Ghosts

Being a writer seems to be a lot like fishing. You bait your hook and cast it into the sea of publishers and editors hoping for a nibble. The lure of catching "the big one" entices. There is the fear of sharks (critics and the discerning public) and shipwreck, the possibility that the winds will shift perhaps still (loss of drive and dogged determination to keep writing for its sake only).

This weekend I rewrote a chapter from a draft of my first novel and submitted it to the Wallace Stegner Fellowship competition at Stanford and to the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown; entered short stories for the Thomas Wolfe and John Steinbeck prize at the NC Writers Network (Davidson College) and San Jose State University respectively.

Part of my writing practice is reading, reading a lot from the greats. I've reread William Faulkner's The Bear, rejoining Ike McCaslin and Old Ben with a opening run-on but lucid Faulkner utterance; Thomas Wolfe (Look Homeward Angel) and sat in the crib with Eugene feeling his absolute frustration at not being able to utter a word but understanding everything; Hemingway (The Old Man and the Sea for short story) feeling the weight of the Marlin in Santiago's old but competent and determined hands: the big fish is metaphor for my new novel.

Then on to sterling prose with Margaret Atwood (I cannot reread Oryx and Crake however; too depressing,a dystopia; her book reviews and essays in Writing with Intent so crackling sharp and funny); John O'Hara (short story collections) which I thought rather strange stories; and Eudora Welty (short story). I also reread Sacred Ground by Barbara Wood (historical fiction). For dessert I rode with Buck in his desolation on the train North in Jack London's Call of the Wild. I studied how characters are shaped by the masters of my craft. How did plot unfold, scene take up residence in my imagination; how was the theme woven and magnified?

Pat Conroy's The Water is Wide is a textbook on character. I am listening to this book as a recording. I've learned that the reader can make or break whether a novel's true brilliance is conveyed. In this rendition of Conroy's 1972 popular book, Tom Stechschulte reads. His long acting career lends to his ability to talk like SC black children living on a remote island and mostly illiterate. Conroy's work utilizes metaphor and simile well throughout a coming of age tale based on real experiences of Conroy as a teacher.

Recently I found a CD of Eudora Welty reading three of her more famous short stories, among them, "Powerhouse" based on the bluesman Fats Waller. I am trying to learn the art of short story. She is one of the best and so I treated myself to a Eudora Welty afternoon complete with a nice cabernet. I cuddled up on a couch to listen to her molasses-flowing Mississipi drawal...this last word in Welty's mouth is voluptuosly round, guttural. You have to move your lower jaw in a 360-degree circle. Try it. DDRRRAAAAAWWWL. Wonderful! She make me laugh hard.

Welty's extraordinary skill at developing character and setting a scene transcends to mastery from the first sentence. She lived most of her life in Jackson, Mississipi. To me Welty is the Rembrandt of the word, painting characters so real you feel like you're right there in the bar with Powerhouse or the beauty parlor with Leona who has the scoop on everybody in town. Listen: "Powerhouse is playing. He's here in town from the city. Powerhouse and his key board. Powerhouse and his Tasmanians. Think of the things he calls himself. There's no one in the world like him. You can't tell what he is."

Go to http://www.caedmonaudio.com to order it. Also check out the Eudora Welty Foundation: http://www.eudorawelty.org/.

This Thanksgiving weekend I transcended into some other level with my writing practice. I am now possessed totally. When my friends are talking I am thinking, That would make a good title, or Look, here's a character to incorporate. I go around thinking about the characters in the stories I have been working on. They now occupy every room, even my bedroom. I think they whisper to me while I sleep. Like ghosts they waft about my house.

~Susan, On the road...somewhere.