writing the quiet: a taste of my weekly dispatches

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“At its best, the sensation of writing is that of any unmerited grace. It is handed to you, but only if you look for it. You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then — and only then — it is handed to you.” –Anne Dillard on Writing.

Eleven years ago I sat in a small office facing Nathan Englander. He held two copies of a short story I’d written: one was unblemished and the other was a massacre of red ink. I remembered staring out the window, staring through it, as Nathan spent the next two hours recounting the bloodletting.

This was at Columbia—I had returned to the writing program from a two-year leave (parenthetical: don’t do drugs.Don’t) and found it changed. Line writing had come back into fashion and everyone was obsessed with the architecture of the sentence. Stories became less about people and the things that happened to them, instead they morphed into complicated maps, the kind you fold in sixteen, the kind that took you more time than you were willing to spend to find where you were. In the time it took to find yourself, you’d become exhausted from the journey, because who wanted a map, a compass, and a CIA operative just to find your way around the block? That’s what line writing felt like, and I found myself editing stories that read beautifully but meant nothing.

I wasn’t that kind of writer. I’d been writing since I was a child, only I didn’t have a voice because I’d spent my life swallowing it. I wrote sad stories where everyone had complicated feelings and died. I lived in a dark country where lights would flicker and inevitably flare out. This was a place I knew; I’d spent the greater part of my life navigating the terrain, and the only challenge was how much further I’d be willing to go.

I think about the controversy that surrounded the movie, Kill List. Viewers were furious because Ben Wheatley didn’t turn the camera away from extreme violence. He boxed you in, forced you into a place of anguish and discomfort. He made you see. I remember watching the film and feeling sick, but then I understood what Wheatley was going after. We spend so much time as protecting ourselves from the dark—whereas art doesn’t have constraints. Its meant to take you to places you sometimes don’t want to go.

I think about Kill List and Nathan because both put a scalpel in my hand. Both made me butcher and maim until I got to what was honest. Both made me see the complexity in the simplest of sentences. Lately I feel subsumed by the extreme nature of the culture around me. Stories are over-written for effect. The only risk is how one could shock, bait, and attract (I slept with my father! I dated a racist!). What I see today is what I saw all those years ago at Columbia—the noise of style trumping substance.

Quiet in prose rarely exists. Listening, instead of waiting for your turn to speak (or type, as it were), has become obsolete. In one of the most remarkable essays I’ve read on writing and ideas, Ursula K. Le Guin talks about the notion of patience, of allowing a story, a world to whisper to you before it makes its complete presence known. Ultimately, Le Guin returns to Virginia Woolf, arguably one of the masters of modernist fiction (DYK that her work influenced G.G. Marquez?), and surmises that ideas have a rhythm to them, much like a wave:

Beneath memory and experience, beneath imagination and invention—beneath words, as she says—there are rhythms to which memory and imagination and words all move. The writer’s job is to go down deep enough to begin to feel that rhythm, find it, move to it, be moved by it, and let it move memory and imagination to find words.

In that, I imagine this work requires a certain kind of quiet, a deliberate surrender. Maggie Nelson (my fucking hero) likens it to creating space in an effort to get specific and real. She says,

I love John Cage’s line where he says something like “love is making space around the beloved.” I think that this idea of giving people some space, which I think is something that is, hopefully, a kind of poetic or elliptical writing style can do. It’s kind of an illusion. You’re using other people’s stories for your own ends, but at the same time, as much as some might call that “exposing” myself or others, I don’t experience my writing as exposure. I experience it as a kind of articulation of specificity as well as trying to make space for other people’s mysteries, as well as my own.

And I can’t imagine that kind of work jutting up against our demands for velocity, one’s ferocious need to produce and accumulate affection and validation based on likes, fans, and followers.

I’ve finally found my voice, but it exists amidst so much noise. I read this piece on the clickbait nature of Medium, and I’m inclined to agree. Apart from literary journals and a handful of good publications, it’s been challenging to sift through the bad writing, bullshit and noise to find good work. I had a long conversation with a new friend today about growing audience and how far I’d be willing to go to do this without changing or sacrificing who I am and how much I’m willing to give to strangers, and I find myself resolute in the sense that I know I’ll never be mass market or largely popular, but that’s okay because I live and create on my own terms. So instead of sharing stories on Medium (I tried this experiment and didn’t feel I got the interaction I craved), I’m going to share them privately, with you.

Over the past few weeks I’ve been feeling blue. I’m slowly (and privately) getting out of this slump, but I managed to write this story (newsletters subscribers only, however, I just wrote this piece I posted on Medium), which is part essay, mostly fiction, and one of the most honest things I’ve written in a while. I was put on pause by this podcast relating to Instagram and depression, and I thought about our demands for happy! positive! pretty! and how life doesn’t neatly fit in those boxes, ascribe to those terms. My story is about what we’re willing to share, what we want to see and how that collides with the pain we sometimes feel.

For those of you who are curious, I’m aiming to finish a story collection, Women in Salt, by the end of the month.

Finally, I know I’m forever coming to the party in last decade’s clothes, but I’m infatuated with The Leftovers. Setting aside my taste for stories that emerge from an apocalyptic event (brief aside: please buy Claire Vaye Watkins’s Gold, Fame, Citrus), the show is one of the finest meditations on loss, depression, and emptiness I’ve seen in some time.

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10 thoughts on “writing the quiet: a taste of my weekly dispatches

  1. It’s so interesting to read your thoughts on writing. I am with you on not placating to the crowds that only seek feel-good, uplifting stories – because true life just isn’t always that way. Re: Leftovers – okay, love it, but this last episode was just SO effing dismal. Thanks for sharing xx

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  2. Felicia, I’ve always enjoyed your writing style, nothing conjured…looking forward to this new adventure!
    Maybe your body is missing the change of seasons that you’re so accustomed to? Or the hustle and bustle of NY? Hope you’re out of your funk soon, I think we all go through it from time to time; but love that you took the leap off the high board and landed in CA! Keep up the good work!
    XO
    Tracie

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  3. Much of the early seasons of The Leftovers were shot in my town. It was surreal seeing all the people in their white garb eating pizza in the community center!

    Loving my first dispatch — so much to savor.

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  4. Thank you Felicia for the tidbit in my inbox this week. I enjoyed reading your thoughts and look forward to the next few snippets. Actually, that along with a nice shit-pile-of-a-day has inspired me to start up an anonymous blog to write some things myself. Things I want to write but can’t say yet to the people watching…

    So, Thanks.

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  5. Hi Felicia,

    Just signed up to your newsletter! Love love your thoughts and the quotes you pull and how you weave it altogether. And been thinking about that John Cage paraphrase about space around the beloved (been thinking about Cage since returning from a nice autumnal visit to NYC, all those city sounds and spaces between, WOW, makes me feel so alive). Interesting to think through his idea and see that I really don’t know many people who know how to give that kind of space.

    I don’t much are for Medium, a collection of generally poor writing, repackaged trending ideas, a sort of performance of what writing is supposed to be. I can’t imagine your writing there, but perhaps for distribution to the greatest possible readers? (Except, back to, are those readers your best audience??)

    As for last to the party and this theme of catching up I also mull over in my life these days, have you ever considered that you’re making your own party on your own timeline? Not easy to be out of sync or off the norm, but what is a norm but what we know and what we wrap into expectations, all of which has nothing to do with blazing new trails in this crazy wonderful unpredictable life filled with opportunities we can’t imagine or sometimes even see??

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    1. Sandra– Thanks for this. You raise some interesting points. Medium is tricky. Amidst a sea of the same tired advice and listicles, there exists some extraordinary writing, although I dare say much of it is non-fiction. I don’t find many good short stories unless you’re counting the excerpts publishers submit to get awareness for new books. We’ll see 🙂

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