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What is an author to do when The New York Times --- or, as John Updike likes to
refer to it, "that sacrosanct rag" --- comes a-calling? Well, unless you are
actively seeking a spot in literary obscurity, prefer that your readership be forever
referred to as a "cult following" or have cleverly worked it out so that your
hermitic lifestyle is actually a bigger and better publicity machine, you heed the call.
It is not at all surprising, then, that The Times' serial feature "Writers on
Writing" boasted an impressive list of contributors. From Saul Bellow to Annie
Proulx, E. L. Doctorow to Alice Walker, Donald Westlake to Joyce Carol Oates (to name only
a few), each week the Books section faithful were offered an "article in which
writers explore literary themes."
The term "article," of course, is a misnomer. Multiple sources were not
consulted; facts were not checked; and pronoun choices tended toward the self-referential.
No, the "Writers on Writing" pieces were, unmistakably, personal essays.
Big shock.
So what?
So…now that I know Richard Ford and I share a particular fondness for watching
inordinate amounts of television between bouts of writing, am I more inclined to read his
books? In describing her personal meditation practices in excruciating detail, is Alice
Walker helping me to better appreciate her artistry (see, "After 20 Years, Meditation
Still Conquers Inner Space")?
In the first case, maybe. In the second, dear god no.
That "Writers on Writing" became a platform from which writers --- almost
exclusively fiction writers --- could share their work habits, inspirations, daily
routines, hobbies, idiosyncrasies, names of dogs, etc., was an entertaining and, in some
ways, insightful gift to their readers. For one, it is quite fascinating to see a bunch of
fiction authors write something in which the characters central to their story are
themselves. And it is always exciting, after all, to learn personal tidbits about your
favorite authors (Mary Gordon writes by hand and is obsessive, bordering on neurotic,
about which kind of pen and notebook she uses. Huh.) Ultimately, what each piece does is
humanize and personalize the author (each essay is accompanied by a nice little snapshot).
Contrary to what Joyce Carol Oates suggests, writers don't seem crazy at all. If anything,
"Writers on Writing" makes them feel more accessible, less intimidating and,
well, actually a lot like us, the humble masses.
On the downside, you are left with the feeling that these authors are actually a lot like
us.
Gone are the days when novelists were shrouded in mystery and intrigue, when it was just
assumed that they were all mad-geniuses who spent there days doing strange and
mad-genius-like things and their nights drinking and writing with a kind of tortured,
fanatic desperation that only a mad-genius was capable of.
Alright, so maybe I'm over romanticizing. Most writers didn't live like the Marquis de
Sade...and, as evidenced by the pastoral scenes popping up throughout "Writers on
Writing," they certainly don't live hard and fast now. But really, aren't we losing
something --- I don't know, the unauthorized celebrity biography side of literary
Americana, maybe? --- when we learn that Joyce Carol Oates, the queen of transgression,
likes to go running in the afternoons or else she just doesn't "feel herself"?
Is it unfair of me to want writers to be, or at least pretend to be for the sake of their
adoring fans, mentally unhinged misanthropes?
Perhaps it is. Who am I to demand that a writer of great and furious fiction not carry on
about the time she met a reader who didn't like her book because the main character was
weak and not at all helpful and this really frustrated the author because...?
Oh, that's right. I'm the reader.
--- Sarah Brennan
(c)
Copyright 2001, Bookreporter.com. All rights reserved.
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