Saturday, April 13, 2013

On Slowness


In the late 80s and early 90s, I turned out eight books at what was, for me, a rapid pace.  I was involved at the university by that time, and remember a number of people observing that I was "prolific" and "cranking them out"—phrases used with contempt, as though I was spreading germs by sneezing in an elevator.   They always observed this under a mask of objectivity, a mask that didn't hide the curled-up lip very well—the expression of disdain that we academics always use for something we don't understand.

They're wrong and they're right, you know.  At least given my current writing rhythm and rate of production.  I see people caught up with a kind of marketing fever, preoccupied by the fear that they will pass from the knowledge of readers if they don't publish a couple of books a year.  And they, too, have a point:  a friend of mine wanted to do an article on my work for Louisville Magazine back in the late 90s, only to have the proposal rejected because "he hasn't published in five years" (I'd published two books in the five years in question, so whoever said this was mistaken, but the observation tells you something—that publishing is, understandably, fascinated with what is most recent).

But I don't work that way anymore.  Writing a book is, for me, a long gestation, as ideas, plots and subplots, and additional characters introduce themselves over the course of several years, and in ways that connect and deepen what I'm working on, ways I could not hope to attain if I kept up the pace I set twenty years ago. 

I think of two models of creation.  God made the world in seven days, according to Genesis 1 and 2.  I don't believe for a moment that this is a literal account of how the world got done (whether or not it's helpful as a metaphorical account is the subject for someone else's blog); far more reasonable to assume that creation was the slow process all the scientific evidence indicates.  That's how good things get done in nature, and as I grow older, I have come to appreciate that process, to know in my bones that faster is not better.

And no, you young 'uns out there: it's not that I'm old and tired.  My age and weariness may show itself in other things, but a slow writing is to me harder work.  Instead of thinking about a book for six months, I think about it for two or three years, turning its possibilities in my hand, seeing it from various angles, like you'd do when you were a kid tilting a prism to the light.  I love working on books, and I love doing the work at my pace, in my time.

I do want to publish, mind you, and I do dread the possibility of being passed by in an industry that, as Shakespeare said of Time, "hath a wallet at its back/Wherein it keeps alms for oblivion".  But don't be too quick to delight in the fact that I'd like to see my books in print: the best part of this job—hands down, nothing else about it even remotely close—is the writing itself. 

So I'll take my time and see you down the road.  Wait for me.

7 comments:

  1. As a person familiar with fables, you will probably appreciate that I sometimes worry about ending up the Hare in this race that is writing. Being speedy has it's pitfalls, too. I'm a fan of slow in general. You don't get amazing barbecue without slow. You don't get good bourbon without slow. I just can't seem to adjust my metronome to anything other than a blistering pace, personally. Yes, I feel the "get published now!!!!" pressure. And yes, the fact that I backburnered writing for damn near 20 years lends a certain set of urgency. But the truth is, I don't do slow well. Never have. I have two speeds: full tilt and OFF.

    But whenever your stuff comes out, I'm sure it'll be delightful. :)

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    1. Thanks for the comment, Kat.

      I think it's part of temperament, part of goals as well. I've glimpsed your temperament and understand something about your motives--I like you and where you're headed. I'm obviously at a different spot.

      Twenty years ago I was young and seeking to set myself up as a writer. "Get published now!" meant something it no longer means. The urgency was a two-edged sword for me: it got a body of work published (the novels I mentioned in the blog), but for me it got them published too soon. Your stuff has maturity mine didn't have back then. I wince at some of my earliest work, but not for long, because I'm all about the process of making new stuff, succeed or fail.

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    2. I relate to this, Kat. I rarely have the motivation to write, but when I do the words take to the page faster than I can read them.

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  2. Books that are well written, have truly interesting, complex characters, a tight plot, and even the slightest hint of social or interpersonal issues that extend beyond the confines of the pages, take time. A gestation period is the right concept. I believe - or hope at least - that a segment of readership that values such books exists and will somehow become accessible, and from that smaller market, the great books will make the leap into the mass market.

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    1. Thanks for your thought AND your optimism, my friend. I hope your book makes that leap: it's worthy of wider attention!

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  3. I write slow. Mostly because I work a 40 hour week at a day job and am too tired to sit at the computer at home after sitting at it all day. I'll write and publish what I can now, but look out once I retire. LOL

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    1. I thought that I would get more writing done once I retired, but I get less done. Having a deadline that a day job provides, is a great prod to writing whenever you can.

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