But maybe you won’t mind it. Maybe you’re even curious what I sound like when I’m not attached to a Mac PowerBook. I was asked to read an old op-ed of mine on Voices of the Middle East, a program of Berkeley-based KPFA radio. (You can hear me toward the end of the show, around 54:00.)
In case you’re curious to read what Kirkus had to say about my first book, the review appears to be freely available online.
Working on a novel is, it seems to me, a bit like converting to a new faith. Each bit of new information is interpreted in light of the faith’s own logic, confirming, whether in obvious or contradictory ways, the validity of one’s beliefs. Here, at Bread Loaf, I’ve had many occasions to hear people whose job it is to teach fiction, and I’ve been taking bits and pieces from what they’re saying and relating them to my own work.
A few weeks ago, I was riding a great wave of inspiration on my novel, and the writing came easily. Then I hit a wall–I knew that one of my two main protagonists (a college student) wasn’t as well drawn as the other, and I wasn’t sure why. But after a long conversation with one of the fiction writers here, I came to see what wasn’t working. I’d started the story too early. Which was fine, because I was writing to discover the character. Now that this particular mental hurdle has been cleared, I’ll be cutting out another 10,000 words and then moving on. Until the next road block.
Charles Baxter gave a lecture on “Creating a Scene.” Here, he used the word “scene” not in the traditional sense in which it is used in fiction workshop, but in the way in which most people mean it when they say “Please don’t make a scene.” The crux of Baxter’s argument is that too often writers try to remain in control of their scenes, and shy away from letting characters act out their drama. He suggested that in art, as in life, people do behave in foolish and over-blown ways, and one shouldn’t be afraid to reflect that in one’s writing. He cited many examples of scenes, including one from one of my favorite writers–Edward P. Jones. (He also mentioned, en passant, that some of the most convincing outcasts or disenfranchised characters can be found in Dostoyevsky, so I made a mental note to re-read him while I’m working on my new novel.)
Doreen Baingana, whose collection, Tropical Fish, was one of my favorites this year, read the title story from her book early this week. Set in Uganda, the story is about a woman who has an affair with a white man and the effect of it on her life. It’s a sad, reflective, poignant piece, but there were moments in the dialogue that were funny, creating a nice contrast.
Claire Messud read from her forthcoming novel afterwards, a wonderful voice-driven piece about a college-bound young man named Frederick (unfortunate nickname: Booty). She read at a dizzying pace, but without once losing her audience.
Chris Castellani read a heart-breaking excerpt from his new novel,The Saint of Lost Things. He dedicated the reading to Amanda Davis, who died in an accident two years ago, and who was a fellow here in 1999.
Here’s a bourgeois confession: I’ve never waited a table in my life. So I was more than a little nervous about Wednesday night’s dinner, which was the first meal that the waiter scholars had to serve. We had our forty-five minute training session in the kitchen and dining hall, set up the tables, ate our own dinner in 10 minutes, and then opened the doors and welcomed the faculty, fellows, and contributors (paying attendees). I was in charge of two tables, and managed to get everyone’s order right and to clear everything in time. Because the headwaiters had scheduled everyone very carefully, it really wasn’t that difficult to stay on top of things.
After dinner, Michael Collier gave a welcoming speech, in which he repeated, yet again, his advice that attendees ‘pace themselves.’ There are tons of lectures and readings to attend, plus the workshop, plus social gatherings, and it’s impossible to do it all without burning out. The auditorium was packed when Collier spoke, and someone fainted and had to be led out. Charles Baxter read a wonderful story about a couple who are about to get divorced and see each other one last time when they clear out their house, and Michael Collier read some of his poems as well.
The temperature dropped after sun down and it’s absolutely freezing. Everyone’s running back in to get sweaters and I realize now I haven’t brought nearly enough warm clothes. I’m off to the coffee reception. More later.
That I’m not a light packer, but it’s not entirely my fault. Bread Loaf package materials advised attendees to pack light clothes as well as warm, sunscreen and insect repellent as well as raincoats.
That I can’t sleep on planes no matter what precautions I take, including the ingestion of (legal) drugs.
That it’s easy to get dehydrated here at Bread Loaf because of the altitude. And that there are few water fountains on campus.
That Vermont law prohibits open containers of alcohol from all public areas. Drink indoors.
That, despite claims to the contrary, wireless access doesn’t really expand to the cottage where we’re staying. So I have to cut this short.