The Writing All Stars

The Writing Allstars – Ernest Hemingway

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All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. (A Moveable Feast)

I think everyone has read Hemingway in the course of their lifetime and most of them, it seems, didn’t care for him. I wish that high school curriculum makers would stop forcing teens to read things they don’t care about or understand because it ruins them for the authors for years to come. But that complaint is neither here nor there. I read, and loved, Hemingway. Maybe it’s because I didn’t start with A Farewell to Arms or The Sun Also Rises, those came later. Maybe it’s because I felt like Hemingway would always tell me the truth. He didn’t tell me what I was supposed to see or feel when reading his stories; he let me discover it for myself. He was able to dance around weighty concepts while still revealing them there, at the heart of the story. At a point in my life where I needed honesty, unflinching honesty, I found it in the short stories of Ernest Hemingway.

All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was. If you can get so that you can give that to people, then you are a writer. (A Letter From Cuba)

I have read that Hemingway’s novels are melodramatic and simplistic and that his true brilliance is revealed in his short stories. While I don’t concede that his longer works are too simple, I have to agree with those who tout the excellence of his shorter works. He shines through short stories. His succinct descriptions and short sentences give me the feeling of gazing at a snapshot, allowing me to decipher the deeper meanings that lie beneath the colorful surface. He has been critiqued for his lack of emotion, his distant and removed way of dealing with such heavy subject matter, but I feel that Hemingway’s willingness to write just the facts allows me, as the reader, to experience the feelings that come with such weighty subjects. Why tell me how Francis Macomber was feeling, when you can show me?

Write hard and clear about what hurts.

This is why I think Hemingway was a master. He called his writing style the iceberg; the facts float above water; the supporting structure and symbolism operate out of sight. He would lay it out simply, but there was always so much more than what met the eye. I realize that it may seem contradictory to list Joyce, a master of stream of consciousness, and Hemingway, a “follow the rules” writer as both influential to my writing but they don’t exclude one another. It is Hemingway’s commitment to honesty, his bravery in the face of pain, his insistence on beauty which influences not how I write, but what I write. I want to face down those deep, dark truths that lie at the heart of mankind but do it in a way that leaves the reader feeling positive and hopeful.

 We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master. (The Wild Years)

Because of Hemingway I was able to let go of the idea of perfection and just write. Because of Hemingway, I learned to speak louder through the moments of omission. Because of Hemingway I found Coetzee and Callaghan. Because of Ernest Hemingway, I am the writer I am today.

The Writing Allstars – Anne Sexton

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Cinderella and the prince / lived, they say, happily ever after, / like two dolls in a museum case / never bothered by diapers or dust, / never arguing over the timing of an egg, / never telling the same story twice, / never getting a middle-aged spread, / their darling smiles pasted on for eternity. (Transformations)

When I first read the poems of Anne Sexton I was undone. Her dark, sensual use of language, her open discussion of taboo subject matter, her ability to mingle perfectly the feelings of pleasure and pain, delight and despair, captivated me. I loved her idea of approaching traditional fairy tales and adding her own special twist, her Transformations. She could write a tale to rival the darkness of the Grimm brothers but infused it with a sense of hope for something better that was almost tangible. Here was a woman who felt fully the heartbeat of the world; who struggled to understand it in all its terrible, wonderful magnitude; who used language as her tether to reality when she felt as if she were being swallowed up by the weight of it all.

… a hundred years passed and a prince got through. The briars parted as if for Moses and the prince found the tableau intact. He kissed Briar Rose and she woke up crying: Daddy! Daddy! Presto! She’s out of prison! She married the prince and all went well except for the fear — the fear of sleep. Briar Rose was an insomniac . . . She could not nap or lie in sleep without the court chemist mixing her some knock-out drops and never in the prince’s presence. (Transformations)

Sexton’s poetry speaks of a broken heart and a wounded mind. Her struggle against madness laid out for the world to see, scribbled moments of clarity. Her sarcasm seemed more about coping than confessionialism, an attempt to bring humor to horror, to comment on the scenes no one saw, to beg for forgiveness and absolution. She wrote about what it means to be a woman, in all its facets, nothing was off-limits for her. Her anguish fueled her poetry and gave her, for a time, some relief from the madness. She struggled to make the shift from an internal to an external view, her writing becoming more erratic, more scattered. It was as if she could see the inevitable looming in front of her, taunting her, tainting her writing, an omen of things to come.

when you face old age and its natural conclusion / your courage will still be shown in the little ways, / each spring will be a sword you’ll sharpen, / those you love will live in a fever of love, / and you’ll bargain with the calendar / and at the last moment / when death opens the back door / you’ll put on your carpet slippers / and stride out. (The Awful Rowing Toward God)

Sexton reads like a gasp. A beg, a cry, a sharp pain, a breathlessness. Her raw edges, her heat, her pain all seep from the pages into your heart, your mind. She holds nothing back and you can’t help but weep for her, to wish better for her. Sexton paved the way for writers to tackle the idea of mental illness and how it affects creativity, how that affects life. In some ways, to be creative is to struggle to balance a world of our own making against that of the “real” world. Sexton inspired me with her bravery; to open up Pandora’s box and take on all the specters that reside there takes great courage. She made me understand that writing can be a form of catharsis, a way of processing and dealing with memories and realities that are too hard to talk about. She made me want to write about truth, deep, messy truth, in the hope that it would make me free.

I cannot promise very much. / I give you the images I know. / Lie still with me and watch. / A pheasant moves / by like a seal, pulled through the mulch / by his thick white collar. He’s on show / like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed, / one time, from an old lady’s hat. / We laugh and we touch. / I promise you love. Time will not take away that.” (All My Pretty Ones)

Because of Sexton I realized that nothing is too taboo to write about. Because of Sexton, I was able to transform my demons into make-believe monsters, trapped in cages made of words, relegated to the realm of story. Because of Sexton I found Edna St. Vincent Millay and understood Plath on a deeper level. Because of Anne Sexton I am the writer I am today.

The Writing Allstars – Harper Lee

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You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view… Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.

I realize that I started this series claiming that “there are a myriad of reasons that I may like a book, but an author – that’s talking about a much larger and deeper scope of influence worth exploring.” I also realize that I am about to extol the writing excellence of an author who wrote only one book in the entirety of her life. The irony is not lost. However, I think the true merit of Harper Lee’s contribution may not lie in the work itself, though it is moving. I think that her life, the events that led up to the conception of this novel, are the moments that truly moved me. She wrote her heart onto the page and shared it with the world. She said what she had to say in one glorious and lasting story. And then she was silent.

Sometimes the Bible in the hand of one man is worse than a whisky bottle in the hand of (another)… There are just some kind of men who – who’re so busy worrying about the next world they’ve never learned to live in this one, and you can look down the street and see the results.

To my high-school mind, To Kill a Mockingbird was about racism, plain and simple. And it was. But to leave the definition of this book with that simple description is to do it a great disservice. Yes, it is about racism. But it is also about courage and honor and fighting for what is right. It’s about seeing people for who they really are, for seeking to understand what moves them. It’s about human rights. It’s about you. It’s about me. It is full of painful moments, full of heaviness, full of sadness, full of hope. It is the heart of a woman put to paper. It is a memoir of a memory.

Cry about the simple hell people give other people – without even thinking.

Harper Lee was given a year to write whatever she wanted and this is what she chose to write. It took her two and a half years of re-writes before it was fit to publish and she never wrote another book, never spoke at conferences or awards luncheons. She shunned the public eye and felt it was better to remain silent then be thought a fool. I can’t imagine the weight of this story, pressing upon her, burning to be told, and the relief she must have felt after it was finished, her story. There was no follow-up; no other intensely moving novel. No series contracts. There was simply, the story. And then, she just slipped away. Back to her life, humble and happy.

There’s a lot of ugly things in this world, son. I wish I could keep ’em all away from you. That’s never possible.

Because of Harper Lee, I found Salinger and Steinbeck. Because of her, I realized that the motivations behind the moments are often more significant than the moments themselves. Because of Lee I realized that whether fame or fortune follow, the story must be told. Because of Harper Lee I am the writer I am today.

The Writing Allstars – Oscar Wilde

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Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known. (The Soul of Man)

I have to confess that, while Oscar Wilde has been incredibly influential, both in regards to style and content, I did not first fall for him while reading. In fact, I didn’t even realize it was him I’d fallen for. For the longest time I thought the object of my affection was the handsome and debonair Rupert Everett (a casting choice of which, I believe, Wilde would definitely have approved) and from the tender age of 17 would watch and re-watch An Ideal Husband and The Importance of being Earnest, marvelling at how the harshest of life’s truths were made humorous through brilliant dialogue. Wilde never hesitated to confront the ironies which occur simply from being human, and he did so with grace and wit. His plays, and ultimately his novel, opened my eyes to a new way of writing.

The truth is rarely pure and never simple. (The Importance of Being Earnest)

When I finally realized that it was Wilde I’d fallen for all those years ago, I jumped right in to The Picture of Dorian Gray and I was overcome. Just as he did with his plays, Wilde is able to draw out the darkness that resides in the human heart only here, it is treated with considerably less humour. I was mesmerized by the transformation of Dorian from an innocent and impressionable young man to that of a hardened and violent scoundrel. It was fascinating, for me, to see the machinations of his mind, his thoughts changing as he fell further under the influence of another. It was in my following Dorian down his rabbit hole that I first realized that the development of a character, the inner workings of their soul as shown on the canvas of their thoughts, was what really interested me. I wanted to know the whys rather than the whos or hows of a story.

Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic. (Dorian Gray)

My decision to pursue literary fiction over genre fiction is directly related to my love affair with Oscar Wilde. His ability to write about the secret desires that lie in the heart of humanity, the darkness that we wrestle with every day, is exceptional. The fact that he can do so with sparkling wit, tongue-in-cheek dialogue, and graciousness is a wonder. I try to take a page from Wilde’s book when I sit down to write a story. Find something deep, common to all but hidden away, and bring it to the light in such a way that, no matter the ending, we feel connected to one another in a revelatory moment.

Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing. (Dorian Gray)

Because of Wilde, I realized there was more than one way to tell a story. Because of Wilde I became obsessed with finding ways to marry heartache and humor. Because of Wilde I fell in love with Poe and Plath. Because of Oscar Wilde I am the writer I am today.

The Writing Allstars – James Joyce

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The modern writer must be an adventurer above all, willing to take every risk, and be prepared to founder in his effort if need be. In other words we must write dangerously. James Joyce

While Facebook prefered the 15 authors entered in no particular order, I have to say that James Joyce is always close to the top of any list I make. My experiences with Joyce have been most influential and, though I know his style is not for everyone, enjoyable. If you have never tackled Joyce I would highly recommend his book of short stories Dubliners, which is much easier to approach with enthusiasm than one of the larger, and less punctuated, works. It was my introduction to Joyce, since I hadn’t the time to dive into one of his larger novels and in light of my penchant for short stories, it seemed the logical way to go. I was delighted. I remember picking up my paperback copy, along with Dostoyevsky’s Poor Folk, at the local library’s rummage sale and planning on reading just one or two stories before bed. I stayed up to finish them in their entirety.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. (Dubliners)

Joyce has a way of dropping you into the middle of something that feels like it could be the most important moment on earth and leaving you there to wonder forever. He doesn’t give you a nice, tidy conclusion or explanation, rather he leaves the outcome of the story to your own imagination by plucking you back out of the story before it has met its end. This feeling of ambiguity was refreshing! I had, up until this point, been reading books that had a clear message, something definite you should be walking away with. I felt like Joyce was extending trust to me, believing that I could make a better ending than even he would create. Perhaps not what he was going for, but it was exhilarating to be part of the story in that way. I was ecstatic to find that many of the characters from this collection would appear again in Ulysses, though in less significant roles.

Her antiquity in preceding and surviving succeeding tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible. (Ulysses)

I remember reading Ulysses and being amazed, both by the lack of punctuation and the beauty of experiencing the unhindered thoughts of another person, like waves lapping the shore again and again. I followed Ulysses with A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and was pleased to be able to trace the origins of Joyce’s stream style back to his very first novel. It was as if a door was opened for me into a new way of writing, a more comfortable and familiar way. Until Joyce, I had fought to shorten my sentences. Write more succinctly and directly. Use lots of periods. After Joyce I realized that it was ok to have a voice that rambled and became distracted by itself; a voice that folded back on itself to add layers and dimensions of beauty; a voice that experimented til it found someplace comfortable and then refused to be roused from that place.

Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. (Ulysses)

Because of Joyce, I fell in love with stream of consciousness writing. Because of Joyce I would discover Virginia Woolf, Fyodor Dostoevsky, and Jack Kerouac. Because of Joyce I was able to embrace my non-linear way of storytelling and see it as something positive. Because of James Joyce I am the writer I am today.

The Writing Allstars – The Fabulous Fifteen

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A while back (I’ll not be more specific as I don’t want to date myself) there was a little fill-in-the-blank floating around Facebook that had to do with favorite/influential authors. I remember filling it out without much thought (as per the instructions) and tagging my nerdy friends in the hopes of starting a conversation and, maybe, finding some writer in common. That was, sadly, the end of it until this week when I rediscovered my list. As I looked through the names again I was proud of myself because, not only were there a few obscure authors thrown in there, that list is the same one I would write today.

That kind of permanence got me thinking about why these authors were so influential and what it was about their writing styles that stuck with me. There are a myriad of reasons that I may like a book, but an author – that’s talking about a much larger and deeper scope of influence worth exploring. The original Facebook post wanted your top 15 authors but didn’t bother to ask why, but I want to talk about why. It is, after all, my favorite question. The trouble is tackling 15 authors in a single post seems, at the very least, daunting. I want to be able to give each of them the time and attention they deserve so I’ve decided to spread them out over the next few posts. I’ll be sharing my history with the authors, how they’ve influenced me, favorite quotes, etc. I hope you’ll enjoy a glimpse of them through a different lens and maybe share a few of your own favorite moments spent in their company.

To start us off, and topping my list at #1 is none other than brilliant Irish novelist and poet, James Joyce.