Pretending to Write

To divulge to you the way that I go about writing, the actual mechanics of it, would be to utter what had once felt like a series of grave secrets; the kind which would suggest that all advice is hypocrisy, that all earnest top-ten lists and seven-ways-to bullet-points are worth their weightlessness in the floating click-away abstractions of the internet. I’m afraid that I have reached a point in my methods where I have become severly, obstreperously free, contingent and moveable. When I was young, I would fill a notebook with a sole novel. On the occasion that the novel took up two notebooks, I would keep them together with a rubber band. On the front of my notebooks, I would write a title in sharpie and also draw a cover. It was very important for me to create a bookshelf likeness to the paperback racks I saw at grocery stores, carrying what were, then, my favorite authors: writers of science fiction disguised as ‘biochemical thrillers’ or ‘creature thrillers.’ My notebooks abounded with movie tie-ins, originals which resembled movie tie-ins for films that didn’t exist, originals which resembled the originals of other writers, and finally, my own originals which didn’t directly resemble anything, hopefully. This is an incomplete history, certainly, but that is more or less the focal succession. Having spent more than half of my teenage years in a home with the internet, I belong to a generation who learned about a great many things from it, including, inevitably, literature. I wonder if I would have come to my current conclusion about my best personal method earlier had I not been disposed to a great many commentaries about literature at such a young age by the people who produced it. The wildly entertaining interviews of authors I admired in The Paris Review, or Powells, or Bookslutor The Dalkey Archive Press, were filled with great wars of conflicting advice concerning writing methods, fetishisms, practices, rituals, preliminaries and conditions. As an adolescent, I didn’t think it so strange to have three different notebooks in which three different novels in progress were being chipped away at, though when I got older and started to read the accounts of the world’s best, who seemed to think that writing was such a lofty, taxing business (something which most of them never seemed to spend more than three hours or so a day on), I found myself challenged by their example. Certainly, a book couldn’t be good unless it was written in segments of 1,000 words a day, worked on no more than four hours a day, always during the morning, always on a full stomach, always sober, always alone, and never with noise of any kind save the music of Wagner. If one was to follow their example, there were to be no other books written while that one was being written. It needed to be written chronologically so that it felt cohesive. A first draft would be written completely through, which would get the general idea down. A second draft might serve another purpose, such as making the dialogue pop. The third draft might be for the purpose of smoothing out the prose. If you were the kind of writer who ventured beyond the three drafts in keeping with the requirements of school essays, the fourth draft might be to strengthen symbols thrown up by your subconscious in your rambling first draft. The fifth draft might be to make your jokes funnier. By the time you get to the sixth draft, you might go through such extensive editing coupled with flights of verbal fancy that you’ll end up writing something similar to your first draft again. I would try many of these methods. I would write 1,000 words a day, feeling terrible about myself on the days I failed and feeling like I didn’t do enough when I met my quota. I’d write one book at a time and give up half way or three fourths of the way through the composition of the first draft, or halfway through the paltry second draft. I would write chronologically and rush through uninspired but oddly necessary parts of the story—those perennial parts in which a character needs to get from one room to another— promising myself I would go back and smooth them out, not realizing at the time that they were what dragged the entire novel into the declevity responsible for its indefinite hiatus. I grew tired of this pattern. I slid, ever guiltily, back into my old habits—the ones that I developed as an adolescent when I was writing what I considered to be, simply, ‘practice novels,’ if you will—things meant only to give myself a sense of accomplishment and, hopefully, entertain my family and friends. I would write several at a time. It wasn’t until I continued on one day, indulging in my crack-cocain-like habit of reading the words of writers about writing, that I came upon a few authors who wrote according to methods similar to mine. Reading John Gardner or Villiam T. Vollmann or Blaise Cendrars on the subject of writing more than one novel at a time, didn’t necessarily inspire me, as I initially thought, but, I felt at the time, allowed me to continue doing what I was already doing. They gave validity to the haphazard, whistful ways in which I was working, until a frightening thought came over me and that was this: Why did I so require the validation of other writers who, like me, are wandering out into the dark, grasping for images the best they can, articulating them in the soberest moment of their afternoons after nights of fevered dreams? I asked myself, very truthfully, if the methods by which I was working were not constraining me to my own detriment more than they were benefiting me. I stopped counting my daily word-count. I stopped pushing myself forward until I’d written ten pages or ended on an incriment of ten pages. Not only did I work on more than one book at a time, but within a single book, I wrote various different scenes, non-chronologically, while beside it I wrote the chronological version from the beginning, trusting my own sense of intuition and knowing that the scenes that I ‘wrote ahead,’ as it were, would come to my aid later when the timing was right. Even when the novels were tightly structured and had a definite sense of beginning, middle and end, I behaved like an alchemist at times, with a great deal of subtlety and caution, and at other times, like a fevered dope-fiend, breathing heavily with my hair disheveled as I prattled about for the last sentence in a thread of writing to which I could add words that seemed to enter my brain as if delivered by letter from a friend from long ago. I would tell acquiantances that I was working on a book when I was, in fact, working on four. I would tell my close friends and family that I was working on four when, upon making inventory of the works I’d actually touched in the last three months, I was working on six or seven projects, both fictional and essayistic. For times when expression seemed to me like such a paltry thing—and I admit that, perhaps, it was only my being overstimulated—and when I was in great need of encouragement concerning the abstract truths that I had written upon my own consciousness, I wrote pieces of writing that were strictly for myself. Perhaps they were not so much different than some of the greatest creative liberties I would have taken within my own diaries, though with these projects, since they possessed a somewhat ‘theraputic’ nature, for lack of a better phrase, I was in great need of a format which resembled an essay or book. In other words, I was writing books strictly for myself, for my own pleasure. You can probably imagine that I was writing in several different genres under more than one name, as this suits my temperament; it being, in my mind, not much different from the musician who has ‘side projects’ which deviate in sound and aesthetic from his primary band in order to impose upon himself constraints that open up voluminous possibilities available in a sole genre. It was by all of these things that I recaptured something which I feared I’d lost and which my work greatly needed: a sense of patience. Now, when a novel that is tightly structured and for which I feel strongly is discouraging me to any great degree, I can put it away in faith that it will call to me again, or that the working out of another problem will solve its unknown one. It is put away without guilt, for I commence work all the while on other things. You may say to me, it was a self-imposed guilt all the while. These were all self-imposed rules. Then so be it. Let me come out the other side of a novel, polished, neat and supple for the kindness I granted both it and myself during its long life and that which fed it, whether that be other novels gestating over long periods of time, or the many experiences that I allow myself to take on, concerned more about the end than the means of getting there. An artist with a clear vision as to what he wants to accomplish can allow himself a great many means of getting there. It is not for anyone else to decide what methods best suit his work.