I love stories like this:

Paul Harding–a writer and graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop–had what the New York Times refers to as “a quiet little novel he wished to publish.”  After sending it out to several agents and editors, he got one rejection after another until… a small press (Bellevue Literary Press) picked it up.  And guess what?  This “quiet little novel” has now won the Pulitzer for Fiction.

The cover story in the arts section of yesterday’s New York Times (Monday, April 19) tells the story in detail, but my favorite line is the last one.  When asked about his upcoming work, Harding said:  “I sort of feel like I know how I got here, every step of the way….  Something like this can befall me and it won’t be catastrophic success.”

Which brings us to the heart of this post.

Catastrophic success.  What a seeming paradox, and yet it rings so true.

How easy it is for writers to take one success and let it cripple them into paralysis.  I know this happens to me every time I let someone read my work.  The more they ooh and ah, the heavier my fingers feel next time I get to the keyboard.  In fact, I find that success can be more deadly to my motivation than failure.  After all, failures–even colossal ones–end up motivating me into writing because I want to fix the problems.  But if all I get is success–even if it’s a tiny one–it means there’s nothing to fix.  And this is where I stagnate.

I think this is why many writers get stuck or hit “the wall:” they show their work too soon.  Earlier this semester, I resisted showing my Master’s thesis to anyone (even my peer group and my adviser) because I knew whatever came of it would not be good.  Criticism would psych me out and good comments would make my motivation fizzle.

More importantly, though, I needed to have a heart-to-heart with the book.  It took a lot of different tries and beating my head against the wall to understand what was going on in this book.  Now that the book and I have resolved our differences, I’m finally ready to hear what other people have to say.

In the end, it all comes down to trust.  The writer must trust her readers not to abandon her mid-story.  She must trust the writing to mean what she’s trying to say.  And she must trust herself to view the work with clarity.

…but Jane Eyre was really a vampire-slayer.

Jane Slayre by Sherri Browning Erwin launches today and I have to admit, I am amused at the premise.  I think I’ll read this book, even though I usually shy away from the vampire shelves at the bookstore.  I guess for someone who can’t stand the sight of blood, reading about it isn’t exactly tops on my list.  Still, there’s something about Jane Eyre kicking 19th century vampire booty that seriously amuses me.

Maybe it’s because I love, Love, LOVE parody, especially when the subject matter is one of the classics.  When parodies are good, they can be brilliant.  For example Clueless is the best movie version of Jane Austen’s Emma ever made; whoever came up with the idea of setting that story in 1990’s Beverly Hills… what can I say… sheer genius.

The danger with parody, on the other hand, is that when it’s bad it’s just awful.  Some authors or movie-makers who do parody stick too closely to the original story, clinging to it like a shipwreck survivor clings to a life-saver.  Repeat after me:

Parody is not cheap imitation.  It’s humorous reinvention with an angle.

Not to mention that parody is generally meant to be funny, the idea being that by poking fun at the original, the author makes a statement about the greater world.  The movie Ten Things I Hate About You, is parody gone flat.

What makes parody so great to read (or watch) is that, when done well, the author has such a deep knowledge of the original that the parody really sings.  Is Jane Slayer the good kind of parody or the not-so-good?  I’ll read the book and let you know.

I don’t care if you like poetry or not; if you’re a writer, you must read this book. I can tell what you’re thinking just from looking at the title. “This must be one of those warm-and-fuzzy books,” you say. I say sure, it’s like a warm cup of tea you snuggle up with on a snowy day, but we’re talking some serious tea here. Something super-caffeinated, like mate herb. This isn’t just a “get in touch with your inner-artist-child” sort of book. This book means business.

Ordinary Genius is a combination of analysis and craft. Unlike most books about writing, where you have to work your way in small chunks and do each exercise, you could read this book through to the end as though it were a novel.

Addonizio’s approach has changed how I look at poetry. I used to have a strong distaste for poetry. I think the reason was that while good poetry reverberates in the soul, bad poetry is just atrocious.

After all, many people think
if you stick a few line breaks into
prose, it turns into poetry
like magic.

At the same time, though, I have always had a tremendous respect for anyone who attempts this genre, since I find it so challenging. This book breaks poetry down to the building blocks, helping me understand what makes one poem sing and another fall flat. Addonizio gives micro-assignments that serve almost more like meditations than poetry exercises. This book is about doing an honest day’s writing, about doing the work.

At the same time, though, Addonizio doesn’t guilt her readers into writing (as some writing books tend to do). She doesn’t give word minimums or time requirements. The book is approachable. Friendly. It makes you want to wake up and write every day without telling you that you must.

In the end, Ordinary Genius has opened my eyes to the gracefulness of language,the beauty of gesture. Thanks to this little book, I have fallen in love with language all over again.