Practical magic.

The Writer's Life is Best When It's Boring, from Tayari Jones by way of SheWrites.


I think Tayari and I must have similar writing styles (by which I mean the act of writing, not necessarily our work), because a lot of this resonated with me. I'm not good at the whole starving-artist-miserable-alcoholic method of creating. I need to feel secure, well rested, and relaxed.


So a question for the readers who are also writers: What's your practical magic? What routines help you be more productive? What routines are you failing to follow, even though you know you probably should?

Life Lessons from Klickitat Street, Part Two

(Or, "Speak, Memory of Teaching Undergraduate Creative Writing")

Ramona's hopes soared. Her teacher had smiled at her. "Miss Binney, I want to know--how did Mike Mulligan go to the bathroom when he was digging the basement of the town hall?"

Miss Binney's smile seemed to last longer than smiles usually last. Ramona glanced uneasily around and saw that others were waiting with interest for the answer. Everybody wanted to know how Mike Mulligan went to the bathroom.

"Well--" said Miss Binney at last. "I don't really know, Ramona. The book doesn't tell us."

"I always wanted to know, too," said Howie, without raising his hand, and others murmured in agreement. The whole class, it seemed, had been wondering how Mike Mulligan went to the bathroom.

"Maybe he stopped the steam shovel and climbed out of the hole he was digging and went to a service station," suggested a boy named Eric.

"He couldn't. The book says he had to work as fast as he could all day," Howie pointed out. "It doesn't say he stopped."

Miss Binney faced the twenty-nine earnest members of the kindergarten, all of whom wanted to know how Mike Mulligan went to the bathroom.

"Boys and girls," she began, and spoke in her clear, distinct way. "The reason the book does not tell us how Mike Mulligan went to the bathroom is that it is not an important part of the story. The story is about digging the basement of the town hall, and that is what the book tells us."

Miss Binney spoke as if this explanation ended the matter, but the kindergarten was not convinced. Ramona knew and the rest of the class knew that knowing how to go to the bathroom was important. They were surprised that Miss Binney did not understand, because she had showed them the bathroom the very first thing. Ramona could see there were some things she was not going to learn in school, and along with the rest of the class she stared reproachfully at Miss Binney.

from Ramona the Pest, by Beverly Cleary, 1968

I've been meaning to post about this for days, since I read it with my kids. Seeing Ramona and Beezus sparked an interest in the series, which is great, since I've been desperate to spark an interest in chapter books, any chapter books, and if they're written well, so much the better. But anyway...


My first, visceral reaction to the passage above was a flashback to teaching Intro to Creative Writing. Oh, the frustration I would feel when trying to get undergrads--many of whom just needed a writing credit, thought creative writing would be "easy," and had zero interest in learning how to write a poem, short story, or work of creative nonfiction ("isn't that an oxymoron?")--to distinguish between significant detail and, well, too much detail.


I can't really blame them, because it was my job to convey the concept, and clearly I wasn't holding up my end of the deal. I can't blame them, but I kind of do anyway. I wonder if Miss Binney felt that inner exasperation. If she did, she was probably better at hiding it. Why is it so hard, I reflected, to think of your narrative in cinematic terms? To know that you focus the camera, maybe even in tight close-up, on the things that are meaningful, either to the plot or the characterization? If you throw in everything up to and including the kitchen sink, it becomes a muddle.


Wow, am I insufferable, or what? Had I written this point four days ago, when I intended to, that's what it would have been about. How undergrads just don't get it. Poor Miss B., holding it together while her students fixated on an insignificant detail. But the post has had time to simmer a while, and in typing the passage above, a few things occurred to me.


I still relate to Miss Binney. I mean, I got the same reproachful stares. But I can see where I might have let my students down. "More detail!" I would write on the papers of the ones who came to me for help. "Make this setting come to life!" "What did the air feel like?" (Oh, dear Lord.) Then I would hand their portfolios back a few weeks later, with comments like "I don't need to know this" and "This is bogging down the narrative" and "This image is important because...?" written in the margins. Most of these kids had no interest in creative writing, and while they could and should still be required to meet the course expectations, I don't think most were motivated by a strong desire to master the craft.


But this is also about writing for your audience, and I haven't really come to any conclusions about that yet. Maybe you can help me talk it out, get me from half-baked to fully baked and frosted. The passage above is funny to an adult with a grasp of what is important in story-telling, with a concept of "message" or "theme." But when I questioned Pink about it, about what she thought, she pondered a moment and said, "Well, maybe Mike Mulligan went in the bushes." 


Did the author of Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel (which, incidentally, is a real book) fail to consider her audience? The kids miss the point of the story, latching on instead to what they see as missing information. The same could be said for Cleary; my kids are in 2nd grade and they didn't get the point of that scene. Absent an adult to explain the deeper meaning, they never would have gotten it. Actually, even with an adult explaining it to them--in both cases--they still don't get the point.


I don't even know what my question is, frankly. I certainly don't advocate dumbing anything down, no matter who the intended audience may be. I love books and films that require me to do a little work. But at some point you risk obscuring the "message" (for lack of a better word) or, at worst, alienating your audience. I just don't know how to identify where that tipping point is. It's a problem I struggle with in my own work, so bring the insight.

Congratulations, it's a blog!

I hadn’t felt the urge, until now, to keep a blog. I’ve given it some thought over the years, but I think I resisted for the same reason I tend to balk at writing memoir. My personal essays are often very personal, but the idea of crafting my memoir feels very self-involved. (N.B.: I don’t think memoirists, as a group, are self-involved, and I’ve read many memoirs that I’ve enjoyed very much. But I’m prone to find qualities unforgivable in myself that I excuse and embrace quite readily in others; it’s just part of my neurosis. What feels brave and beautiful in the hands of another feels whinging or maudlin in mine.)

Oh, who am I kidding? I can call it “personal essay” rather than “memoir” until the stars fall from the sky. It’s still self-involved. Even though I may only use anecdotes from my life as a way to make the larger point, at the end of the day, I’m still saying “I” a lot.

But back to the blog. Since I’ve graduated from the MFA program, I’ve lost my sense of direction as a writer. While I’m still excited about my thesis as work-in-progress, I haven’t exercised my writing muscles over the summer, and they’ve atrophied in the absence of a regular regimen. There are no deadlines. The job hunt has superceded the creative impulse. This is a way for me to keep my hand in, to continue to think like a writer and hold onto that role even as motherhood threatens to overwhelm it.

So is this a mommy-blog? Yes, inasmuch as the business of being a parent occupies much of my consciousness, even when I’m not actively thinking of the offspring. But I find that definition limiting (and, let’s face it, somewhat pejorative), and I’m counting on you to contribute your voices. I miss graduate school and the conversations I had there. I don’t want to pontificate. I’d like to form a community of ideas and opinions. I want to bounce ideas off of you, and I need you to bounce them back. Think of this as a handball court of the mind.

So take this opportunity to read the previous entries, introduce yourself, link to your blog if you have one, and ask questions—especially if you don’t know me well.