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How (Not) to Be a Novelist
Oh, you’re a writer! These words fill me with dismay. Although I do write, weekly (not daily), and although I have published books and recorded CDs of what I have written, the fact remains that to me, a writer is a novelist. And a novelist I ain’t.
For Christmas I received a copy of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. I have read it before but have never owned a copy. So now I am reading it at my leisure, without the pressure of a library due-date. And if I ever needed confirmation of my non-novelist talents, Bird by Bird, for all its warmth and humour and encouragement, is it. You know what it takes to write a novel? Dedication. Work. Unimaginable imagination. And work, work, work. Hours and hours every day.
First, you create some characters from scratch or from memories of relatives or acquaintances, cleverly disguised. You think about the background of each one: what’s her favourite colour? What does he eat for breakfast? What was her worst/best childhood experience? You create each of your characters, bit by bit, into fully rounded personalities. As I say: work.
What do you do about plot? Well, apparently you bring these characters—these fully realized people—together: two of them at a café, three of them in the sunroom, a whole mess of them at the beach—and you let them loose on each other. You see what happens. Let it unfold.
Are you tired yet? I’m exhausted. But I’m also thrilled to know that my not being a novelist is not just more of my nay-saying stubbornness but an actual lack of ability. I could no more follow those prescriptions than I could, say, play a game of tennis. These are not my strengths, and being without such abilities does not make me less of a person. So I can let go of the guilt. Thank you, Anne Lamott.
By the way, somewhere Anne says that your story is your own. If you want to write about it, do so and let the chips fall where they may. If anyone objects to the way you depict them, she says, then they should have behaved better. Now, isn’t that a cautionary note for all of us as we pass through our lives, perhaps unwittingly adjacent to a novelist?
I recently read a profile of Patricia Highsmith, who would be 100 this year if she hadn’t died. Now, Patricia was one tough broad. Her books are so dark that they are virtually all shadow. I read most of her books some fifty years ago and was very impressed—but quickly decided that I never ever wanted to enter her world again.
The author of the profile pointed out that Highsmith loved animals—much more than people, obviously--and was particularly fond of snails, keeping dozens and dozens as pets. One of her most memorable short stories (I read it fifty years ago and have never forgotten it) is about a man who collected/bred snails and who had to leave them unattended for a week or two while he traveled. It’s a vivid story involving wallpaper and it does not end well for the poor snail-lover.
The profiler mentioned that Highsmith herself once took some of her snails with her when traveling from England back to France. In order to avoid having to explain to Customs officers why she was traveling with a dozen snails (or maybe she was afraid they’d be confiscated and then eaten), she cleverly hid them by attaching six under each breast. Now try getting that image out of your mind.
In light of all this, I'm just going to hunker down with my occasional poems and essays and never again bemoan the fact that I am not a novelist.
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