There is, I think, an inevitability to all things. Growing
old, the change of seasons, discord amongst peoples, temptation and auto spell repeatedly
failing you during a text, to name a few.
Recently I read “The Pearl” by John Steinbeck. It’s a
fascinating little read that reminded me of how much I love short stories
(Hemingway and Chekov are two of my favs) and how much I miss them. There’s something
magical about a writer saying something briefly, sometimes even incompletely,
and then moving on down the road, leaving the reader to sift through the remnants
and distill the reflections. A firmer acknowledgment, I think, by the creator
of a thing in asserting the equal role of the recipient in the alchemy of the
entire process of creation.
I’ve moved on to novels now; the form of them, the art of
them. For my birthday my sister-in-law gave me “Journal of a Novel” by…drum roll
please…John Steinbeck. Hm. For a guy I've hardly ever read, he's popping up a lot lately. Anyway, it’s a fascinating read so far. Not so much for the
technical aspects of writing a novel (the book is his journal as he was
preparing to write East of Eden) as much as for the internal aspects of the
mind of one of the masters, as he struggled with his views, visions and dreams…of
his life to be as much as of his work to be.
Those who know me well know that lurking in the shadows of
all I read or write are two great forces: C.S. Lewis and Marcel Proust. One to
make sure that I’m listening to God, the other to make sure that I’m listening
to my heart. I’ve had a literary novel in the works for ten years now, that’s
at nearly 400 pages, and I’ve been scared to push on. “It will be too long,” I
say to myself. “At least 1200 pages and probably far too boring.” To which
Proust says, “I call your 1200 pages and raise you 2300 pages more.” It’s
a novel about spirituality and mental health and when I get all nervous about talking
about such things, Lewis replies: “If you’re not talking about God, why bother
talking at all?”
I get locked up there, in my head space, and trip out. So
does anyone think it’s a coincidence that along comes Steinbeck now, to share
in his journal things like “There is nothing beyond this book – nothing follows
it. It must contain all in the world I know and it must have everything in it
of which I am capable – all styles, all techniques, all poetry – and it must
have in it a great deal of laughter.” Or how about, “I can’t think of anything
else necessary to a writer except a story and the will and the ability to tell
it.”
