Craft Notes
Literature’s Material Circumstances
Blake already posted about &Now, but I want to put up more about one panel titled “Writing’s Dirty Secret: An Investigation of Literature’s Material Circumstances.” This panel was run by Jeremy Davies and AD Jameson and was really interesting because it tried to get at some of the more process-based questions about writing habits. How do we write? What do we use to write? Time of day? And so on. Standard questions really, but questions that might not get the focused treatment they deserve.
The panel led to more discussion between Matt Kirkpatrick, Lily Hoang, and myself later that night. Lily echoed a remark that panelist Vanessa Place made: that to answer these kind of questions was somewhat frustrating because of how predictable our answers are, as the questions and our answers are so bound up in what we think a writer ought to say when asked “how do you write?” Place asked during the panel something like this: how many of our writing habits come not from what works best for us but what we think ought to work best for us based on some idealized notion we have about what it means to be a ‘writer’?
Davies and Jameson handed out a little booklet that I’ll quote from here so you can get a sense of the scope of their project, the sorts of questions they’re asking, and so on.
From the proposal:
The products of writing cannot and should not be separated from the act of writing. We are therefore proposing a book-length series of interviews that focus on what has remained writing’s “dirty secret”: its material circumstances. Our goal is not interpretation or evaluation, but rather an open-ended investigation into writing as both intellectual and physical labor. The results of this project will be of interest to readers, critics, fellow writers, and writing students (who often receive no instruction in the physical aspect of the art form, and are left to discover for themselves what every writer soon discovers for her- or himself).
Then, after the “Methods” and “Rationale” sections, there are two interviews printed in the booklet, in which the authors ask two writers many question, such as
How do you write? That is, do you write in shorthand, longhand, or do you use a typewriter or a computer?
Are materials important to you, or can you use practically anything?
Has your approach to writing changed as new technologies have become available?
And in regard to methods that change: are these structural methods? Or the ways in which you begin a project, or research it?
What do these first drafts look like? How detailed are they? It sounds as though they help you to find the work’s character, so that you can then “saturate” yourself with it — is that a fair way of putting it?
Do you have a set schedule?
What kind of environment do you prefer to work in?
What do you find to be the discomforts of writing? Are there aspects of writing that are unplanned or uncomfortable?
And finally, here is a question that writer Amina Cain answered in the pamphlet, just to give you a sense of the kinds of talk between the researchers and the writers:
Do you see your work as happening in stages? Do you work in clear drafts?
I don’t know how to separate composition from revision. I revise constantly when I write, but not in clear drafts. I never sit down and write a complete first draft of anything. I work very slowly, over days filling up a single page, and also cutting it down. I keep working in that way until there are more pages. It’s more like a balloon that slowly gets bigger and bigger, than it is a text that gets longer and longer. The contents of the balloon keep changing and sometimes it gets smaller for a while. A text feels like a space or a room I move around in, that I spend time in everyday.
I don’t take notes or work from an outline. What becomes a story is always a surprise, though not a huge one, for I find the details that make it into a story have been in my mind even if I didn’t plan to write about them.
In the “Methods” section I counted around thirty writers who have so far responded to the email interviews, some of whom represent other forms of written composition: graphic artists, hybrid text composers, etc. It looks like a really good project, and I’m interested to see the final series of interviews.
Tags: &now
Nabokov famously derided these as “What side of the paper do you write on?” questions. But I find myself endlessly fascinated with them, at least when it comes to writers I’m interested in. I always thought that Paris Review did a pretty consistent job of touching on “material circs” and process-type topics in their interviews…
Nabokov famously derided these as “What side of the paper do you write on?” questions. But I find myself endlessly fascinated with them, at least when it comes to writers I’m interested in. I always thought that Paris Review did a pretty consistent job of touching on “material circs” and process-type topics in their interviews…
I’d agree with Amina Cain for the most part. But in the end, really, it’s what works for YOU. Whether it is extensive outlines or none, 500 words a day every day, or 7000 words in one giant, massive, going under coma, we all work differently. I’d just say keep doing what works for you. I’ve found it very hard to try to apply some other writer’s methods to my own work. You just need to feel it out and see what works.
One example.
I wrote my last novel TRANSUBSTANTIATE on my lunch hours at a freelance gig in the wonderful world of advertising. I’ve been freelancing for 14 years. I’d close the door, and spend 30 minutes cranking out one sub-chapter. The novel ended up being SEVEN first person perspectives told in SEVEN sub-chapters. So Monday I’d write 500-700 words for 1. Jacob, then Tuesday it would be 2. Marcy, then Wednesday 3. Jimmy, Thursday 4. X, Friday 5. Gordon, Saturday 6. Assigned, Sunday 7. Roland. That worked for that particular novel and I’d have a good 3500-5000 words a week.
For my current novel, DISINTEGRATION, I don’t have that same schedule or freedom. So instead, I take one day a month, and write from dawn to dusk. I kick the wife and kids out, and write all day. It’s a whole different vibe, spending that much time with my characters, my people. You get deeper, you get time with them, depth. It’s hard, very different, but it’s working.
My two cents.
I’d agree with Amina Cain for the most part. But in the end, really, it’s what works for YOU. Whether it is extensive outlines or none, 500 words a day every day, or 7000 words in one giant, massive, going under coma, we all work differently. I’d just say keep doing what works for you. I’ve found it very hard to try to apply some other writer’s methods to my own work. You just need to feel it out and see what works.
One example.
I wrote my last novel TRANSUBSTANTIATE on my lunch hours at a freelance gig in the wonderful world of advertising. I’ve been freelancing for 14 years. I’d close the door, and spend 30 minutes cranking out one sub-chapter. The novel ended up being SEVEN first person perspectives told in SEVEN sub-chapters. So Monday I’d write 500-700 words for 1. Jacob, then Tuesday it would be 2. Marcy, then Wednesday 3. Jimmy, Thursday 4. X, Friday 5. Gordon, Saturday 6. Assigned, Sunday 7. Roland. That worked for that particular novel and I’d have a good 3500-5000 words a week.
For my current novel, DISINTEGRATION, I don’t have that same schedule or freedom. So instead, I take one day a month, and write from dawn to dusk. I kick the wife and kids out, and write all day. It’s a whole different vibe, spending that much time with my characters, my people. You get deeper, you get time with them, depth. It’s hard, very different, but it’s working.
My two cents.
There are a whole other set of material circumstances that seem neglected here with all this emphasis of “choice” — thinking of the history of women writers and working writers who have to write whenever and however they can : children in the background (or foreground), stealing time from the workplace always at risk of being found out, etc. I think of the poet Marci Nardi describing her mentally ill son screaming at her that she was a fool while she typed, and how many others writing around screaming babies (bosses, partners). There are also the material circumstances of the wealthy, like those who have domestics who labor around them while they write, or exploited grad students employed as domestics (!), or the history of “great men” who write while attended to by wives and daughters. What histories are hidden in these “choices.” I can imagine a truer set of answers to these questions “how do you write?” than “with a pen” — something like “in fear my boss is going to fire my ass.”
There are a whole other set of material circumstances that seem neglected here with all this emphasis of “choice” — thinking of the history of women writers and working writers who have to write whenever and however they can : children in the background (or foreground), stealing time from the workplace always at risk of being found out, etc. I think of the poet Marci Nardi describing her mentally ill son screaming at her that she was a fool while she typed, and how many others writing around screaming babies (bosses, partners). There are also the material circumstances of the wealthy, like those who have domestics who labor around them while they write, or exploited grad students employed as domestics (!), or the history of “great men” who write while attended to by wives and daughters. What histories are hidden in these “choices.” I can imagine a truer set of answers to these questions “how do you write?” than “with a pen” — something like “in fear my boss is going to fire my ass.”
of course. these arent meant to be evaluative or prescriptive, but rather just heres what works for me. thanks for sharing your project to project process.
of course. these arent meant to be evaluative or prescriptive, but rather just heres what works for me. thanks for sharing your project to project process.
how is one set of answers ‘truer’ than another set?
though i like what youre saying: circumstances forced upon one rather than choices one makes is interesting.
this makes me think of Tom Robbins still life with woodpecker, where the length of the book and the style seem impacted by him forcing himself to use a typewriter when he typically writes longhand. But in general, I don’t think about how something was written while reading it. It’s usually an afterthought and in general not important to the experience of reading. It’s only important to the experience of writing.
how is one set of answers ‘truer’ than another set?
though i like what youre saying: circumstances forced upon one rather than choices one makes is interesting.
this makes me think of Tom Robbins still life with woodpecker, where the length of the book and the style seem impacted by him forcing himself to use a typewriter when he typically writes longhand. But in general, I don’t think about how something was written while reading it. It’s usually an afterthought and in general not important to the experience of reading. It’s only important to the experience of writing.
Hi, everyone. Ryan, thank you for posting this. Jeremy and I are very eager to begin sharing our results (although the project is still very much in progress), and to hear what others think. We’re happy to entertain all feedback, so please do post or send us your comments.
@ Ryan: I’d be interested in hearing more about your conversation with Matt and Lily. One thing I found interesting about the panel interview was how different all four participants were (Amina Cain, Steve Katz, Vanessa, and Yuriy Tarnawsky).
As for Vanessa’s second comment, about how writers might base their habits on what will make them the writer they want to be–I think there’s some truth in that. I’d add, however, that I think writers also find habits and methods that are sustainable for them–or simply possible–and that different people find different things pleasurable/sustainable (or possible). And then some of what they write necessarily comes out of their repeatedly doing what they enjoy (or can afford).
@ EC re: Nabokov: Jeremy and I agree: that even great writers often deride these questions…but we remain fascinated nonetheless. And thanks for mentioning the Paris Review–it’s been some inspiration for us.
@ Richard: One big goal in pursuing these projects is that we want students to be able to read about a wide array of methods and materials that different writers use. I often find, to my distress, that many of my writing students do all of their work in a computer lab the night before an assignment is due; small wonder they think of writing as unpleasant, or even a punishment! Most of them haven’t even entertained the idea that they could, for instance, write in a coffeehouse, or write in the early morning, etc. So maybe some students who eventually read these interviews will be inspired to try something new.
I should add that neither Jeremy nor I are interested in evaluation here: rather, we’re trying to investigate/provide a lot of information for anyone who might benefit from it.
@ anne boyer: Jeremy and I are interested in a wide degree of material circumstances; we hope we aren’t neglecting any (although of course we won’t be able to cover all of reality!). We are most definitely interested in differences in circumstance wrought by age, gender, race, class, country, language, and so on. We don’t believe that all writers are free to make all of their choices. We haven’t used the word “choice” (or its permutations) anywhere in our questions.
@ darby: Jeremy and I imagine that sometimes the stories we uncover will be illuminating, but sometimes not. For me, the highlight of the live @NOW interview was Steve Katz’s mention that, for some time, he wrote at Breton Point in a cabin he’d built, sitting at an ox blood-stained table, facing the ocean. (Vanessa’s reaction to this was priceless.) I’ve read most of Steve’s books, and I certainly hadn’t known that! I’m going to need to look back through them to see if I can find any evidence of that… (Steve pointed out immediately after that most of his writing–even the writing he did at Breton Point–is about cities.)
Thanks once again to everyone! Best regards,
Adam / A D Jameson
Hi, everyone. Ryan, thank you for posting this. Jeremy and I are very eager to begin sharing our results (although the project is still very much in progress), and to hear what others think. We’re happy to entertain all feedback, so please do post or send us your comments.
@ Ryan: I’d be interested in hearing more about your conversation with Matt and Lily. One thing I found interesting about the panel interview was how different all four participants were (Amina Cain, Steve Katz, Vanessa, and Yuriy Tarnawsky).
As for Vanessa’s second comment, about how writers might base their habits on what will make them the writer they want to be–I think there’s some truth in that. I’d add, however, that I think writers also find habits and methods that are sustainable for them–or simply possible–and that different people find different things pleasurable/sustainable (or possible). And then some of what they write necessarily comes out of their repeatedly doing what they enjoy (or can afford).
@ EC re: Nabokov: Jeremy and I agree: that even great writers often deride these questions…but we remain fascinated nonetheless. And thanks for mentioning the Paris Review–it’s been some inspiration for us.
@ Richard: One big goal in pursuing these projects is that we want students to be able to read about a wide array of methods and materials that different writers use. I often find, to my distress, that many of my writing students do all of their work in a computer lab the night before an assignment is due; small wonder they think of writing as unpleasant, or even a punishment! Most of them haven’t even entertained the idea that they could, for instance, write in a coffeehouse, or write in the early morning, etc. So maybe some students who eventually read these interviews will be inspired to try something new.
I should add that neither Jeremy nor I are interested in evaluation here: rather, we’re trying to investigate/provide a lot of information for anyone who might benefit from it.
@ anne boyer: Jeremy and I are interested in a wide degree of material circumstances; we hope we aren’t neglecting any (although of course we won’t be able to cover all of reality!). We are most definitely interested in differences in circumstance wrought by age, gender, race, class, country, language, and so on. We don’t believe that all writers are free to make all of their choices. We haven’t used the word “choice” (or its permutations) anywhere in our questions.
@ darby: Jeremy and I imagine that sometimes the stories we uncover will be illuminating, but sometimes not. For me, the highlight of the live @NOW interview was Steve Katz’s mention that, for some time, he wrote at Breton Point in a cabin he’d built, sitting at an ox blood-stained table, facing the ocean. (Vanessa’s reaction to this was priceless.) I’ve read most of Steve’s books, and I certainly hadn’t known that! I’m going to need to look back through them to see if I can find any evidence of that… (Steve pointed out immediately after that most of his writing–even the writing he did at Breton Point–is about cities.)
Thanks once again to everyone! Best regards,
Adam / A D Jameson
Didn’t Robert Olen Butler once broadcast his writing sessions over the internet? I think the idea that at the end of it, he had a short story and it demystified the process of how it came to be.
Didn’t Robert Olen Butler once broadcast his writing sessions over the internet? I think the idea that at the end of it, he had a short story and it demystified the process of how it came to be.
a friend of mine just told me a story about how faulkner used to walk around his house whistling a specific tune to let his family know that he would soon enter his study for a three-day (or however many day) drunken writing session, and that they would be beaten if he were disturbed.
i don’t know how true that is, but i feel it applies to your comment somehow, and is interesting.
especially that he had a specific tune he whistled, or song he sang, or something.
a friend of mine just told me a story about how faulkner used to walk around his house whistling a specific tune to let his family know that he would soon enter his study for a three-day (or however many day) drunken writing session, and that they would be beaten if he were disturbed.
i don’t know how true that is, but i feel it applies to your comment somehow, and is interesting.
especially that he had a specific tune he whistled, or song he sang, or something.
Oh for sure. I guess I didn’t think about new writer’s and their process. I used to bang out short stories on a manual typewriter in college, back in the day. PAIN-FUL. BUT, it did slow the process down. You thought about your words. Nowadays I write much faster. I type about 70 wpm, so when I’m channeling the voices in my head, it just comes spilling out. Later, I let the editor in. It’s great that you’re trying to educate, to toss out different scenarios that might work, be it writing by hand vs. computer, the note taking and pre-writing brainstorming process, the way we edit, etc. All good stuff.
I’ll toss a few more things about my process, if it helps. Music. Some people listen to it, some don’t. I found it very helpful to listen to certain bands and/or songs at certain times. I listened to Radiohead’s IN RAINBOWS for the bulk of my last novel. I listened to the Cure HEAD ON THE DOOR for a moody, alternative vampire story I was writing.
Writing shouldn’t be a punishment, a chore. If it is, then you should stop. It speaks to you, the process, the venting, the great unleashing of images and words. I forget the philosopher, but “a body without organs” is how it is for me, when I’m on my game. The world slips away, and I’m there, I’m in that warehouse, I’m covered in blood, I’m kissing my cousin, I’m flying, I’m being pummeled by fists, I’m sobbing, I’m holding a kitten, the wind is cold, my feet hurt, whatever.
I’m very curious to see what works for others here.
Oh for sure. I guess I didn’t think about new writer’s and their process. I used to bang out short stories on a manual typewriter in college, back in the day. PAIN-FUL. BUT, it did slow the process down. You thought about your words. Nowadays I write much faster. I type about 70 wpm, so when I’m channeling the voices in my head, it just comes spilling out. Later, I let the editor in. It’s great that you’re trying to educate, to toss out different scenarios that might work, be it writing by hand vs. computer, the note taking and pre-writing brainstorming process, the way we edit, etc. All good stuff.
I’ll toss a few more things about my process, if it helps. Music. Some people listen to it, some don’t. I found it very helpful to listen to certain bands and/or songs at certain times. I listened to Radiohead’s IN RAINBOWS for the bulk of my last novel. I listened to the Cure HEAD ON THE DOOR for a moody, alternative vampire story I was writing.
Writing shouldn’t be a punishment, a chore. If it is, then you should stop. It speaks to you, the process, the venting, the great unleashing of images and words. I forget the philosopher, but “a body without organs” is how it is for me, when I’m on my game. The world slips away, and I’m there, I’m in that warehouse, I’m covered in blood, I’m kissing my cousin, I’m flying, I’m being pummeled by fists, I’m sobbing, I’m holding a kitten, the wind is cold, my feet hurt, whatever.
I’m very curious to see what works for others here.
I was just going to say, these are the classic (not to say cliched) Paris Review writers-at-work questions.
I’ve always felt the fascination with such matters had to do with the paradox of looking at the activity of a creative writer, probably the least alienated form of labor imaginable, as work that has its own special materials, procedures, schedules, and so on. I think I remember Barthes touching on this question from a different angle in his essay in “Mythologies” on the writer on vacation.
I would like to know why it’s being claimed that “the products of writing cannot and should not be separated from the act of writing.” Cannot be in what sense? Surely they usually are; otherwise what would be the point of these questions? Should not be why? How does it matter to the reader of “Pale Fire” that the novel was composed on a series of index cards while standing at a lectern? (Nabokov may have looked down on these questions, but he answered them repeatedly and in detail.)
I was just going to say, these are the classic (not to say cliched) Paris Review writers-at-work questions.
I’ve always felt the fascination with such matters had to do with the paradox of looking at the activity of a creative writer, probably the least alienated form of labor imaginable, as work that has its own special materials, procedures, schedules, and so on. I think I remember Barthes touching on this question from a different angle in his essay in “Mythologies” on the writer on vacation.
I would like to know why it’s being claimed that “the products of writing cannot and should not be separated from the act of writing.” Cannot be in what sense? Surely they usually are; otherwise what would be the point of these questions? Should not be why? How does it matter to the reader of “Pale Fire” that the novel was composed on a series of index cards while standing at a lectern? (Nabokov may have looked down on these questions, but he answered them repeatedly and in detail.)