10/8/2006

Dear Alane,

From what my Father tells me the weather in Chicago is just as dazzling as it is here in Bloomington-Normal (although who knows what the weather will be when this letter gets to you—let’s hope for more sunshine). What makes this season so special is the fine ingredients that go into making it, that is, the cold October air mingled with the mellow sunlight and the blaze of crimson and gold that is everywhere.

I’ve been working tirelessly on the manuscript—and realize now that I must stop and put it down before I start undoing all the work that I’ve done. So it’s time, at last, to give it a break and let non-doing accomplish as much as doing. I’ve always imagined the brain repairing itself after the cerebral muscles have exerted themselves for long periods of time. It’s been a year now since I’ve started the manuscript, and I don’t think I would have believed it if somebody would have told me just how many revisions are involved in writing a novel. But the truth of the matter—I now realize—there is no bottom to this work I’m doing, no real end or ending, and so, as if by pure invention, I must create one if only to can catch my breath and rest my legs. The “tyranny of the final product” can easily hamper my creative process—while working I need to forget about the elusive finish line. Because so far I’ve found there simply isn’t one. One draft leads to another as I keep honing and sharpening the scenes and the story, especially the characters who morph and transform into all sorts of interesting combinations.

Writing manuals have helped me along the way. Last month I read William Zinsser’s On Writing Well, which was an enormous boon; and this month, I’m reading Jon Gardener’s The Art of Fiction. I’m grateful to the men and women who have put down their thoughts on the writing process. It gives the novice, like myself, boundaries. Boundaries are good for beginners. In addition to reading manuals, I’m making my way through the six volumes of In Search of Lost Time by Proust. I read Proust because I admire the narrator’s voice which feels so all-encompassing and inviting—I feel I can rest in the warmth and humanity of the voice itself.

What I love most about reading and writing is being in this mode of perpetual discovery. Whether it is my observations of nature, people, or literature, everything goes through me and gets synthesized in the crucible of my imagination. My challenge is to live in the awakening moment and not allow Time to mold me. Writing can feel like a burden when I am not in the present and the perpetual discovery of life. What I need to remember is that there is nowhere to get to. The vocation of being a writer brings on its own hopes and fears that pulls me out of the present. But the present is where I make all of my discoveries, whether it is through observation or literature. The present is where it all happens. When I realize that I am at the center—and that I am the center—everything swirls back around and surrounds me. When I am not striving, writing is worthwhile.

I am in love with this journey and I have dedicated my life to it, not because I’m striving in secret to become famous, but because I adore the art and want to learn it. I work as a tutor both private and for a community college, but my work is not demanding and I barely work more than twelve hours a week. So I have a lot of time to write, which is what I have been doing, almost obsessive-compulsively, for the last year. The OCD

puts rigid structure into my life, but as you know, this can hamper the creative process. Thus I must tinker with loosening, not tightening myself, with opening up to the magic stillness all around me and with listening to my inner self as it navigates the sludge of my ordinary consciousness. What helps me to loosen up and keep my mind fresh is shifting gears throughout the day. For example, I write fiction in the morning, and read Proust in the afternoon, but in the evenings I turn my attention to poetry because it feelings like I’m doing something else.

My sanctuary is Wesleyan College’s Ames library, where on weekends I go to reconnect with myself and the poets and writers of ages. On Saturday night, when the library is empty, I forage through the shelves, hunting for books of poetry that will open up doors for me into new ways of seeing. Poetic language intrigues me because it represents something other than ordinary consciousness. As I forage through poetry books, scanning the pages, waiting for an image or voice to pull me into the other world, I feel as though I’m on a quest for a secret language, a dream language, like Blake uses in his poem “The Sick Rose”. The speaker in that poem strikes me as unconventional. I’m drawn to unconventional, mytho-poetic speakers. Last week I discovered the poetry of Mark Strand, which emerged from one of these weekly foragings through the stacks. This weekend I found a book by Leopardi and another by A. R. Ammons. Therefore, reading and writing poetry is “play” for me, whereas writing fiction is “work”.

You might be asking why I don’t spend my weekends with other people. Please don’t think I’m anti-social or misanthropic. I sprinkle meetings with friends between the long stretches of time I spend alone. I do not center my life on other people, which seems to be a very disappointing life, to always be expecting another person to provide for your needs. My drug addiction has taught me that I can only rely on myself, and there is a whole world of delights and pleasure within me, that begs no other company than the hundreds of authors and poets and their thousands of characters that I read about.

Finally, before I end this long letter: did I tell you that I bought a new house? With the money my mother left for me, I was able to purchase a home. I know how busy you are with writing and teaching, but I would like to extend an invitation to you to come see it sometime. You can take the train from Union Station to Normal and arrive just ten minute from where I live. I invite you but of course I don’t expect you to come.

I hope you and your husband are enjoying the middle of October with all its charms. If you are interested in reading my manuscript (80 pages), I will send it to you. But I wanted to ask first. Again, I send my blessings.

Love,

Chris