The Great American Novel

So the other day I was on Facebook and I saw an article linked through The Great Gatsby fan page. It was an article Jay McInerney talking about why The Great Gatsby is the best American novel of all time. I skimmed through what he said and I found myself in agreement with much of what he said, but then it got me thinking about the larger category of novels Fitzgerald’s book belongs to – the Great American novels.

Huck Finn, I believe, was the first book to be called the Great American novel, and since then people like Fitzgerald, Pynchon, and Wallace have been inducted into this club. The interesting thing about the Great American novels is that they are so very different from one another. Huck Finn is worlds different from Gravity’s Rainbow, and all the others are equally different in their own way. So, what is it about these novels that make them all so great?

Well, I think a lot of it – and I think this sort of goes without saying – has to do with the way that these books encapsulate the current feeling of the American paradigm. America is an ever-changing nation, and that is perhaps the main reason why all of the Great American novels are all so different. But, who is to say that the novels in this club are the best representations of America? Is that even the standard?

I’m not sure.

I do know, however, that the books on the list that I have explored are rather interesting, and I think that some are very deserving of the title and some I’m just okay with. I think there are other novels that better capture the state of America. Thompson’s Rum Diary, for instance, is a great novel when it comes to the whole capturing America bit.

So, folks, what do you think a novel needs to express in order to be called the Great American novel? Do you think some of the novels on the list are less deserving than others? What are some you wish were on the list? You tell me.

Until Next Time,

J

Reconsidering Jane Austen, in the light of Brett Easton Ellis

Last night, in a sort of literary desperation, I began Jane Austen's Persuasion. I have been a long-time defender of my position in the "I don't get why people think Austen's so great" club. With the exception of Pride and Prejudice, I don't think I've ever finished an Austen novel. Why? Boredom.

Before last night, it had been years since I'd cracked the spine of any of the Jane Austen novels my father insisted on buying me (despite, or maybe because of, his knowledge of my membership in the aforementioned club), and really all I remembered about her prose is that it tends to include long detailings of family trees, painstakingly accounting for the nobility or lack thereof of the bloodline (hence, the boredom). I remembered this to be pompous and outdated. When I would express to my dad that these were the primarily impressions that Austen's work had made on me, he would respond with statements like, "oh no, that's not the case at all." Convincing, right?

I guess he believed that, if anything, I would give Jane another shot on my own terms, that I would one day meander over to my bookshelf and pick up a copy of Persuasion, his favorite Austen work, and see for myself the error of my ways. And, in this case, I guess he was right. Although, in the early insomniac hours of last night, it was not the paperback copy he gave me years ago that I found myself venturing upon but the free electronic edition that lives in my kindle, right next to the book I had just finished. So, really, it was a desire to keep reading and to not get out of bed that has finally brought me back to Austen.

And let's not forget to thank perspective for it's amazing what a little of it can do. Whereas I had, possibly as a result of not understanding what I was reading, found Austen to be pompous and outdated, I now see her writing to be intentionally crafted and humorous. What brought this new perspective? Well, mostly Brett Easton Ellis. A few months ago I read American Psycho and was surprised to find, on the back of the borrowed edition, a comparison of Ellis to, among a few other writers, Jane Austen. And as I read Ellis' work, flashes of Austen did come back to me but in a new light. Maybe those incessant detailings of family lineage were more similar to Patrick Bateman's obsessive categorizations of his cosmetic creams and physical regime than I ever would have thought; maybe this seemingly useless and overwrought information is not there for our knowledge but to reveal a character. And as Ellis detailed the psychosis of self-obsession and the inability to think outside of one's own class system and concerns, I found myself recalling Austen's similar portrayal of the aristocracy of her day.

But I am still left with a nagging question: why do so many people seem to enjoy Austen so much? She actually seems pretty trendy right now among the Nicholas Sparks' devotees. I'm inclined, in a slightly disrespectful manner, to believe that these light-readers are not getting much of Austen's subtle innuendos about the downfalls of class and societal expectations (marriage included) if they are looking for romanticism alone. So what do they make of the pages of nobility explication? Do they think it's to be taken as gravely as it is presented? In other words, is the biting sarcasm lost on them? Do they just skip such sections all together?

In closing for tonight, I'm sure I'm not saying anything new about Austen; however, aside from extremely terse conversations about her with my father, I hadn't given her much genuine consideration until recently. So if all I've said is old hat and taken for granted about her, forgive my repetition. I'd love to hear your thoughts on her; what has either drawn you to or away from her? And what other authors have you reconsidered and revisited only to find that your original assumptions were less than apt?

Until next time,

Leena

Building your Writing Toolkit: Part Four – Building Material for your Material.

Starting off with a quick recap, so far I’ve covered starting a project (knowing how you start to write), clearing off your toolbench (knowing what environment is best for you to write in), and finding your level (understanding what type of writing makes you happy). Now I’m going to start to talk about the actual mechanics of writing – what you’re working with and how to shape it. This blog is about what you’re working with – the buying two-by-fours part of the toolkit metaphor.

When it comes to the material that you’re writing about, pretty much everyone has heard the words “write what you know.” Yes. Well. I have to agree with that at least a little, because it’s awfully hard to write about something that you know nothing about (i.e. Bio majors writing about Milton’s Lucifer or English majors writing about water transfer in plant cells), however I disagree with the idea of writing only about things that you know all about.

Let’s say that you know all about cats. You know their eating, sleeping, mating and fighting habits. You can name every breed of housecat on sight and can tell anyone willing to listen which big cat is that particular breed of housecat’s closest genetic relative. You scoff at the pedestrian knowledge parceled out in Cat Fancy and are writing your dissertation on the role of cats in folklore from the 7th century. Good for you.

Here’s the problem: no one is going to read your dissertation. Your dissertation committee isn’t even going to read your dissertation. You’re so knowledgeable on this topic that no one can argue or disagree with you – and where’s the fun in that?

However, let’s say you know a little about cats. You know what they’re like around strangers, you know that they’re picky eaters. You know that they tend to be the chosen companions of lonely, introverted people. You’re toying with the idea of writing a story that combines your limited understanding of cats with your somewhat more comprehensive knowledge of people in order to explore the dynamics of loneliness in modern cities.

I’d read it. And I’m sure a lot of people (probably people who like cats or who are lonely or both) would read it too.

Writing what you know is a trap. If you write only what you know well, you’re going to spend the rest of your life trying to become an expert on something so that you can write about it.

Here’s a quote from Robert Heinlein that I like to share whenever someone tells me that I need to focus on a single interest: “A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”

As a writer you don’t want to be a specialist: you’ll only end up trapped in a genre, age group, era or field that you don’t want to be stuck in forever. So what do you do to avoid the trap?

Do everything. This is how you build material to write about.

I’m not talking about going to med school, getting a Ph.D. in Political Science, learning seventeen languages, running for Mayor, working at a coffee shop, starting a law firm and running marathons. I’m talking bout the little things all around you.

Too many writers fall into the habit of cloistering themselves in their chosen writing habitat at around the same time they finish college and never going outside again. You can’t get stuck there – go outside.

Change your oil, ride a bus, go to the zoo, take a train ride, walk down a street you haven’t before, take a different route to work, learn how to fix your sink, browse Wikipedia, go into a new bookstore, take up rollerblading, go to Home Depot, talk to strangers – lots of strangers, go to a dive bar, go to a nice bar, go see a Ska band, go to a symphony, take a metalworking class, sign up for dance lessons, dig a hole, draw a picture. Do something that you don’t normally do. Come up with something new every day.

Sure, it sounds trite as hell, but knowing a little about a lot of things is frequently better than knowing a lot about a few things. At the very least you’ll be able to fill in more details when you’re writing, like what kind of wrench you use to remove an oil filter or what kind of paper a watercolor artist is likely to buy. At the very most you’ll find a hobby that interests you enough that you know it well enough to make it the basis of your next novel.

When you hear the phrase “write what you know” it is important to understand that you don’t have to know everything about an incredibly narrow topic; you do, however, have to realistically know about and understand the world that you’re writing. The only way to effectively know about the world you’re writing is to know about and understand the world you’re living in. And the only way to do that is to go outside and play in it.

Writers are a blessed, cursed, complicated kind of person. They have to be flexible enough to learn from any situation they find themselves in but firm enough to know when they’ve learned enough. If all you know is college kids and drugs, have fun trying to edge in on Brett Easton Ellis’s market. If all you know is falling into fantasy worlds, Neil Gamian’s got you beat. If all you see is the mundane becoming terrifying, Stephen King is sticking his tongue out at you and going “neener, neener, neener,” though Kafka was doing it better and earlier. If all you know is gentle, handsome men mildly coercing strong-willed women into lasting, passionate relationships please stop writing because romance novels are awful, and we already have enough of them in the world.

What I’m trying to tell you – and all writers – to do is to go out somewhere on this great, big, spinning deathsphere into the sunshine and find something to write about. There’s a story everywhere, a poem waiting to be written in every instance of human contact, and a novel in every new thing you encounter. So go find it! If you don’t, someone else is certainly willing to.

Thanks for reading. I’ll be back next Sunday, Feb 26th, with part five of your toolkit: Pounding it together – Making Narrative Work. This is going to be a big topic, and might be broken up into a couple of blogs. Until then, I’m going to shamelessly self-advertise: last week I mentioned my silly poem “My Homework Ate My Dog,” this weekend I sat down, made some crappy illustrations online, and organized them into a video of me reading the poem. If this is the kind of thing you are likely to find amusing, you may go and amuse yourself with it here.

Have a great week, and I’ll be ranting at you soon,
Cheers,
-Alli