Lagnappe

Okay, fair’s fair. I began this blog by whining about many of my favorite authors’ penchant for abandoning characters and styles of writing I grew to love in their early fiction. Barbara Kingsolver is one I didn’t mention. In my opinion, she’s never matched the genius of Pigs in Heaven.

Until recently, that is. One Saturday morning I arrived at the Benjamin Hooks Central Library just as the doors opened, which meant there was a chance I would find something on the 7-day shelf that I would want to read.

Indeed I did. There was a copy of Lacuna and I didn’t even know Ms.K had a new book out. It felt like what my Cajun friends would call lagniappe. When I realized how enchanting the book is, how much I love the plot, characters, everything about it, it felt even more so. The book is back at the library now but I’m quite sure I’ll succumb to the urge to purchase my own copy. It belongs on my “keeper” shelf, right next to Pigs in Heaven.

Books About Writing

Nature or nuture? Some of both, I suspect. Certainly I have learned a great deal from writer friends and conferences, and four books on the subject are important to me. Listed in the order I read them, they are On Becoming a Novelist by John Gardner, Eudora Welty's One Writer's Beginnings, How Fiction Works by James Wood and Ann Patchett's Truth & Beauty. The last one is not so much about writing as a reminder that even someone who makes her craft look easy struggled to get started.

I would love to hear others' views on this subject.

The Usefulness of Art

Maybe I should change the title of this blog. Musings of a Reader-Writer-Movie Goer? Nah, the name is already too long. Still, two movies I saw over the holidays reminded me that we are impacted by all art forms, not just reading. As a market researcher friend of mine emailed me this morning, “Art is useful. It reminds me there are beautiful things out there that are not defined by statistics, do not have logos and do not need ‘messaging opportunities' explored for them.’”

Indeed.

So my movie of the year nominations are The Blind Side and Invictus. Two stories of hope, courage and wisdom. Two real-life illustrations that we can remove huge barriers when we are put in a position to see and accept each other’s humanity.

The first burst many of my smug assumptions. Who knew an Ole Miss cheerleader/soccer mom/Republican could be so downright admirable?? I have spent some time this week reflecting on the admirable Republicans I have known, including my former husband, and found to my astonishment that the list is rather lengthy.

Invictus increased my already huge admiration for Nelson Mandela, reminded me that Morgan Freeman is truly a great actor and poked me in the ribs once again with the knowledge that the same guy who played Dirty Harry and so many other macho roles has evolved into one of the most sensitive and compelling directors in the business.

Both forced me to eat many disparaging words about the role of sports in American life. Both left me quite a bit more humble. Not a bad way to start a new year.

Why Bother?

Why do we write? The usual answer is, “Because we have to. It’s like being in labor.”

That’s true but isn’t really a reason. Why do we have to? Why is writing like labor pains?

Perhaps there are as many reasons as there are writers (there are more of us than readers one of my writer friends suspects). Some of us are driven by a character who assumes more power in our lives than our closest friends. Some are haunted by compelling stories that we have encountered or that simply appeared in our heads one day. Some perhaps feel we have something to say.

My compulsion is a crazy mishmash of all of the above. I grew up hearing that I had to write the story of my name though that never appealed. I was praised in elementary school for my way with words. Big deal. It didn’t make the other kids seek me out.

I took it up in college as an affectation and produced some truly awful stories. I tried it again in my thirties with similar results and was assured by a writing teacher that I was a disgrace to the profession. That did it for a good, long time.

Then, quite by accident, I came across a Nadine Gordimer novel on an airport news stand (what are the chances of that??) and could not stop reading until I had devoured them all. Of course she won the Nobel Prize! She laid out the history of apartheid and its demise so that its folly could be grasped by anyone. I wish I could do that for the American South, I thought.

So I tried again, and again, amassing hundreds of pages and five sort-of novels. I kept writing. Or, I should say, overwriting.

One weekend I read At the River I Stand and wanted to crawl inside its pages. Next I learned of, and even met some of the women who changed Memphis during this period. Thus began the 10-year gestation of Every City or House. My daughter died and grief gave it new dimensions.

What next? I am about halfway through the second novel in my Gordimer-inspired series and still employed in the job of my dreams. I’ve been whining about its frustrations lately, telling myself that I’m not doing what I truly want to do, finding life similar to labor pains. That will stop but an improved attitude doesn’t really answer the question.

I started this blog with the hazy thought that it could attract a community of reader-writers and that is still my hope. I have neglected it recently. That, too, will stop. Then we’ll see.