An Interview with Robert James Russell, author of Sea of Trees

Robert James Russell is the author of Sea of Trees, as well as a co-founding editor of the literary journal Midwestern Gothic.

Robert James Russell is the author of Sea of Trees, as well as a co-founding editor of the literary journal Midwestern Gothic. 

Part of our mission as publishers of a digital journal has been bringing attention and due praise to high quality shorter works, whether of fiction, non-fiction, or poetry. For reasons too long-winded to go into here, it can be difficult to break into the major publishing and book selling world as a writer focused on shorter works, which is why we do our best to publish vital voices working in these less widely read and sold forms. Though we don’t have the resources to publish them right now, novellas are one of our favorite forms of fiction. We believe there is beauty in the economy of the short novel, which is why our friend Megan, a business reporter for the Chicago Sun Times, sat down with recently-published novella-ist Robert James Russell, author of Sea of Trees (Winter Goose Publishing, 2012) and co-founding editor of the flourishing literary journal, Midwestern Gothic, to talk about his book, his writing process, and the importance of good dialogue — among other things. And don’t forget to check back in with us: Megan’s review of Sea of Trees is forthcoming. 

Megan Graham: Tell me about your writing process.

Robert James Russell: I come up with like 20 ideas for things I want to work on, and then I work on those 20 ideas, and then eventually one of them becomes the clear winner of that bunch, and then I just focus all my attention on it.

I tend to write very quickly when I write. I wrote the initial draft of Sea of Trees in a month. And there’s a lot of research and planning leading up to that. But when I’m getting going and I know what I’m doing, I end up writing really quickly. I just finished my new novel this past week actually. Like finished, finished—my final draft. I think the initial draft of that took 2 months. I write quickly. And I never have a shortage of ideas.

For me, it’s part of the learning process of writing and honing my voice. Even still, I still need to do that in practice. Even if I end up writing four chapters of something that never ends up being anything, it’s good practice and it gets me going for something else. My brain is weird like that. I have to work. I love multitasking, so the more stuff I have to work on, the better I am at all those things. So it’s almost like I force myself when I work on multiple projects to choose, something clicks on and I’m like, ah, this is the one. For whatever reason, it just happens like that.

MG: Are you at a point where you can read something of your own and distinguish whether it’s any good?

RJR: Yeah, I think I can. I wanted to be a writer for my whole life. I’m 31 now, [but for] most of my twenties I was a writer who didn’t write. Which I feel like you hear that all the time from people. I think for me what happened was a lot of real-world experiences and traveling and it just clicked on one day and it hasn’t been able to come off since. And for me now, I’ve spent so much time honing my voice, I didn’t even start getting my stories published until about three years ago. Purposely. I just wasn’t ready, I was very hard on myself. And now, I’m at a point where I’m very happy with what I write. So if I write something I know, okay this is shit, I need to start over, or, I’m very happy with where this is going. That doesn’t mean I’m writing perfect. Lord knows, first draft, I go through pretty quickly and there’s always crap that needs fixing up.

MG: How’d you come across the idea for this book?

Sea of Trees Final flat Rev 2-12RJR:  I can give you the romantic answer and I can give you the real answer. They kind of cross a little bit. I wrote a book, it’s my baby, it’s a very literary novel about grad school, actually. I was trying to get that published for a long time and it had a lot of very close calls and started getting really frustrated because nothing was happening with it. So I decided I wanted to write something else that’s maybe a little more broad-based appeal, easier to get into than stream of consciousness, literary fiction that not everybody likes. So I was kind of looking for something and I read an article, I stumbled on an article about Aokigahara, and it was just one of those things, the second I read it I was like, I’ve got to write something about this. I loved it. I knew it and I was hooked. I did research for about a month and a half or two months, and then started writing and—boom—shot through it.  It was on my brain, had to get it done.

I’m a really big fan of shorter fiction. Shorter long fiction, if you will. Like novellas and short novels. I like that art form and for Sea of Trees, I feel like if it was any longer it would sort of work against itself. The romantic answer is I read about it and I was smitten, I was like, I have to write about this. But on top of that, it was a frustration of wanting to write about something else that would have more appeal to people. But I’m happy with the turnout. I feel like I wrote something that was very true to my writing style, still is literary, I think, but has more of the thriller elements to it. Or suspense.

MG: When did you hear about Aokigahara?

RJR: It was summer of 2011. It got picked up by a publisher in late September 2011. And then it came out that following May.

MG: Depression in Japan has been really prevalent in the media in recent months.

RJR: One of the big things is that suicide is not a religious taboo in Japan like it is in Christian America. You commit suicide, you’re going to hell, basically, and Shintoism and all these other religions, they don’t have anything for it. It’s not that kind of thing. And it was really like a long withstanding tradition, you dishonored your family, that was the noble thing to do. Now, granted, there is an epidemic of it. Like young kids doing it and stuff like that and that’s obviously a very different thing. But I think it’s kind of seeped into the conscious, which is why it’s so high there. They have one of the highest suicide rates. But they have a very good quality of life in japan too. It seems to me, just conjecture, that it’s so seeped into the subconscious of that country that it’s one of those things that if you’re unhappy, you do it. You want to make a point, you commit suicide.

I was trying to be very careful in the book because I’m not trying to give rationale behind the epidemic of suicide or trying to make any solutions for it or propose any solutions for it—that was not the point of the book. The book was just, hey, it happens, here’s some situations of it, get people thinking about it, perhaps, I’m not even going to imagine or assume that I know anything about it that could cure it or anything like that.

MG: What kind of research do you do before you start writing?

RJR: It depends on the topic. For this, I didn’t interview anybody just because I didn’t know anybody over there. I bought a lot of books, not just on suicide but on culture of Japan and history. And spent a lot of time reading about the history. Why any culture does anything tends to be because they used to do it back in the day and they still do it. Just trying to learn about that. I actually learned a lot about the forest in the process. It had a long, long history. I’ve been to Japan once but haven’t been to the forest. So as much as you can be without actually being there. I like being outdoors, I’m an avid hiker, I know what a forest looks like, so after seeing all these things and reading it, it was very easy to picture in my mind. And kind of put it together that way. I wanted to paint it as a very surreal place. There are details that you come across in the book. I say green a lot, instead of individual leaves, because I want the effect that they’re getting lost but I want the reader to feel that way too. Who hasn’t been in the woods before? Everyone has. So I wanted to make it a little easier for anybody to imagine what it could be like being there.

MG: Have you gotten any feedback from people who have been to the forest?

RJR: Yeah. I’ve met friends of friends who have been to the forest and read the book said it was very spot-on. Because when you go there, there are signs all over the woods saying, “your family loves you, think about your family, don’t commit suicide.” They have volunteers, so many people commit suicide there every year that they have these volunteer suicide patrols that basically go through and either try to stop people or find bodies and take them out of the woods. But there are so many suicides and so few suicide patrols that they can’t find them all. If you go off the trails it’s just a matter of time before you stumble on a body. Not if, but when, kind of thing. Which is really creepy.

I think the one thing that makes it really unique is that it’s very silent. There’s not a lot of animal life that lives there, and the trees are so densely planted together that not a lot of wind can get through. So you’re in the middle of the woods and it’s just eerily, eerily quiet. Which it’s crazy but it’s real. A giant woods with dead bodies everywhere and there’s no wind. I mean it sounds made-up but that was what kind of stroked my imagination when I heard about it. It didn’t seem real. And then finding out that it was very real, it just seemed too good not to write about.

I’ve tried reaching out to some Japanese blogs and newspapers and I’m still in the process of doing that. Being an indie writer, you’re never really done trying to promote your book.

MG: Are your characters based on people you know?

RJR: I think a good amount. I think the best piece of writing advice I had in my entire life was in college, one of my professors told me to write what you know. And I think that can translate to any genre. For me, I base a lot of things on real life. I do my best writing in coffee shops. If I’m stuck, I stop, I sit there and I listen to people’s conversations. Dialogue to me is very, very important to come across as real. Most dialogue that you have with people is very uninteresting. I think when you read books and you start feeling like it’s not real or they wouldn’t say that in real life is because they cut out the things that aren’t boring, but when you have a conversation with a friend it’s not all grandiose and eloquent. I think, to me, that is what creates characters: those patterns of speech. That’s how I start writing characters—how are they going to talk to each other. And obviously I know how I talk so a lot is based on me and my idiosyncrasies of my speech patterns, because I know myself. I obviously use real-world conversations and experiences as much as possible. For me, it all comes down to dialogue. You could write the greatest scenes in the world but if you have shoddy dialogue, it loses it all.

It sounds cheesy, but you use experiences, you use emotions that you’ve had before and try to imagine yourself in this experience using that emotion. And it works for me. I’m a very hands on writer. I would love to go out and be there and do something but I think I’m lucky that I’ve been able to experience a lot of things in the world and for me I’m lucky that I can draw on that.

I wanted to be a writer. I knew that forever and I took a very roundabout way of doing it. I was a zoology major at first in undergrad. I wanted to be a writer and naïvely I was like, I know how to write, I’m going to go get my biology stuff because I wanted to work for National Geographic. And then I realized I hate chemistry and it wasn’t worth finishing up. I just wasn’t ready to write. I wanted to write, but I couldn’t do it.

I think in hindsight I realize I just wasn’t ready to do it. When I actually started writing I spent years trying to hone my voice and stuff like that. During my time I wrote a lot of screenplays, screenwriting is all dialogue. I mean it ‘s all dialogue and I think I write pretty good dialogue and I pride myself on that and think it’s because I spent so many years doing screenwriting. And forcing myself to write believable dialogue that wasn’t cheesy or cliché. Sitting in coffee shops, listening to people having conversations, copying that down. A lot of that sort of thing. I think dialogue is the key to anything.

MG: Have you modeled your style after another writer?

RJR: I think so. Faulkner was and still is my favorite author. He was the reason I reminded myself I wanted to be a writer. I think it got away from me. And toward the tail end of college is when I really started getting back into it. I didn’t try to get anything published, but I tried to develop my voice more. Not a lot of people have a natural voice that they just instantly have. I think a lot of it is practice.

When I was younger I wrote a lot of Edgar Allen Poe type stories, but I’d try to write it in a Victorian style. I didn’t really care for it but it was a good way for me to learn the writing process. As soon as I read “As I Lay Dying,” I tried to write that way, with stream of consciousness where it’s extremely real and raw and unfiltered, and I fell in love with that. A lot of my early writing, I was convinced that was the only type of writing I was going to do and I just started doing more and naturally picked things up from other people you read, from things you see and experience in life and my voice just kind of changed or matured. Happy to say I like where my writing voice is.

MG: I had a great professor who said that an excellent writer had to be an excellent reader.  

RJR: I agree with that. I’m funny about that. When I’m writing, I refuse to read anything when I write, because I don’t want anything to seep in. I want to be free of distractions. Between stuff, I can’t get enough. I just voraciously read everything in sight. When I’m writing, when I’m getting to the bulk of what I’m working on, I stop everything. I do not read at all.

MG: What would you say to your 21 year old self?

RJR: Just keep writing. I feel like that’s the most clichéd piece of advice ever, but I think it’s so true. Just don’t stop. I’m constantly getting better. You have to keep doing it. Writing is like anything else. I feel like very few people I know could stop writing for 10 years and then pick it up and immediately be as good as they were before. I feel like it’s a muscle you have to flex very often. Take in the world. I think a lot of people get very afraid that they’re never going to get published. And you just kind of have to have the attitude that a lot of great people don’t get published or it takes them a long time to get published. That is absolutely part of the game. You just have to keep going. 

MG: You just finished another novel. What comes next?

RJR: For this one, I am going to try to find an agent. I didn’t have an agent for my first novel. It depends who you talk to, if you need one or not. Some people swear by it. It really depends what you’re trying to go after. For me, I love writing so much but when I get done with my final draft, from the end of the final draft to trying to get it published is my least favorite thing on the planet. I would love to find somebody to help me with that. My publisher for Sea of Trees, Winter Goose, was awesome. And it’s not a knock at them, but I’d like to see if I could go bigger for my next one. And that’s another reason I think an agent might be able to help me. An agent can do a lot of that messy stuff that I hate doing.

MG: What else do you want to do with your writing?

RJR: I’ve always been in love with the idea of writing creative nonfiction. I just haven’t found what that one thing would be that I’m interested in writing a whole book about. But I think that’s definitely in my future somewhere.

Generally, for the future, if I could write as my full-time job or edit the journal that I created as my full-time job, I would love that.

I guess that’s one of the reasons that I want to find a bigger press. Absolutely nothing against my last press. But if I want to try to make a living at this, I’ve got to go big or go home. In the meantime, just try to find a home for this book, keep working my way up and see what happens after that. 

e62e00e6da472ef1475e65c5386498c7Megan Graham is a business reporter with the Chicago Sun Times. She attended college at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where she majored in journalism. In her free time, she enjoys reading both fiction and non-fiction. You can follow her on Twitter @megancgraham.

Now Presenting: noah #3!

(Editor’s Note: For some reason, Issuu’s software is changing the font from our pdf cover into their digital magazine. We’ve included the link to the pdf with the proper cover, and for those of you interested in ordering a printed copy from Issuu, we’ll work as fast as possible to correct the problem. We just didn’t want to delay our release!)

You can conviently read, print, or download noah #2 through Issuu by clicking here. Or for a reliable, high-quality pdf download (with our intended cover design!), click here. Please pass it along and share with your friends!

We’ll give you some time to digest the great work by our contributors before letting you in on some upcoming plans. Until then leave a comment below or on Facebook and tell us what you think. Thanks for reading!

noah3

Issue #3 Contributors List

Hello, readers. Apologies for the rather intermittent updating of our website in recent months — things do tend to get a little crazy during the winter, don’t they? Anyway, we’re happy to announce the we’ve finalized acceptances for noah #3, which is due out in mid March. If you’ve submitted in (very) recent days, fear not: your work will be eligible for consideration for our fall issue. Be sure to check back in around the first of the month for the release of our new cover art, too. 

But without further ado, our talented contributors:

Prose
Ruba Abughaida
Terry Barr
Nels Hanson
Eric Lutz
Eliana Osborn

Poetry
Steven Pelcman
Anina Robb
Catherine Simpson
Barry Spacks
Megan Towey
Desmond Kon Zchicheng-Mingdé

As we grow and our name gets out there, our contributor list gets even more varied. In March you’ll have the chance to read work from an international array of writers both established and previously unpublished, some students, others professors, others previously featured in publications as illustrious as The New Yorker and The Paris Review. Many of issue #3′s contributors are award winning writers and artists, and we’re honored to present them alongside new voices that will undoubtedly prove just as vital. 

If you’re on this list, know someone who is, or just wish you were, please pass it along to your reading and writing friends. We’re passionate about literature, even in this increasingly digital age, and the only way to continue our growth issue by issue is if people know we exist! Pass along this post, retweet us, and convince your friends, fans, and family members to like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @noahmagazine

Congratulations to the listed writers! We hope everyone’s looking forward to a great issue next month. 

noah #3: coming soon!

Apologies for our lack of recent updates — we’ve been so busy reading submissions that we’ve hardly had time to pay attention to the website! But still, a reminder: to be considered for the March issue of noah, submit by February 15. Toward the end of February we’ll release our cover art for noah #3, then we’ll release the full journal in mid-March. Keep submitting!

This Week in Literature: Reviewing This Jealous Earth by Scott Dominic Carpenter

This Jealous Earth, forthcoming from MG Press (January 15, 2013).

This Jealous Earth, forthcoming from MG Press (January 15, 2013).

There’s a specific difficulty to reviewing a collection of short stories: presumably, the author hadn’t originally intended the stories to work together as one unit; they’ve likely been written over a longish period of time during which the author’s own tastes and artistic goals have evolved considerably. So how’s a critic to comment fairly on the book as a distinct, unified whole? Do I judge vastly different approaches in comparison to one another? Do I treat the book as if meant to be a single, cover-to-cover work of art? Probably not.

So maybe I’ll begin with the most obvious function of a review, the recommendation. Here goes: I enjoyed Scott Dominic Carpenter’s debut collection, This Jealous Earth. Because I enjoyed it, I imagine you will too. The book, forthcoming from MG Press (a new press founded by the publishers of literary journal Midwestern Gothic), is made up of sixteen stories told mostly (though not entirely) in the third person. Carpenter’s prose is clean and elegant, his stories tightly constructed. It’s a strong debut from both author and press. Bottom line? Fans of contemporary literary fiction will find much to love about This Jealous Earth.

But what of a book review’s murkier critical purpose — placing the work alongside other existing works and within critical movements? I’ve not a clue where to begin, so why don’t we start with the epigraph, which seems a logical enough jumping off point. Carpenter’s chosen Proust, from Swann’s Way:

For what other life was he saving up for before expressing, at long last, his true feelings about things, before crafting opinions he didn’t need to put in quotes, before ceasing to devote himself, with punctilious decorum, to endeavors that he claimed at the same time to be ridiculous?

If we’re to take SDC’s epigraph as the gentle thematic nudge it appears to be, This Jealous Earth’s overarching thread ought to be an emotionally truthful expression of unsexy, single entendre truths — one’s true feelings about things, expressed in these sixteen stories. To a large extent, the collection succeeds. Carpenter’s best stories build from mild (or even moderate) reader-irritation — the characters often rendered as somewhat pathetic or unpleasant, the narrative tone a touch sarcastic — before turning sharply into brutally relatable and humanistic observations.

To me, the shift from annoyance to glimpses of humanity in TJE‘s better pieces felt almost Franzenian; apparent authorial self-indulgence paves the way for devastating appeals to empathy. You want to dislike the characters as much as the narrator sometimes seems to, but you can’t because, well, they feel a little too much like actual living, breathing people. Imperfect but understandable. In the opening story, “The Tender Knife,” I felt more resentment than pity for Walter — the protagonist who’s trying to work up the courage to wean out his koi pond. The narrator’s portrayal of him was not all that flattering; here’s a semi-affluent, middle-aged fellow in an unhappy marriage who can’t figure his shit out. He and his wife drink too much; they don’t understand each other; their sex leaves them “tinged with the remorse of a bad transaction.” It all felt a bit too cynical, a bit too much like an author having a laugh at his less-fortunate characters, but just as I was about to give up on the story and its sardonic narrator, Walter went out to kill his fish. Here, everything changed. The scene, which I won’t ruin for you, left me feeling actual, literal physical discomfort. Carpenter tests your patience, then hits you hard, and it’s impressively affecting.

The longer stories in This Jealous Earth follow this approximate structure, although sometimes from a different narrative distance and following radically different characters. But always there’s this vague irritation — the sense that you’re reading yet another cynical story by a jaded author who resents his own characters — before you begin to relate, to see yourself in the character you were about to give up on. In winning stories such as “Field Notes ” and “The Death Button,” the line is expertly straddled. In others — for me, “Inheritance” and “This Jealous Earth,” the narrative structures and forced endings begin to feel repetitive, and since the stories’ faults are usually the same, they’re highlighted all the more. Different readers may react better to the stories I didn’t — it’s a matter of relatability, I think; the stories in which you see something of yourself will be the ones with emotional payoff. They’ll leave you feeling maybe a little worse, but mostly better, and definitely less alone. And that’s worth a couple others that sit a little dead on the page.

TJE is Carpenter's debut short story collection. A novel, Theory of Remainders, is due out in May 2013.

TJE is Carpenter’s debut short story collection. A novel, Theory of Remainders, is due out in May 2013.

All together, the book’s just a bit disjointed. The short shorts felt a bit off to me, mostly because they read so differently from the rest of the collection. Taken alone, stories like “Future Perfect” and “The Birthday List” might be affecting; here they simply felt off key. But if you’re starting to think I sound too critical, you’re right — even the weaker moments in Scott Dominic Carpenter’s debut collection are beautifully written. The flawed stories are still told in tight, clean prose, with humor and insight. In the end, it seems somehow beside the point whether you liked the same stories I did or not — somewhere in This Jealous Earth, you’ll see yourself, and the story’s flaws will be your own. It’ll be a little funny, a little sad, and ultimately rewarding.

So here it is: both Scott Dominic Carpenter and MG Press are worth watching — this is a solid debut, well worth reading.

Reserve a copy here.

_______

Jacob Brower’s fiction has appeared in Midwestern Gothic and Stillwater. When he’s not writing or editing work for noah, you can find him selling books at Anderson’s Bookshop in Downers Grove, IL. Follow him on Twitter @jhbrower1.

This Week in Literature: Last Minute Holiday Gift Guide

Shopping for the book lover who has everything? Out of ideas? Out of time? You’ve come to the right place: noah’s handy holiday literary gift guide. Let’s just start with a reminder to support your local book stores, especially the independent ones, because they are the cornerstone of our literary communities — Amazon may be cheap, but they’re not in the bookselling business for the writers or readers; they’re in it to undersell on books and make money when you buy a plasma screen TV. Support the literary community, as well as your local one!

Fiction
10996342Does your beloved reader enjoy novels? Probably. Here’re some suggestions: Louise Erdrich’s The Round House, the National Book Award Winner, for those interested in family stories, social criticism (specifically concerning Native Americans living in the US), and fabulous writing in general. For readers who love sports, especially baseball: The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach, a quick reading but highly literate account of friendship, romance, and the pressure of performance on college baseball star Henry Skrimshander. If you’re looking for something heartbreaking, sharp, and totally street smart, pick up one of Junot Diaz’s three books — his latest, a collection of loosely connected short stories titled This is How You Lose Her, was a national book award finalist this year. A Joyce fan looking to go contemporary will enjoy Zadie Smith’s latest effort, the elusive and beautiful NW. Finally there’s Colson Whitehead’s Zone One, which I’ve been waiting all year to recommend to someone — zombies are big lately in movies and TV, and Whitehead’s novel combines the suspense, action, and intrigue of shows like The Walking Dead with the heart and intellect of literary fiction. 

Object-Lessons-copyIf the beloved reader you’re shopping for is more of a short story person, there’s always Best American Short Stories 2012. This year’s edition is guest edited by Tom Perotta and features selected fiction by greats like Alice Munro (whose latest collection, Dear Life, was released recently and is as excellent as readers have come to expect) and George Saunders, as well as a number of other writers, some established, some less so. If Best American seems like too obvious a choice, we recommend Object Lessons, the latest collection from The Paris Review that pairs classic short stories (both contemporary and less so) with introductions from famous and beloved writers — it’s the perfect collection for a reader wanting to learn more about the short story form or for a writer who wants to dig into to some great stories and discover how they work. 

Poetry
9780374120382-lBooks of poetry can be hard to buy for other people, at least in my experience. But you can’t go wrong with one of Pablo Neruda’s timeless collections — Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, The Captain’s Verses, or Residence of the Earth, among others. Another collection I loved was Yusef Komunyakaa’s The Chameleon Couch, a National Book Award finalist last year; it pairs the optimistic imagery of Neruda’s verse with the voice and social engagement of Komunyakaa’s other work. (This year’s winner was Bewilderment by David Ferry.) Because I’ll admit to a rather small collection of recent poetry, you might want to turn to this guide to 2012′s best from Library Journal

Non-Fiction
Fans of essays will find much to love in (relatively) recent collections from three of contemporary fiction’s finest authors: Farther Away by Jonathan Franzen, Changing My Mind by Zadie Smith, and Both Flesh and Not, this year’s posthumous release from David Foster Wallace. Fun link? The collections by Franzen and Smith both include essays inspired by or in some way about DFW. 

la-ca-jc-timothy-egan-20121021-001If book sales are anything to go by, lovers of history will enjoy Jon Meacham’s Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power, while music fans have been flocking toward a trio of recent biographies/memoirs: Bruce by Peter Carlin, Waging Heavy Peace by Neil Young, and Who I Am by Pete Townshend. Timothy Egan’s Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher, a book about Native American photographer Edward Curtis, has also been popular. 

Not Looking for a Book? 
You can’t go wrong with a subscription to one (or many) of America’s many fine literary journals. Fiction-lovers, consider One Story or American Short Fiction. Or, if you’re looking for some of everything, try searching the Poets & Writers listing for a publication with a sensibility that sounds similar to the person’s you’re shopping for. I’m especially fond of McSweeney’s, The Cincinnati Review, and The Paris Review, but there’re hundreds of great small literary journals that deserve your subscriptions and readership. 

If reading material in general doesn’t sound like the gift you’re looking for, consider literary apparel from Out of Print Clothing or the awesome (full text!) posters from Litographs.

293696_179244595495152_1569146685_n

Deadline for Issue #3 Submissions: February 15

We’re taking a break from our “This Week in Literature” feature this week — never fear, it’ll be back on Monday — to complete some editorial tasks and read submissions for our March issue. For those of you who haven’t yet submitted, you must send us your poems, essays, or stories by February 15 to be considered for noah #3. We’ve accepted some great pieces already, but there’s certainly room for yours — impress us, make us jealous, make us feel something.

We want to read your best work. Submit, submit, submit! 

Guidelines here.

writing

This Week in Literature: Loving to Hate Yourself

I intended to start this week’s post with a series of quotes about writers, even (especially?) very good ones, being insecure about the quality of their own work, after which I planned to quote Ernest Hemingway and Ira Glass in tandem to suggest that those of us truly insecure about our work are probably the ones doing a better job. An orgy of quotes venting my own writerly self-hatred and, I thought, helping empathize with your own, the reader’s. There are many such quotes, and I could list them out one-by-one and offer some cursory analysis, but I realized that would only make me feel insecure about this writing, which I didn’t intend to be a serious piece of prose in the first place.

No matter what I write, it'll be this void of content. I'm sure of this.

No matter what I write, it’ll be this void of content. I’m sure of this.

That’s sort of my point. There are endless quotes out there by the Hemingways and Joyces, Wallaces and Franzens that serve to aggrandize our own tendency to self-loathe. Some are by kindred souls, expressing their own personal distaste; some are authorial peacocking, puffery of an insecure nature. But what is the point of all this self-loathing? Does my insecurity make me a better writer, whether out of pain and suffering or merely the sense to keep hold of my shitty stories instead of sending them out to publishers (or into the blogosphere) like so many others? More likely it stops me from even sending out the good ones.

But I have to rationalize, to justify, to prop myself up by standing behind this common belief that being dissatisfied with my own writing means I have better taste & higher ambitions, that hating my own stories means someday I’ll find a way to write something better; there is this need to believe that the writers who actually like their own work, can reread it after publication and live with it, are somehow lesser beings. Less refined, less driven to make good art.*

And so I’ll leave you with the two quotes I’d originally set aside to fulfill noah’s weekly “having something to say” requirement. First, a spirit-lifter from Ira Glass:

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”

And finally for those who want to wallow, from TS Eliot:

Some editors are failed writers, but so are most writers.

Keep on trucking, writers. There’s gotta be some greater point to it all. (Crossing my fingers.)

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*This is all of course totally unfair, and I’m not sure I even think it, but a certain amount of self-delusion becomes necessary to keep yourself going through grad school applications and literary journal rejections. I trust those of you who don’t hate your own work will still understand. Nothing personal.