Happy Mother’s Day, to all of us. My own mother is dead and gone, and so I also want to give a shout out to those of us who have lost our mothers or those for whom motherhood wasn’t possible or chosen, or those who once had children and no longer have them. It’s a beautiful day but can also be a tough one. Peace and love to all of you.
George writes: "There is literally no wrong answer. The value lies in clarifying one’s preferences, asking, with ever-increasing intensity and honesty: “What do I like? And why?”"
But in order to get to this point—to the point when you can ask yourself “what do I like and why?”—takes a self-confidence, trust, and the ability to not care what others may think—and that’s not always easy. It’s also, surprisingly, not always easy to form a clear opinion in the first place, to know what you like or don’t like, as your true feelings can often become obscured by an overlay of feelings and thoughts disconnected from your visceral self. We are so overwhelmed by what the world tells us to think! And our own personal biases and histories can get in the way so much that we don’t recognize art when we see it, or our own feelings when we feel them. And then we read and learn about art so that we feel safer about making assumptions and having opinions—and that education can get in the way, too! Being told what is “good art” isn’t always helpful! Then again, who wants to fall in love with something only to find out later that the rest of the world finds it trite and worthless? That sense of humiliation, to realize you’ve missed something that the cognoscenti know—it’s not a good feeling. To have real clarity about your own likes and dislikes—it’s hard, but worth striving for.
Elsewhere, George has written this: “It’s kind of crazy, but, in my experience, that’s the whole game: 1) becoming convinced that there is a voice inside you that really, really knows what it likes, and 2) getting better at hearing that voice and acting on its behalf.”
Here, “number two” is where the hang up is. Even if you've gotten better at locating that voice inside of you, the true voice that can separate itself from all of the world that is screaming at you and telling you what to think, there may still still be a problem with “…and acting on its behalf.” Yes, that is the goal. But good luck with "acting on its behalf." That’s where the mystery is. We can use that dial in our brain that George talks about (negative/positive) and (probably) see that much of what we’ve written falls on the “negative” side. But to fix it—that’s the rub. George writes of using one’s intuition, which is akin to listening to that voice in your head. But for beginners, that may mean hundreds of attempts, over and over again. Listening, and then realizing you were wrong. Listening again. It’s daunting. It’s exhausting. Many people never try at all and many who do try, give up.
“I have sort of cornered myself, via my good taste, ha ha.” Love that!
The message, to me, from George’s post this week is: Trust yourself. But more than that, the message is: Keep going.
"I’ve often thought that our first scale-model of the universe comes to us by way of our mother’s attitude toward us. 'Does it like me? Will it be nice to me? Am I o.k.? Is it all right to take some chances out there?'”
And here's to those of us who haven't read the rest of this email yet because we close the window every time we reach this paragraph.
Another excellent exercise. Thank you George. What I think we are talking about here is trusting oneself to write, and then later applying an objective or critical perspective to the work in the process of revision. A delicate balance is required. Often, I hear a sort of nasty voice on my shoulder saying, "Who do you think you're kidding?" IF I can get past that, and accept that a first draft (or sometimes a tenth draft!) is not going to be very good at all, if I can allow myself to continue to try, something eventually will occur that is useful. Only then, for me, does the real fun begin. I need to be careful not to get too impressed with what I am writing - that can get in the way too - but when there is something there, sometimes I can find a way to be inside of it, to occupy it fully. Then it becomes authentic, and perhaps it will be of interest to others, but what I love most is the process and the feeling of being fully engaged. I crave the feeling of this engagement. Aristotle defined happiness as "the full use of one's powers along lines of excellence". My powers may be limited - I truly have no way to measure them - but when I am using them fully, engaged completely in what I am working on, then I am happiest and I am eager to go back in my study to do it again. The proverbial blank page is the worst part. Revision is the best part. In the end, it's quite easy to see the difference between good work and work that is not so good. I'd like to think that over time, the work has improved. The comparison exercise bears that out.
Happy Mother's Day to all. I was lucky enough to have my mother in my life until I was in my early 60s. And I have been very lucky in my own family, with my wife and three wonderful grown children, two sons-in-law, many siblings and nieces and nephews, and a granddaughter - a beautiful baby born last year. Parenting required a lot of revision, too!
Personally, I still really struggle with this part of the process:
"I get a little panicked at the thought that this version might somehow makes its way out into the world. This then translates into a feeling of resolve and even relief: it’s not been sent out yet, so I can still make it better."
As an unpublished fiction writer, when I'm working on a short story and I get to this point, my version of this panic feels so intensely personal and wrapped up with my own self-worth.
My version would be more like: "I get a little panicked at the thought" .... 'that I'm a complete and utter failure, and all the tricks I've had to mentally conjure in order to convince myself that I can do this (i.e.: write a decent story) and it's worth this time and effort sitting here are actually just a delusional aspect of my weak, feeble, flawed mind, which shouldn't be trusted, and will probably lead to the destruction of all the things I hold dear (family, friendships, relative financial stability, etc.).'
I can settle this thought-cycle down a bit with perspective, by reminding myself how fortunate and privileged I am to even be able to spending time thinking about this kind of thing, and having an honest outlet of opportunity to act on it (i.e.: I'm in good health, I'm safe, I am relatively free of the type of financial and/or familial restrictions that more than half the world has, etc.)
And then, after settling down a bit, I do often get to a version of: "All of my extant, self-congratulatory aesthetic ideas about the piece and its virtues get called rather rudely into question."
But then, (and I think this is the most critical juncture for me to be somewhat aware of), instead of: "These ideas are felt as a form of fearful scaffolding; they suddenly feel placeholderish and timid, like a sort of ceiling that I have, in my insecurity, placed on the work." At this point, I often cling to and double-down on the IDEAS and CONCEPTS, so they are a sort of fearful scaffolding for me, but instead of letting them fall away, I try to firm them up, secure them, make them permanent.
Which then, literally makes the story draft process at that point like trying to climb over a bulwark of fear, which I admit, leads me too often to run away. (The only promising part of that, is even with those challenges, I still can't stay away from starting all over at some point and doing it over again, going on for 20+ years now -- I could fill volumes with my "unfinished" stories.)
Also in some ways, those ideas and concepts do feel like the only thing I have to pull me into the story. For example, I think of a recent interview I heard with Charles Yu, and he mentioned how he often feels like he needs "sci-fi" concepts/ideas for stories, books, etc. to keep him engaged enough to play around with the story, and to eventually get to the small human moments within it that make it truly resonate.
I really related to Yu's explanation of that. I often feel like those ideas are what I need to get me "into" the story. And I have been fortunate enough (a few times) to let go and discover the magic that happens when the story becomes something else entirely, and those original ideas do fall away. I know this is when my writing becomes the most readable and potentially enjoyable.
I suppose this all amounts to me working better at letting the fear scaffolding fall away, and to trusting more in the value of doing this work versus getting stuck on pondering the value of what this work will become. (And I know, I know...that's sort of what this time and space listening/reading to George, and all of you at Story Club, is all about.)
I read today a comment on Twitter which said "Hot poetry tip: if you want to improve a poem you’re struggling with, submit it. Then read over your submission, and you will suddenly see what needs to be changed." (@NatalieGMarino) and I think it holds well for short stories, too, as I have frequently had that experience. This post really helped me in thinking about how to SEE those rough patches before I hit "Submit."
It's too easy to read over something you've revised a bunch of times, and take parts for granted as fine, rather than to do what you say here, which is look at them compared to your ideal idea of writing, and see where they fall short. Kind of brutal, but so necessary.
I tried the exercise with two Flannery O’Connor stories, in fact the first and last of her Complete Stories, “The Geranium” and “Judgment Day,” both about an old Southern man feeling cramped and unhappy in his daughter’s New York City apartment, which he regrets moving into. Right from the first sentence of “Judgment Day” I can discern one big difference: in this story (unlike the other) the man has a clear desire and intention, namely to “escape” and get back South. This later story also feels more deftly layered with flashbacks and flashbacks-within-flashbacks, and the details feel more, well, organized. I also think O’Connor had realized that writing about the South was her strength, so much more of the later story takes place there (via flashback). Finally, the meaning of the story feels more direct and precise—not summarizable here, maybe, but something to do with the man’s comeuppance for being a racist (albeit a racist in a complicated way that involves longing for the days of friendship with a black man back home).
The note on losing the "treasured bits, the gems" was such a challenge for me in both my fiction and non-fiction. I solved it by cutting the phrase/sentence/paragraph out, printing it and pinning it to my bulletin board. It still exists but I am able to get on with the work at hand.
On the issue of loseness vs. precision, I immediately thought of the improvisation of jazz around a base structure or understanding. I see the City Lights clip much this same way.
This is a timely article, as I've just submitted my author's notes for an anthology about revision. Specifically, notes about the difference between the story I submitted to the magazine, and the version that was reworked with the editor, and my thoughts about it.
I won't post my notes here (I have a contract to honor). But I will address the question: I'm not sure how to tell when something is polished. I'm working with the same editor on another story, and his most frequent comment is "Polish"! Maybe the sentence structure is too flat, or it's merely a bridge to get to the point rather than being a beautiful part of the pathway, or etc. The great irony is that the story is one that I challenged myself to finish in under 15 hours, because that last one that got published I worked on for over 80! And I was goddamned sick of it! I wanted to submit something before I strangled my love for it.
I guess if I had to put my finger on it, polish is when insufficient attention has been paid to the details. And overworking is when I've gone over something so often that I've forgotten the greater purpose of the story--and don't get a damn about it anymore. Under-polished stories and overworked stories are editorial opposites. But I'd rather have a story that needs polish than one that's overworked. A lack of polish just needs a gob of spit, a clean cloth, and elbow grease. When something's overworked, I throw the entire manuscript away and start rewriting from line one, trying to remember what I loved about it in the first place.
When I deem a story ready to send to magazines, it's when I've taken the story as far as I could with the skills I have and that further changes are only changes and not improvements. Working with a writing group or an editor whose opinion I trust has helped me find the spots that could use polish. I'm still early enough in my writing career that I don't have many published work available, and those that are out show an enormous jump in quality with each one. Much thanks to you, George--your book and this substack has helped enormously.
This was the most important part of your post for me, George, especially the last sentence: "The escalation is more decisive, everything seems more to purpose. At all times, it seems, the story is posing a question, and we know, roughly, what it is. Expectations are arising and the story is, if not addressing them, taking them into account. We feel in connection with the author, who seems to “see” us - to know where we are at each moment." One day, I'm going to print up all your posts and take them and my dog out to the big lawn in the park and read them again in the open air and sun.
Ellen - you might be interested in this( I’m certainly excited because I love Jewish history):The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem. It’s a new series landing soon on Netflix about the Sephardic community in Old Jerusalem through several decades. It’s described as a romantic melodrama and at its heart is a shepardic boy whose family forbid him to marry an Ashkenazi girl. It’s made by the same Israeli production company that made Fauda and Shtisel (my absolute fave) and features some of the same actors.
It’s going to be subtitles, because apparently the script features Hebrew, Arabic, some English and - fantastically - Ladino. You probably know that that’s the Judeo-Spanish language spoken by Spanish Jews during the great flowering of Jewish culture there in the Middle Ages. The equivalent of Ashkenazi Yiddish. There are very few speakers of it left, as far as I understand. Xxxx
Sorry to be late in response again, but I have made the long trip back from Vinegar Hollow to Ithaca and was happy to read all the responses. I can relate to all of them. One of my particular problems relates to what mary g. says below about having "real clarity about your likes and dislikes." I admire so many writers and many of them are very different. It's the same with dressing. I admire many styles of clothing, but I have never known how I want to look, not that I am exactly a chameleon, just that I can't get a style down, though I do get dressed and face the world and some days I am more put together than others. So, with reference to writing, what I do know is that if you write enough, you can find it--your particular style, your flow, your way of being on the page--and it can't be Katherine Mansfield, or Tolstoy, or George Saunders, even though I have clarity about why I love these great writers. I know, by practice, how I feel comfortable on the page in my natural history blog posts, but I am trying to find out I might feel comfortable in fiction writing. I got four chapters into a novel and took a class with a published, successful novelist, who was kind and helpful, but someone in the class said "you need to learn how to write!" That was embarrassing, but if she meant that the writing was stilted, I would have to concur. Now I am old enough to feel comfortable with experimentation, embarrassment, and failure. I am going to play with a short story called "Binary," a title that someone (Rob?) suggested based on the first sentence exercise. I am worried it might be too autobiographical, but I can also feel that while my personal experience provides a framework I might veer into magical realism because of reading One Hundred Years of Solitude while to-ing and fro-ing to that incredibly boring job. I hope all this makes sense. While I might seem to be asserting that there is some kind of inevitability of how one is on the page despite one's desire to be like someone else, I do totally believe in craft. I love thinking and writing about writing. Thank you, George, for opening up so many avenues of discussion. I love your discursive narratives!!!
Endless revision is a kind of hell if you don't have that ability to discern in the optometrist's big heavy goggle things - which is better - A....? or B....?
Developing the discrimination - exploring what that is for each of us - that's the thing I'm learning about here or hope I am.
I drive myself nuts. I have access to all the earlier drafts of my kids' novel (not each iteration of each chapter in each draft but -- actually many of those too!).
Yesterday I went back to draft 3 looking for a thing I needed -- a factoid actually -- and came across writing that seems really not any different in quality from what I'm working on in the parallel chapter in draft 6. I thought it was quite good, and wondered what I've been up to in all the years since that draft.
However -- what is different is my attention to the hooks and - even to resonances between the hooks - that make the story a story. That is much sharpened under George's guidance.
The things being hooked together have their own littler hooks, and I'm getting better at those too. Hooks within hooks within hooks.
But as to the direction - that's another thing. As to what is BEING hooked. There I'm having problems. What belongs in THIS story? What is distracting or extraneous? What follows are specifics. You don't have to carry on - the above rant is really my current situation as regards Story Club and what I'm learning! However... if anybody is curious --
I want my 1962 Cuban Missiles on the way - spy and space (Telstar) - mystery story for 12 year olds to have a family Cold War too. My protagonist learns that her dad is estranged from HIS dad -- a grandfather she didn't know existed -- and she helps to bring about a reconciliation. And gains a lovely grandfather into the bargain.
To me it's a terrific (and entwined) parallel.
To my critique partners - it's another book. The book without it is great, they say -- and I'm happy that they think so! BUT
I WANT this thickening of the texture. I want the protagonist to learn things about her family and end the cold war there too. And in the course of the microfilm/spy/"Tell Kennedy!" challenges - she also learns more about who she is, which is different from who she thought she was as a younger child (a "leader" like her sea captain dad). She sheds that persona and gives new weight to - other and more authentic and central aspects of herself as she is growing and developing into them.
I mean isn't this what fun and exciting and really good reads do?
Or are my partners right and I need to keep my arrow flight single and focused and the story will just be really so much stronger and better that way.
I can't decide.
I know the workshops on kid lit etc are on the side of my critique partners, who are astute and I respect them - but... I REALLY want this family aspect.
And there's the rub: what we want may not, in fact, be the best thing for the story.
Hit a couple of little snags in this post - do I even know what my best writing is or where to find it? I've got a queasy feeling about that.
But mostly, not such a little snag, really, is the whole conception of urgency as it applies to writing. This would seem to lie at the polar opposite (not to confuse elephants with polar bears) from procrastination. I like the analogy of cleaning the house a few days vs. a few hours before a party. Being something of a clean freak, which is to say, being better at cleaning than sitting down to write or revise. A thing that can be discouraging is the little nagging thought that, no matter how many damn times I polish it, chances are practically true that no one, give or take a rejector here or there, will ever see my writing. The same is basically true of my living room, but somehow that doesn't bother me quite as much. In fact, I'm relieved that most people will never see my living room, even when it is clean.
How did I end up here, I wonder?
I can see how thinking, this story I'm working on is likely eventually going to be read by lots and lots of individuals who are interested in literature and want to know what I'm up to lately, could indeed concentrate the mind.
I'd be on it in no time, myself.
But maybe what GS is saying is, the idea that you are participating in this grand project called art while you are still alive and able (I already regret phrasing it like that but) is motivation enough. Or could be, if you could only get your mind turned around to feeling that way about it.
Definitely does seem like a wonderful gift, if you are by nature or aptitude already turned around to that way of feeling about it. Inspiration comes in many forms too, and to be open to it is also a gift, I feel.
I wonder what this strange lethargy is other than, I'm sure no one will ever see this.
Strategies for outwitting it, anyone? Besides dire threats, I mean.
George's interest in "More pronounced and intentional causation" is key for me, because it's been a hole in much of my fiction for a long time. I find now, as part of my learning here, that knowing what my protagonist really, really wants becomes an anchor for me, a stabilizing force. It may take some time to achieve, but it then drives the story. It's a particular thing to work with, rather than the mass of emotion and structural questions that can overwhelm.
Both my kids called me yesterday and my spouse took me out for dinner, and my flower garden is blooming away. Happy Mother's Day to writing mothers everywhere, especially to you Story Clubbers.
Happy Mother’s Day, to all of us. My own mother is dead and gone, and so I also want to give a shout out to those of us who have lost our mothers or those for whom motherhood wasn’t possible or chosen, or those who once had children and no longer have them. It’s a beautiful day but can also be a tough one. Peace and love to all of you.
George writes: "There is literally no wrong answer. The value lies in clarifying one’s preferences, asking, with ever-increasing intensity and honesty: “What do I like? And why?”"
But in order to get to this point—to the point when you can ask yourself “what do I like and why?”—takes a self-confidence, trust, and the ability to not care what others may think—and that’s not always easy. It’s also, surprisingly, not always easy to form a clear opinion in the first place, to know what you like or don’t like, as your true feelings can often become obscured by an overlay of feelings and thoughts disconnected from your visceral self. We are so overwhelmed by what the world tells us to think! And our own personal biases and histories can get in the way so much that we don’t recognize art when we see it, or our own feelings when we feel them. And then we read and learn about art so that we feel safer about making assumptions and having opinions—and that education can get in the way, too! Being told what is “good art” isn’t always helpful! Then again, who wants to fall in love with something only to find out later that the rest of the world finds it trite and worthless? That sense of humiliation, to realize you’ve missed something that the cognoscenti know—it’s not a good feeling. To have real clarity about your own likes and dislikes—it’s hard, but worth striving for.
Elsewhere, George has written this: “It’s kind of crazy, but, in my experience, that’s the whole game: 1) becoming convinced that there is a voice inside you that really, really knows what it likes, and 2) getting better at hearing that voice and acting on its behalf.”
Here, “number two” is where the hang up is. Even if you've gotten better at locating that voice inside of you, the true voice that can separate itself from all of the world that is screaming at you and telling you what to think, there may still still be a problem with “…and acting on its behalf.” Yes, that is the goal. But good luck with "acting on its behalf." That’s where the mystery is. We can use that dial in our brain that George talks about (negative/positive) and (probably) see that much of what we’ve written falls on the “negative” side. But to fix it—that’s the rub. George writes of using one’s intuition, which is akin to listening to that voice in your head. But for beginners, that may mean hundreds of attempts, over and over again. Listening, and then realizing you were wrong. Listening again. It’s daunting. It’s exhausting. Many people never try at all and many who do try, give up.
“I have sort of cornered myself, via my good taste, ha ha.” Love that!
The message, to me, from George’s post this week is: Trust yourself. But more than that, the message is: Keep going.
"I’ve often thought that our first scale-model of the universe comes to us by way of our mother’s attitude toward us. 'Does it like me? Will it be nice to me? Am I o.k.? Is it all right to take some chances out there?'”
And here's to those of us who haven't read the rest of this email yet because we close the window every time we reach this paragraph.
Another excellent exercise. Thank you George. What I think we are talking about here is trusting oneself to write, and then later applying an objective or critical perspective to the work in the process of revision. A delicate balance is required. Often, I hear a sort of nasty voice on my shoulder saying, "Who do you think you're kidding?" IF I can get past that, and accept that a first draft (or sometimes a tenth draft!) is not going to be very good at all, if I can allow myself to continue to try, something eventually will occur that is useful. Only then, for me, does the real fun begin. I need to be careful not to get too impressed with what I am writing - that can get in the way too - but when there is something there, sometimes I can find a way to be inside of it, to occupy it fully. Then it becomes authentic, and perhaps it will be of interest to others, but what I love most is the process and the feeling of being fully engaged. I crave the feeling of this engagement. Aristotle defined happiness as "the full use of one's powers along lines of excellence". My powers may be limited - I truly have no way to measure them - but when I am using them fully, engaged completely in what I am working on, then I am happiest and I am eager to go back in my study to do it again. The proverbial blank page is the worst part. Revision is the best part. In the end, it's quite easy to see the difference between good work and work that is not so good. I'd like to think that over time, the work has improved. The comparison exercise bears that out.
Happy Mother's Day to all. I was lucky enough to have my mother in my life until I was in my early 60s. And I have been very lucky in my own family, with my wife and three wonderful grown children, two sons-in-law, many siblings and nieces and nephews, and a granddaughter - a beautiful baby born last year. Parenting required a lot of revision, too!
Personally, I still really struggle with this part of the process:
"I get a little panicked at the thought that this version might somehow makes its way out into the world. This then translates into a feeling of resolve and even relief: it’s not been sent out yet, so I can still make it better."
As an unpublished fiction writer, when I'm working on a short story and I get to this point, my version of this panic feels so intensely personal and wrapped up with my own self-worth.
My version would be more like: "I get a little panicked at the thought" .... 'that I'm a complete and utter failure, and all the tricks I've had to mentally conjure in order to convince myself that I can do this (i.e.: write a decent story) and it's worth this time and effort sitting here are actually just a delusional aspect of my weak, feeble, flawed mind, which shouldn't be trusted, and will probably lead to the destruction of all the things I hold dear (family, friendships, relative financial stability, etc.).'
I can settle this thought-cycle down a bit with perspective, by reminding myself how fortunate and privileged I am to even be able to spending time thinking about this kind of thing, and having an honest outlet of opportunity to act on it (i.e.: I'm in good health, I'm safe, I am relatively free of the type of financial and/or familial restrictions that more than half the world has, etc.)
And then, after settling down a bit, I do often get to a version of: "All of my extant, self-congratulatory aesthetic ideas about the piece and its virtues get called rather rudely into question."
But then, (and I think this is the most critical juncture for me to be somewhat aware of), instead of: "These ideas are felt as a form of fearful scaffolding; they suddenly feel placeholderish and timid, like a sort of ceiling that I have, in my insecurity, placed on the work." At this point, I often cling to and double-down on the IDEAS and CONCEPTS, so they are a sort of fearful scaffolding for me, but instead of letting them fall away, I try to firm them up, secure them, make them permanent.
Which then, literally makes the story draft process at that point like trying to climb over a bulwark of fear, which I admit, leads me too often to run away. (The only promising part of that, is even with those challenges, I still can't stay away from starting all over at some point and doing it over again, going on for 20+ years now -- I could fill volumes with my "unfinished" stories.)
Also in some ways, those ideas and concepts do feel like the only thing I have to pull me into the story. For example, I think of a recent interview I heard with Charles Yu, and he mentioned how he often feels like he needs "sci-fi" concepts/ideas for stories, books, etc. to keep him engaged enough to play around with the story, and to eventually get to the small human moments within it that make it truly resonate.
I really related to Yu's explanation of that. I often feel like those ideas are what I need to get me "into" the story. And I have been fortunate enough (a few times) to let go and discover the magic that happens when the story becomes something else entirely, and those original ideas do fall away. I know this is when my writing becomes the most readable and potentially enjoyable.
I suppose this all amounts to me working better at letting the fear scaffolding fall away, and to trusting more in the value of doing this work versus getting stuck on pondering the value of what this work will become. (And I know, I know...that's sort of what this time and space listening/reading to George, and all of you at Story Club, is all about.)
So thanks, sorry for going on too long.
I read today a comment on Twitter which said "Hot poetry tip: if you want to improve a poem you’re struggling with, submit it. Then read over your submission, and you will suddenly see what needs to be changed." (@NatalieGMarino) and I think it holds well for short stories, too, as I have frequently had that experience. This post really helped me in thinking about how to SEE those rough patches before I hit "Submit."
It's too easy to read over something you've revised a bunch of times, and take parts for granted as fine, rather than to do what you say here, which is look at them compared to your ideal idea of writing, and see where they fall short. Kind of brutal, but so necessary.
Loved this post, George!
I tried the exercise with two Flannery O’Connor stories, in fact the first and last of her Complete Stories, “The Geranium” and “Judgment Day,” both about an old Southern man feeling cramped and unhappy in his daughter’s New York City apartment, which he regrets moving into. Right from the first sentence of “Judgment Day” I can discern one big difference: in this story (unlike the other) the man has a clear desire and intention, namely to “escape” and get back South. This later story also feels more deftly layered with flashbacks and flashbacks-within-flashbacks, and the details feel more, well, organized. I also think O’Connor had realized that writing about the South was her strength, so much more of the later story takes place there (via flashback). Finally, the meaning of the story feels more direct and precise—not summarizable here, maybe, but something to do with the man’s comeuppance for being a racist (albeit a racist in a complicated way that involves longing for the days of friendship with a black man back home).
The note on losing the "treasured bits, the gems" was such a challenge for me in both my fiction and non-fiction. I solved it by cutting the phrase/sentence/paragraph out, printing it and pinning it to my bulletin board. It still exists but I am able to get on with the work at hand.
On the issue of loseness vs. precision, I immediately thought of the improvisation of jazz around a base structure or understanding. I see the City Lights clip much this same way.
This is a timely article, as I've just submitted my author's notes for an anthology about revision. Specifically, notes about the difference between the story I submitted to the magazine, and the version that was reworked with the editor, and my thoughts about it.
I won't post my notes here (I have a contract to honor). But I will address the question: I'm not sure how to tell when something is polished. I'm working with the same editor on another story, and his most frequent comment is "Polish"! Maybe the sentence structure is too flat, or it's merely a bridge to get to the point rather than being a beautiful part of the pathway, or etc. The great irony is that the story is one that I challenged myself to finish in under 15 hours, because that last one that got published I worked on for over 80! And I was goddamned sick of it! I wanted to submit something before I strangled my love for it.
I guess if I had to put my finger on it, polish is when insufficient attention has been paid to the details. And overworking is when I've gone over something so often that I've forgotten the greater purpose of the story--and don't get a damn about it anymore. Under-polished stories and overworked stories are editorial opposites. But I'd rather have a story that needs polish than one that's overworked. A lack of polish just needs a gob of spit, a clean cloth, and elbow grease. When something's overworked, I throw the entire manuscript away and start rewriting from line one, trying to remember what I loved about it in the first place.
When I deem a story ready to send to magazines, it's when I've taken the story as far as I could with the skills I have and that further changes are only changes and not improvements. Working with a writing group or an editor whose opinion I trust has helped me find the spots that could use polish. I'm still early enough in my writing career that I don't have many published work available, and those that are out show an enormous jump in quality with each one. Much thanks to you, George--your book and this substack has helped enormously.
This was the most important part of your post for me, George, especially the last sentence: "The escalation is more decisive, everything seems more to purpose. At all times, it seems, the story is posing a question, and we know, roughly, what it is. Expectations are arising and the story is, if not addressing them, taking them into account. We feel in connection with the author, who seems to “see” us - to know where we are at each moment." One day, I'm going to print up all your posts and take them and my dog out to the big lawn in the park and read them again in the open air and sun.
Ellen - you might be interested in this( I’m certainly excited because I love Jewish history):The Beauty Queen of Jerusalem. It’s a new series landing soon on Netflix about the Sephardic community in Old Jerusalem through several decades. It’s described as a romantic melodrama and at its heart is a shepardic boy whose family forbid him to marry an Ashkenazi girl. It’s made by the same Israeli production company that made Fauda and Shtisel (my absolute fave) and features some of the same actors.
It’s going to be subtitles, because apparently the script features Hebrew, Arabic, some English and - fantastically - Ladino. You probably know that that’s the Judeo-Spanish language spoken by Spanish Jews during the great flowering of Jewish culture there in the Middle Ages. The equivalent of Ashkenazi Yiddish. There are very few speakers of it left, as far as I understand. Xxxx
Sorry to be late in response again, but I have made the long trip back from Vinegar Hollow to Ithaca and was happy to read all the responses. I can relate to all of them. One of my particular problems relates to what mary g. says below about having "real clarity about your likes and dislikes." I admire so many writers and many of them are very different. It's the same with dressing. I admire many styles of clothing, but I have never known how I want to look, not that I am exactly a chameleon, just that I can't get a style down, though I do get dressed and face the world and some days I am more put together than others. So, with reference to writing, what I do know is that if you write enough, you can find it--your particular style, your flow, your way of being on the page--and it can't be Katherine Mansfield, or Tolstoy, or George Saunders, even though I have clarity about why I love these great writers. I know, by practice, how I feel comfortable on the page in my natural history blog posts, but I am trying to find out I might feel comfortable in fiction writing. I got four chapters into a novel and took a class with a published, successful novelist, who was kind and helpful, but someone in the class said "you need to learn how to write!" That was embarrassing, but if she meant that the writing was stilted, I would have to concur. Now I am old enough to feel comfortable with experimentation, embarrassment, and failure. I am going to play with a short story called "Binary," a title that someone (Rob?) suggested based on the first sentence exercise. I am worried it might be too autobiographical, but I can also feel that while my personal experience provides a framework I might veer into magical realism because of reading One Hundred Years of Solitude while to-ing and fro-ing to that incredibly boring job. I hope all this makes sense. While I might seem to be asserting that there is some kind of inevitability of how one is on the page despite one's desire to be like someone else, I do totally believe in craft. I love thinking and writing about writing. Thank you, George, for opening up so many avenues of discussion. I love your discursive narratives!!!
I like so much George’s idea of taking a passage (or story or scene) that one has written that seems to work and just holding it as a kind of measure.
Still any trust in my opinion/taste about my own work often requires months. Sometimes longer. Time.
You have a lovely family, George. And I’m only feeling the equivalent of a toenail.
Endless revision is a kind of hell if you don't have that ability to discern in the optometrist's big heavy goggle things - which is better - A....? or B....?
Developing the discrimination - exploring what that is for each of us - that's the thing I'm learning about here or hope I am.
I drive myself nuts. I have access to all the earlier drafts of my kids' novel (not each iteration of each chapter in each draft but -- actually many of those too!).
Yesterday I went back to draft 3 looking for a thing I needed -- a factoid actually -- and came across writing that seems really not any different in quality from what I'm working on in the parallel chapter in draft 6. I thought it was quite good, and wondered what I've been up to in all the years since that draft.
However -- what is different is my attention to the hooks and - even to resonances between the hooks - that make the story a story. That is much sharpened under George's guidance.
The things being hooked together have their own littler hooks, and I'm getting better at those too. Hooks within hooks within hooks.
But as to the direction - that's another thing. As to what is BEING hooked. There I'm having problems. What belongs in THIS story? What is distracting or extraneous? What follows are specifics. You don't have to carry on - the above rant is really my current situation as regards Story Club and what I'm learning! However... if anybody is curious --
I want my 1962 Cuban Missiles on the way - spy and space (Telstar) - mystery story for 12 year olds to have a family Cold War too. My protagonist learns that her dad is estranged from HIS dad -- a grandfather she didn't know existed -- and she helps to bring about a reconciliation. And gains a lovely grandfather into the bargain.
To me it's a terrific (and entwined) parallel.
To my critique partners - it's another book. The book without it is great, they say -- and I'm happy that they think so! BUT
I WANT this thickening of the texture. I want the protagonist to learn things about her family and end the cold war there too. And in the course of the microfilm/spy/"Tell Kennedy!" challenges - she also learns more about who she is, which is different from who she thought she was as a younger child (a "leader" like her sea captain dad). She sheds that persona and gives new weight to - other and more authentic and central aspects of herself as she is growing and developing into them.
I mean isn't this what fun and exciting and really good reads do?
Or are my partners right and I need to keep my arrow flight single and focused and the story will just be really so much stronger and better that way.
I can't decide.
I know the workshops on kid lit etc are on the side of my critique partners, who are astute and I respect them - but... I REALLY want this family aspect.
And there's the rub: what we want may not, in fact, be the best thing for the story.
And how do we tell?
I'm in a real dilemma here!
Hit a couple of little snags in this post - do I even know what my best writing is or where to find it? I've got a queasy feeling about that.
But mostly, not such a little snag, really, is the whole conception of urgency as it applies to writing. This would seem to lie at the polar opposite (not to confuse elephants with polar bears) from procrastination. I like the analogy of cleaning the house a few days vs. a few hours before a party. Being something of a clean freak, which is to say, being better at cleaning than sitting down to write or revise. A thing that can be discouraging is the little nagging thought that, no matter how many damn times I polish it, chances are practically true that no one, give or take a rejector here or there, will ever see my writing. The same is basically true of my living room, but somehow that doesn't bother me quite as much. In fact, I'm relieved that most people will never see my living room, even when it is clean.
How did I end up here, I wonder?
I can see how thinking, this story I'm working on is likely eventually going to be read by lots and lots of individuals who are interested in literature and want to know what I'm up to lately, could indeed concentrate the mind.
I'd be on it in no time, myself.
But maybe what GS is saying is, the idea that you are participating in this grand project called art while you are still alive and able (I already regret phrasing it like that but) is motivation enough. Or could be, if you could only get your mind turned around to feeling that way about it.
Definitely does seem like a wonderful gift, if you are by nature or aptitude already turned around to that way of feeling about it. Inspiration comes in many forms too, and to be open to it is also a gift, I feel.
I wonder what this strange lethargy is other than, I'm sure no one will ever see this.
Strategies for outwitting it, anyone? Besides dire threats, I mean.
George's interest in "More pronounced and intentional causation" is key for me, because it's been a hole in much of my fiction for a long time. I find now, as part of my learning here, that knowing what my protagonist really, really wants becomes an anchor for me, a stabilizing force. It may take some time to achieve, but it then drives the story. It's a particular thing to work with, rather than the mass of emotion and structural questions that can overwhelm.
Both my kids called me yesterday and my spouse took me out for dinner, and my flower garden is blooming away. Happy Mother's Day to writing mothers everywhere, especially to you Story Clubbers.