What's in a pseudonym?

Pseudonyms. Beloved of writers since time immemorial. And still used so, presumably, there remains appeal in anonymity for the writer. A cloak of invisibility in which to shield themselves from... what? Censure? Criticism? The ignominy of poor sales and/or poor reviews? In well documented cases, past and present, authors have used the anonymity of a pseudonym to render themselves gender non-specific to merely afford the opportunity of publication in the first place, whilst avoiding the discriminatory instincts of both publisher and reader alike. 


Of course, in recent times, as we have seen the publishing industry change and the role of the writer become more active in the art of marketing and publicising not just their own work but also the literary arts in general, another reason for musing the concept of the 'invisible' writer must be considered; fame. 


Far from the enigma known only by the name on the book jacket, emerging writers that capture the imagination of both readers and the literary world must also expect to become 'known'. People will want to know about them, who they are, where they live, what they like, what they think about other writers and the art of writing itself. They will be expected to play a part in 'selling' their work above and beyond just writing it in the first place. Book signings, readings, reviews, interviews, guest appearances at conferences and writing events - the concept of the solitary writer, beavering away in isolation (Roald Dahl in his shed, Virginia Woolf in her 'Room of One's Own'...) and left in peace as their book sells itself is, perhaps, a thing of the past. 


For some writers this is, no doubt, an opportunity to avoid the oft considered pitfall of the writer's life; loneliness. Yes, it is not only the long distance runner that spends huge shafts of time on their own. Increased contact with the outside world will be a boon to some. There are though, surely, those writers that, having opted for a career that allowed them to avoid some of the 'charms' of social contact that some of us find ourselves increasingly immune to, will perhaps feel less enthused at the loss of the 'invisible' status of that most reliably tortured of artists - the author. What is in a name? A lot more than there used to be, that's for sure. 

The (not so) Secret Diary of John Cheever, aged like a fine wine - when he wasn't drinking it of course...

John Cheever was not just a prolific writer of short stories. From about the late thirties Cheever kept a journal, as his biographer, Blake Bailey, explains:

'At such times his main companion was his journal, where he stored the sights and sounds and smells which might prove useful as story fodder, as well as the private sorrows which he was all but incapable of sharing with the world, at least in raw form. ...the journal was primarily conceived as an exercise in professionalism; no longer a gadabout youth living off the charity of Yaddo, he couldn't afford to let saleable impressions go to waste. As Susan Cheever explained, 'He never said to himself, 'This is good material.' He didn't think that way. What you see in his journals is what he had to do instead, which is to write down everything that happened and see what rang and what didn't ring.'

What do we make of this description of a good idea, or potential story 'kernel', as something that 'rings'? How do you recognise the 'ring' in your own ideas? And what of writing down everything in a journal, in the level of detail that Cheever was in the habit of doing? Is this something that you do, or think could be useful? Or, does the idea of documenting your every waking hour on earth ring nothing but the tedium alarm for you?

John Cheever and the New Yorker

We have already talked about John Cheever's longstanding, professional relationship with the New Yorker magazine. They published over a hundred of his stories during his lifetime. Well, that special relationship continues... Anne Enright (author of The Gathering and regular fiction contributor to the New Yorker) has chosen 'The Swimmer' as a New Yorker story from the archives to read and discuss.

Follow the link below to hear Ms Enright in conversation with the New Yorker's fiction editor before and after a recitation of one of Cheever's best known short stories....

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/2011/02/fiction-podcast-the-swimmer-1.html

Note the emphasis on the American short story of the sixties as an alternative source of sex education!

Childhood memories

I asked you to think about your earliest memory this week. Mine involves sitting, with my older brother, on a large green sofa in a big green room listening to 'Hit me with your rhythm stick' by Ian Dury and the Blockheads on the radio. 


My entire life is punctuated with musical memories as there was always music of some description on in the house and, this being the seventies (the days before 'organised activities'. The best you could hope for was the odd morning making chocolate cornflake cakes with acne ridden YTS workers at the local Playscheme during the summer holidays) any time not spent down the 'rec' was spent at home or in the garden with the radio constantly on in the background. 

One such summer I found an album called The Point by Nilsson in my parents record collection. It came with comic book style sleeve notes. I loved the story, the characters and the songs. I returned to it as an adult and remember thinking, 'Ooh, this is actually quite profound.' You see, everything in the land of Point has a point. And if you don't have a point you are banished to the Pointless Forest where Oblio (who does not have a point) is sent only to discover that everything in the pointless forest DOES actually have a point. Deep eh? 

Anyway, this particular song helps to put all manner of things in perspective. As it says, 'Now, think about your troubles.' 

Truth, existence and other states best contemplated over a glass of something clear, crisp and cold...

I posed a question... Is there a contrast between the truth of our lives and the story we tell of our existence? It strikes me now that this is a question that requires a spot of individual contextualising. For the sake of this post, the context is this: as writers, each story we tell begins, at some level, with us. It is born of us. It is indelibly linked to our experience and our concept of who we are. We are going to accept, for now, that a writer is a born storyteller, embued from first thought with the instinct to take reality and shape, contort, twist and disseminate it until it lies in broken, but more fascinating, fragments at our feet. Benevolently then, as nurturing onlookers attempt to understand what we are doing, we sidestep all confusion, carefully scoop the wreckage up and mould the pieces back together to present it as our 'story'. 

As a whole, the story is unrecognisable as its former self. It is more 'significant' than the truth, as John Cheever notes when assessing the effect of the 'rearranging (of) facts' that was an inherent part of his storytelling self. This allows us to look friends and family square in the eye and say, 'Of course it wasn't based upon you'. Take an individual piece of that same story, however, and subject it to scrutiny and the more insignificant, but truthful seed of our original existence reveals itself: still living, still able to bear more fruitful labours under the misaprehension of fiction. Perhaps, franchise fans, for that all important sequel...

Why does a writer write?

As someone who is interested in the writers that exist behind the writing and the relevance, or not, of biography and context to our understanding and appreciation of their output, 'Why does a writer write?' is an important question to ask. It is a question that, as writers, it is also interesting to ask ourselves. I would encourage you to think about this. Why do you write? What does it feel like to write?

One of the reasons that I write is to make connections between experiences and visual images in an effort to preserve the 'moment'. The following image comes from an exhibition I saw at the Museum of the City of New York. It is one of many images taken from recent trips to New York that I am using to write a collection of poems based upon my experiences of this amazing city.

The exhibition told the story of the tenure of John V. Lindsay as Mayor of New York between 1966 and 1973. It was a time of upheaval and great change in New York and Lindsay, as a supporter of the Civil Rights Movement and opposer of Vietnam, played a central role in the turmoil of the times. This powerful image tells much of the story of the city during that period. Of course, as a writer inspired by the image, the challenge is to use it to tell (possibly) the same story in a different way. More on that at a later date...

So, Billy Collins likes to imagine he is having sex with Emily Dickinson then?

Well, why not? It's certainly one way to respond to what Collins describes as the 'speculation' surrounding the exact nature of Dickinson's sexuality, as he does in 'Taking off Emily Dickinson's clothes' (see previous post for a recitation). It's also his way of saying, 'Does it really matter?' Was she gay? Straight? Did she have a secret lover? Did she die a virgin? Collins invents the scene of a seduction (between he and she) that we know never happened and yet it is exactly that - undeniably seductive. And heterosexual. And prolonged, simply by virtue of the multitude of garments that must be contended with before Emily is permitted to 'sigh' in anticipation of what will surely be an acomplished ravishing at the hands of Collins' 'polar explorer'. The poem exists; the story of Emily's sexual encounter has been created and compellingly told. Does it matter anymore whether it really happened? Whether it could have happened? In fact, does what happened to Emily in any aspect of her life matter to us, as writers/creators, at all?

Listen to Terri Gross' interview with Billy Collins in full (it is a very interesting 'listen') (http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=128272101&m=128334541) and you will hear him further discuss the relevance of author biography in specific relation to Emily Dickinson. He is, at times, uneqivocal on the matter, stating 'I prefer the poems to the life.' He also makes the point that, 'Biographical curiousity would not exist were it not for the poems themselves.' Collins tells us that the poems of Dickinson are sufficient in their own right 'to pull us in' and that we don't need to know the details of the author's background and experience to appreciate, understand and respond to their work.

The interviewer cheerfully insists that they, themselves, remain interested in Dickinson's life in the manner of a polite, yet enthusiastic, contradiction. But then Collins also contradicts himself. He acknowledges the 'New England surrealism' created by Dickinson's use of 'amazing metaphors' and the 'radical' approach to religion portrayed in, specifically, 'Some keep the Sabbath going to Church', thus making the link between both the geographical and theological nature of her existence when discussing the content of her poems.

There is so much more to say about both Dickinson and the service, or otherwise, of a disputed biography to the writer searching to make sense of their own work in the shadows of those that have gone before. This will hopefully serve as a beginning, of sorts.

And I still have to address the 'Insistent Camel' reference... You could always read the Introduction in Margaret Atwood's Negotiating with the Dead and discover it for yourself. Do you, I wonder, agree that the writer in you, your motivation to write in fact, is, indeed, the 'insistent camel' that propels your writing life?

I'll leave you to ponder that as I depart to seek inspiration from some of those 'amazing' Dickinson metaphors that Collins spoke about...