(no subject)
Early in Round 2 of my writing life I wrote a story about a PhD non-finisher. It's a first person story, which I no doubt considered clever at the time, i.e., you have to read between the lines a bit to see what trouble he's in. (And he is in trouble: deeply in debt, his marriage heavily strained, living with his wife and daughter in his mom's house, and (need I add?) nowhere on his dissertation fifteen years in. Early readers told me the didn't believe any program would let a student go that long without finishing and I had to tell them that I based this on absolute truth. Not only that, but I had friends turn into this character after the story was written. No credit to me; it's just all too common.) I wrote three or four major drafts of it, always changing the front half, the setup. The second half is done and right. In workshop it gets praise praise praise but then I sent it to an editor who told me it was fine writing and all but the situation didn't strike his readers as all that compelling.
Fair enough. Either this means the story is doomed because of its subject matter, or it means I have to find a way to make it more compelling.
For years I have shelved the story, not knowing how to do this, how to raise the stakes, get closer to the man's soul to reveal enough suffering to satisfy even the jaded editor at ------------- Magazine. Or for that matter, me. I'd be the first one to pick up a lit mag and sneer at my own story. Unless there were good parts. Unless it was funny or real or captured me in some way. When that happens, of course, I roll over and let the story do whatever the hell it wants to me.
So this is my task. Just today, as the fog began to lift a bit from my crisis, I think I got some ideas.
We'll see. They are pathetic flickers at the moment, but at this point I have nothing to lose. The manuscript is just lying there on my desk collecting dust. Literally. I have over two hundred pages of stories that all need serious work. For god's sakes: just do it.
Meanwhile, I am abashed and ashamed to admit I did a little doctoring to Eli's "journal" for school yesterday, and the teacher, I am abashed and ashamed to admit, loved it. She said it "should be published." I am abashed and ashamed to admit how psyched I was. The journal was a series of "letters" written by a Greek child while crossing to America. It had to be typed, so Eli dictated it to me. Slowly. Horribly, painfully slowly. She didn't really know what she was doing. She was taking three and four sentences to get her character across the room. I couldn't stand it. I started finishing her sentences, livening things up with phrases like, "until he threw up," sprucing the prose up with random (believable) observations and complaints. She had her character meet a boy named Nikos. I put down, "Nikos turned out to be a real jerk. Not only is he smelly, but he's a terrible kisser." Poor E took to dictating with her finger poised over the delete key. My God it was fun, and pathetic soul that I am, the praise of the teacher made my day. I said to Eli, "I shouldn't have helped you that much. That was wrong of me."
Her reply, "No, Mommy, it was really good."
"But I am not in fourth grade."
"But you're getting a really good education anyway!"
Attagirl!
Fair enough. Either this means the story is doomed because of its subject matter, or it means I have to find a way to make it more compelling.
For years I have shelved the story, not knowing how to do this, how to raise the stakes, get closer to the man's soul to reveal enough suffering to satisfy even the jaded editor at ------------- Magazine. Or for that matter, me. I'd be the first one to pick up a lit mag and sneer at my own story. Unless there were good parts. Unless it was funny or real or captured me in some way. When that happens, of course, I roll over and let the story do whatever the hell it wants to me.
So this is my task. Just today, as the fog began to lift a bit from my crisis, I think I got some ideas.
We'll see. They are pathetic flickers at the moment, but at this point I have nothing to lose. The manuscript is just lying there on my desk collecting dust. Literally. I have over two hundred pages of stories that all need serious work. For god's sakes: just do it.
Meanwhile, I am abashed and ashamed to admit I did a little doctoring to Eli's "journal" for school yesterday, and the teacher, I am abashed and ashamed to admit, loved it. She said it "should be published." I am abashed and ashamed to admit how psyched I was. The journal was a series of "letters" written by a Greek child while crossing to America. It had to be typed, so Eli dictated it to me. Slowly. Horribly, painfully slowly. She didn't really know what she was doing. She was taking three and four sentences to get her character across the room. I couldn't stand it. I started finishing her sentences, livening things up with phrases like, "until he threw up," sprucing the prose up with random (believable) observations and complaints. She had her character meet a boy named Nikos. I put down, "Nikos turned out to be a real jerk. Not only is he smelly, but he's a terrible kisser." Poor E took to dictating with her finger poised over the delete key. My God it was fun, and pathetic soul that I am, the praise of the teacher made my day. I said to Eli, "I shouldn't have helped you that much. That was wrong of me."
Her reply, "No, Mommy, it was really good."
"But I am not in fourth grade."
"But you're getting a really good education anyway!"
Attagirl!