I’ve been ripping through books like it’s no one’s business. (Good god, I hate that phrase with all of my might.) Following returning from Scotland, I tore into Lolita, which was as thoroughly gutwrenching and wonderful as I expected. I also somehow managed to abuse it so hard that I owe Mike a new book. After the epic musings of Nabokov - who officially titlated, captivated, and turned me on in one fell swoop - I started on a short story kick in a hope to rev the engines on my own writing. It’s actually helping a bit, especially in terms of the idea of visualising structure and reminding myself that it’s okay to write about a snapshot, a seemingly mundane moment in time if the interaction is orchestrated with the utmost precision.
I started with Etgar Keret’s The Girl on The Fridge. An Israeli author, he’s apparently fairly well known: something of which I wasn’t cognizant until I did a little bit of research on him. A lot of his stories, all taking place in Israel, have a lot to do with the modern conflicts in the region, but also tap into this uniquely personal dynamic that does, in some way, spur from the violence, but in other ways are so universally human that it’s barely connected. Few of the stories were over just a handful of pages, but I was capitvated by the simplicity of the scenarios, and definitely believe I learned a lot about how to construct an ending. Most striking - and highly recommended - is “One Hundred Percent.”
Finishing that quickly, I jumped over to Dave Eggers’ How We Are Hungry. As a writer that relishes self-indugent prose, I can’t believe I hadn’t connected with Eggers sooner than this past semester when I finally read AHWOSG. Hungry reminds me of the inconsistencies that I found to irk me with what else I was familar with from him - merely in terms of voice and keeping my intention - but in short story form, it’s not necessarily grating, since it’s over as soon as it starts. With Eggers’ longer-form stories, it reminded me of a style more like my own, but there were super quick snapshots more like Keret’s. I tried to read through it not only for pleasure but, again, as a bit of a learning point for myself about construction of shorter fiction.
I find myself amazed at the fact that endings that aren’t necessarily tied with the most explicit bow, which is something that I’ve sort of driven into my psyche through both college fiction classes and my desire for closure and permanence in my own literary quests. It’s definitely giving me the impetus to try something different, I think.
In Strand, I couldn’t resist a gorgeous, hardcover copy of What Is The What, also by Eggers, which I hadn’t intended on reading next, but couldn’t resist. Again, I find myself completely caught up with the idea of a different type of story set up. It’s strange - I think I’m approaching literature differently since I’ve started seriously writing because I understand how much effort it takes to produce a page - 250 words of prose. To craft together something that’s hundreds of pages, coherent, beautiful, and accepted by a publisher? I get discouraged that it’s something I’ll never be able to do, regardless of how hard I’m trying. Every time I’m in a bookstore, I get this pang of jealous longing in my gut of all of these published authors, and get a fear that I’ll never be among them. I’m seriously considering scrapping my book, over which I’ve labored for more than a year. I hate that feeling, and feel like I have nowhere to go if it’s gone. I forget how frustrated I get when I’m not good at something, when it doesn’t come so naturally.
Forging through pages of prose - not my own - for now. Who knows what’s next.
M
