Hard enough to write anything

Whether we want to sell a million copies, or write the best book on our topic the world has seen, our desire to get it just right can bring us to a halt.

In the April issue of The Writer, Allen Marple says: “Posterity has a way of making up its own mind, and besides, it is hard enough to write anything without having to write a masterpiece.”

A goal to write our best should be the aim of every writer, but at some point you need to press print, write a cover letter, stick the piece in an envelope and mail it out. A time comes when your baby must be shared with those you hope will care for it: agents, editors, and readers.

Any writer knows you can tinker with a piece of writing – no matter how big or small – ad infinitum. How do we avoid this trap? Set a due date, as I spoke about here, or on a big project a series of them.

Fourteen years of magazine due dates means I’ve learned to make a piece of writing as good as I can get it – in the time available – and then let it go. Until now, this logic hasn’t applied to my memoir. The case I’ve made to myself: “I’ll only send it out when it’s as good as it can be”. The reality: I’m afraid of the the fallout.

But that’s another article, for another time.

Zen and the art of library suggestions

Most of the creative nonfiction I’ve been reading lately has been borrowed from the library. Another plus, besides being a cheap way of reading a heap of books, is the recommendations the librarians – and the other people in the checkout queue – give.

Over the past couple of months I’ve been on a quest through lists of creative nonfiction, especially memoirs, lists that have come from the back of writing instruction books I’ve enjoyed. My first reason for borrowing books from the library was the cost, but as I’ve gone along, I’ve discovered that two of the books I’ve most enjoyed got a plug from people at the library.

The first of these was Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values, which inspired a series of articles, starting here. Another book that people were thrilled to see I’d borrowed was Holy Cow: An Indian Adventure.

Some of the books I’ve read have been dreadful. Many have been okay. But both the books that received rave reviews from the library have been excellent. So when in doubt about what to read, ask a librarian – or other punters.

Work expands to fill the time available

How long does it take to finish a writing project?

Whether you’re a writer or the last time you wrote was for school, you may be familiar with the following scenario:

You’re given three weeks to complete a writing assignment. When do you start it? The night before it’s due. Do you win a passing grade? Quite probably.

So how long did it take? All up, less than 12 hours. Would it have affected the quality of your work if the teacher had only given you two days to do it? Not at all.

Someone said, “Work expands to fill the time available.”

Now to connect this to memoir writing, work on a memoir with only a vague sense of the finish line – when it’s perfect – means that the work expands to fill the indefinite time. No matter how many improvements are made, you can always see more that could be done. New techniques to try, which end up with revisions to the book from start to finish.

An insight I gained recently was to treat book chapters as articles, rather than daunting 100,000 word behemoths. I’ve set a deadline to quit reading other people’s memoirs and creative nonfiction (30 June), and start the physical task of editing my manuscript. Once I begin that task, I give myself a deadline of completing one chapter a week.

And if I cram, I just may get it done.

Answering the unanswered

A few weeks ago, I shared how to learn from bad writing. Sara Wheeler managed to fill a book on Chile that left me, as a reader, with less knowledge about the country than I had before I started. In contrast to her primary level education, Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia, gives a tertiary education.

Wheeler’s main fault was a lack of curiosity – in a journalist, deadly. Chatwin makes up for her lack as he tracks down detailed answers to every question he comes across. His book is an adventure, a quest, questions spiral out from a piece of skin his grandmother had in her dining-room – skin of a brontosaurus.

Chapter 33 opens with “Who were Wilson and Evans?”, and then Chatwin searches out answers until he, and the reader, are satisfied. Curiosity kills the cat, but it vivifies memoirs.