It’s graduation season in an economic downturn, so it’s time to reflect on the sorry state of college affordability, student loans and job prospects in the US. Being a twentysomething here in the US, I take discussions like these incredibly personally.
"I hate to think of how many people there might be in our Christian circles that are dealing with similar things but are too afraid to bring it up because there’s such a closed climate surrounding it at home."
I am delighted that your volume Story Writing is going into a paperback edition. It will reach a far larger audience, and that is a good thing. It may not teach the reader how to write a good story, but it will surely help him to recognize one when he reads it.
Although it must be a thousand years ago that I sat in your class in story writing at Stanford, I remember the experience very clearly. I was bright-eyed and bushy-brained and prepared to absorb from you the secret formula for writing good short stories, even great short stories.
You canceled this illusion very quickly. The only way to write a good short story, you said, was to write a good short story. Only after it is written can it be taken apart to see how it was done. It is a most difficult form, you told us, and the proof lies in how very few great short stories there are in the world.
The basic rule you gave us was simple and heartbreaking. A story to be effective had to convey something from writer to reader and the power of its offering was the measure of its excellence. Outside of that, you said, there were no rules. A story could be about anything and could use any means and technique at all—so long as it was effective.
As a subhead to this rule, you maintained that it seemed to be necessary for the writer to know what he wanted to say, in short, what he was talking about. As an exercise we were to try reducing the meat of a story to one sentence, for only then could we know it well enough to enlarge it to three or six or ten thousand words.
So there went the magic formula, the secret ingredient. With no more than that you set us on the desolate lonely path of the writer. And we must have turned in some abysmally bad stories. If I had expected to be discovered in a full bloom of excellence, the grades you gave my efforts quickly disillusioned me. And if I felt unjustly criticized, the judgments of editors for many years afterwards upheld your side, not mine.
It seemed unfair. I could read a fine story and could even know how it was done, thanks to your training. Why could I not do it myself? Well, I couldn’t, and maybe it’s because no two stories dare be alike. Over the years I have written a great many stories and I still don’t know how to go about it except to write it and take my chances.
If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes but by no means always find the way to do it.
It is not so very hard to judge a story after it is written, but after many years, to start a story still scares me to death. I will go so far as to say that the writer who is not scared is happily unaware of the remote and tantalizing majesty of the medium.
I wonder whether you will remember one last piece of advice you gave me. It was during the exuberance of the rich and frantic twenties and I was going out into that world to try to be a writer.
You said, “It’s going to take a long time, and you haven’t any money. Maybe it would be better if you could go to Europe.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because in Europe poverty is a misfortune, but in America it is shameful. I wonder whether or not you can stand the shame of being poor.”
It wasn’t too long afterwards that the depression came down. Then everyone was poor and it was no shame any more. And so I will never know whether or not I could have stood it. But surely you were right about one thing, Edith. It took a long time—a very long time. And it is still going on and it has never got easier. You told me it wouldn’t.
All along I thought I was learning how to take How to bend not how to break How to live not how to cry But really I’ve been learning how to die I’ve been learning how to die
Although the song seems to be referring to a physical, literal death, I’ve always loved these lyrics for its relevance to our lives.
The summer has just started, but already I’ve been forced to think and ponder and mull over my life and my beliefs and future and building up castles and all that fun stuff. Introspection has its merits and in many instances leads to some kind of productivity, but we far too often take it too far.
I frequently have to remind myself that it isn’t actually about me, no matter how many voices tell me otherwise. And yes, in fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
"Then he said to them all, "If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me." Luke 9:23
So people come into your life and people go out pulling open swinging wide your doors and shutting slamming them with effortlessness
If they stay too long we would all be together sharing the same jokes teasing stories same places same bars same houses until each other’s presence gets on our nerves biting our skin like ticks hungry for blood and where’s the fun in that?
And some you fall in love with and some you hate and some you never really talk to leaving them in a distant corner of a distant room that is your life but rooms are meant to be explored and then left and most people are homes for a while rented apartments not mortgaged old houses that you sell your life to because where’s the fun in that?
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, evenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, of fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”—Anais Nin