Category Archives: Reading as a Writer

When to Write and When to Read

09 Wednesday Aug 2023

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Writing and reading cannot be separated in the life of a writer. A non-reading writer is akin to a musician who doesn’t listen to music. Such a musician wouldn’t be making music for long—at least none of any quality or relevance. A writer must read as he writes and he must read with the ebb and flow of his writing. There’s much a person gives up to become a writer. Reading for recreation is one. Click To Tweet
While reading must be a constant, a writer’s reading takes on different purposes and shades of importance as a writing project progresses.
Early in a writing project more reading than writing is needed. At this stage of a project, the writer is reading in order to get his bearings, to find his direction, to understand his proposed project, to make a start and establish momentum.
Mid-point and later in a project’s development, the amount of time spent writing will quickly eclipse the time spent reading, as the reading a writer does becomes less critical. Reading at this stage is intended to reinforce the writing and thinking the writer has put in place, to inspire him onward toward completion, and to broaden his perspective on his work (e.g. with what other writing is my project in conversation?).
I am currently at the start of my third long-form fiction project. The writing I’m producing is of the broadest brush stroke. It is metawriting and holds very little story. Reading is critical and highly intentional. I’m reading a novel I believe is a model for this project and another novel that was a model for it. I am reading a craft book for painters, which is giving me diverse ways of looking at my writing, and I’m reading some poetry to maintain line of sight to the fact that each word matters. These books are all giving me maximum fuel at the start of this project, at a moment when momentum is not yet built and a great deal of fuel is needed.

Writers Who Don’t Read

09 Wednesday Mar 2022

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For over ten years I’ve written posts about the craft of fiction, every other Wednesday, here on this site. I have to believe I have written about the importance of reading at least once before over such a span. But I feel the need to write about this again. For once again I have met a writer who doesn’t read. 

It’s easy to say great writers are great readers. It’s a tidy quip and I’ve heard it often. But here’s the thing—it’s true! It’s not only true, but foundational. In fact, I don’t believe you can be a good writer unless you are an avid reader. Period.

How many great musicians don’t listen to music? How many sculptors don’t go to art museums? Yet, at least once a year I meet a writer who says they aren’t reading. In this most recent case the writer was concerned about executing key aspects of the craft—specifically, ensuring they didn’t overwrite, provide too much description or narrative in their stories. I spoke with them about the power of concrete and concise prose, the contract with the reader, and the beholder’s share. It was then I paused and asked about her reading habits. She said she’s not reading and knows she needs to. I thanked her for self-diagnosing, gave her the names of two novels that I thought would inform her work, and we wrapped up.

As a writer you must be pushing great sentences into your head as often and in as great a quantity as possible. Simply by knocking about in this crazy world, you are reading/hearing a great deal of terrible writing. This is unavoidable. Your writing depends on you growing in the craft. And reading is the primary way to do so.

Fist

11 Wednesday Aug 2021

Posted by in Contract with the Reader, Creative Process/Craft, Reading as a Writer

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It has happened twice now, toward the end of the final draft of a project. There it is, a glaring typo discovered at the beginning of the story. A typo that has been there all along––or at least for several drafts––but completely overlooked.

We were very close to finalizing the galleys of The Confessions of Adam when it was discovered, in the first chapter, instead of referencing the trunk of a landmark tree, there was referenced a tree truck.

And once again, just a few weeks ago, a beta reader, at this late stage in my current project, found––in the preface–– that the word first had been written as fist.

The point here is you must engage beta readers and editors. Both of these were found by such collaborators. Neither was found by me, my publisher or my agent. And in the case of Confessions, most had poured over the manuscript, some of us many, many times.

Being the author, you will become utterly blind to such errors. Your brain will determine what is on the page instead of your eyes. Your only hope is collaboration with others before your manuscript is out in the wild and such mistakes are found by readers. For readers miss nothing.

From the Archives: About the Blurred Line

05 Wednesday May 2021

Posted by in Reading as a Writer, Technicalities

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[This blogpost first appeared here on 4 May 2016]

I’m going to get a bit academic on you here. Bear with me. The post is only 430 words (including the footnotes and the title), so I suppose I’ll not try your patience too greatly.

Like you, I am often amazed at the length and breadth of a novel. Take a book like All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr. What a sweeping achievement. The characters, the great sense of place, the language – as readers we are in awe that the author has written such a wonderful, super-long story. 

But this is an illusion. 

As practicing writers we know something about such a book that the average reader doesn’t realize. This novel is not a single super-long story. It is a collection of related short-stories that are strung together, crafted in such a way that they read within one massive arc.

In fact no novel is one long story. A novel is always a litter of small pieces joined together so that they stand as a whole.

It is for this reason that there is so much discussion (in writing circles, of course, not in the real world) about the blurred line between a collection of short stories and a novel. Take a look at Jesus’ Son by Dennis Johnson, or Kentucky Straight by Chris Offutt, or American Salvage by Bonnie Jo Campbell. These are commonly considered short story collections. However, the case can easily be made that these are novels. The stories in each carry a similar weight, the setting is in focus throughout, and the voice is distinctive*. We soon see that such distinctions serve the Marketing Department far more than the reader.

Here’s the take-away. Don’t get caught up in a tug-o-war with yourself or anyone else about whether you’re writing a novel or a collection of short-stories. Focus on the writing. Let the material on the page decide what it will be.

And if you’re really successful the Marketing Team will argue the point for you.

*The trend toward short chapters in long books – even the titling of each chapter – as Doerr has done, continues to fuel the fire of this distinction. Other than the character development spanning the entire book (although this is seen in “short-story collections” too – see Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried), this book is perhaps the best example I’ve seen recently of the blurring between these two genres from a traditional novel perspective.

Note: This post is again the result of a conversation with Ben H. Winters, at LePeeps, of 71st St. in Indianapolis, 10 March 2016.

Three Portraits of a Reader

21 Wednesday Apr 2021

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He reads Robert Alter’s translation, The Five Books of Moses. Seeking to understand the literary qualities of the Hebrew––a language he studied for three weeks of a nine-week course at the Jewish Community Center in Indianapolis in 2002.

He reads Billy Collins’ The Art of Drowning in order to infuse his prose with poetic sensibilities. He believes this is working. He also believes Billy was a stronger poet then than he is now.

He reads Anthony Doerr’s early short story collection, The Shell Collector, which includes the “The Hunter’s Wife.” These stories, tinged with magical realism and masterful depth of setting––it’s instructive to look from here to All the Light We Cannot See.

Quote and Comment, Bradbury

24 Wednesday Mar 2021

Posted by in Creative Process/Craft, Qualities of Good Fiction, Quote and Comment, Ray Bradbury, Reading as a Writer

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Read poetry every day of your life. Poetry is good because it flexes muscles you don’t use often enough. Poetry expands the senses and keeps them in prime condition. 

Ray Bradbury

Over ten years ago I read my first book by Billy Collins, Ballistics. Since then, I’ve consistently had a book of poetry in my reading stack. While I don’t think Bradbury was necessarily aiming his comment at writers, reading poetry has impacted me creatively in a variety of ways. More specifically, I believe it’s had a positive impact on my prose––especially my novel in progress.

As Bradbury states, it builds muscles that might ordinarily get little or no attention. 

So exactly what does poetry bring?

Reading poetry brings new perspective to sentence length, word choice, and euphony––the music or rhythm in poetry. It brings awareness of how the prose looks on the page and how it reads aloud. It reinforces the importance of ending a paragraph with the penultimate phrase, or starting a paragraph with an image that demands the reader’s attention. Good narrative poetry provides insight into how to tell a story, when to be a minimalist, when to be an impressionist, and how concrete details––the right concrete details––can bring an unmatched realism.

Perhaps you don’t have any poetry on your shelf and don’t know where to start. Consider picking up a copy of Mark Lilley’s debut, Lucky Boy. Or start where I did, with Ballistics. Perhaps read through the Psalms in the Bible––a collection of ancient Hebrew poetry. Follow Bradbury’s advice. You’ll be glad you did.

To Wrangle and Capture

04 Wednesday Nov 2020

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The poet Billy Collins’ latest book was released in September, Whale Day. As I do with every new Collins collection, I’m reading it slowly, treating it like the candy dish it is. Most evenings I dip in for a poem or two, often reading them aloud to my wife and the dog.

Nearing his 80th birthday, it amazes me how Collins continues to produce thoughtful, insightful, and edgy work. In this collection I find him yet more introspective, pushing his aesthetic a little further––a twist here, a turn there. It’s a delight to read.

That said, as I approach this collection––reading as I do, as a writer––I’m reminded that Collins has mastered that skill all writers (perhaps especially poets?) must master: the sensibility to wrangle and capture those moments that trigger the eye or heart, those moments in which the common man simply shrugs, grunts, and ambles on.

And this is the take-away for writers of all genres. Don’t let those moments that cause you pause to simply slip by and slide downstream. Grab a detail, a perspective, or an image from those experiences and use them to anchor your writing. Your writerly perception is a skill you must hone, for you are not like all the other lookers-on. You are a writer.

Poetry and Prose

17 Wednesday Jun 2020

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Historically these have been two separate genres. It seems even a handful of decades ago poets and fiction writers moved in separate circles, spoke divergent languages, sought different readers. In my creative writing grad school experience, a fiction writer couldn’t take a course in poetry. I tried.

This has changed. Evidence in the literature is clear. Poetry and prose are merging. And to the benefit of readers everywhere.

Here are a few exhibits of the evidence.

Apeirogon by Colum McCann, a novel. Published earlier this year, a personal and poetic telling of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, written in over 1500 short vignettes, some only a line long, others are lines repeated from another entry, one of them a simple outlined empty box.

“Only Child” by Billy Collins, a poem. The narrative, the longing-laden story of this piece causes the reader to forget its poetic form, even as its form carries weight.

Ru by Kim Thúy, a memoir in novel. One page chapters layered with images and riffs on images, the narrative flowing far below, pulling the reader unconsciously along.

And these are only a few. Now that you’re aware you’ll see them all around you.

Mood Work

04 Wednesday Dec 2019

Posted by in Creative Process/Craft, Reading as a Writer, Role of the Writer, Writing Life

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In 1998, not long after my father died, I read 1984 by George Orwell. A great novel, far from great timing. When we read a dramatic story, watch a film, listen to music, our brain releases the same chemical responses as when we experience ‘real’ emotion. Our brains don’t process fictional stimuli differently. The recovery is certainly different, but in the moment we’re there, we’re all-in. Between my father’s death and the murk of 1984 I found myself in such a funk it took some months to find balance again. Of course having a son under six months old, no doubt added to the brew of emotions.

As a writer I have found the same potential pitfall. 

I don’t know if my current project is darker than The Confessions of Adam, but it has fewer highs and less humor. Writing drama or tragedy is not immediately different than reading it. Writers are the first readers of their work. We immerse ourselves in it––is there any other way?––in order to create it. For this reason we are the first to traverse (and re-traverse over and over) the emotional terrain of the narrative. Only later does the craft of making story begin to take hold. There is an early, necessary, and significant emotional investment on the part of the writer. And this is an investment on which we’d do well to keep tabs.

Refuge of Story

20 Wednesday Nov 2019

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I have a dear friend who is beginning his battle with cancer. Much has changed. His weight has dropped, how he eats has been altered, his energy wanes, and his daily routine takes him to a different office building. That bit of language, “cancer patient,” a descriptor of so many others, even of his wife, is now his.

Yet much hasn’t changed. His faith, his confidence in The Maker’s plan. The regular coming close of friends and family. His thoughtful, considered approach to living life.

And a love of books, of story. This hasn’t changed.

We were recently together for an evening and, as is our habit, the conversation turned to “what are you reading?” The question, and the places it has lead us so many times before, took on new meaning. We didn’t talk about it, but we felt it. Books and our love of what they hold is no longer simply procured common ground. This conversation is now a place where the enemy cannot follow and won’t be named. It doesn’t get our attention here. He and I carved out this fortress long ago. This is ours, and we’re not giving it up. These few minutes are our refuge, our refuge of story.

So, P, what are you reading?