Writing Dulls the Pain

It may be that art, like drugs, is a way of dulling or controlling pain. Eloquently articulating a feeling is one way to avoid actually experiencing it. Words are only symbols, noises or marks on paper, and turning the messy, ugly stuff of life into language renders it inert and manageable for the author, even as it intensifies it for the reader. It’s a nerdy, sensitive kid’s way of turning suffering into something safely abstract, an object of contemplation. I suspect most of the people who write all that furious invective on the internet, professional polemicists and semiliterate commenters alike, are lashing out because they’ve been hurt — their sense of fairness or decency has been outraged, or they feel personally wounded or threatened. Writing may ultimately be less an offensive weapon, like the proverbial rapier, than a shield.

TIM KREIDER

This Time

When I start to write something, I suppose I want it to change me, to make me into something not myself. And while I’m doing it, I really have the feeling that this time, at the end of it, I will be other than myself. Of course, every time I end a book, I look down at myself and I’m just the same. I’m always disappointed that I’m just the same, but not enough to never do it again! I get right back up and I start something else, and I think this time — this time — I really will be transformed into something other than this tawdry, ordinary thing, sitting on the bed and drinking cold coffee. When I write a book, I hope to be beyond mortal by the time I’m finished.

JAMAICA KINCAID

Write It Down

I keep lots of notebooks. My only criteria was whatever stops me for an instant in my tracks—and that doesn’t mean physically, but if I notice something, something that seems wonderful or horrible—write it down. It’s a word, write it down. If it’s a recipe, write it down. Do not ask why or is this important. Because again, I’m trying to listen to whatever is tingling on the edges of consciousness.

RITA DOVE

The Studio Grinder

The cliché about the studio grinder—that it will take an idea and beat it up until it’s unrecognizable—well, there’s truth to it. There’s also truth to the fact that really good screenplays do survive; really good screenplays do get through the system. If you’re writing a movie that needs to be a studio picture, then you can’t go in thinking it’s going to be mangled. You have to go in thinking that you’re making a great movie. Mangling is just part of the process.

RON SHELTON

Creativity Begins in Darkness

Creativity – like human life itself – begins in darkness. We need to acknowledge this. All too often, we think only in terms of light: “And then the lightbulb went on and I got it!” It is true that insights may come to us as flashes. It is true that some of these flashes may be blinding. It is, however, also true that such bright ideas are preceded by a gestation period that is interior, murky, and completely necessary.

JULIA CAMERON

Getting Even

Getting even is one great reason for writing. The precise statement of the motive is tricky, but the clearest expression of my unwholesome nature and my mean motives (apart from trying to write well) appears in a line I like in “In the Heart of the Heart of the Country.” The character says, “I want to rise so high that when I shit I won’t miss anybody.” . . . I also take considerable pleasure in giving obnoxious ideas the best expression I can. But getting even isn’t necessarily vicious. There are two ways of getting even: one is destructive and the other is restorative. It depends on how the scales are weighted. Justice, I think, is the word I want.

WILLIAM H. GASS

Selfish Writing

Most of the fact writing has become selfish writing. The writers don’t think about the reader but about themselves. They’re all trying to show their wonderful minds and their unique unhappinesses and their fascinating adjustments and so on. Writing is for the reader. [The reader] always comes first.

MAEVE BRENNAN

Expressive Frustration

Writer’s block — or, maybe more accurately, a writer’s expressive frustration — has many presenting symptoms and many causes, but it is at root language-related. Versions of creative stasis may afflict those who practice in other fields — painters and composers can find themselves short of ideas or inspiration — but the situation is not quite the same. Certainly we never hear anything comparable affecting statesmen, lawyers, coaches, electricians or pastry chefs. This affliction afflicts self-anointed users of language, writers, and because their medium of choice — or compulsion — happens to be the universal medium of consciousness and communication, it takes on a metaphysical inflection. If language is the distinctive human feature, its single greatest evolutionary feat, then writers are in a most privileged and vulnerable situation. In the movement from ape to apex, the engaged — successful — use of language, literary expression, represents the latter. It follows then that a frustration or failure in its use must be seen as something more sweepingly indicative as well. The fact that any true success is rare and difficult is not consoling to the person who is failing in the attempt.

SVEN BIRKERTS

Most Bad Writers Are Confident

Most great writers suffer and have no idea how good they are. Most bad writers are very confident. Be willing to be a child and be the Lilliputian in the world of Gulliver, the bat girl in Yankee Stadium. That’s a more fruitful way to be.

MARY KARR

Go Straight to It

I give it the first energy of the day. When I get up, I go to my office and start writing. I’m still in my pajamas. I haven’t even brushed my teeth. I just go straight to it. I feel that there’s a little package of creative energy that’s somehow been nourished by sleep and I don’t want to waste that. I’ll work for an hour or two until I feel like I’ve got something going. Then I can get washed and dressed.

SALMAN RUSHDIE