Giving up secrets

After a long stretch with few newsletters, perhaps the logjam has begun to loosen…?

Reading about writing

While I’m approaching the end of Severance, mentioned in the last newsletter, I’m also well into George Saunders’s new book, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life. I am always on the hunt for a new craft book, and while I haven’t read Saunders very much in the past, he’s got a reputation as a terrific short story writer. In this book, he offers a streamlined version of a course he’s taught at Syracuse University for many years, in which he analyzes classic Russian short stories and plucks from them lessons about essential writing techniques.

My favorite bit so far comes from the analysis of the book’s first short story, “In the Cart,” by Anton Chekhov. After the story story teases something, then immediately pays off the tease, Saunders writes:

When I try to explain this notion to my students, I invoke these bracelets we used to make back in the late 1960s… You put a bead on, then pushed it all the way back to the knot in the string. This cleared the way for new beads.

Just so in a story: We should always be pushing the new bead to the knot. If you kno where a story is going, don’t hoard it. Make the story go there, now. But then what? What will you do next? You’ve surrendered your big reveal.

Which is a tangible fear of mine when writing a story: That I’ll give up its secrets too soon—and then why would anyone continue reading?

Saunders’s reply to that:

Exactly. Often, in our doubt that we have a real story to tell, we hold something back, fearing that we don’t have anything else.

Well, shit, George. I think you just put a point on that fear of mine.

The best craft books do this very well, I think: They reflect exactly the fears of the writers reading them, and then teach you how to deal with those fears. Because next Saunders writes:

Surrendering that thing is a leap of faith that forces the story to attention, saying to it, in effect, “You have to do better than that, and now that I’ve denied you your trick, your first-order solution, I know that you will.”

See what he did there? Leaves you with a little jolt of confidence and reassurance.

Something-something about routines

It’s been foggy and rainy here in my corner of Oregon. Because I work from home, and because my family continues to remain home, aside from staggered supply runs, I haven’t been out and about, experiencing the weather as I usually might. There are no long drives on wet roads, no strolling down damp sidewalks along gloomy Portland streets.

This year, as we all have, I’ve seen all of my most satisfying routines squashed. In 2019, I would sit in a coffee shop before work, working on my book or scribbling in a journal. I’d load Squish into the Jeep and we’d go prowling through bookstores. My family and I would go out for an adventure in the city; Felicia and I would have a spontaneous date night, or catch a movie or a performance in Portland. A few evenings a week I’d camp out in a favorite coffee shop or diner and write another chapter. In my vehicle, between all of these things, I’d listen to audiobooks or podcasts.

I’ve been finding it difficult to invent new at-home routines that I can stick to. I’ll create one, it’ll last for a few weeks, maybe a month or so, and then it’ll collapse like newspaper in the rain, turn to mulch, and wash away.

But I keep trying. And while I’m hesitant to talk too much about it, afraid it might jeopardize something new just getting to its feet, the last week has seen me up early, in my study, working on my new project. Evenings I’ve duplicated the behavior. I’m not pushing hard — a scene here, a scene there — but I’m working again, and I’m pleased by this. Part of it, I think, is that any new project can be a struggle. You go searching for the right voice and rhythm, the right structure to contain the idea, and sometimes you get a good distance down the road before you detect some critical flaw in the plan. So I’ve backtracked a bit on this work, setting aside progress of twenty-five thousand words here, or fifteen thousand there. In the last week, I think I’ve found the sustainable approach. And as a result, I am suddenly excited to write again.

I’ll ride this routine as long as it holds together; perhaps it’s the bones of something I’ll build and employ for years.

Writing for myself

It can be easy, I think, to find yourself writing to a particular kind of reader. The sort of reader who buys novels like X, you think, would love it if I wrote a novel about x. I’ve never been terribly successful at this.

I have two active projects now. One is a young adult novel which is with my editor at present; while I await her feedback, I’m working on the second project. I can’t remember how much I’ve said about this second project, but being cagey just makes me tired.

The second project—the one I described writing and rewriting above—lifts the characters and concept of an old short story of mine, “The Dark Age,” and builds a novel-sized world around them. “The Dark Age” was written on a whim seven years ago, in response to a challenging personal experience, and for the last seven years, it’s never entirely left me alone. For those who haven’t read it—you can do so for free, online, or order a copy of your own—it’s a short, sad story about a new father who leaves Earth, never to return. I wrote it, of course, when my Squish was young, and I was often working or away from home, missing her terribly, worried I was missing all of her firsts.

That’s still the core of the story I’m writing, but the world around that core remained unexplored. So I’m pushing at its borders, discovering that more characters than the narrator have a major part to play in this story. The narrator’s wife and daughter will each develop into a voice; their stories, without the narrator around, are as interesting as his. I’m finding that, as my daughter grows up, I still miss her terribly every day. I miss the stages of her life she’s left behind; I miss the moments that have passed that will never come again. I’ve even, somehow, managed to project that missing into the future, and am wistful about the time I share with her right now.

I don’t know if this new book will share its title with the short story that inspired it. But it’s rooted in the same fundamental soil: How much I love this wonderful child of ours, how quickly she’s growing up, how much I’m missing, even though I’m right here for every moment of it.

I am writing this book, I think, for one particular reader. I’m writing this one for me.

The year of Squish

As horrible as a pandemic year is, as tragic as all the stories emerging from it can be, there are unexpected little joys to be found, too. Spending a year at home, while often maddening, has also taught me how to enjoy things more fully. And most of all, it’s been a year of utter closeness with Squish. Felicia and I have found ways to weave Squish into everything we do. In fact, while I write this right now, Squish is bundled in a blanket in the red chair in my study, reading a book. As I work on my novel, she’s often here with me, sometimes doing her own thing, sometimes writing her own short stories. We play video games together (her reflexes put my withering ones to shame), play board games together (she’s a better chess player than I am, and I am constantly losing queens to her sly moves), read books side by side. Each day, Felicia and Squish go for a several-miles-long walk together, experience distance learning together, watch Miyazaki films together, or just snuggle together.

As much as I long for the pandemic to end, I hope that this year of Squish will continue for many, many more.

✏️Be safe this new year,

Jg

About the author

Jason Gurley is the author of Awake in the World, Eleanor, and other books. He lives and writes on a hill in Scappoose, Oregon. More at www.jasongurley.com.

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