Because You Have To by Frank Joan;

Author:Frank, Joan; [Frank, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: BIO000000
ISBN: 3441105
Publisher: University of Notre Dame Press
Published: 2013-02-05T00:00:00+00:00

The More We Typed, the Better We Felt

Damn, damn, damn, damn.

I wrote a letter to the New York Times. And then, Lord help me, I sent it.

In the past I’ve managed enough self-control to write the thing, feel all the dirty satisfaction, then throw the letter away. This time I failed. All that remains is to hope they won’t print it.

I try hard to shut up. Shut up, I remind myself. Be like those strong, silent icons you admired, your teachers during MFA days. Keep your peace. Chop wood, carry water. Get back to the work.

Oh, the temptation to vent is seductive and constant. Whereas the ideal, noble model, the Pure Artist’s way, is to zip it. Silence, exile, and cunning.

It’s a daily test. When someone reviews a book in such a way as to shock with his snotty cheek, his self-aggrandizement—I tell myself—sit on your hands and shut up. (Some other, better-known writer will upbraid the fiend for you under public gaze, and probably do it better.) When someone writes an article or essay that cries out, begging for your rejoinder—your uncannily fitting experience, your clear perceptions, your shapely, burnished language, alive with glittering wit—oh then above all, do shut up. Go for a walk or a run, or go to the gym. Refold all the clothes; arrange them neatly on their shelves. Then go to the desk, put your head down, and get back to work.

Otherwise, two things will become apparent, fast.

One, and most importantly, you lose juice through fulminating. All that thinking, all that writer vitality spent gathering and polishing language, all that ego fairy dust, gets rerouted away from the true work and down the slip-slidey path of opinion-lobbing (however justified your powerful feelings may be). Lots of rereading and gloating and tweaking goes on, not to mention time squandering, together with truly shameful amounts of fantasizing and speculation. (Once they read this—runs the thinking—they’ll be stunned by my laser intellect. Maybe someone will phone to tell me so. Maybe they’ll offer me a book contract, a writing assignment, a teaching job, a turkey sandwich with Swiss cheese and avocado.)

Two, your opinion does not matter.

Repeating that: Does. Not. Matter. Not until you win the Pulitzer, anyway, and maybe not even then. Your letter may or may not appear but probably won’t, and if it does, the print version will almost certainly be serving as trash-bag or birdcage liner within hours. Worse, your letter may backfire, get you the wrong kind of attention, and shoot you in the foot. You’ll be branded a crank, a blowhard. How good will that be for your work?

Silence, exile, and cunning. Why are they so difficult to practice?

Because writers are lonely. No matter that it’s self-imposed: it’s a shockingly lonely gig. No reassurances issue from anywhere, exempting a couple of generous friends. And because all our cherished perceptions inside this solitary life are held so fiercely close and given so little air and light, when they are occasionally allowed to stagger out they’re sweaty and half-nuts from confinement.

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