First Drafts

In the last few months—actually years—I have spent most of my creative time revising and re-revising several works in progress. Now I’ve finished all those, and it’s time to write something new.

Help!

I heard Andrea Barrett say that her cat wrote better first drafts than she did. I think that the tick I’m about to detach from my dog could write a better first draft than I could right now, because I am not attached to a dog, or anything. To write well, you need to be attached to at least the glimmer of an idea, otherwise it feels like I’m spewing a lot of empty dribble.

First drafts, for me, are the absolute scariest things, because I don’t outline, or plan. I simply improvise until I find a theme that calls to me. I eventually get to a good place, but it’s a bit like trying to find your way to a small house on a dirt road three hundred miles away without a map, directions, or a GPS.

Needless to say, I do a lot of extra driving.

I had to drive home from Boston yesterday—two hours in the torrential rain. My son has finally talked me into letting him do music at the New England Conservatory Preparatory Program. For years, I’ve said, “Over my dead body.” This year, I finally agreed, provided he was willing to take the bus, if we couldn’t find a large carpool. But yesterday was registration day, so I had to go in person. It certainly reinforced my reluctance about the whole idea, but I plunked down the money, so somehow, we’ve got to figure out a way to get him there every week.

At least we have directions.

Fans

The Curse of Too Much Writing Time

This summer I’ve learned some hard things about myself: Even when I have open time I *can’t* write all day. Moreover, I find a million stupid things to do to distract myself from writing at all. I will not admit the number of games of computer solitaire I have played–the most insipid and useless way of wasting time. It’s all about avoiding that terror of emptiness–whether it’s the blank page or the blankness of too much time. This week has been a little bit easier, because I’ve spent the mornings taking my son to driver’s ed. Having a schedule again has provided the benefits of getting me up and moving, as well as three hours of enforced time in coffee shops, after which I give myself total permission to quit writing for the day. I’m glad I’m sliding into this routine at the end of summer, because it’s helping me feel better about the transition back to teaching. Strange as it sounds, I need not only structure to function, but also distraction–not the immediate distraction of loud music or phone calls, but the long-term distraction of having other things to do and think about, so that writing becomes precious, rather than an obligation.

So the trick now, as it always is in fall, will be how to balance my right brain life (writing) and my left brain life (teaching), not to mention the schedule dance of shlepping my son to music lessons across the state (it will be a while before he gets his license) and the countless other requirements of family life. And I’ve also learned that my brain (or my soul, or both) needs something new from time to time to jazz it. I’ve been a compulsive dabbler all my life, and at 51, most of the things I’ve dabbled in over the years seem old hat. But life without a passion creates passionless writing, so I’ll have to squeeze in a Spanish class, to keep up what I learned in Guatemala, or a community chorus or something to feed the muse.

I guarantee this: in two weeks I will not be complaining about too much empty time. I’ll read back on this entry and think I was nuts to even think this way.

Musings on Revision

I was intrigued by a post on LiveJournal (http://beckylevine.livejournal.com/55417.html) on the sticky note/large pad revision process, as I’ve been involved in one type of revision or another all summer. I have always told my writing group that I greatly prefer revision to initial writing, as I know what I’m working with, but lately revision has felt harder, perhaps because I’m not so easily filling in “the gaps” I see, which Becky referred to in a previous post. But persevere we must. I think of writing, especially in the revision process, as giving birth, final stage. You are pushing, pushing, pushing for that extra revealing detail, the character description or dialogue that will bring the person in your mind to life, the plot point that will push your theme where you want it to be, and at the same time add suspense and motivation to the reader. Sometimes, as I struggle over a section of my work that is flat, underwritten, or just plain bad, I mutter, “Push, push, push” to myself and write anything–just anything, to try to get the process flowing. It’s like an improv game I’ve learned. Two people start a scene with a prompt. They’re at the gas station, or a bowling alley. They start to talk, and if a third person, the moderator, doesn’t like what one of them says, they ring a little better, and the person has to come up with a different line, each time, taking the scene in a new direction.

Another revision model that has been helpful in keeping me going is the music metaphor. My children are both musicians. They’re always excited when they learn a piece well enough to “perform” it, which means getting the notes, the tempo, the dynamics and the technique with some fluidity. But that’s when the real learning begins, the nuances and the shading. That’s when they’ll start practicing the same passage over and over again to refine the technique and get just the right expression. And then, when they perform the same piece, viva la difference! Not that it was bad, the first time. But now there’s depth. And sometimes, just like in writing, their teachers will tell them to put a piece away to “season” it. And when they come back to it a few months or years later, it might take a while to relearn some of the notes, but ultimately the final performance is deeper, stronger, better, because they’ve learned a few things along the way that they can bring to the piece.

So, when I’m struggling, I like to think of writing like that. I like to think about the first time I heard my daughter play Debussy’s Clair de Lune, and how she plays it now, months later. I keep the vision that all this work will ultimately make the final product better, deeper, even if I have to rewrite the same chapter twenty, or thirty, or even one hundred times.

Vacations 3

After being home for three weeks, you wonder, were you ever really on vacation, which is one of the reasons I am stretching this blog post into three sections. Our final destination in Guatemala was Guatemala City, where we stayed with a family as part of our international host/traveler exchange, Servas. My family has been traveling this way for twenty-five years, and it has consistently provided us with the most awesome and memorable moments of our travels, as well as many new friends. Servas is not couch-surfing, nor is it a hotel or bed and breakfast. The goal of the organization is to facilitate peace by breaking down barriers between cultures. People visit for two nights, and the emphasis is on getting to know each other. Through Servas over the years, I have done things I had never planned to do while traveling, including attending a Welsh poetry recital at a local school, viewing a private collection of museum quality Native American art, riding a horse bareback (my daughter did this–I was chicken), and spending two days in a remote cabin in Ontario, accessible only by canoe.

And it was not in our travel plans to attend a reception at the National Palace with the President of Guatemala, but that it was what we did.

Our Servas host turned out to be the Director of the National Park System there, so after spending the evening before chatting with his friendly and hospitable family, and the day touring Guatemala City with his lovely twenty-year-old daughter, we stopped back at his office where he told us he wanted to bring us along to a presentation on sustainable tourism and preserving Mayan culture. And, oh yes, the President would be there.

In addition to the President’s short speech, we were treated to a performance of Mayan music and dance, and a video and presentation on the past, present, and future of the National Parks. Good thing our Spanish was in good shape by then. I didn’t get all of it, but I got about 80%.

Vacations 2

Hard to write about vacations after real life has insidiously slipped in. I think the part I like best about vacations is the feeling that the rest of my life doesn’t even exist. I am totally in another place, another moment. Lago Attitlan, in Guatemala, has that feeling of other worldness, and the town in which we stayed, San Pedro La Laguna, has a particular ex-hippie escapist feeling. We actually liked this area least of the three places we visited, despite the lake’s exquisite beauty, perhaps because it felt more like a tourist resort area rather than a place to experience real people and real culture. Nevertheless, there were some gems here: the indigenous village of Santiago Attitlan, where our eyes feasted on the luscious textiles in the marketplace,

and a small Mayan museum in San Pedro where we learned more about the costumes, religion and culture. And the vistas of the lake are not to be missed.

After Lago Attitlan we traveled to Quetzaltenango (usually called by its Mayan name of Xela), which was our favorite place in Guatemala. We loved the laid back feel (no one tried to sell us things on the street) of a real Guatemalan city, and the stunning architecture in the town square. We also appreciated the town’s progressive bent, especially a little cafe called La Fonda de Che (aka Guevara), which featured trova music (Latin American songs of protest). And outside the town, the Fuentes Georginas hot springs on the top of a mountain offered exquisite views and great bathing.

I could have stayed there longer, but the trip to an indigenous weaving cooperative of 600 women in a nearby small town was also a trip worth taking.

Next post: The surprise event of our final stop.

Vacations

I’ve been off blogging, off social networking sites, off all Internet activity other than quickly checking important email and sending notes to friends and family for three weeks.

It has been wonderful!

My husband and I took a two and a half week trip to Guatemala—alone. (Our teenage kids had their own plans.) Even though we can rarely stay put in one location for more than a few days, it was one of the smoothest, most hassle-free trips we have ever taken.

We started by spending a week in Antigua, a somewhat touristy, but architecturally beautiful colonial city with over 70 language schools. We studied at one of these schools and lived in a Guatemalan family with two other students.

The rule of the house was “No English.” While my Spanish improved significantly, it did give me pause to think how grateful I was that words—in English—at least, came easily. When writing, I often chew over exactly which words I want and how to place them to achieve the nuance I’m seeking. In Spanish, I was happy when I knew the word (or at least a close substitute) for what I wanted to stay, and even happier when I could conjugate verbs correctly and make a grammatical sentence.

We spent mornings studying at the school, which consisted of one-on-one conversations with our teacher. For the first two afternoons we went on the school activities. Monday tested my embarrassment with a salsa class. Tuesday we went to park to see the exotic animals of the country, which turned out mostly to be poisonous snakes. Since we’d only been in the country two days at that point, I didn’t understand too much of the guide’s explanation, but I understood the general gist, which was “If this one bites you, you have ten minutes to live, and if this one bites you, you have thirty minutes to live.” A few of the snakes were not poisonous and were let out for petting after the tour. The brave part of the crowd, mostly the under-10 set, went for it.

On Wednesday, our Spanish instructor took us to La Azotea, a gorgeous tropical botanic garden and coffee plantation, with a museum of Mayan musical instruments and culture on the grounds, where we bought our son, Rafael, a Mayan double reed flute, since he plays the oboe. I know he’ll tell us it’s not really an oboe, even if it has the same type of reed, but I’m hoping he’ll appreciate the thought. He’s right in that it has a flatter, slightly more grating sound.

During our time in Antigua we also visited several other small museums, braved the “chicken buses” to tour an organic macadamia nut farm, and enjoyed the sweets at two gringo cafes in the town square. My husband, Shel Horowitz, who is also a writer, took voluminous notes and countless pictures.

I didn’t write a word.

For me, vacation, is often about memory, seeing what I can reconstruct (although, I am happy to have the pictures). One of my writing mentors once remarked in a workshop that we remember things for a reason, even if we might remember them slant. I’m more interested in the slant memories than in getting every detail right. As a matter of fact, I confess that in recounting stories about traveling or day-to-day happenings, I’ve been known to alter details for the benefit of a better plot or punchline. Even this blog is a new form for me, but what I’m hoping to do is to convey the feel of a place without getting bogged down, to try to create just the barest outline, so I can fill in later as it suits me.

But enough musing for now. The next post will be about the next stop on our Guatemalan journey: Lago Attitlan. Following are a few more pictures.

On Fathers

As I read my friends’ page today on live journal, I was struck by how many people were blogging on fathers. I’ve often thought about my own subliminal treatment of fathers in my writing. In ESCAPING INTO THE NIGHT, Halina’s father left when she was a baby and all she has is a picture and her musings. In PLAYING DAD’S SONG, Gus’s father died on September 11. And in my unpublished novels, both children’s and adult, the fathers don’t fare much better. I have a father who murdered his wife whom his children have totally disowned, a flaky musician father who leaves his teenage daughter to deal alone with her mother’s mental illness, and a father who committed suicide. I also have a couple of books where the fathers are absent or unimportant, but only one of my yet-to-be published books, LEFTIES, has a visionary father who inspires his son through his work in the civil rights movement.

So why is this? I have nothing but positive things to say about my own father, who was an active dad before it was fashionable. As a matter of fact, while I tend to write about heavy issues, I’ve had a relatively happy life. But I agree with MP Barker (see her tag on live journal), that it’s not useful to restrict yourself to writing about your own life experience, and that we often don’t choose our characters and subjects: they choose us.

So, while I’m sure that Freud might have a field day with what my subconscious says about fathers, I’ll argue that writing is more than psychological processing. As a matter of fact, the greatest challenges come when I have to step outside of my life experience and push to get to the real emotional truth behind my fiction, whether I’ve ever experienced anything remotely like what I’m writing about, or whether I haven’t.

Holocaust Stories: The Compunction to Tell

Last Saturday I drove to the Bronx to meet Esia Shor, a survivor of the Bielski partisan group I wrote about in Escaping Into the Night, and her daughter, Lora. They greeted my husband, son, and me warmly, offering us a large and tasty spread of bagels, muffins, fruit, cheese and avocados. (When Jews get together, there is always food!) Essie showed me some old pictures and told me some stories about her experience as one of the original 25 members of the Bielski partisans.

Essie is a vibrant woman who looks years younger than her age, and I can see in her still the determination to survive and succeed in whatever she sets her mind to. Currently, she is hoping to publish her own account of her experience as a short memoir geared for schoolchildren. She told me, somewhat in jest, that my book made her angry. “Why?” I asked. “Did I get something blatantly wrong?” (every historical fiction writer’s nightmare). “No,” she said. “Because you wrote about Norwogrodek,” she exclaimed. “That’s my town, my story.”

Though she was joking, the remark gives a writer question to pause. How much responsibility do we have in portraying others’ stories? In writing Escaping Into the Night, I had no intention of portraying the life of any specific person, and merely created composite characters whose experiences were based on things I read. I’m sure the upcoming movie about the Bielski Partisans, Defiance, will have similar fictional elements. Yet having the generic story of the Bielski Partisans recounted in fiction, or even in non-fiction as was done by Peter Duffy and Nechama Tec, doesn’t take away from the compunction to tell your own story–to be in charge of conveying your own experience the way you perceived it, and to have that experience validated by readers.

Essie’s story is a moving and compelling recounting of a remarkable 16-year-old’s struggle for survival. As there will be fewer and fewer living Holocaust survivors in the years to come, it is important for us as a society need to take toward validating, preserving and disseminating the writing of people who actually lived the experience, in order that we take steps toward understanding both hatred and resilience, in the hope that future generations can learn some valuable lessons.

Here’s a picture of Essie and me.

Writing About Loss

Since the movie takes place in my home town, I was lucky enough to see a screening of the documentary, Young @ Heart, several months ago, before it was released for national distribution. I *loved* it–and not only because I enjoyed seeing familiar street shots and knew several of the people. What struck me was the resiliency and love of life possessed by this extraordinary senior citizen chorus, and how they continually went against their grain, singing songs from the likes of The Talking Heads and James Brown. It was a movie that really played to emotions, and at many different points, I found myself quickly transitioning from laughing to crying to laughing again.

So I was shocked when my 20-year-old daughter went to see it this week and didn’t like it. “It was too sad,” she said, referring to the untimely deaths of two of the members during the six-week period when the movie was filmed.

Yes, it was sad. Death is sad and scary. Loss, whether it’s close to us or from a distance, will often make us cry. But the point as I see it is that death happens–in life, in film and in fiction. You can be scared, philosophical, or in denial. We all deal with death in different ways. I’m not sure what my own way is, other than it keeps worming its way into my writing. I remember when I was writing mostly short stories back in my twenties, my mother remarked that I had a thing with death and it was true–so much of my fiction involved, and continues to involve loss, even though I haven’t had an excessive amount of loss in my personal life.

I believe it was Flaubert who said that writers don’t choose their subjects; the subjects choose us. I don’t consciously know why my work often involves loss. But in my fiction, as well as in Young@Heart, the point isn’t the grieving; it’s the connections formed to self and others through the grieving process. In a key scene in the movie, the chorus is on a bus on the way to give a performance at a correctional institution when they are told that one of their members has died. Minutes later, they are standing out in the sun announcing his death and dedicating their next song, Forever Young to his memory. You see shots of tears coming out of the eyes of prisoners who did not even know this man, and I doubt there are too many dry eyes among the movie viewers. Later you see the elders and prisoners hugging; a prisoner says this was the best concert he’s ever seen in his life, and you know, it’s not about the music, but about the emotion–the connection.

So perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to writing about loss. It’s a way of allowing people to process and connect with themselves and each other. And it’s a way of giving permission to grieve in a grief-phobic world.

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