It was a rainy, last-day-of-January night and anticipation was in the air; anticipation and scrambling. Drop-in tutoring just over, the scene was one of scattered water cups and empty cereal packets, small backpacks and finished homework. Luckily, a few stellar stray tutees remained. With their help, carpets were vacuumed and tables were pulled aside. Trash was collected and five neat rows of chairs were faced forward, waiting patiently to be filled. They did not wait long. Braving the wet and the cold, some four dozen aspiring novelists arrived. They dropped umbrellas by the door, foraged for crackers and cheese, and sat down in the pirate haven of a room, ready for the uncensored opinions and hush-hush whispering of secrets that an Adult Seminar on Writing and Publishing the Novel promised to generate. Lush, blood-red curtains parted, and the panelists entered: Andrew Sean Greer, author of the national bestseller The Confessions of Max Tivoli; Ann Packer, author of Songs Without Words and The Dive From Clausen’s Pier; Michelle Richmond, whose The Year of Fog is currently in development with Newmarket Films; and Alan Rinzler, Executive Editor at Jossey-Bass/John Wiley & Sons in San Francisco. With Ted Weinstein, literary agent and moderator extraordinaire at the helm, the discussion began.
At Mr. Weinstein’s prompting, the panel introduced themselves, delving briefly into their writing backgrounds. Andrew Sean Greer quickly became Andy, slipping into a natural informality as he spoke about his desire, present since childhood, to write. As direct a path as might be fashioned, he studied writing both as an undergraduate and as a graduate student in Montana. Both Ann and Michelle also attended MFA programs in Florida and Iowa, respectively. The merits of such programs were called into question, and though each writer had a different take on their effectiveness and indispensability, all agreed that one of the most valuable things the MFA experience provided was a community of writers. To be surrounded by people who care about what you care about is invaluable. Each echoed this sentiment in their own words and anecdotes, agreeing that bigger steps are made in a setting where work is being read carefully and thoughtfully.
When asked whether or not they allowed others to read works-in-progress, a buffet of answers were offered up. Ann found the eyes of others helpful, and was grateful to be part of a writing group that offered support and insight. Michelle found a captive audience in her husband; “Team Richmond,” as Mr. Weinstein so jestingly dubbed him. Andy proved the odd man out on this front. Aware of his own tenderness, he found the prospect of showing an unfinished draft too terrifying, and preferred the equally terrifying method of allowing not a single person to see a piece until he’d written all the way through it. “Like getting dressed in the dark,” he said, ever so succinctly. To shed some light from the other end of the writing spectrum, Alan spoke of his long-held adoration of writers, and gave his perspective on the novel from an editorial position. Sharing stories of his (formidable) clients, and entertainingly couching his role in the vocabulary of a mental health therapist, he gave sharply illuminating glimpses into the symbiotic relationship between writer and editor.
And so question after thought-provoking question, the evening spent itself. The audience listened, laughed, and at many points, entered spontaneously and briefly into the dialogue. Glamorous jobs were unearthed (Michelle: “In Knoxville I wrote copy for Little League protective cups…”), easy methods were revealed (Andy: “After 4 months of research and 200 pages written and then discarded, I finally figured out what the story was about…”), and swiftness was promised (Ann: “It took a decade to write my first novel, and five for the second…”). It is true; the stories were not all bouquets of roses. Disappointment and rejection ran rampant through the re-told tales; however, they were always rendered manageable by the honest and self-effacing sense of humor of the very human people telling them. It was this human treatment of both difficulty and discovery, of both the very good and the appallingly bad in the novel writing process – from the personal private act of sitting in front of a computer screen to the almost shockingly public arena of the publishing world – that made the evening so special.
It really was something: A room full of writers. A room full of words swirling out of mouths and into ears, circling the creative nooks and crannies of the attending minds. At one point Alan remarked that “publishing was not an impenetrable fortress,” and in that phrase seemed to describe the entire mood of the occasion. To write a novel was no piece of pie; but neither was it an impenetrable fortress. It proved to be something not quantifiable by any science or reached by any single path. It was something great, yet hard-won (as all great things are). “The experience of a novel can be life-changing,” Andy observed, “both to read one and to write one.” To have watched the audience as he said those words was to have watched a sea of ever-so-slightly nodding heads, each connected by thinly weaving veins to a beating heart below, which pulsed with recognition at the truth in this sentimental statement. Rain fell outside and inside, hearts beat.
Holly Takashima
826 Intern
