Annotation #6

Gardner, John. On Becoming a Novelist. New York: Harper & Row, 1983.

"For better or worse, the practice of fiction changes a person" (39).

    I first read On Becoming a Novelist about six or seven years ago, at a time when I was reading widely and feverishly, doing my best to stave off depression and with the hope of maybe, just maybe, stumbling across some area of interest in which I could pursue a living. (And no, I don't expect to make a living from writing novels. I did come across some other interesting subjects, however.) Probably half or more of my readings were novels, some classic, some contemporary, but all at my own whim and not subject to someone else's reading list. Though I was beginning to take college classes, none (thankfully) were in any kind of literature. I read more during this time than I probably had ever before in my life, and I began to have a real sense, almost something that I could express to others, of what I enjoyed in fiction. There was something about adjusting my own vision to that of other perspectives that had gone underdeveloped to that point in my life, and in a short time those novels were working wonders on me. After a period of long, cloud-covered moods and general mental fuzziness, my mental exercise was awakening me to some of the truths of life. And then, I read a terrible fakery of a novel.

     I believe it was Scott Smith's A Simple Plan. Reading it was sheer, unadulterated pain. No one was human in this book; no one made me care. They were a bunch of very poorly manipulated hand puppets, jumping around to fulfill the author's preconceived notion of plot or suspense. I hated it so badly that I mentioned it to a friend of mine, along with the vague curse that even I could do a better job than that. And Al said, "You should, kid. I know you could do it." Or something to that effect. The conversation went on to other things, but I remember that moment sticking in my mind like some kind of perverse little treasure, the fact that someone actually believed in me, that I could achieve something seemingly monumental in nature. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I was serious, that I had really been thinking about writing, and that I had let it slip in search of encouragement. And Al, in his all-knowing wisdom, saw the importance in my little slip and gave me what I needed.

     So I wanted to write. Not only that, what I liked best were novels. Gardner's book about the young novelist was the first thing I came across that looked like a worthwhile read and not some silly self-help book. And things have never been the same for me. Reading this book felt like some long, lost Papa had come down from the heavens to give me all his hard-fought wisdom in a gentle, encouraging way. Not only about writing novels, but just in understanding literature and other arts in general, and the need for creativity in our lives. I found so much to confirm what I had thought, and to expound on that and send me searching in other directions for more, more, more. Though it would be a long time before I would set pen to paper for my first fiction, in my mind I began sifting all the little stories I had told to myself and no one else, and deciding which of them stood up to scrutiny. And now that I felt no shame in this, I allowed my imagination to run wild, all day and night, and sifted through the remains looking for something I could put to paper someday.

     For one reason or another I felt in need of encouragement this week, so I turned to the book that first affirmed for me that I wasn't insane (not completely, anyway) and that what I was dreaming of wasn't necessarily folly. I think Gardner best confirmed it with this line: "...the widespread celebration of a stupid book offends the true writer" (36). I could not bring myself to understand the praise that had been lavished on Smith's book, not even after seeing a movie made that was only slightly less awful. Though there are many books that I enjoy as a reader but find intimidating as a beginning writer, this statement offered up the notion that though I may not stop the world with the quality of my novels, at least I know I can do it better than someone else who's had success. That may sound like a petty, mean-spirited motivation, but it was just the release I needed to start pursuing writing. Knowing that novels are not (necessarily) magical and that they can in fact be put together by ordinary humans came as a relief.

     What I had unknowingly been doing in my readings was unlearning anything left from my high school teachers' ill-conceived lesson plans. Simply reading for sheer enjoyment, my critical faculties came into play only as a secondary concern. What mattered most was what Gardner had put into concrete terms for me:

We recreate, with minor and for the most part unimportant changes, the vivid and continuous dream the writer worked out in his mind (revising and revising until he got it right) and captured in language so that other human beings, whenever they feel like it, may open his book and dream that dream again (5).

Stories, like life, begin as a vivid and continuous dream. Only later in life, with more experience and insight, do we see there are more and more levels of complexity lying underneath that dream. Like everyone else, I had always been able to experience that dream, but at this time in my life I was really beginning to grasp some of that additional complexity. The people who I think are lost, are those who dwell on the complexity and forget the point of experiencing the dream:

Every child knows intuitively...what the requirements are for good fiction, but by the time he's reached high school age, he's grown a trifle confused, bullied by his teachers into reading what is in fact trash, scorned if he reads a good comic book, and warned, if he picks up Crime and Punishment, "Harold, you're not ready for that." By the time he's a sophomore or junior in college, he's likely to be quite profoundly confused, imagining, for instance, that "theme" is the most important value in fiction (40).

This is why I have assiduously avoided literature and philosophy classes. Every time I've attempted one, I've had to abort after having my fill of detached and unclear textbooks. To quote Gardner: "All human thought has its bullshit quotient, and professional thought about thought has more than most" (94). This was my great fear in choosing to focus on writing and literature in pursuing a degree; thankfully, I've found a place where freedom reigns.

Ideas for novels began churning in my imagination. At some point, I realized it would take more than ideas, more than plots or conventions or points-of-view. What I enjoy most and what turns out to be most important, is to bring characters to life in your mind, and to let them take you where they will. I cannot find the quote, but I'm sure it was Gardner that said everyone is a novelist. If a character has been imagined deeply and fully, so that you know all their little idiosyncrasies and notions, then a story will follow. Yes, there must be conflict, climax, yada yada. But these things in one way or another happen in real life, and they will happen for imagined characters especially, with no need for a superimposed plot or theme. These things you find as you write your characters' story. As Gardner says:

Once one has recognized that the novelist ought to be able to play advocate for all kinds of human beings, see through their eyes, feel with their nerves, accept their stupidest settled opinions as self-evident facts (for them), one simply begins to do it; and doing it again and again--carefully rereading, reconsidering, revising--one gets good at it (30-31).

Though I wouldn't write anything but scribbled notes on paper for some time, I began imagining and revising a story in my mind, and everything Gardner said turned out to be true. There was no need to impose order, for the characters showed me a way. And that way did involve taking what I had originally envisioned as my novel and using it merely as background, the real novel then beginning with the events afterward. By fostering these living, breathing characters in my imagination, I've come to know not only what should go into my novel, but what things in life really are important to me. The themes underlying my fiction are the themes from my own life, and not some contrived notion of what makes good literature or what will earn a paycheck. This has helped my confidence immeasurably in the actual writing of the novel. Knowing that it will in the most important ways be unique and different from any other novel helps allay any fears of inadequacy. I wish more people would learn these lessons; there certainly is at least one altogether unique story for every human on this Earth.

     Sooner or later I would have to begin actually writing fiction, and it didn't happen until I happened to receive another little bit of innocuous but all-important encouragement from an English teacher. Juliet. We had written a short personal narrative essay, and she asked to keep mine as an example for later classes, and asked if I had taken any creative writing classes. Teachers can be heroes or they can villains--guess which Juliet was. Looking back it's amazing what just a few words at the right time can do. From that point forward I began writing creatively, no matter whether it was fiction or non-fiction, for my own fun or for class assignments. And here Gardner had more advice for me: "Fiction, like sculpture or painting, begins with a rough sketch" (135). Having had the encouragement, I no longer feared showing imperfect writing. Battling this fear is something I'm sure most will agree is never-ending, but at this point in my life I came to understand that if I didn't start getting something down, no one would know about it and there would be no pats on the back or congratulations. And in any case, I would either forget what I had imagined or be unable to perfect it: "It is the process of writing and rewriting that makes a fiction original and profound" (136). Once I could see my fiction in front of me, it didn't take long before I began constantly, incessantly revising it, even to the point of neglecting to write more raw material. It startled me how much the fiction would improve after I had worked it over time after time, making sure it made as much sense to others as it did to myself. And to think once I had thought it must all be done by magic! (I still do think it's magic, but a different, achievable, everyday kind of magic.)

     So now I've come from the barest of notions to a full restructuring of my life in order to pursue these silly dreams of mine, and still Gardner's book contains sage advice for me: "And finally, an aesthetically successful story will contain a sense of life's strangeness, however humdrum its makings" (40). I could not have known how true this would turn out to be; this is a quote I didn't catch until I've just now re-read the book. Life is a journey. We continually encounter strange new things (though often they appear ordinary) and try to incorporate them into our experience. I live for those moments and I believe it's what fiction and creativity in general is all about. We leave on a journey in hopes of coming back something more than what we were.

     Sadly, this book was published posthumously, shortly after Gardner's death at the age of forty-nine. There are people I wish we could somehow give a free pass to immortality, so that they would survive in actual life and not just in their works. Gardner is one of them. What lengths I would go to, to write in one of his workshops. In parting, Gardner's final lines from the book:

Finally, the true novelist is the one who doesn't quit. Novel-writing is not so much a profession as a yoga, or "way," an alternative to ordinary life-in-the-world. Its benefits are quasi-religious--a changed quality of mind and heart, satisfactions no non-novelist can understand--and its rigors generally bring no profit except to the spirit. For those who are authentically called to the profession, spiritual profits are enough (145).

All contents, except where otherwise noted, are copyright Andrew Lee Hunn.

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