Writerly advice

I've decided to add a collection of my aphorisms delivered to MFA students on my latest speaking tour. These are insightful responses to sound questions, so please take them all to heart:

"A writer should write from the guts. That's why I never write in the morning until after a good bowel movement. Only after a serious shit can you write things that are true."

"If the words aren't coming right is when I chew on bulbs of raw garlic. If that doesn't work, try venison, cooked bloody and eaten under a full moon at midnight. Otherwise, you're probably just destined for failure."

"True writers never doubt themselves. Period."

Tolerance for Genius: An open letter from the Brown Trout to the fine students at FSU on methods of coping in the shadow of Literary Greatness

Dearest students:

Put your coffee down.

My fine writerlings, genius is messy. Brilliance can burn you if you stand too close. When the shit hits the literary fan, I know it can sometimes cause disillusionment. When one of us devolves to the Neolithic, it is no less disturbing for being so expected.

But I urge you, given recent events, not to lose faith in our noble pursuit or it’s fine practitioners. We Literary Lions are all in truth little boys trembling in the night. We are children lost in the woods. Despite our laurels, our involved and intricate narratives, our sparkling and unassailable prose, we are all flawed and broken creatures. I’ve failed thrice at marriage, and each time it was my own (damn) fault, though it took years for me to admit that to the world or even myself. You all know the Buffett song. What's more, I have a faulty ticker, an underzealous metabolism, an empty savings account, troubles with the sauce and a strong lecherous streak yet none of this has led me to prudence or the tempering of my appetites. I haven’t published a brilliant novel since the mid-seventies. My memoirs were recently rejected by several major houses despite its excellence, and I know this is largely due to my personality issues, though I am truly gregarious and likable in person. Still, I am a selfish man and a mediocre teacher sucking on the teat of academia, resting on the laurels of novels long since forgotten. Thank God for the MFA! Unlike my dear friend Bob, I never took the Big Prize. I've failed to remain a productive writer. I would never put myself in his league. I’ve been crushed by critics. I’ve pissed off agents, offended editors, destroyed friendships and quashed budding literary careers. Most of this has been accidental. At heart I am a good person. An old-fashioned liberal Democrat who loves and admires his students (some more than others) and who truly cares about our nation, its people and its letters. But enough about me. On behalf of my good friend Bob, I ask not for your understanding, your compassion or your sympathy in his recent meltdown. I ask only for your tolerance.

To that effect, let me offer some advice for those standing in the shadow of literary greatness. I've often considered adding these points to every syllabus at the beginning of the semester, but then perhaps that would ruin some of the fun for my eager young proteges.

Recommendation the First: Read your Master's work. All of it, even the dreck. You need not charge into his office breathlessly citing passages, though there is nothing inherently wrong with this. But it's best to simply drop hints in conversation over lunch or dinner: "Oh, I see what you're saying...you mean to draw characters sharply and succinctly as you did in the second chapter of The Wind in the Petunias..."

Recommendation the First Part 1.b: There is no reason for you not to pick up the tab for above mentioned lunch or dinner. Your master is likely a struggling artist, and unlike you he has no access to low interest loans. He will not find it offensive in the least.

Recommendation the Second: Always return the Master's books. When he loans you an edition from his own shelf, keep it for a short time and then promptly return it. There is no reason for you to actually read it, though it wouldn't hurt. He mainly enjoys the process of loaning the book and also telling you a brief anecdote about his relationship with its author. As it is typically an autographed first edition, and because it is probably an out-of-print volume written by an obscure writer you've never heard of but who is now teaching at another MFA program, it is imperative to keep it in excellent condition.

Recommendation the Third: Return your Master's affections. If he were to make advances on you after the latest department wine and cheese mixer, it is usually a clumsy expression of his respect for your abilities as a writer. It may seem that the more provocatively you dress, the greater his admiration, but that is merely coincidental. I have found, anecdotally, that women in their mid to late twenties experience a burst of inspired creativity. It may be biological, I'm not sure, but if it seems that attention is directed from the Master in this direction this may be a partial cause.

Recommendation the Fourth: Ignore the Master's contradictions. A great writer is not so much an individual but a process. His thought and keen insight are constantly evolving as our world changes. If he should proclaim one day that New York is a (shallow) cess pool that has produced nothing but hackneyed upper-middle-class suburban parlor drama but then praises ____________ the following class, please do not point this out. New novels are being published every day, and perhaps he had just subconsciously absorbed more information requiring an addendum to his initial comment. A Master is anyway granted license in making sweeping statements. Many of these are true, such as, "There have never been any decent Republican writers." But others are subject to changing circumstance and the Great Mind's evolution.

Recommendation the Fifth: If the Master dismisses a writer of whom you are particularly fond. For example, if he says, "Jonathan Franzen is a clever but cynical turd writing fake prose who won't survive his own generation and may well drop from the radar faster than David Foster Wallace," don't take it to heart if you admire these particular writers. It's probably just that your literary sensibilities aren't sufficiently developed for you to read their work the way that he does.

Recommendation the Sixth: If your Master asks you to drive him to the airport, or if he asks you to help him pick up fifteen bags of humus and haul them around back to his herb garden, do not think that he is using his elevated stature to secure free labor. He is probably just seeking an excuse to be near your budding talent.

Recommendation the Seventh: Any passages appearing in his published work that seem strikingly familiar to an assignment you turned in last semester should be considered an homage, not plagiarism. This may be as close as you ever get...in fact, consider it the same as being published yourself, though tell no one. It will be your very own lifelong secret.

Recommendation the Eighth: Be gentle to your dear Master. His is a heavy burden and he needs your support. So is ever genius.

I could, of course, continue, but I have set aside the balance of this evening for Writing and will be hard at work on a new novel for which there is much expectation among the literary establishment despite my reputation as a former literary bad boy. As ever, I wish you writerlings well. All of you have a home in my heart, and your respect and admiration are ever appreciated.

Yours,

BT

Dog balls not suitable for children

While it's hard to improve upon the low-key skewering of American conservative priggishness apparent in this Independent article, I'll have to also throw in my own two cents. It seems that this year's Newberry Prize-winning novel for kids(The Higher Power of Lucky) has stirred the community of conservative librarians and teachers (most certainly only a handful of loudmouths) because of the inclusion of the word "scrotum" on its front page.

The controversial genitalia belong to a dog, and said dog has been bitten there by a rattlesnake. Sounds like comedy to you and me, but to the conservative guardians of our children it is no laughing matter. Everyone knows that such graphic language can send an impressionable young mind on a rocketsled to bestiality.

Mention of dog balls may be coarse, lewd and even inappropriate for most dinner conversation, but they still can be pretty funny. Children have an eye-level view of these anatomical features, and I remember my nephew giggling and pointing at a particularly pronounced pair of offending objects on a Labrador retriever not so long ago. I also once talked my sister, by phone, through the removal of a tick from the corresponding region of that same nephew. We will all laugh about that someday as well.

I suggest that conservatives hold a contest to search for a more appropriate term and then present that word to the publisher. "Goobers" might be one option.

BTFW for real

Jim Harrison showed up in the NY Times yesterday. Of special interest, his recipe for mesquite roasted doves. He notes that it's important not to overcook or they'll turn out like "bowling balls."

Beverages

This is the only useful book on writing that I've ever encountered. Finally, a fiction "how-to" guide that doesn't flog the usual inane questions: when's the best time of day to write; do you use an outline; who's your greatest influence; when did you first know you wanted to be a writer; &c, &c. I'm frankly tired of hearing that Nabokov composed his novels on notecards or that Hemingway stood at his typewriter. This book cuts to what's most important in literature: the authors' favorite cocktails.

I hope Hemingway and Bailey collaborate again in the near future. Winter's approaching, rendering me an indoor creature for much of the bad weather, and that's when I do most of my cooking. I'd cherish a collection of recipes. My dear friend Jim Harrison could fill an entire chapter. I'm getting hungry already, hankering for Joel Rubichon's glorious, hearty Burgundian sauce that he slathers over everything from eggs to fish when the weather begins to bite. Add to that some shaved gruyere and a delicate Mersault and I'd be well stocked for a night at the Remington Rand.

Gorino

I took the train to Rome to have lunch with my good friend Gore Vidal. "Gorino," as the Italians call him, was in town for a literary festival. He's as spirited and instightful as ever. Our party was large, but he was gracious, being sure to work his way to each of the writers seated at the table. I knew that he wanted to give each of us a chance to say what we're working on within earshot of the hovering journalists. A man who knows how to hold court.

When he leveled his beneficent gaze at me, he leaned back in his wheelchair and smiled.

"So, BT, how've you been occupying your time?"

"I'm in Florence at the moment. With a class."

"Ah, you've a reputation of taking great care with your students." (Chuckles around the table) "Finish that novel you told me about? It's due out, isn't it?"

I froze. From the shadows behind Gorino, an attractive arts columnist from Il Manifesto leaned forward, her pen poised over her notebook.

"Should be out soon," I lied. "Just slapping on another coat of polish, Gore. I've been a little busy lately."

"Fishing, no doubt," he said. "So what's it called...this novel?"

I smiled. Scratched my beard. I hate lying. "Hurricane Lili," I said. In truth this is the working title of one of my new manuscripts. But when you no longer have an agent or publisher, it's bad luck to toss around titles.

It was hard to enjoy the meal. Classic Roman cuisine, but I much preferred dinning with Gore and Howard at La Rondinaia before he moved back to the States. Howard was a true gourmand. His cooking put mine to shame. "Boy, you sure no how to put on a feed, Howard," I once said. They enjoyed when I played at being a rube with one of my midwesternisms. I miss Howard...how long has he been gone now? I remember sitting on their balcony so many years ago, staring at the sea, sipping a glass of Nero d'Avola. Slowly the great mother rolls on her side and we all slip into the darkness. Time does us no favors.

On the train back to Florence I wept. It wasn't that I was bothered by my half-truths: I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that I'm in the twilight of my writing career. What bothered me was leaving a mentor behind. When you part with an older friend it is always sad, but especially so with one as vibrant as Gore. You always wonder if this meeting will be your last.

Anniversary

Yesterday would have been the thirtieth anniversary of my marriage to my first wife, Lila. She was (and I trust still is) an Irish Catholic lass with freckles and a taste for mischief in her lovemaking.

We fought often. In fact we fought constantly when we weren’t in bed. She’s an artist, a perhaps that was the problem. Creative types are certainly self-absorbed, and as marriage is all about sacrifice, a writer who marries an artist is asking for trouble. Someone has to do a bulk of the giving, and neither of us were willing to compromise. Though we never grew to be close friends in the way that Ruth (my second ex) and I did, there was a definite fire--a mixture of lust and devotion--that I’ve never been able to recreate. She gave me two gorgeous daughters, my finest achievement in life being those two brief acts of pollination.

I celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of the marriage to my first wife by almost calling her. I sat next to the phone in my bathrobe, hand hovering over the receiver for the better part of an hour. Finally I gave up and fired up the grill. I had two venison round steaks marinating in a ziplock of olive oil, black pepper, garlic, sea salt and Pinot Noir. I tossed them on low heat next to a foil-wrapped, organically grown baking potato. I then sautéed a couple pounds of shitakes and some greenhouse zucchini. Since this was an entirely local meal, I paired it with a friend’s homemade Chambourcin. It’s a delightful dry red wine with green pepper and grassy qualities that make it a nice fit for wild game. It’s grown in the Midwest and Mid-Atlantic states, as well as in New York and parts of Australia, where they make a lovely sparkling wine from this varietal. Chambourcin is one of those much-maligned French-American cultivars that is either derided or ignored by the likes of those insipid writers for Wine Spectator or that nincompoop of the first order, Robert B. Parker. It’s a tricky wine for food pairing, and it’s admittedly hard to find well-made (though aren’t all wines?). My friend’s bottle was delightful, aged two years and made without oak. I’ve come to regard the use of oak (especially by California winemakers) with the same level of contempt as someone who puts ketchup on a fine porterhouse or those who pour hazelnut flavored syrup into a cup of good coffee.

In any case, after this solitary orgy that took up most of the day and evening, I retired to my back patio with a glass of tawny port so I could work on a story by lamplight. It was a balmy evening, and I smelled the thickness of coming rain. My story is about the last black cowboy in Montana, a fellow hired by a Republican rancher to illegally eliminate the endangered grizzly bear that killed his prized bird dogs. Based on a true story. I’m slipping it to a friend who is slipping it to a friend at The New Yorker. If it’s published there I’ll let my readers know…it’s almost time I revealed my identity anyway. In any case, it’s the first short story I’ve written in ages, and I think it’s pretty fucking good, if I don’t say so myself.

Around midnight I was dozing in my lawn chair and a fine mist had begun falling, dampening the draft of the story and curling the pages. I heard a soft knock at the front door, so I stumbled through the apartment and undid the chain. It was a surprise as this complex becomes something of a ghost town after the students leave.

I found Yu standing there. She was wet and crying, her cheeks purple in the streetlight. Her hair was unbraided…the first time I’d seen her this way, and it hung about her shoulders like a main of kelp. She was gorgeous. “My husband kick me out,” she said. “He find me with another man.”

“Heavens, my dear! Come in.” She rushed into my arms.

I fixed her a roasted red pepper/tomato soup with fresh produce I had on hand. I have to admit that since I was in a hurry to serve I had to use a can of tomato paste, though ordinarily I’d allow time to thicken the stock properly. I cut parsley and fresh mint from my dooryard herb garden to garnish. Dab of fresh sour cream from a local dairy.

She ate gratefully and over a bottle of Vouvray I learned that her lover was none other than Billy Clayhouse, a student who had impregnated another of my writerlings last semester. I was angry at Billy and made a note to confront him. As a marine sniper who’d done a tour in Iraq (Falluja), Clayhouse had seen hell, though that doesn’t excuse his behavior. He was also a fatherless Kiowa whelp from Oklahoma with the (tragically) common Native American mother plagued by alcoholism. He was raised by grandparents who managed to give him some respect for the old ways. Over lunch he once told me he’d been poisoned as a fetus by his mother’s drinking and he now blamed all women for his fetal alcohol syndrome, which left him with a short attention span and made writing a horrible chore. This was, he said, why he treated women so miserably. I told him that writing was a horrible chore anyway, and that I also treated women miserably, but never on purpose. I also told him to stop his fucking whining: if he couldn’t tell that women as a gender were the only hope for this world then he had no soul and might as well quit writing and go for his MBA. He left in a huff and I haven’t spoken with him since. And to think that I once considered fixing him up with my youngest daughter, Billie Trout. The miserable fuck.

The upshot of all this was that Yu had finally learned that she loved her husband. “He a computer nerd, but also he is gentle and kind. He didn’t get mad at me but just cried and blamed his self for not paying enough attention to me. I don’t know what to do, Professor Trout. He said that maybe it be best if we divorce!”

She wept.

I held her on the couch, smelling her hair and feeling her little frame like some kind of strange and delicate bird in my arms. I was a perfect gentleman, though I’d be a miserable liar if I didn’t admit that the ermine stirred in his warren somewhere down below. I managed, however, to keep the troublesome creature at bay.

We concocted a plan. What they needed was a period of separation after which they could re-evaluate their relationship. I asked her to join the summer writing session in Tuscany. She protested saying they didn’t have much money: he was only an assistant professor and not yet tenured, and her parents in China, although wealthy, had disowned her. I offered to loan her some money from my wine fund, though in truth I don’t have much to spare. Oh well, these things generally take care of themselves.

She fell asleep in the crook of my arm. I fell asleep too, and I dreamed I was a black bear and she a fawn curled up in my claws. My bear-self watched the Yu-fawn, mouth watering.

Finally, I dreamed of my lost Lila, my first lovely bride. We were married thirty years ago, when I was as young and confused as delicate little Yu. I’m still confused, but I’m now old and have recognized that this is just how life works. All we can ask for is the company of a kind stranger who might fix us a bowl of soup and listen to our troubles, resisting his urge to ravage the young fawn curled helplessly in his ragged old claws. I am in love with Yu, and Lila. I’m in love with life. And I know that this too shall pass.