. He fought in the Spanish civil war against the Fascists, unlike Hemingway who did more meddling than actual fighting, or Henry Miller, who didn’t even show up. How can a writer so associated with telling it like it is (Road to Wigan Pier, Down and Out in Paris and London, Homage to Catalonia) hold the belief that truth is not as important to a writer as some ephemeral idea like “emotional sincerity”?

The quote comes from Orwell’s 1940 essay “Inside the Whale”, an essay I consider required reading for any aspiring writer. He is actually writing about Henry Miller, the writer now considered to be a rather quaint dabbler in literary smut. Miller refused to be political, and instead wrote from a position of “emotional sincerity,” as Orwell puts it. In fact, good writing depends on “emotional sincerity.” This is what makes Edgar Allen Poe so great, Orwell says; not truth in the literal sense, but a kind of sincerity:

…there exist 'good' writers whose world-view would in any age be recognized as false and silly. Edgar Allan Poe is an example. Poe's outlook is at best a wild romanticism and at worst is not far from being insane in the literal clinical sense. Why is it, then that stories like The Black Cat, The Tell-tale Heart, The Fall of the House of Usher and so forth, which might very nearly have been written by a lunatic, do not convey a feeling of falsity? Because they are true within a certain framework, they keep the rules of their own peculiar world…

(I love that: “not far from being insane in the literal clinical sense.”)

During the rise of fascism in the 1930s, Orwell further contends that there was a lack of good writing (prose fiction, specifically). This was because most fiction writers were involve in politics in one way or another, too concerned with telling the “truth” about politics. Henry Miller being the exception, of course:

I first met Miller at the end of 1936, when I was passing through Paris on my way to Spain. What most intrigued me about him was to find that he felt no interest in the Spanish war whatever. He merely told me in forcible terms that to go to Spain at that moment was the act of an idiot. He could understand anyone going there from purely selfish motives, out of curiosity, for instance, but to mix oneself up in such things from a sense obligation was sheer stupidity. In any case my Ideas about combating Fascism, defending democracy, etc., etc., were all baloney.

Orwell seems to have, shall we say, a grudging respect for this point of view.

The title of the essay, “Inside the Whale,” comes from the story of Jonah; swallowed by a whale, he is protected from what is happening in the outside world, relatively comfortable inside all that warm blubber. However, soon he will be vomited up on the shores of reality, whether he likes it or not. This stems from Orwell’s own peculiar world view: he assumed the world was quickly sliding into fascism, and that people like Miller, apolitical to a fault, would not much longer be able to stay on the sidelines. The ability to stay on the sidelines, however, is what enables great literature to be made in the first place, and why great books are rarely produced by those who vehemently believe in any sort of dogma or doctrine, political, religious, or otherwise. (Although, ironically, Orwell may be an exception.)

Good literature has nothing to do with pushing some point of view. That’s called propaganda. Good literature comes from this idea of emotional sincerity, an engagement in the things that can be known personally, subjectively. It is very hard to write good fiction (or at least get it published) at a time when political orthodoxy, whether right or left, red or blue, fascist or communist, is the order of the day:

Good novels are not written by orthodoxy-sniffers, nor by people who are conscience-stricken about their own unorthodoxy. Good novels are written by people who are not frightened.

What are they not frightened of? Sincerely expressing their version of reality, full of angst and emotion and humanity, even if it doesn’t fit the larger orthodoxy of the time.

I’m not sure how to go about this, myself, but I think it has to do with those nagging little voices I hear in my head as I’m writing: “what will people think if you write that? What will your grandmother think of you? Won’t people think you are a leftist/racist/sexist/socialist/capitalist/you-name-it-ist?” etc. These thoughts paralyze the creative writer.

But I think that if we write honestly, sincerely, emotionally, then we begin to approach the larger “truths” of the human condition, which is what literature is all about in the first place.

How Writers' Work

2007-12-10T22:19:00.000Z

When I first started taking writing classes after college, I became a nervous wreck. The classes themselves triggered my agitation. Inevitably, class discussions would eventually come around to how writers write, in very practical sense: how many hours a day, in the morning or the evening, how many words per day, how many pages per day, do you have to write every day, how much rewriting do you do, when do you rewrite: as you go along or after you finish a draft, etc. I began to worry that perhaps I was doing something wrong.

These discussion undermined my confidence as a writer, because I did things differently than almost everyone. Surely, I was doing it wrong! But I started to pay closer attention to what the other students were saying, and it eventually dawned on me that everyone wrote differently than everyone else.

Since then, I’ve learned that there is no formula, and there are no rules.

Here are some of the “rules” that people swore by, and that you’ve probably heard as well, whether from a writing instructor, a book about writing, or other writers:

You have to write every day. You have to write at least 3 hours each day.

Never count your words; it’s about quality, not quantity.

Write in the morning when you are fresh.

Write what you know.

You’ll have to write many, many “drafts” of a manuscript before you have something half-way decent.

Like my Pittsburgh-Irish grandma used to say: hogwash!

As a writer, you have to do what works for you. We all live in the real world where money needs to be made, dishes need to be washed, and errands need to be run. Which means what works for one writer may not work for you. Not only are life situation different, but writer’s themselves are different. So don’t worry about how other writers work. You’ve got enough to worry about just sitting down and writing at all without concerning yourself with adhering to arbitrary rules.

With that said, here’s how I work:

I don’t write every day because I don’t have time. I carve out niches of time for writing two to four times a week, a few hours at a time. I’d love to be able to write every day, but I can’t. That doesn’t mean I won’t write at all.

Sometimes, if I have the time, I will write every day for a week or two. Other times, I won’t write for a month or two.

I used to write in the morning, but now I mostly write in the evening. The only advantage I saw to writing in the morning is that it was like exercise: I would feel energized all day long. But I never noticed a difference in the quality of the writing based on the time of day I wrote it.

I can only write for two, at most three, hours at a time. I can’t imagine sitting there for eight hours writing. It is extremely draining.

I write a lot of words at one sitting, 1000 – 2000 words in those two or three hours.

I rewrite constantly, although I don’t really know what “rewriting” means. Sometimes I delete whole paragraphs, whole scenes, and start fresh, but mostly it’s a process of tweaking: find a better word, a better phrase, rearrange a paragraph, add something new, delete something that doesn’t work.

My constant rewriting means that I don’t have distinct “drafts”, like some writers talk about. When a writer says she rewrote her novel 50 times before it was finally published, I have no idea what she is talking about. I doubt that she does, either.

Oh, and I often write about what I don't know, but at the same time, always about what I strive to know: people.

Q & As About this Blog

2007-11-26T23:39:00.000Z

1. Why are you writing this blog?

Washington, DC has a literary inferiority complex. Would-be writers flock to New York City, or LA, or Chicago. Policy wonks, politicos, and do-gooders flock to Washington. Yet Washington is full of people like me: over-educated bureaucrats and creative non-profiteers who scribble away in their free time, creating stories and novels and just plain good writing. Washington is also a fantastic place to be a writer, even better than New York or LA or Chicago: free world class museums, beautiful parks, eight universities, the largest library in the world, a vibrant theater scene, an undeserved number of independent books stores, and enough coffee to drown a multi-national corporation full of baristas. Plus, more people with college and grad degrees than anywhere else in the nation.

2. What independent book stores? And where are they?

Here’s a helpful list.

3. What will you post here?

I’ll post a calendar of literary related events, although I won’t re-post things that are available in Citypaper or The Washington Post. Instead, I’ll high-light great events that perhaps don’t receive the publicity they deserve.

I’ll post musing about being a writer related to the process of writing and being a writer in Washington DC.

I’ll post my reviews and opinions about books, other writers, and literary happenings in Washington and around the world.

4. Can I send you information about my event/book/reading/lit journal/e-zine/blog for you to post?

Yes. But I can’t promise I’ll post it. Here’s my email: aportablesnack@gmail.com

5. What will you NOT post here?

Novel excerpts and short stories: mine or anyone else’s.

6. Who Are You?

Here’s a quick bio:

I was born and raised in suburban Pittsburgh. I attended Saint Vincent College outside of Pittsburgh, and moved to the Washington area for grad school at George Mason University, where I received an MA in English.

I’ve been writing fiction my whole life, and I’ve worked as a professional technical writer and editor for eight years.

I’ve studied with various writers in Arlington, VA, and at Georgetown University, and I helped found a writing group in Arlington. I’ve also taught writing and composition at community college and through Arlington County Adult Education.

I was the judge of the inaugural fiction competition for the Washington Writers Publishing House in 2000.

I’ve been published in Generations, the Saint Vincent College literary magazine, and in the inaugural issue of Lines and Stars. I’ve also published a non-fiction piece in the Current newspapers here in Washington.

I’ve completed at least three novel manuscripts and have many more in various stages of completion. I’ve sent them to many publishers and agents, who are very encouraging but not ready to bite.

I live in the U Street corridor with my artist wife.

7. What do you write?

I write literary fiction, both novels and short stories. While I think such things as mysteries, thrillers, and science fiction are fine things as far as they go, I have no interest in writing them. The reality I see every day is enough to keep me writing for many life times.

8. Who do you read?

I don’t read anything I can get may hands on. That would be a waste of time. I don’t read mysteries, thrillers, spy novels, or science fiction, because they bore me. To give you an idea, in the past year I’ve read Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, The Captive and the Fugitive by Marcel Proust, Humbolt’s Gift by Saul Bellow, If Not Now, When? by Primo Levi, One of Ours by Willa Cather, Prague by Arthur Phillips, Where I’m Calling From by Raymond Carer.

I can’t say if I’ve been influenced by the following authors, but I deeply enjoy their work: Mark Twain, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Flannery O’Connor, Jane Austin, George Orwell, Frank O’Connor, James Joyce, and Edith Wharton, to name a few.

Literary Washington

2007-11-26T17:16:00.000Z

Washington DC is not known for its literary scene. Would-be writers flock to New York City. Would-be politicians, policy wonks, and non-profit do-gooders flock to Washington. But the city does have a thriving arts scene, a component of which are serious writers of literature.

Washington is the home of political thrillers, spy novels, historical novels, and mysteries, but one doesn’t associate literary fiction with Washington. George Pelecanos lives here, and Tom Clancy lives nearby. So many of these types of books (and movies) are set here that it is hard to see beyond the genres.

There are a few books I would consider “literary” that are set in Washington, including Mark Twain's The Gilded Age, part of John Dos Passos’s USA Trilogy, and Edward P. Jones’s Lost in the City. But few other books of literary fiction has ever been based here, although many writers of literary fiction call the capital home.

Probably the two biggest names are Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award winner Edward P. Jones and Frederick Reuss.

Edward P. Jones (Lost in the City, The Known World, and most recently All Aunt Hagar’s Children) grew up in DC and still lives here. Lost in the City, a collection of short stories that document the lives of DC’s working class, is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time. Everyone who lives in DC and loves literature should read it. Frederick Reuss, author of Horace Afoot, Henry of Atlantic City, The Wasties, and last year’s Mohr: A Novel, lives on Capitol Hill. They join the likes of Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughs, Mark Twain, Walt Whitman, Jonathan Safran Foer, and Curtis Sittenfeld, who all called Washington home, at least for a time.

There are many other writers toiling away in Washington. You can find them in such places as The Writing Center in Bethesda, or working with the Washington Writers Publishing House or Lines and Stars, or teaching at Universities across the region. Most have a “real” job and fit in writing time between commutes and loads of laundry and paying DC parking tickets and grocery shopping. You can also find them in one of Washington’s healthy number of writing groups, both ad-hoc and more formalized. They periodically advertise on Craig’s List or in the Citypaper for new members. I’ve been involved with groups like this, and they are filled with smart, earnest people who work hard at their writing.

This site is for all these writers, and anyone else interested in the local literary scene. Like politics, all (good) writing is local: it describes a concrete time and place and the real people who live there. Washington is full of writers who are creating good writing.