Copyright©2011byAnnPatchettAllrightsreserved

Cover image: iStockphoto.com/highiso (road); iStockphoto.com/proxyminder(butterflies)

ISBN:978-1-61452-011-5

BylinerInc.SanFrancisco,Californiawww.byliner.com

Forpressinquiries,pleasecontactmedia@byliner.com

10987654321

TheGetawayCarAPracticalMemoirAboutWritingandLife

ByAnnPatchett

BYLINERORIGINALS

TableofContents

Copyright

Story

AbouttheAuthor

AboutByliner

BylinerOriginals

IWASALWAYSGOINGTOBEAWRITER.I’veknownthisforaslongasI’ve known anything. Itwas an accepted fact inmy family by the time I hadentered the first grade, whichmakes no sense, as I was late to either read orwrite. In fact, Iwasa terriblestudentwhenIwasyoung. I’vealwaysbelievedthereasonIwaspassedfromgradetogradewasthatIcouldputtogethersomerawversionofastoryorpoem,evenifallofthewordsweremisspelledandhalfof themwerewritten backwards. Like a cave child scratching pictures on thewallofbisonand fireanddancing, I showedanearlyknack forcontent.Onlywritingkeptmefrombeingsweptintothedustheapofthirdgrade,andforthisreasonInotonlylovedwritingbutfeltastrongsenseofloyaltytoit.Imayhavebeen shaky about tying my shoes and telling time, but I was sure about mycareer,and Iconsider thiscertainty thegreatestgiftofmy life. I can’texplainwheretheknowledgecamefrom,onlythatIhungontoitandneverletgo.Knowing that I wanted to write made my existence feel purposeful and

prioritizedas Iwasgrowingup.DidIwant togetabig jobandmakea lotofmoney?No, Iwanted tobeawriter, andwriterswerepoor.Did Iwant togetmarried, have children, live in a nice house? No again; by the time I was inmiddle school I’d figured out that a low overhead and few dependentswouldincreasemytimetowork.WhileIthoughtImightpublishsomethingsomeday,Iwassurethatveryfewpeople,maybenooneatall,wouldreadwhatIwrote.ByninthgradeIwasdrawingfromtheKafkamodel:obscurityduringlifewiththechance of being discovered after death. Young as I was when I made thiscommitment,itwasn’tquiteasmorbidasitsounds—somanyofthewriterswestudied in schoolwereunknown in their lifetimes (or, better still, scorned anddismissed)thatInaturallyassumedthistobethepreferablescenario.Itwasalsoin keeping with my Catholic education, which stressed the importance ofmodesty and humility. I did not daydream of royalty checks,movie deals, orforeign rights. Success never figured into my picture. The life I would havewouldbestraightoutofLaBohème(havingneverheardofLaBohème):Iwouldbepoor,obscure,alone,possibly inParis.Theone thingIallowedmyselfwasthecertaintyoffuturehappiness.Eventhoughthehistoryofliteraturewasfilledwithalcoholics,insaneasylums,andshotguns,IcouldnotimaginethatIwouldbemiserableifIgottospendmylifeasawriter.

ItturnsoutthatIwasrightaboutsomeofthedetailsofmyfutureandwrongaboutothers,whichisfitting,giventhefactIwasmakingitallup.Nowriterscame to St. Bernard Academy for Catholic girls on Career Day, and so Imarched towards the vision in my head without guidance or practicaladvice.Thisiswhereitgotme.Atforty-seven,Iamaveritableclearinghouseofpracticaladvice,andsinceI

have neither children nor students, I mostly dispense it in talks or shortarticles.ThereisagreatappealinthethoughtofconsolidatingthebulkofwhatIknowabouttheworkIdoinoneplace,sothatwhensomeoneasksmeforadviceIcansay,Look,it’shere,Iwroteitalldown.Everywriterapproacheswritinginadifferentway,andwhilesomeofthosewaysmaybemorestraightforwardthanothers,veryfewcanbedismissedascategoricallywrong.Therearepeoplewhowrite in order to find out where the story goes. They never talk about whatthey’reworking on. They say that if they knew the ending of the book, therewouldbenopointinwritingit,thatthestorywouldthenbedeadtothem.Andthey’re right. There are also people, and I am one of them, who map outeverything in advance. (John Irving, for example, can’t startwritinghisbooksuntilhethinksupthelastsentence.)Andwearealsoright.ThereareacoupleofhabitsIhaveacquiredthroughyearsoftrialanderrorthatIwouldrecommendemulating, but either you will or you won’t. This isn’t an instructionbooklet.ThisisanaccountofwhatIdidandwhathasworkedforme,andnowthatthat’sbeensaid,Iwillresistthetemptationtoopeneveryparagraphwiththephrase“It’sbeenmyexperience…”That’swhatthisis:myexperience.

*

LOGICDICTATES thatwritingshouldbeanaturalact,afunctionofawell-operating human body, along the lines of speaking and walking andbreathing.Weshouldbeable to tap into theconstantnarrativeflowourmindsprovide, theroaringriverofwordsfillingupourheads,anddirect itout intoaneatstreamoforganizedthoughtsothatotherpeoplecanreadit.Lookatwhatwealreadyhavegoingforus:somelevelofeducationthathasgivenuscontrolofwrittenandspokenlanguage;theabilitytouseacomputerorapencil;andanimaginationthatnaturallyturnstheeventsofourlivesintostoriesthatarebothtrueandfalse.Weallhaveideas,sometimesgoodones,nottomentionthegiftofemotional turmoil thateverychildhoodprovides.Inshort, thestoryis inus,andallwehavetodoissitthereandwriteitdown.

Butit’srightaboutthere,thepartwherewesit,thatthingsfallapart.I’vehadpeoplecomeuptomeatbooksignings,ingrocerystores,ateverycocktailpartyI’veeverattended,andtellmetheyhaveabrilliantideaforabook.Igetlettersthat try to pass themselves off as here’s-an-offer-you-can’t-refuse businessproposals:Mystorywillbeatrueblockbuster,abest-sellingAmericanoriginal.Unfortunately,mybusyscheduledoesnotaffordmethetimetowriteitmyself.This is where you come in … The person then offers me some sort of deal,usuallya50-50split,thoughsometimesit’sless.AllIhavetodoisagreeandheorshewilltellmethe(Compelling!Unforgettable!)story,andIwilltypeitupinhis or her own voice, a task that is presumed to be barely above the level oftranscription.AsinthoserandomInternetlettersthatbeginDearSirorMadamandtellofthecountlessmillionsthatwillbelefttome,Thisismyluckyday.I feel for these people, even as they’re assuming I’m not bright enough to

realizewherethey’vegottenstuck.Iwouldalsoliketotakethisopportunitytoapologize on the record to Amy Bloom. Once, when we were madly signingbooks at the end of aNewYork Times authors’ lunch (withAlanAlda,ChrisMatthews, andStephenL.Carter inbetweenus—averybusyevent), anolderwomanappearedatthefrontofmylinetotellmethatthestoryofherfamily’sarrival from the old countrywas a tale of inestimable fascination, beauty, andintrigueandthatitmustbemadeintoabook,abookthatImustwriteforher.Ipolitelybutfirmlydemurred,sayingthatIwassureitwasafantasticstory,butIscarcely had the time to write about my own family’s journey from the oldcountry,much less all the stories Imadeup.Shekept on talking, outlining inbroadstrokesherparentsandtheirsacrificesandadventures.No,Isaid,tryingtoholdontogoodmanners,thatisnotwhatIdo.Butshedidn’tbudge.Sheleanedforward and wrapped her fingers beneath the table’s edge in case someonethoughttotrytopullheraway.Shortofyes,nothingIsaidwasgoingtodislodgeherfromherspot.Thecrowdwasbackingupbehindher,peoplewhowantedtogetmysignaturequicklysotheycouldbefreetoadoreAlanAlda(whowas,myGod,soadorable).WhenIwascompletelyoutoftricks,ItoldthewomantoaskAmyBloom.AmyBloommightbeinterested, Isaid,andpointedmypenthreeauthors away. Thewoman, seized by the prospect of a new captive audience,scurriedintoAmy’sline.Itwasadeplorableactonmypart,andIamsorry.Ifapersonhasnevergivenwritingatry,heorsheassumesthatabrilliantidea

ishardtocomeby.Butreally,evenifittakessomedigging,ideasareoutthere.Justopenyoureyesandlookattheworld.Writingtheideasdown,itturnsout,isthereal trick,apointthatwasbest illustratedtomeononeofthemoreboring

afternoonsofmylife.(Boringanecdote,thoughtfullycondensed,nowfollows.)IonceattendedaVanDevender reunion inPreston,Mississippi, about forty-fiveminutesfromShuqualak(inevitablypronounced“Sugarlock”).IwentbecauseIammarriedtoaVanDevender.Itwasnotafamilyreunionbutratherareunionof people inMississippi namedVanDevender,many of whom had nevermetbefore. The event was held in a low, square Masonic Lodge built of cinderblocksonaconcreteslabthatwassoflushwiththegroundtherewasnotevenahintofasteptogoinside.Allwecouldseewasafieldand,beyondthat,aforestof loblolly pine. Because we had come so far with our friends, distantVanDevendercousins,wewereplanningtostayforawhile.ItwasinthethirdorfourthhourofthiseventthatoneofthefewVanDevendersIhadnotalreadyengaged said that my husband had told her I was a novelist. Regrettably, Iadmittedthiswasthecase.Thatwaswhenshetoldmethateveryonehadatleastonegreatnovelinthem.I have learned the hard way not to tell strangers what I do for a living.

Frequently,nomatterhowoften I askhimnot to,myhusbanddoes it forme.Ordinarily, in a circumstance like this one, in theMasonic Lodge in Preston,Mississippi,Iwouldhavejustagreedwiththiswomanandsidledoff(Onegreatnovel,yes,ofcourse,absolutelyeveryone),butIwastiredandboredandtherewasnowheretosidletoexceptthefield.Wehappenedtobestandingnexttothename-tag table, where all the tags had been filled out with vandevender inadvance so that you could just print your first name on the top and get yourlemonade.Onthat tablewasa toweringassortmentofwildflowersstuckintoaclearglassvase.“Doeseveryonehaveonegreatfloralarrangementinthem?”Iaskedher.“No,”shesaid.Irememberthathergrayhairwasthickandcroppedshortandthatshelooked

atmedirectly,notglancingoverattheflowers.“Onealgebraicproof?”Sheshookherhead.“OneHailMarypass?Onefive-minutemile?”“Onegreatnovel,”shesaid.“Butwhyanovel?”Iasked,havinglostforthemomentthegoodsensetolet

itgo.“Whyagreatone?”“Becauseweeachhavethestoryofourlifetotell,”shesaid.Itwashertrump

card,herindisputablepieceofevidence.Shetookmysilenceasconfirmationofvictory,andsoIwasabletoexcusemyself.

I couldn’t stop thinking about thiswoman,not later that sameday, not fiveyearslater.Wasitpossiblethat,ineverybody’slymphsystem,anascentnovelisknocking around?A few errant cells that, if given the proper encouragement,cigarettesandgin,therequisitenumberofbadaffairs,couldturnintosomethingserious?Livingalifeisnotthesameaswritingabook,anditgotmethinkingabouttherelationshipbetweenwhatweknowandwhatwecanputonpaper.Formeit’slikethis:Imakeupanovelinmyhead.(Therewillbemoreaboutthislater.)Thisisthehappiesttimeinthearcofmywritingprocess.Thebookismyinvisiblefriend,omnipresent,evolving,thrilling.Duringthemonths(oryears)ittakes me to put my ideas together, I don’t take notes or make outlines; I’mfiguringthingsout,andallthewhilethebookmakesabreezearoundmyheadlikeanoversizebutterflywhosewingswerecutfromtherosewindowinNotreDame. This book, of which I have not yet written one word, is a thing ofindescribablebeauty,unpredictableinitspatterns,piercinginitscolor,sowildandloyalinitsnaturethatmyloveforthisbookandmyfaithinitasItrackitslazy flight is the single perfect joy in my life. It is the greatest novel in thehistoryofliterature,andIhavethoughtitup,andallIhavetodoisputitdownonpaperandtheneveryonecanseethisbeautythatIsee.AndsoIdo,eventhoughIdreadit.WhenIcan’tthinkofanotherstall,when

puttingitoffhasactuallybecomemorepainfulthandoingit,Ireachintotheairandpluck thebutterflyup. I take it from the regionofmyheadand Ipress itdownagainstmydesk,andthere,withmyownhand,Ikillit.It’snotthatIwanttokill it,butit’stheonlywayIcangetsomethingthatissothree-dimensionalontotheflatpage.Justtomakesurethejobisdone,Istickitintoplacewithapin. Imagine running over a butterfly with an SUV. Everything that wasbeautifulaboutthislivingthing—allthecolor,thelightandmovement—isgone.What I’m left with is the dry husk of my friend, the broken body chipped,dismantled,andpoorlyreassembled.Dead.That’sthebook.WhenI tell thisstoryinfrontofanaudience, it tendstogeta laugh.People

thinkI’mbeingcharminglyself-deprecating,whenreallyitistheclosestthingtothetruthaboutmywritingprocessthatIknow.Thejourneyfromtheheadtothehandisperilousandlinedwithbodies.It is theroadonwhichnearlyeveryonewhowantstowrite—andmanyofthepeoplewhodowrite—getlost.SomaybeMrs. X. VanDevender in the Preston, Mississippi, Masonic Lodge was right;maybeeveryonedoeshave anovel in them,perhaps evenagreat one. I don’tbelieveit,butforthepurposesofthisargument,let’ssayit’sso.Onlyafewofusaregoingtobewillingtobreakourownheartsbytradinginthelivingbeauty

ofimaginationforthestarkdisappointmentofwords.Thisiswhywetypealineortwoandthenhitthedeletebuttonorcrumpleupthepage.CertainlythatwasnotwhatImeanttosay!ThatdoesnotrepresentwhatIsee.MaybeIshouldtryagainanothertime.Maybethemusehassteppedoutbackforasmoke.MaybeIhavewriter’sblock.MaybeI’manidiotandwasnevermeanttowriteatall.IhadmyfirstrealspinwiththisparticularinadequacywhenIwasafreshman

in college. As a child and as a teenager, I had wanted to be a poet. I wrotesonnetsandsestinasandvillanelles,readEliotandBishopandYeats.Ienteredhigh schoolpoetrycompetitionsandwon them. Iwould say that adeep, earlylove of poetry should be mandatory for all writers. A close examination oflanguagedidmenothingbutgood.WhenIarrivedatSarahLawrenceCollegeasafreshman,IsubmittedmypoemsandwasadmittedintoJaneCooper’spoetryclass.Iwasseventeen.JaneCooperwasakindandgentlesoulwhosepoorhealthwasexceedingly

badtheyearIstudiedwithher.Shefadedinherownclass,whichwasprimarilyrunbyagroupofseniorsandseveralgraduatestudents,thebestofwhomwasawomannamedRobyn,whodroveaVolvoandworearaccooncoat.Shewasnotonlyanastutewriter,butthekindofcriticwho,inamatterofafewthoughtfulsentences,couldshowthatthepoemupfordiscussionwasapileofsentimental,disconnectedwords.IadmiredRobynandwasterrifiedofher,andsoonIhadsoassimilated her critical voice that I was able to bring the full weight of herintelligencetobearonmyworkwithoutheractuallyneedingtobeintheroom.IcouldhearherexplaininghowwhatIwaswritingwouldfail,andsoIscratcheditoutandstartedover.ButIknewshewouldn’tdeemmysecondefforttobeanybetter.BeforelongIwasabletothinkthesentence,anticipatehercritiqueofit,anddecideagainst it,allwithouteveruncappingmypen. Icalled this“editingmyselfoffthepage.”Mygreatgushofyouthfulconfidencewasconstrictedtoasmallerandsmallerpassageuntil,finally,mywritingwasdowntoatrickle,andthenadrip.I’mnotevensurehowIpassedtheclass.At the end of that year, Imovedmy poetry books to the bottom shelf and

signeduptostudyfictionwithAllanGurganus.IthankRobynforthat.Iwouldhave arrived at fiction eventually, butwithout her unwitting encouragement itcouldhavetakenmeconsiderablylonger.MostofwhatIknowaboutwritingIlearnedfromAllan,anditisatestament

tomygreatgoodluck(heart-stopping,inretrospect,suchdumbluck)thatitwashisclassroomIturnedupinwhenIfirststartedtowritestories.Habitsareeasytoacquireandexcruciating tobreak. (Thinkcigarettes.) Icame tohimablank

slate, drained of all the confidence I had broughtwithme to that first poetryclass.IknewIstillwantedtobeawriter,butnowIwasn’tsurewhatthatevenmeant.Ineededsomeonetotellmehowtogoforward.ThecoursethatAllansetmeonisonethathasguidedmylifeeversince.Itisthecourseofhardwork.It turns out that the distance from head to hand, from wafting butterfly to

entomologicalspecimen,isachievedthroughregular,disciplinedpractice.Whatbegins as something like adreamwill in fact stay adream foreverunlessyouhavethetoolsandthedisciplinetobringitout.Thinkofdiamondsor,for thatmatter,theever-practicalcoalthatmustbechippedoutofthemine.HadIbeenassignedadifferentsortof teacher,onewhosuggestedwekeepanearcockedfor themuse insteadofhoistingapick, Idon’t thinkIwouldhavegottenveryfar.Whyis it thatweunderstandthatplayingthecellowillrequireworkbutwe

relegatewriting to themagicof inspiration?Chances are, anychildwho stayswithaninstrumentformorethantwoweekshassomeadultwhoismakingherpractice,andanychildwhostickswith it longer than thatdoessobecausesheunderstands that practicemakes her play better and that there is a deep, soul-satisfyingpleasure in improvement. Ifapersonofanyagepickedup thecellofor the first timeand said, “I’ll beplaying inCarnegieHall nextmonth!”youwould pity her delusion, but beginning fiction writers all across the countrypolishuptheirbesteffortsandsendthemofftoTheNewYorker.Perhapsyou’rethinking here that playing an instrument is not an art in itself but aninterpretation of the composer’s art, but I stand by my metaphor. The art ofwritingcomeswaydowntheline,asdoestheartofinterpretingBach.Artstandsontheshouldersofcraft,whichmeansthattogettotheart,youmustmasterthecraft. If youwant towrite, practicewriting.Practice it for hours aday, not tocomeupwithastoryyoucanpublishbutbecauseyoulongtolearnhowtowritewell,because there is something thatyoualonecansay.Write thestory, learnfromit,putitaway,writeanotherstory.Thinkofasinkpipefilledwithstickysediment:Theonlywaytogetcleanwateristoforceasmalloceanthroughthetap.Mostofusarefullupwithbadstories,boringstories,self-indulgentstories,searingworksofunendurablemelodrama.Wemustget all of themoutofoursystem inorder to find thegoodstories thatmayormaynotexist in the freshwaterunderneath.Does thissound likea lotofworkwithoutanyguaranteeofsuccess? Well, yes, but it also calls into question our definition of success.Playing thecello,we’remore likely to realize that thepleasure is thepractice,theabilitytocreatethisbeautifulsound—nottodoitaswellasYo-YoMa,but

still, to touch thehemof thegownthat isart itself.AllanGurganus taughtmehowtolovethepracticeandhowtowriteinaquantitythatwouldallowmetofigureoutformyselfwhatIwasactuallygoodat.Igotbetteratclosingthegapbetweenmyhandandmyheadbyclockinginthehours,stackingupthepages.Somewhereinallmyyearsofpractice—Idon’tknowwhereexactly—Iarrivedattheart.Ineverlearnedhowtotakethebeautifulthinginmyimaginationandput it onpaperwithout feeling I killed it along theway. I did, however, learnhowtoweatherthedeath,andIlearnedhowtoforgivemyselfforit.Forgiveness.The ability to forgive oneself. Stophere for a fewbreaths and

thinkaboutthis,becauseitisthekeytomakingartandverypossiblythekeytofindinganysemblanceofhappinessinlife.EverytimeIhavesetouttotranslatethebook(orstory,orhopelesslylongessay)thatexistsinsuchbrilliantdetailonthebig screenofmy limbic systemontoapieceofpaper (which, let’s face it,wasonceatoweringtreecrownedwithleavesandahometobirds),Igrieveformy own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time.Were I smarter,moregifted,IcouldpindownacloserfacsimileofthewondersIsee.Ibelievethat,more thananythingelse, thisgriefofconstantlyhaving to facedownourown inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness,therefore,iskey.Ican’twritethebookIwanttowrite,butIcanandwillwritethebookIamcapableofwriting.AgainandagainthroughoutthecourseofmylifeIwillforgivemyself.Inmyjunioryearofcollege,IstudiedwithGracePaley.ThefactthatIeven

metGracePaley,muchlesssatinherclassroomforanentireyear,isawondertome evennow.Therewas nobetter short storywriter, andvery possibly nobetterperson,thoughshewouldsmackmeontheheadwithanewspaperwereshearoundtohearmesaysuchathing.(Interestedinbeingabetterwriter?GobuyyourselfacopyofTheCollectedStoriesbyGracePaley.)The lesson thatGracetaughtwasacomplicatedone,andIwilladmitIhadbeenoutofherclassforacoupleofyearsbeforeIfullyunderstoodallshehadgivenme.IwasusedtoAllan,whowasasdiligentateacherashewasawriter.Hewaswherehesaidhewouldbeattheappointedminute,ourmanuscriptsmeticulouslycommentedon inhis trademarkbrown ink.Hegave assignments andpicked readings thatspokedirectlytoourneeds.ButwhenwewenttoGrace’sclassroom,therewasoftenacancellationnotice tapedto thedoor:gracehasgonetochile toprotesthumanrightsviolationsorsomethingofthatnature.OrIwouldbesittingoutsideherofficeforourscheduledconferencebutthedoorstayedclosed.Icouldhearsomeoneinthere,andfrequentlythatsomeonewascrying.Afterhalfanhouror

so,Gracewouldpopherheadout,tellingmeverykindlythatIshouldgo.“She’shaving troubles,” shewould sayof thatunseenpersonwhohadarrivedbeforeme. If Iheldupmypoor little short story,a reminderofwhyIwas there, shewouldsmileandnod.“You’llbefine.”Oh,Grace,withherravelingsweatersandthicksocks,hergrayhairflyingin

everydirection,thedulcettonesofBrooklyninhervoice:Shewasamasterpieceofhumanlife.Therewasthetimeshecametoclassandsaidshecouldn’treturnstoriesbecauseshehadbeenrobbedthenightbefore.Aburglarhadbrokenintoherapartmentandtiedhertothekitchenchair.She’dthenproceededtotalktohimabouthishardlifeformorethananhour.Intheend,hetookhercameraandherbagfullofourhomework. I’msureIwasnotalone in thinkinghowluckythat guywas to have gotten somuch ofGrace’s undivided attention.Anothertime,shecametoclassandherdedusallintoaschoolvan,thenshedroveustoTimes Square.Wewere tomarch with the assembling throngs to theMarinerecruitment offices chantingUSA, CIA, out of Grenada! It was crowded andcold, and afterwewere sent off downForty-secondStreetwith our signs,wenever did find Grace or the van again. I once heard her read her story “TheLoudestVoice”inasmallroomatSarahLawrencewhereweallsatonpillows.Somewhere in the middle of the reading she stopped, said her tooth wasbothering her, reached into her mouth, pulled out a back molar, and kept ongoing.Likemost ofmy classmates, I was young and filledwith a degree of self-

interestthatcouldrightlybecalledselfishness.Nothingwasmoreimportantthanthestorieswewrote,theSturmundDrangofourcollegelives.Gracewantedustobebetterpeoplethanwewere,andsheknewthatthechancesofourbecomingreal writers depended on it. Instead of telling us what to do, she showed us.Human rights violations were more important than fiction. Giving your fullattentiontoapersonwhoissufferingwasbiggerthanmarkingupastory,biggerthanwritingastory.Graceturnedoutaslenderbutvitalbodyofworkduringherlife. Shekept her editorswaiting longer thanher students. She taughtme thatwritingmustnotbecompartmentalized.Youdon’tstepoutofthestreamofyourlifetodoyourwork.Workwasthelife,andwhoyouwereasamother,teacher,friend,citizen,activist,andartistwasallthesameperson.Peopleliketoaskmeifwriting can be taught, and I say yes. I can teach you how towrite a bettersentence,howtowritedialogue,maybeevenhowtoconstructaplot.ButIcan’tteachyouhowtohavesomethingtosay.Iwouldnotbegintoknowhowtoteachanotherpersonhowtohavecharacter,whichwaswhatGracePaleydid.

ThelasttimeIsawGracewasataluncheonattheAmericanAcademyofArtsandLetters.Shewasbeing treated forbreastcancer.Herhearingwasbadandshedidn’tanswermyquestionsabouthowshewasdoing.Shegavemeahuginstead. “Youwouldn’tbelieveall thenicepeople I’vemet at chemotherapy,”shetoldme.MylastfictionteacherincollegewasRussellBanks,andthelessonIgotfrom

himcameinasingleconversation thatchangedeverythingIdidfromthatdayon. He told me I was a good writer, that I would never get any substantialcriticismfromtheotherstudents in theclassbecausemystorieswerepolishedandwellputtogether.ButthenhetoldmeIwasshallow,thatIskatedalongonthesurface,beingclever.HesaidifIwantedtobeabetterwriter,Iwastheonlypersonwhocouldpushmyselftodoit.Itwasuptometochallengemyself,tobevigilantaboutfindingtheplacesinmyownworkwhereIwasjustgettingby.“Youhavetoaskyourself,”hesaidtome,“ifyouwanttowritegreatliteratureorgreattelevision.”I remember leaving his office and stepping out in the full blooming

springtime.Iwasdizzy.Ifeltasifhehadjusttakenmyheadoffandreattachedit at a slightlydifferent angle, andasdisquietingas the sensationwas, Iknewthatmyheadwouldbebetternow.TheworldIwaswalkinginwasadifferentplacefromtheoneIhadbeeninanhourbefore.Iwasgoingtodoabetterjob.Thereareinlifeafewmiraculousmomentswhentherightpersonistheretotellyou what you need to hear and you are still open enough, impressionableenough,totakeitin.WhenIthoughtaboutthewriterIhadwantedtobewhenIwasachild,theonewhowasnobleandhungryandlivedforart,thatpersonwasnotshallow.Iwouldgobacktomybetter,deeperself.I’ve run intoRussellmany times over the years, and I’ve told him how he

changedmylife.Hesayshehasnomemoryoftheconversation,afactthatdoesnottroublemeintheleast.I,too,havegivenalotofadviceI’veforgottenaboutovertheyears.IcanonlyhopeitwashalfasgoodasRussell’s.Truly,theseteachersandtheirlessonschangedmylife.AndwhileIgivedue

credit to the college for hiring the right people and fostering a philosophy ofeducationinwhichayoungwritercanthrive,Ialsorealizethatthereisalargecomponentof luck involved. It’sawonderful thing to findagreat teacher,butyoualsohavetofindhimorheratatimeinlifewhenyou’reabletolistento,trust,andimplementthelessonsyoureceive.Thesameistrueofthebooksweread.Ithinkthatwhatinfluencesusinliteraturecomeslessfromwhatweloveandmorefromwhatwehappentopickupinmomentswhenweareespecially

open.For this reason I’ve alwaysbeengrateful (and somewhat amazed) that IreadTheMagicMountain inmyhighschoolEnglishclass.Thatnovel’sbasicplot—a group of strangers are thrown together by circumstance and form asocietyinconfinement—becamethestorylineforjustabouteverythingI’veeverwritten.Thenagain,thatwasalsotheplotofThePoseidonAdventure,acheesy1970sdisasterflickIhadseenseveralyearsearlier,whichalsohadanimpactonme(andkeptmeoffcruiseships).IwasgreatlyaffectedbySaulBellow’snovelHumboldt’sGift,which I readwhenIwas fourteenor fifteen,not longafter itwas awarded thePulitzerPrize. I read it because a copywas lyingaround thehouseafterbothmymotherandmystepfatherhadfinishedit.I’mcertainitwasmuch too adult forme then, but still, I canbringupmoreof the imagery andemotion from that novel than from anything I’ve read in a long time. It wasbecauseofHumboldtthatIwentontoreadthestoriesofDelmoreSchwartzandfellinlovewith“InDreamsBeginResponsibilities.”EvenasateenagerIknewabrillianttitlewhenIsawit.Basedonmyownexperience, Ibelieve thebrain isassoftandmalleableas

bread dough when we’re young. I am grateful for every class trip to thesymphony I went on and curse any night I was allowed to watch The BradyBunch,becauseallofitstuck.Conversely,IamnowcapableofforgettingentirenovelsthatI’veread,andI’vebeeninfluencednotatallbybooksIpassionatelylove andwould kill to be influenced by.Think about this before you let yourchildhaveaGameBoy.

*

IFTHEGIFTS I receivedasanundergraduatewereof fairy-taledimensions,thatwasnotthecaseformeattheesteemedIowaWriters’Workshop,whereIarrived at the age of twenty-one. I never had a class in graduate school thatapproachedwhatIhadhadincollege,butIchalkituptotheluckofthedraw.(Luck,I’vecometofindout,worksinbothdirections.)HadIbeenatIowatwoyearslater,ortwoyearsearlier,orhadImerelysignedupforadifferentrosterof classes, I would have had an entirely different experience. The same, ofcourse,would have been true at SarahLawrence.The ability towrite and theability to teach are not the same, andwhile I’ve knownplenty of peoplewhocoulddoboth,therearealsoplentyofpeoplewhocandoonlyoneortheother,and plentywho do bothwho should be doing neither. That’swhy picking anMFAprogramistricky.Itmaygiveyoutheopportunitytostudywithyourhero,

but your heromay prove a disappointment in the classroom.The bestway tojudgeaprogramistolookatthepersondirectingit.IoncetaughtbrieflyattheUniversityofCaliforniaat Irvine,asmallprogramthatwas runat the timebythewonderful writer GeoffreyWolff. He controlled everythingmagnificently.Hedidameticulous jobchoosingboth the facultyand thestudents,oversawafinancialaidprogramthatdidn’tpitstudentsagainstoneanother,andingeneralsetatonethatwascongenialandsupportive.AllMFAprogramsrelyonvisitingfaculty,andmostofthemchangefromyeartoyear(ifnotsemestertosemester),sodon’tgobytheprestigeofanameorbysomeoneelse’sexperiencefiveyearsago.It’salwaysaworkinprogress.The answer to how important amaster of fine arts degree is to becoming a

fictionwriteris,ofcourse,notatall.Thehistoryofworldliteratureisweightedheavily on the side ofwriterswhoput theirmasterpieces togetherwithout thebenefitoftwoyearsofgraduateschool.Still,MFAprogramshavebeenpartofthemix,at least in thiscountry, fora long timenow,andmanywritersattendthem. Even though itwas an imperfect experience forme, itwas notwithoutbenefit:Spendingtwoyearsdevotingmyselftowritingwasindisputablyagoodthing,aswasmeeting theotherstudentswhohadcomefor thesamereasons Ihad.Weallhadsuchgoodintentions,andmostofuswereeventuallydistractedfromthem.Iremembercomplainingonenightonthephonetomymotherthatwespenttoomuchofourtimeworryingaboutloveandmoney.“Thinkofitasresearch,”shesaid.“That’swhateverybodywritesabout.”Iowa was where I learned how to tune my ear to the usefulness and

uselessnessofotherpeople’sopinions.Anessentialelementofbeingawriterislearningwhomtolistentoandwhomtoignorewhereyourworkisconcerned.Everyworkshopwasanexplosionofjudgment.Athirdoftheclasswouldloveastory,a thirdwouldrip it toshreds,anda thirdwouldsit therestaringoff intospace,nodoubtwonderingwhattheyweregoingtohavefordinner.Sometimesanentireclasswouldsaythatsomethingwasn’tworkingandthey’dbewrong.IhadtotrustmyselfandkeepdoingwhateverIwasdoing.Othertimes,onelonedissenterwouldpointoutaproblemandtherestoftheclasswoulddisagree,butthatpersonwasright.HadIgivenequalweighttoeveryonewhohadsomethingtosay,everystorywouldhaveturnedintoaterriblegameofTwister(lefthand,yellow; right foot, blue; nose on green; and so on). On the other hand, had Ilistenedtonoone,oronlytothepeoplewholikedme,theworkshopwouldhavebeenawasteoftime.Onemisconceptionaboutworkshopsisthatyoulearnthemostabouthowto

be a better writer on the day your story is discussed. Not true. People arenervous,sometimesdeathlyso,whentheirstoryisbeingdissected,andthere’salwaysagreatdealofegoinvolved.Butit’swhensomeoneelsehastheirturnatbat that you actually get to see what’s going on; the view is always clearerwithoutall thoseemotionaldefenses in theway.This iswhereMFAprogramsaremostvaluable:Youcanlearnmore,andmorequickly, fromotherpeople’smissteps than from their successes. Ifwecould learneverythingweneeded toknowaboutwritingfictionbyseeingitmasterfullyexecuted,wecouldjuststayinbedand readChekhov.Butwhenyousee someoneputting in fivepagesofunnecessarydescriptivedetailinatwenty-pagestory,ornotbotheringtoengagethereader’sinterestuntiltheseventhpage,orwritingdialoguethatreadslikeagovernment wiretap transcription from a particularly boring conversationbetweenacoupleoffourteen-year-oldgirls, thenyoulearnandlearnfast.Youmay not always graspwhat you need to do in order tomake your ownworkbetter, but if you pay attention you’ll figure out what you need to avoid. Itdoesn’t take long to identify who the best critics in the class are, and thosepeople become the ones you seek out.Making friendswith other writers yourespect is reasonenough togo tograduate school.You’renotalwaysgoing tohaveteachers,butifyou’relucky,you’llalwayshaveacoupleoftough,loving,forthrightpeerswhohavesomethingtoteachyou.ThebestthingIgotoutofmytimeatIowawasthatIlearnedhowtoteach.In

my first year, my financial aid package entailed teaching an undergraduateIntroductiontoLiteratureclass.Then,inmysecondyear,Itaughtundergraduatefiction writing. The degree to which I was unqualified for this work wasappalling. Iwas twenty-oneyearsoldandhadnevergiven teachinga thought.Fortheliteratureclass,theteachingassistantsweretoldtocovertwonovels(anytwonovels,anyof them), twoplays (oneShakespeareandonecontemporary),someshort stories,andasectiononpoetry.Weweregiven twodaysofgroupinstruction,aclassschedule,anda roomnumber,and thatwas it.Wewereonourown.Itwasterrifying,andIlearnedmorefromthatexperiencethanfromallthewritingandreadingIhaddoneinmylifetodate.Beingtheonetostandinfront of the class and talk about a book for fiftyminutesmademe read at awholenewlevel.IwasforcedtothinkthrougheveryideaIhadaboutastory,tosupport all of those ideas with examples from the text, and articulate mythoughts in a cogentmanner. In short, I started to studyhowwritersdidwhattheydidwithagreatdealmorediligence,becauseIhadtoexplainittosomeoneelse. I’ve often wished there had been a way for me to teach before being a

student—Teachingmademesomuchbetteratstudying.Educationaside,mymostemphaticpieceofadviceregardingwhetherornot

toattendanMFAprogramhastodowithmoney:Nooneshouldgointodebttostudy creative writing. It’s simply not worth it. Do not think of it as aninvestmentinyourselfthatyou’llbeabletorecouplateron.Thisisnotmedicalschool. There are many moreMFA programs turning out many more writersthan the market can possibly bear; the law of averages dictates that a greatpercentage of graduates are never going to make anywhere close to a livingpracticingtheircraft.EveryMFAprogramhassomeleveloffinancialaidthatisbased on how talented you are deemed to be,which is anotherwayof sayinghowbadlythatprogramwantsyou.IfyougetintoanMFAprogramwithoutanofferoffinancialaid,sitoutayearandthenreapply.Whoacceptsyouandhowmuchmoneytheygiveyouisacapriciousbusiness,subjecttowhohappenstobeservingontheadmissionspanel(whichintheearlyroundsisoftencomposedofstudents). Iapplied to fourMFAprogramsandIgot intoone—theone thatwas supposedly the most competitive—and I received financial aid. Would Ihave gone without financial aid? Probably, but only because I wouldn’t haveknownanybetter.Atthetime,IhadnoideawhatIwasbuying.Iwilladmittobeingaprofoundlypracticalperson,especiallywheremoney isconcerned,butunlessyouareindependentlywealthy,Iurgeyoutolistentothis.Ifyouplantorollthedicethinking,Well,surelyI’llgetabigbookcontractattheendofthetwoyearsthatwillcovertheloanI’vetakenout,thereisanexcellentchanceit’snotgoingtohappen.Andwhilewe’reonthesubjectofwritingprograms,letmetouchonsummer

programs as well. They can be a lot of fun, as long as you’re honest withyourself about what your goals are. If you want to make friends with otherpeople who want to be writers, have a vacation with an opportunity to learnsomething,andhavethechancetolistenforaweekortwotothewisdomofawriter you respect—and you can do it all within your budget—then summerprogramsaregreat.Butifyouthinkyou’llfindanagentwhowilltakeonyournovel,orthewriteryoulovewillloveyouinreturnandwillmentoryoubeyondtheparametersofthesummerschedule,forgetit.Istoppedteachinginsummerprogramsa long timeago,because I feltuncomfortablewith thepromises thatwerebeingsold.Thoseprogramscanbealifesavingconnectionforpeoplewhoare toiling away by themselvesmonth aftermonthwith no one to shareworkwith.LikeanMFAprogramwritinminiature,it’sthechancetofindfriendsandreliablecriticsamongclassmates. I imagine thateverynowand thenabook is

pickedupbyaprestigiousNewYorkagentandsoldtoaprestigiousNewYorkpublisher,butitisstatisticallyakintofindingafour-leafclover.OnthebanksoftheDeadSea.InJuly.After finishing at the IowaWriters’Workshop, I got a job as thewriter-in-

residenceatasmallcollegeinPennsylvania.Twodaysbeforemysecondyearofemploymentwasset tobegin,I leftmyhusband, left thejob,andveryquicklyleftthestate.ImovedbacktoTennesseeandinwithmymother.Havingburnedmy last employers so badly, I had pretty much no chance of finding anotherteachingjob,soIwoundupgettingajobasawaitress.Iwastwenty-fiveyearsold. It wasn’t the best time in my life, but at least I wasn’t mailing in apercentageofmytipmoneytopaydownstudentloansformyMFA.Ihadalotoftimetothinkaboutstoriesinthosedays.IfoundIwascapableof

taking orders, serving meals, and picking up dirty plates while dreaming upplots,butIhadahardtimewritingthemdown.Myhandswerealwaysfull,andinthefewmomentstheyweren’t,Ifellasleepinaboutthirtyseconds.Upuntilthatpoint, therehadneverbeenany reason todoubt thatmy lifewasgoing toworkoutexactlyaccordingtoscript.IhadthoughtIwasawriterwhenIwasastudent,butwouldIstillbeawriternowthatIwasalsoawaitress?Itwasatestof love:How longwould I stickaroundonce thingswereno longergoingmyway? (Illustrative anecdote: Many years later, I was in London interviewingRalphFiennesforGQmagazine.Whilewewereatlunch,thewaiterapproachedto tellFienneshowmuchheadmiredhiswork.“I’manactor, too,” thewaitersaidasheheldoutapieceofpaperforanautograph.LaterIaskedFienneshowlonghewould havebeenwilling to be awaiterwho struggled to be an actor.Thingshadgonewellforhimprettymuchrightoffthebat,butlet’ssayforthesakeofargumentthattheyhadn’tandhehadtopickupdirtyplatesandsweepup thecrushedsaltinesofchildren.Howmuchresiliencehad therebeen inhisdream,andhowfarwouldhehavesloggedonwithoutanysignsofsuccess?Theactorshookhishead.“Icouldn’thavedoneit,”hesaid.)Therewere thingsI learnedaboutwritingwhileworkingasawaitress thatI

hadn’t come to during my student years, and the first was my own level ofcommitment.Asthemonthswentby,IknewthatIwrotebecauseitwasmyjoy,andifIkeptonbeingawaitressforever,writingwouldstillbemyjoy.Butthatdidn’tmeanIdidn’thaveplanstousewritingasameansofescape.Ihadbeenunwaveringlyloyaltomytalent,andnowthatthechipsweredown,Iexpectedittobeloyaltome.Withsomuchtimeforthinkingandsolittletimeforwriting,Ilearnedhowtoworkinmyhead.Betweenpilferingcroutonsoffsaladplatesand

microwavingfudgesauce for thesundaes, IdecidedIwasgoing tomakeupanovel,and that thenovelwasgoing togetmeoutof the restaurant.Thenovelwasgoingtobemygetawaycar.From themoment Iwalked intoAllanGurganus’s class, I had been utterly

devoted to the short story.When people askedmewhen I planned towrite anovel,Iwouldsay,IfIwereaviolinist,wouldyouaskmewhenIwasgoingtoplay the viola, just because it’s bigger? (Shake your head in pity here for theself-righteousundergraduate.)Istillbelievethat,eventhoughmanywritersworkinboththelongandshortformsoffiction,youcanalwaysspottheoneswhoarereally short storywriters, in the sameway you knowwho is truly a novelist.Veryfewpeople—JohnUpdikebeingonenotableexception—areequallygifted.Iwasashortstorywriter.Iwassureofit.ButIhadgottenmyselfintoanovel-sizehole,andIknewitwasgoingtotakealotmorethanastorytosaveme.Theproblemwas that Ihad receivedamassiveandexpensiveeducation inhow towriteshortstoriesandnotsomuchasacorrespondencecourseinhowtowriteanovel.(Irealizenowthatthisislargelyamatteroftime,logistics,andtosomedegreepatience.A teachermaybewilling to read fifteenshort storiesaweek,but no one can read rambling, lengthy, decontextualized segments of fifteennovels. There is also the fact that novel excerpts rarely benefit from groupcritique.It’sonethingtogetallthoseopinionswhenyou’vefinished,butwhenyou’re still in themiddle of a project, it’s like having fifteen people give youconflicting directions as to how best to get to the interstate.) And so, with acouple of cheeseburger platters balanced upmy arm, I began to teachmyselfhowtowriteanovelwhilebeingawaitress.

*

NO MATTERWHAT you’re writing—story, novel, poem, essay—the firstthing you’re going to need is an idea. As I said earlier, don’t make this theintimidating part. Ideas are everywhere. Lift up a big rock and look under it,stareintoawindowofahouseyoudrivepastanddreamaboutwhat’sgoingoninside.Readthenewspaper,askyourfatherabouthissister,thinkofsomethingthathappenedtoyouorsomeoneyouknowandthenthinkaboutitturningoutan entirely different way. Make up two characters and put them in a roomtogether and see what happens. Sometimes it starts with a person, a place, avoice,anevent.Forsomewritersit’salwaysthesamepointofentry;formeit’sneverthesame.IfI’mreallystuck,nothinghelpslikelookingthroughabookof

photography.Openitup,lookatapicture,makeupastory.If you decide to work completely from your imagination, you will find

yourselfshockedbyall theautobiographicalelements thatmaketheirwayintothetext.If,ontheotherhand,yougothepathoftheromanàclef,you’llwindupchanging the details of your life that are dull. Youwill take bits from booksyou’ve readandmoviesyou’veseenandconversationsyou’vehadandstoriesfriendshavetoldyou,andhalfthetimeyouwon’tevenrealizeyou’redoingit.Iamacompostheap, andeverything I interactwith, everyexperience I’vehad,getsshoveledontotheheapwhereiteventuallymulchesdown,isdigestedandexcretedbyworms,androts.It’sfromthatrich,darkhumus,thecombinationofwhat you encountered,what you know, andwhat you’ve forgotten, that ideasstart togrow.Icouldmakeacasefor thebenefitsofwide-rangingexperience,bothpersonalandliterary,asenrichingthequalityofthecompost,butthelifeofEmilyDickinsonneatlydismantlesthattheory.When Iwasputtingmy firstnovel together inmyhead, Ididn’t takenotes,

nor did I write downmy customers’ orders. I figured that if I came up withsomethingthatwasworthrememberingIwouldrememberit,andIwouldforgetabouttherest.(Thisapproachdidnotextendtowhatpeoplewantedfordinner.)Idon’tthinkmytheoryonmemoryisnecessarilytrue—I’msureI’veforgottenplentyofthingsthatwouldseemgoodtomenow—butnotwritingthingsdown,especially in the early stages of thinking them through, does cause me toconcentratemoredeeplyandnotbecomeoverlycommittedtoanythingthatisn’tfirmlyinplace.Also,intheearlystagesofthinkingupanovel,I’mnotexactlysure what I would write down anyway. It’s like walking through a field in asnowstorm and for a long time you see nothing but the snow, but then in thedistance there’ssomething,a treeora figureorsmoke,you justdon’tknow. Ialwayshave the sensation that I’m straining to seewhat’s in frontofme.ThesnowlessensforaminuteandIcatchaglimpseofanidea,butwhenIgetcloserthelightstartstofade.Isquintconstantly.Itgoesonlikethisforalongtime.IfIwere takingnotes, theywouldread:Iseesomething.Ashape?Ihaveno idea.It’snotexactlythestuffthatliteraryarchivesaremadeof.The Patron Saint of Liars, the novel largely assembled at a now defunct

NashvilleT.G.I.Friday’s,startedlikethis:ThereisagirlinaCatholichomeforunwedmothers, and she goes into labor. The home is far out in the country,maybeforty-fiveminutesfromthehospital,andthegirldecidesshe’snotgoingtotellanyonewhat’sgoingon.She’snotgoingtocryout,becauseshewantstoride in theambulancewithherbaby,although I think that shouldbeplural—I

vaguelyremembershehadtwins.(WereIinanalysis,Iwouldsayinretrospectthat this idea probably had something to do with the fact that I had left myhusbandandwasvery,verygladIwasn’tpregnantanddidn’thaveachild.Butwho knows? I certainly wasn’t thinking about that at the time. I rolled somesilverwareintonapkins,tookdaiquiristothebusinessmenattableeight.Itwas1989,andwesoldfrozenstrawberrydaiquirisbythetankerful.)Sohere’sthisgirlgivingbirthinthemiddleofthenight,andthereareother

girls in the room,girlswho liveonher hall, her co-conspirators come tohelpher.I lookedateachoneofthem.IspentdaysthinkingoftheirstorieswhileIbused tables and ran the dishwasher and restocked the expediter’s table in thekitchen. (Parsley, parsley, parsley!Wewere all about parsley atFriday’s. “Tohavenogreenwouldbeobscene,”anotherwaitresstoldme.)Ithinkthenovelisgoingtobeaboutthegirlgivingbirth,butthere’sanothergirlintheroomnamedRose,andshe’scomeall theway toKentucky fromCalifornia inherowncarand shehas a secret.This girl has a husband.From there I start to stretch thestory in everydirection.What happened toRose inCalifornia?Whowereherparentsandwhowasthishusbandandwhydidshemarryhiminthefirstplace?Whomdoes shemeet andwhomwill shemarry later andwhere did he comefrom?Ipuzzleditout,wentdowndeadendsandcircledback,madeconnectionsandplottwistsIneversawcoming.Allinmyhead.While this noisy novel dominated my thoughts during shifts, my actual

writing time was devoted to applications. I was applying to every fellowshipprogramIcouldfind,desperatelyhopingtolandsomeplacethatwouldfeedmeandputaroofovermyheadandgivemetimetoputmyfullyimaginednovelonpaper.ThestuffofdreamsforpeopleinmypositionisallcontainedinasinglebookcalledGrantsandAwardsAvailabletoAmericanWriters,whichisissuedyearly by the PEN American Center. If you want to know when a contestdeadlineisorfindoutwhatprizesandfellowshipsareavailable,thisistheplaceto look. I was down to being one of three finalists for a spot at the BuntingInstituteatRadcliffeCollege(nowcalledtheRadcliffeInstitute)andspentafewextremelyhopefulweeksbeforefindingoutIhadn’tgottenit.Thatwasadarkdayofwaitressing(though,happily,Igotthefellowshipfouryearslater).JustaboutthetimeIhadenoughseniorityatFriday’stolandthebestsection

in the high-cash Friday night/Saturday night/Sunday brunch trifecta, I heardfrom the FineArtsWorkCenter in Provincetown,Massachusetts, a residencyprogram that offered small apartments and a stipend of $350 a month to tenwriters and ten visual artists, from the beginning of October through the

beginning ofMay. I was in. It was the spiritual equivalent of Charlie Bucketfindingthegoldenticketinhischocolatebar.Iquitmyjob,packedupmycar,anddrovetoCapeCod.

*

IMADEADECISIONonthetripup:Iwasgoingtoputwritingfirst.Ishouldhavedone this earlier, but therewere always toomanyother things goingon.MostlyIwasfallinginlove,andthenfallingoutoflove,andthenfallinginlovewithsomeoneelse.Love,withallofitsurgency,woundupgettingmoreofmyattentionthanwriting.Workhadgottenagooddealofattentionaswell,andby“work” I mean waitressing. On top of that, I was a good friend and a gooddaughter.IbudgetedinacertainamountoftimetofeelguiltyaboutwhatIhaddoneinthepastandanxiousaboutwhatIwoulddointhefuture.Ididn’tknowexactlywherewritingfellinthisinventory.Iwassureitwasn’tatthebottomofthe list,but Ialsoknewitwasneversafelyat the top.Well,nowitwasbeingtransferredtothetop.Icouldseethegeniusinnothavinggiven100percentofmyselfovertowritingbefore.Ithadkeptmefromeverhavingtocometotermswith how good I was—or wasn’t. As long as something got in the way ofwriting, Icouldalways lookata finishedstoryand think it couldhavebeenalittle better if only I hadn’t spent somuch time onXYZ.Howmuch better Inever knew, because I never knew howmuch of myself I was holding back.Now,though,Iwouldhavesevenmonthstowritethenovelthatwasinmyhead,sevenmonthstoliveuptotheincalculablegiftthathadbeenbestowedonmebytheWorkCenter.Itwasmyintentionforatleastthisseven-monthchunkofmylife to do my best work and see how good it was. I had an impetus now:desperation.TheonlythingwaitingformebackathomewasmyjobatFriday’s.IfIwantedabetterlifeformyself,Iwasgoingtohavetowriteit.When I arrived at theWorkCenter, I luggedmy computer—amid-eighties

behemothwhosepartswerepackedintomanyboxes—upthenarrowstaircasetomytinyapartment.Imademysinglebed,hungupmytowels,andwenttothegrocerystore.The lastof thesummer touristsweredecamping,and Icaughtaglimpseofwhat a ghost townProvincetownwouldbe in thewinter.Thenextday Igotup,madeacupof tea,andsatdownatmydesk.Even though Ihadspent thepastyear livingwith thenovel inmyhead, Ihadnotcommittedoneword topaper.Thatwas themoment I remembered that I hadneverwritten anovelandhadnoideawhatIwasdoing.

NowthatIwassittingstillinfrontofablankscreen,IwasappalledbyallthethingsIhadn’tconsidered.Sure,Ihadsomecharacters,asetting,asketchyplot,butuntilthatminuteIhadneverconsideredtheactualnarrativestructure.Whowas telling thisstory?Iwanted towrite thestory inanomniscient third,abigRussian-style narrative inwhich the point of viewmoved seamlessly betweencharactersbecausethesewerepeoplewhowerenotforthcomingwitheachotheranda single first-personnarrative couldn’t possibly tell thewhole story.But Ididn’tknowhowtoconstructanomniscientvoice.(IwouldtakearunningjumpatitinthenexttwonovelsIwroteaswell,andeachtimeIretreated.Itwasn’tuntilmyfourthnovel,BelCanto,thatIfinallyfiguredouthowtodoit.)IfIhadn’tputtogetheranarrativestructure,whatinthehellhadIbeendoing

allthattime?Ipanicked.FromthemomentIarrivedinProvincetown,Ifeltthesand slipping through the hourglass. Seven months left no time to dither. Idecided togiveeachofmy threemaincharacters a first-personpointofview.Thenarrativeswouldnotgobackand forth; everyonewouldhaveone shot totell his or her story, and that was it. Likemany decisions, this onewas botharbitrary and born of necessity. Would it work? I doubted it, but I couldn’tidentify any other options. From my window I saw the occasional writer orpainter milling around in the parking lot. They would stop and talk to oneanother, head off into town. I was upstairs having the revelation that thegorgeous,all-encompassingnovel thathadbeenwithmefor thepastyearwasjunk.Ihadtocomeupwithanotheridea,fast.IhadtohitthedeletekeyandgetridofeverytraceoftheawfulworkI’ddonesofar.IdidwindupwritingthebookIcametowrite,andagreatdealofthecredit

for thatgoes tomyfriendDianeGoodman,whowas living inPennsylvaniaatthe time.Long-distancephonecallswere ridiculouslyexpensive in thosedays,and Iwas ridiculouslybroke; still, talking toDianeproved awise investment.She toldme that I was not allowed to throw out anything I’dwritten. “Calmdown,” she said again and again. “Stick it out.” It was lifesaving counsel.Withoutit,Icouldhavespentthenextsevenmonthswritingthefirstchaptersofeighteendifferentnovels,allofwhichIwouldhaveultimatelyhatedasmuchasIhatedthisone.Iwasusedtowritingshortstories.Iwasprogrammedforbright,impassionedbingesofworkthatlastedadayortwoorthree,andIknewnothingaboutthelonghaul.Novelwriting,Isoondiscovered,islikechannelswimming:aslowandsteadystrokeoveralongdistanceinacold,darksea.IfIthoughttoomuchabouthowfarI’dcomeorthedistanceIstillhadtocover,I’dsink.Asitturnsout, Ihavehad thissamecrisis ineverynovelIhavewrittensince: Iam

suremy idea is horrible and that a new idea ismy only hope. Butwhat I’verealizedovertheyearsisthateverynewideaeventuallybecomestheoldidea.Imadeapledge that Iwouldn’t start the sexynewnovel I imagineduntil Ihadfinished the tired old warhorse I was dragging myself through at present.Keepingthatpledgehasalwaysservedmewell.Thepartofmybrainthatmakesartand thepart that judges thatarthad tobeseparated.WhileIwaswriting, Iwasnotallowedtojudge.Thatwasthelaw.ItwasthelessonIhadbeenunabletolearnbackinJaneCooper’spoetryclassatSarahLawrence,butIwasoldernowanditwashightime.NotonlydidIlearnhowtowriteanovelinProvincetown;Ifoundtheperfect

persontoreadit.ElizabethMcCrackenwasanotherofthewritingfellowsattheWorkCenterthatseason,andshelivedthreehousesawayfromme.IfIlookedoutmykitchenwindow, Icouldseewhetherher lightwason.Sometimesyoudon’trealizewhat’slackinginlifeuntilyoufindit.ThatwasthewayIfeltaboutElizabeth. I had plenty of friends, and a few extremely close friends, but I’dneverhadatruereader,someonewhodidn’tautomaticallyloveeverythingIdid,someonewhosecriticismandpraisewerealwaysthoughtfulandconsistent.Sheknewwhentobetoughandwhentojustbeencouraging.ShereadeverythingIwroteandcouldsay,Youknow,you’vealreadydonethistoomanytimes.(Sherecentlytoldmetocutaboutninety-fivepercentofthedreamsequencesinStateofWonder,pointingoutthatenoughofmycharactershadreceivedwisecounselfrom dead people in my books already.) Whatever I gave her, she readimmediately,whichiswhateverywriterdesperatelywants,andshebroughtthefullweightofhertalentandintelligencetobearonallofit.Itriedmybesttodothesameforher.Ofcourse,wedidn’tknowitwasgoingtobelikethiswhenwefirstmet.Wewentforicecream.Wetalkedaboutbooksandmovies,swappedmagazines,gotalong.Buttwowritersbecomingfriendsprettyquicklyget toapoint where they’re going to have to read each other’s work. It’s nervous-making,because ifyou like thepersonbutyoudon’t likeherwork,youknowthefriendshipisgoingtogoonlysofar.ForElizabethandme,themomentoftruthcameabouttwoweeksafterwemet—shegavemeastoryandIgaveherthefirstchapterofmynovel,andafterwehadreadthepages,wewentdowntotheGovernorBradford,oneofthefewbarsinProvincetownthatstayedopenallwinter,andtalkedthenightaway.Wehadsomuchtosay,somuchpraiseandadvice,somanygoodideas.Wehadfoundeachother.Over theyears I’vecometo realize that Iwrite thebookIwant to read, the

oneIcan’tfindanywhere.Idon’tsellmybooksbeforeIfinishthem,andnoone

reads themwhile I’mwriting them,except forElizabeth. Iwritemybooks formyself, and forher.Youmight infer from this that ourbooks andourwritingprocessesareverymuchalike,but it isn’t thecaseatall.Notonlyisourworkdifferent, but how wework is incredibly different: I get everything set inmyhead and then I go,whereasElizabethwillwrite herway into her characters’world,tryingoutscenes,writingbackstoriesshe’llneveruse.Wemarvelateachother’sprocess,andformeit’saconstantreminderthatthereisn’tonewaytodothiswork.IloveElizabeth’sbooks,buttheroadshetakestogettothemwouldkillme.

*

PARADOXICALLY, a single winter day in Provincetown is somewherebetween seventy and eighty hours long. I had never encountered such anoverwhelming amount of silent, unstructured time. After years of saying Ineededmorefreedom,IsuddenlyfoundthatIneededmorestructure.Mynovelneeded structure aswell.Knowing I shouldwrite a long, beautiful descriptionhasnevergottenmeoutofbedinthemorning,whichisprobablywhyInevermadeitasapoet.ThethingIreliedonmostheavilytogetmeupandtypingwasthe power of plot. It was my indispensable road map. I also realized—andlearned this more with every novel I wrote—that the plot needed to becomplicated enough and interesting enough to keep me sitting in a straight-backed kitchen chair seven days a week. Below please find pretty mucheverythingIknowaboutplot:If youwind up boring yourself, you can prettymuch bank on the fact that

you’re going to bore your reader. I believe in keeping several plots going atonce.Theplotofanovelshouldbelikewalkingdownabusycitystreet:Firsttherearealltheotherpeoplearoundyou,thedogwalkersandtheskateboarders,thecouplesfighting,theconstructionguysswearingandshouting,theprettygirlonteeteringheelswhocausesthoseconstructionguystoturnaroundforasplitsecond of silence. There are drivers hitting the brakes, diving birds slicingbetween buildings, and the suddenly ominous clouds banking to thewest.Allmannerofactionandmovementisrushingtowardsyouandaway.Butthatisn’tenough. You should also have the storefronts at street level and the twentystoriesofapartmentsfullofpeopleandtheirbabiesandtheirdreams.Belowthestreet, there shouldbe infrastructure:water, sewer,electricity.Maybe there’sasubwaydownthereaswell,andit’sfullofpeople.Forme,ittookallofthatto

stay emotionally present for sevenmonths of endless days.Manywriters feelthatplotispassé;they’resooverplot—whoneedsplot?—towhichIsay,learnhowtoconstructonefirstandthenfeelfreetorejectit.Thelengthandshapeofthechaptergoesalongwayindetermininghowyour

plotwillmoveforward.Maybeanunderstandingofchapterswasoneskill thatwas transferable frommy short-story-writing days. (Which, by theway, wereover.AsmuchasIhadlovedthestory,Inowlovedthenovel, lovedthehugeexpanse of space therewas towork in. I neverwent back.)A chapter isn’t ashortstoryandneedn’tbeabletostandalone,norisitjustarandombreakthatsignifiesthatthenovelististiredofthisparticularstorylineandwouldliketogoontosomethingelse.Chaptersarelikethefootpedalsonapiano;theygiveyouanother level of control. Short chapters can speed the book along,while longchapters can deepen intensity. Tiny chapters—a lone paragraph or a singlesentence—canbeirritatinglycute.Ilikeachapterthatbothhasacertaindegreeofautonomyandat the same timepushes the reader forward, so that someonewho is reading inbedandhasvowed to turnoff the lightat thechapter’sendwillinsteadsitupstraighterandkeepturningthepages.(Ifyouwanttostudythemasterof thewell-constructedchapter—andplotand flat-outgorgeouswriting—readRaymondChandler.TheLongGoodbyeismyfavorite.)Althoughmynovelwaswritteninthreeseparatefirst-personsections,Iwrote

itlinearly—thatistosay,pagetwowasstartedafterpageonewasfinished.Thisis one of the very few pieces of advice that I’m passing out—alongwith notgoingintodebtforyourMFA—thatIwouldimploreyoutoheed.Evenifyou’rewritingabookthat jumpsaroundin time,has tenpointsofview,andischest-deepinflashbacks,doyourbesttowriteitintheorderinwhichitwillberead,because itwillmake thewriting,and the laterediting, incalculablyeasier.Sayyouknowthegirlfriendisgoingtodrown.It’sgoingtobeapowerhousescene.You’vethoughtitthroughathousandtimesandit’sallwrittenoutinyourhead,soyoudecide togoaheadanddrownher in advance,get thatoutof theway.Youhaveyettoworkoutwhyithappens,orwhatshe’sdoinginthewaterinthefirstplace,butatleastyouknowshe’sgoingunder,sowhynotgoahead?Here’swhy:Becausethenyouhavetogobackandwritetheboringparts,thelead-up,butyouaren’tlettingthescenebuildlogically.Insteadyou’resteeringtheactiontowardsthisgemyou’vealreadywritten.Whenyouwriteyourstoryintheorderinwhich itwillbe read,youmay in factdecide that thisgirl shouldn’tdrownafterall.Maybetheboyfriendjumpsintosaveherandhedrownsinstead.Youlearnthingsaboutcharactersasyouwritethem,soevenifyouthinkyouknow

wherethingsareheading,don’tsetitinstone;youmightchangeyourmind.Youhavetolettheactionprogressthewayitmust,notthewayyouwantitto.Youcreate an order for the universe and then you set that universe inmotion.Nodoubt Shakespeare lovedKing Lear, but it was clear that Cordelia would notsurvive, and how could Lear go on without Cordelia? The writer cannot goagainstthetideoflogichehimselfhasestablished;or,toputitanotherway,hecan,butthenthebookceasestobeanygood.Soifyouoriginallyplantodrownthegirlandthenitturnsoutthegirldoesn’t

drown,doesthatmeanthecharactersarecapableoftakingoverthebook?No.Ifyou’rebuildingahousewithadownstairsmasterbedroom,and thendecide tomovethebedroomupstairs,thebedroomhasnottakenoverthehouse.Youhavesimply changed your mind, and your architectural plans, something that isconsiderably easier to do before the house is completely built (or the novel isentirelywritten).Nomatterwhatyoumayhaveheard,thecharactersdon’twritetheirstory.Oh,peoplelovetobelievethat,andcertainwriterslovetotellit—IwastypingawayandthenallofasuddenitwasasifIhadbeenpossessed.Thestorywasunfoldingbeforeme.Ihadbeenhijackedbymyowncharacters.Iwasno longer in control. Yeah, yeah, yeah.What I like about the job of being anovelist,andatthesametimewhatIfindsoexhaustingaboutit,isthatit’stheclosestthingtobeingGodthatyou’reevergoingtoget.Allofthedecisionsareyours.Youdecidewhenthesuncomesup.Youdecidewhogetstofallinloveandwhogetshitbyacar.Youhavetomakealltheleavesandallthetreesandthen sew the leaves onto the trees.Youmake the entireworld.Asmuch as Imight wish for it to happen, my characters no more write the book than thepuppets take over the puppet show. (A few years ago, I was giving a talk inTexas and a woman raised her hand and said that her minister had told thecongregation that they should never read novels with omniscient narrators,becausethewriterwastryingtoimitateGod.“Really?”Isaid.“NoTolstoy?NoDickens?”Thewomanshookherhead.IhavetosayitthrilledmetothinkthatnarrativestructurewasdangerousenoughtorateitsownSundaysermon.)

*

BACK IN PROVINCETOWN, winter went on and on. The ice cream shopclosed.Thefewbarsthathadn’tclosedfortheseasonstayedopenlater.Iholedup inmyapartmentandwrote,andplentyof times Igotstuck.Despiteall thegoodplansIhadmadewhilewaitingtables,Icouldseenowthatmystrokeshad

been broad and there were plenty of details that had yet to be devised.OccasionallyIpanicked.Ididnot,however,getwriter’sblock,becauseasfarasI’mconcerned,writer’sblockisamyth.Writer’sblockisatopicofgreatdiscussion,especiallyamongyoungwriters

and people who think I should write their book for them. I understand beingstuck. Itcan takeavery long time tofiguresomethingout,andsometimes,nomatter how much time you put in, the problem cannot be solved. To put itanother way, if it were a complicated math proof you were wrestling withinstead of, say, the unknowable ending of Chapter 7, would you consideryourself“blocked”ifyoucouldn’tfigureitoutrightaway,orwouldyouthinkthattheproofwasdifficultandrequiredmoreconsideration?Themanymonths(andsometimesyears)IputintothinkingaboutanovelbeforeIstarttowriteitsavesmeconsiderabletimewhileI’mwriting,butasElizabethMcCrackenlikestopointout,it’sallatrickofaccounting.TheremaybenotangibleevidenceoftheworkIdoinmyhead,butI’vedoneitnevertheless.EvenifIdon’tbelieveinwriter’sblock,Icertainlybelieveinprocrastination.

Writingcanbefrustratinganddemoralizing,andsoit’sonlynaturalthatwetryto put it off. But don’t give “putting it off” a magic label.Writer’s block issomethingoutofourcontrol,likeablockedkidney—wearenotresponsible.Weare, however, entirely responsible for procrastination, and in the best of allpossibleworlds,weshouldalsoberesponsibleforbeinghonestwithourselvesaboutwhatisreallygoingon.Ihaveahabitofrankingeverythinginmylifethatneedsdoing.ThethingI leastwanttodoisnumberoneonthelist,andthat isalmost always writing fiction. The second thing on the list may be callingVerizontodisputeachargeonmybill,orcleaningtheoven.Belowthat,thereismail to answer, an article towrite for a newspaper inAustralia about the fivemostinfluentialbooksinmylifeandwhy.WhatthismeansisthatIwillzoomthroughawholehostofunpleasanttasksinanattempttoavoiditemnumberone—writingfiction.(Iadmitthisiscomplicated,thatIcansimultaneouslyprofessto love writing and to hate it, but if you’ve read this far you must be prettyinterested inwritingyourself,and ifyouare,well,youknowwhat I’mtalkingabout.)ThebeautifulthingaboutlivinginProvincetowninthewinter,andhavingno

moneyandnoplacetospenditevenifIdid,wasthattherewasrarelyanythinginthenumber-twospotonmyto-dolist.TherewasreallynothingtodistractmefromtheworkIwas there todo,andso theworkgotdone.Thelessonis this:Themorewearewillingtoseparatefromdistractionandstepintotheopenarms

ofboredom,themorewritingwillgetonthepage.Ifyouwanttowriteandcan’tfigureouthowtodoit,trythis:Pickanamountoftimetositatyourdeskeveryday. Startwith twentyminutes, say, andwork up as quickly as possible to asmuch timeasyoucanspare.Doyou reallywant towrite?Sit for twohoursaday.Duringthat time,youdon’thavetowrite,butyoumuststayatyourdeskwithoutdistraction:nophone,noInternet,nobooks.Sit.Still.Quietly.Dothisforaweek,fortwoweeks.Donotnaporcheckyoure-mail.Keeponsittingforas long as you remain interested in writing. Sooner or later you will writebecauseyouwill no longerbe able to standnotwriting—oryou’ll get up andturnthetelevisiononbecauseyouwillnolongerbeabletostandallthesitting.Eitherway,you’llhaveyouranswer.I once gave this entire explanation to an earnest group of college freshmen

whohadallsufferedcruellyfromwriter’sblock.WhenIfinished,onegirlraisedher hand. “Clearly, you’ve just never had it,” she said, and the other studentsnoddedinrelievedagreement.Maybenot.

*

IFINISHEDmynovelatthebeginningofApril1991.Iprinteditout,andthenI stood on the pages. There were about four hundred of them, and I feltconsiderably taller. I went out and found Elizabeth in the yard hanging herlaundryontheclotheslineandItoldherIwasdoneandwehuggedandmadealotofnoiseandwentoffforadrinkinthemiddleoftheday.BecauseElizabethhad readeverychapteras Iwrote it, andbecause I tookallofher suggestionsanddidmyrevisionsalongtheway,Iwasabletostraightenupthemanuscriptfairlyquickly.Writershandletheprocessofrevisioninasmanydifferentwaysastheyhandlethewritingitself.Idoagreatdealoftinkering,butInevermakeanystructuralchanges—putting inadifferentnarrator, say,orgiving themaincharacterasister.Elizabethwilldosuchmajorrewritesfromdrafttodraftthateveryversioncouldexistasaseparatebook.Webothget tothesameplaceintheend.OnemethodofrevisionthatIfindbothloathsomeandindispensableisreading my work aloud when I’m finished. There are things I can hear—therepetition of words, a particularly flat sentence—that I don’t otherwise catch.MyfriendJaneHamilton,whoisaparagonofpatience,hasmereadmynovelstoheronce I finish.She’ll lieacross thesofa,eyesclosed, listening,and fromtime to time she’ll raise her hand. “Bad metaphor,” she’ll say, or “You’vealreadyusedthewordinculcate.”She’sneverwrong.

BackinProvincetown,April1991,I finallyhadmybookbutwasmissingatitletogowithit.IhadhadatitlewhileIwaswritingit,anditwassobadthat,lothesemanyyearslater,Istillcringetowriteitdown:TheLuckYouMake.Notlongbefore I finished thebook, Iwas talking tomymotheron thephoneonenight and she asked me to tell her again what my title was. And so I did.“What?”shesaid,long-distance.“TheLuckyMink?”OnceyourownmotherhascalledyourbookTheLuckyMink,youprettymuchhavetothrowthetitleout.Afterthat,Iwasatacompleteloss,andthenafriendtoldmetocomeupwith

tentitles.“Doitfast,”shesaid.“Don’tthinkaboutittoomuch.”Shesaidtotypeeach title on a separate sheet of paper, and underneath type a novel by AnnPatchett. Iwas then to tape them all to thewall. Every evening, in those lastweeksat theWorkCenter,I invitedtheotherfellowsovertopullasingletitleoffandthrowitaway.Itwasmyoneattemptatparticipatoryinstallationart.Attheendofthetendays,theonlytitleleftwasThePatronSaintofLiars,anovelbyAnnPatchett,soIwentwiththat.WhenthefellowshipwasoveronthefirstofMay,Ipackedupmymanuscript

and drove away. I cried all the way to the Sagamore Bridge. I knew I wasleaving behind one of the greatest experiences ofmy life. I will forevermisswhatIhadthere:theendlessquietdays,thejoyoflivingahundredfeetfrommynew best friend, the privilege of getting to stay inside the fog of my ownimagination for as longas I could stand itwithout anyoneaskingme to comeout.Itmightnothavebeenarealisticlife,butdearGod,itwasabeautifulone.

*

WHENIWASTWENTY,IpublishedmyfirstshortstoryinTheParisReview.AnagentcalledmesoonafterandaskedtotakemeonasaclientandIsaidyes,though Ididn’thaveanother story thatwasanygoodat all.Now, sevenyearslater,IarrivedfromProvincetownatherofficeinNewYorkwithmynovelinabox.IhadborrowedmoneytomakethedrivehometoNashville,butIwasn’tinany hurry to get there.My agent had toldme that themarket for first fictionwasn’twhatitusedtobe.(Note:Thisiswhatagentssay.It’sprobablywhatF.Scott Fitzgerald’s agent saidwhen he brought inThis Side ofParadise.) “ButI’myoung!” I said cheerfully. (Note:Young is always in fashion fordebutingnovelists. Iwas twenty-seven.) “Youweren’t exactly packing up your collegetextbooksyesterday,”myagentsaid.(Fitzgeraldwastwenty-three.)WhenIarrivedhomefourdayslater,mymothercameouttothedrivewayto

meetme.AneditoratHoughtonMifflinhadboughtThePatronSaintofLiarsfor$45,000.Forthefirsttimeinmylife,Iwasgoingtohavemoney(paidoutoverthree

yearsinfourinstallments),andtheonlythingIcouldthinkoftobuywasanewairconditionerformycar.Ithadbeenoutfortwoyears.NowthatIhadabookcontract and an advance on the way, I went to a mechanic. He said the airconditionerwas lowoncoolant,aproblemthatwasresolvedforfifteenbucks.Somehow,that’sthedetailofsellingmyfirstbookthatIalwaysremember.Thequestion thatpeopleare likely toaskme(after I’vepolitelydeclined to

write theirbook for them) ishow togetanagent.Obviously, I’mnot thebestpersontoaddressthisquestion,sincemyagentfoundmejustmomentsaftertheendofmychildhoodandwehavebeentogetherhappilyeversince.Still, thereareafewthingsI’velearnedalongtheway:Mybestpieceofadviceistofinishthebookyou’rewriting,especiallyifit’syourfirstbook,beforelookingforanagent.Mostagentswilltellyouthesamething,unlessyou’vealreadypublishedhalfofsaidunfinishedbookinTheNewYorker.Writersneedagentsthesedays.Notonlyarerightsgettingmoreandmorecomplicatedinthiselectronicage,butfor themost part publishing houses no longer have slush pile readers.Agentsnowdotheworkofsiftingandsortingtheunsolicitedmanuscriptsthemselves.Iwasrecentlydoingabooksigningwhensomeonecameupinthelineandaskedmehowtogetanagent.You’d thinkI’dhaveapatanswerdownfor thisone,butitalwaysstumpsme.Fortunately,myfriendNikiCastlewasstandingcloseby and I turned the question over to her. Niki had worked at InternationalCreativeManagementinNewYorkforfouryears,andIthoughtheradvicewasexcellent. She told the woman to go to one of the online agent sites that listagents who are looking for new clients, and then follow their submissionguidelinestotheletter.Iftheyaskforatwenty-pagewritingsample,donotsendin twenty-two pages. “The most basic infractions of the guidelines can meanyourworkmaynevergetread,”Nikisaid.Do not assume that finding an agent or getting published is something that

automaticallyhappenstowell-connectedinsiders.Ihavesentmyagentcountlesspotentialclientsover theyears,ones Ibelievedwereworthy,andI thinkshe’ssignedthreeof them.Publishingisstillamarket-drivenenterprise,soanagentwantstofindagreatwriterasmuchasthewriterwantstofindagreatagent.Butnoagenttakesonaclientasafavortosomeoneiftheyreallydon’tlikethebookanddon’tthinktheycansellit.Therefore,Isuggestfocusingyourenergyonthepartof theequationyoucontrol: thequalityofyourwork.Youcanalso try to

publishyourwork ingeneral-interestor literarymagazines in thehope that anagentwillfindyou.(Itworkedforme.)Ifyoutrythatroute,Ihavetwopiecesofadvice: First, read themagazine you’re submitting to. If you aren’twilling toread several back issues ofGranta or Tin House, then you have no businesssendingthemastory.Magazinesreallydohavepersonalities,andyoushouldbeabletofigureoutifyourstorymightfitin.Second,ifyouhaveonereallygood,perfectly polished story—wait until you have three or four. If you’re lucky,you’ll get a letter from the editor saying she liked thisonebut itwasn’t quiterightandnowshe’dliketoseesomethingelse.That’saverydepressinglettertoreceiveifyoudon’thaveanythingelsetosend.Ateverystageofwritingabook,thereisasenseofIfonly…IfonlyIcould

findthetimetowriteandifonlyIcouldfigureoutthethirdchapterandifonlyIcouldgetmybook finished. Ifonly I could findanagent. It only someeditorwouldbuymybook.IfonlyIcouldgetagoodpublicist.Ifonlythebookwouldget reviewed. If only theywould domore promotion. If only itwould sell. Itgoesonlikethisforever,untilyou’rereadytostartanotherbookandkickoffthecyclealloveragain.Aftermybooksold,IwenttoBostonandgotdresseduptomeetthepeopleat

HoughtonMifflin.MyeditortookmetolunchattheRitzandweatecrabcakesand drank martinis. This was twenty years ago, and at the time it felt likesomething thatmust have happened twenty years before. I’ve always thoughtthatbookpublishingwasanold-fashionedbusiness,andHoughtonMifflin,backin their long-gonewarren of interconnected houses, seemedone step removedfromLeonardWoolf’sBloomsbury.

*

I’VEBEENATTHISwritingjobforalongtimenow,andyetforthemostpartI still solvemy problems in the sameways I first learned to solve them as acollege student, a graduate student, awaitress.There are certain indispensablethingsIcametoearly, likediscipline.Butother things, likeseriousresearch, Icametolateroninmycareer.Ihaveneversubscribedtothenotionofwritingwhatyouknow,atleastnotformyself.Idon’tknowenoughinterestingthings.Ibegantoseeresearchasbothameansofwritingmoreinterestingnovelsandawayto improvemyowneducation.Case inpoint: Ididn’tknowa thingaboutopera, and so I figured that writing about an opera singer would forceme tolearn.Conductingresearch,whichhadneverevenoccurredtomemightbepart

ofwritingwhenIwasyoung,hasturnedouttobethegreatestperkofthejob.I’vereadDarwinandMayrandGossetogetatoeholdonevolutionarybiology.I’vefloateddowntheAmazoninanopenboatjusttoseetheleavesandlistentothe birds. I’ve called up the head of malaria research at the Bethesda NavalHospitalinMarylandandaskedifIcouldspendthedayfollowinghimaround.Hesaidyes.AsmuchasI lovedoingresearch,Ialsoknowthat itprovidesaspectacular

place to hide. It’s easy to convincemyself that I can’t start towritemy bookuntil I’ve read ten other books, or gone ten other places, and the next thing Iknowayearhasgoneby.Tocombatthis,ItrytoconductmyresearchafterI’vestartedwriting, or sometimes even after I’ve finished, using it to go back andcorrectmymistakes. I try to shovel everything I learn onto the compost heapinstead of straight into the book, so that the facts just become a part of mygeneral knowledge. I hate to see a novel in which the author has clearlyresearched every last detail to death and, to prove it, forces the reader to slogthroughtwopagesdescribingthecandlesticksthatweremadeinSalemin1792.NomatterhowfarIventureoutsidemyownexperience,IalsoknowthatIam

who I am, and that my work will always reflect my character regardless ofwhetherornotIwantitto.DorothyAllisononcetoldmethatshewasworriedshehadonlyonestorytotell,andatthatmomentIrealizedthatIhadonlyonestory as well (see: The Magic Mountain—a group of strangers are throwntogether…)andthatreallyjustaboutanydecentwriteryoucanthinkofcanbeboileddowntoonestory.Thetrick,then,istolearnnottofightit,andtothrivewithinthatthingyouknowdeeplyandcareaboutmostofall.Ithinkthat’swhyGracePaleywaspushingus tobebetterpeoplewhenwewerestillyoungandcapableofchange.AsmuchasIlovewhatIdo,Iforeverfeellikeadogonthewrongsideofthe

door. If I’mwriting a book, I’m racing to be finished; if I’m finished, I feelaimlessandwishthatIwerewritingabook.Iamdiligentinmyavoidanceofalltalismans, rituals, and superstitions. I don’t burn a certain candle or drink acertain cupof tea (not a certain cupnor a certain kind of tea). I do not allowmyselftobelievethatIcanwriteonlyathome,orthatIwritebetterwhenI’mawayfromhome.Iwasonceatawriters’colonyinWyomingandthegirlinthestudio next to mine dragged her desk away from the window the minute wearrived.“Myteachersaysarealwriterneverhasherdeskinfrontofawindow,”shetoldme,andsoIdraggedmydeskinfrontofthewindow.Deskpositioningdoesnotarealwritermake.Ihadaterriblecomputersolitaireproblemonce.I

decidedthatmywritingdaycouldnotbeginuntilIwonagame,andsoonafterthat I had to win another game every time I left my desk and came backagain.By the time I had the game removed frommy computer Iwas a crazyperson, stakingmy creativity onmy ability to lay a black tenon a red jack. Imissedcomputersolitaireeverydayfortwoyearsafteritwasgone.Habitsstick,boththegoodonesandthebad.WhileI’vehadlongperiodsoftimewhenI’vewritteneveryday,it’snothing

that I’mslavishabout. Inkeepingwith the theory that thereare times towriteandtimestothinkandtimestojustliveyourlife,I’vegoneformonthswithoutwriting and never missed it. One December, my husband and I were havingdinnerwithourfriendsConnieHeardandEdgarMeyer.IwascomplainingthatI’dbeentravelingtoomuch,givingtoomanytalks,andthatIwasn’tgettinganywriting done. Edgar, who is a double bass player, was singing a similartune.He’dbeenontheroadconstantlyandhewasnowherenearfinishingallthecompositionshehaddue.Butthenhetoldmeatrick:Hehadputasign-insheetat thedoorofhisstudio,andwhenhewent in tocompose,hewrotedownthetime,andwhenhestoppedcomposinghewrotedownthattime,too.Hetoldmehehadfoundthatthemorehourshespentcomposing,themorecompositionshefinished.Time applied equaledwork completed. Iwasgobsmacked, and if you think

I’mkidding, I’mnot. It’spossible to let the thinking-aboutprocessbecomesocomplicatedthattheobviousanswergetslost.Imadeavowonthespotthatforthemonth of January, Iwould dedicate aminimum of one hour a day tomychosenprofession.Onehouraday for thirty-onedayswasn’t asking somuch,andIusuallydidmore.TheresultwasastretchofsomeofthebestwritingI’ddoneinalongtime,andsoIstuckwiththeplanpastthemonthofJanuaryandintotherestoftheyear.I’msureitworkedpartlybecauseIhadthestoryinmyhead and Iwas ready to startwriting, but it alsoworked becausemy life hadgotten so complicated and I was in need of a simple set of rules. Nowwhenpeopletellmethey’redesperatetowriteabook,ItellthemaboutEdgar’ssign-in sheet. I tell them togive thisgreat dream that is burning themdown like ahouse on fire one lousy hour a day for onemeaslymonth, andwhen they’vedonethat—onemonth,everysingleday—tocallmebackandwe’ll talk.Theyalmostnevercallback.Doyouwant todo this thing?Sitdownanddo it.Areyou not writing? Keep sitting there. Does it not feel right? Keep sittingthere.Thinkofyourselfasamonkwalkingthepathtoenlightenment.Thinkofyourself as a high school senior wanting to be a neurosurgeon. Is it

possible? Yes. Is there some shortcut? Not one I’ve found. Writing is amiserable,awfulbusiness.Staywithit.Itisbetterthananythingintheworld.

AbouttheAuthor

AnnPatchettistheauthorofeightbooks,includingBelCanto,whichwonthePEN/FaulknerAward,England’sOrangePrize,andtheBookSenseBookoftheYearandhasbeen translated intomore than thirty languages.Hermost recentnovel, State ofWonder, is aNew York Times bestseller. She is working on acollectionofessays.

PHOTOGRAPHBYMELISSAANNPINNEY(www.melissaannpinney.com)

AboutByliner

BylinerOriginals are compellingworks of original nonfiction designed to bereadinasinglesitting.

Byliner.comfeaturescuratedarchivesofthebestnonfictionwriting,andallowsreaderstoeasilyfind,share,anddiscussnewandclassicworksbytheirfavoriteauthors. To discover more good reads by great writers, please visit us atwww.byliner.com.

BylinerOriginals

Greatwriters.Greatstories.Readableinasinglesitting.

ThreeCupsofDeceitbyJonKrakauer

IntotheForbiddenZonebyWilliamT.Vollmann

TheBabyChasebyHollyFinn

TheFearlessMrs.GoodwinbyElizabethMitchell

IHopeLikeHeckbyMichaelSolomon

PlanetKillersbyTadFriend

AndtheWarCamebyJamieMalanowski