The Problem With Fiction

Here's the problem with fiction:

My senior year in college I made my first attempt at a writing career; I wrote a novel. I finished it, revised it upwards to twenty times, solicited publishers and agents - the whole nine yards. I thought it was a masterpiece. Brilliant. A work of high art; experimental; innovative. I imagined the reviews, the accolades, the awards. National Book Award. Pulitzer. The whole nine yards. Seven years later I wouldn't use that thing as toilet paper. Go figure.

Maybe this is just a matter of perspective. Maybe the act of writing blinds the writer to his own work. Or maybe this happens naturally with the passage of time. Makes sense; the books I read and loved when at twenty-two are not the books I read and love now, and the stories I wrote then are not the stories I write now. They can't be. And the stories I write now could not have been written when I was twenty-two (though it's a good thing my prose has improved since that time - the result of laboring endlessly over sentence after sentence in search of a clarity that seems to come almost naturally now, like the athlete who is instructed by his coach to forget everything he's been taught and do what comes naturally, which, I firmly believe, is the first and most important step to writing great fiction).

Or maybe it is simply the nature of fiction to elude us, to be enigmatic, indefinable, somehow ever-changing even though the words appear to remain the same. Example: When I was at a student getting my MFA at Iowa, another student submitted a story to workshop. I thought it was brilliant. The kind of story that at the same time made me envious and inspired me to write better myself. I wanted to have written that story. Scott Spencer, the teacher, felt much the same about the story and submitted it to a journal on behalf of the author. In contrast, many of the other students in the workshop didn't feel quite the same affection for the piece and had the usual criticisms. It has problems, it needs more work, this needs to be expanded, that needs to be condensed, the emotions need to be explained, blah, blah, blah. Six months later the story was published and garnered for the author praise and the attention of some industry types on the lookout for fresh talent. Good for him. He's a friend of mine, after all. Well, I re-read the story, and I still feel strong admiration, but my initial awe has, sadly, faded. Like love, perhaps. Or desire. Maybe it has nothing to do with fiction. Maybe it's just the nature of existence. All things wane and die; the universe moves towards entropy. Explain this. Maybe we should get a hold of a physicist to help us out here.

Another example: The first story I published almost never got there. I wrote it while attending a three week workshop some years ago, before I got into the Iowa Workshop. That one was my first workshop ever. The first story I submitted met with a mixture of praise and repugnance - a mixture weighted enough I felt depressed and angry at my thwarted attempts at literary mastery. Not just angry and depressed that the story hadn't been loved - though that too - but angry and depressed that I hadn't written a story that would be loved. So, instead of sulking I decided to do just that, to write a story that would be beyond reproach - the ultimate revenge. I wrote in a frenzy - twelve, fourteen hours a day ten days straight. Like dropping three pointers from half-court nothing but net, baby. I was in the zone. I knew what I had was good. I knew. And this time the praise, I'll say without modesty, was overwhelming, though, of course, there were the not so silent dissenters. (Aren't there always?) Still, I felt vindicated. I submitted the story to the Atlantic, where it was summarily, though kindly and accompanied by a personal note from Mike Curtis, rejected. The story met the same fate at the New Yorker. Next up was STORY, where, again, the story was returned to me (in the SASE I'd included), again with high praise. At the request of Lois Rosenthal, the editor, I continued to submit stories, all of which she rejected, though with each rejection she mentioned that first one I'd submitted, stating that it was still her favorite until I eventually asked if wanted to read a revised version. She did. Two weeks later she bought the story. Go figure. The extent of my revision consisted of adding a single, medium length paragraph. Maybe that paragraph was exactly what the story needed. Or maybe Lois just changed her mind. Maybe it's the nature of publishing. The nature of fiction. Maybe it's the nature of life.

There is a story in my collection. Actually, there are eleven, but this one seems to be the most enigmatic. It is one of my favorites, but has a tendency to confound people. My publisher loves it. Others have praised it. My agent hates the thing. Says the writing isn't as mature as in my other stories. Says the dialogue doesn't ring true. I disagree, of course, but if I am to believe my publisher, then I am by logical extension required to believe my agent as well. They are both only opinions. And since I don't believe my agent, I don't believe my publisher either. And what of the future when I give a new story to my agent? What am I to make of her opinion, good or bad? How am I to believe her? Likewise with my publisher? Answer: I can't. It was she, after all, who argued strongly against not including three stories I wanted included. She said they were not as strong as the rest. I disagreed, as did others, and not just friends of mine. Agents. Editors. But, of course, because I was a young writer and she held the cards, she got her way. Fine by me; the collection probably is better off this way. End result: have faith in yourself. You may not be right, but if you keep faith, you'll never know the difference will you?

Yet another example: Some once again submitted a story during workshop I found myself in awe of, a surprise considering that I had not been fond of this author's work in the past. But no matter, this one rocked my world, and again I wished I'd written the story. And again, the story met with a wall of criticism. Some thought it outright terrible. The reaction made me angry. I didn't want to see the story touched; I feared the author might take negative comments to heart and ruin a good thing. I was also angry because this only served to show that nothing anyone says about a story, whether student or faculty, whether in workshop or in publishing, whether agent or reader - nothing they say really makes any difference. Criticism has no weight. Critique is pointless. It's just an opinion; everyone has one. Some have more. Maybe it's a problem of physics. Maybe the author should just be left alone to create what he would create; the rest - workshop approval, publication, reviews, awards, immortality (if that's what you're after) - is arbitrary. It has nothing to do with excellence. But then, what is the sound of one hand clapping, and if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? Does art exist without an audience? Maybe it's a problem of Philosophy. Me, I write stories.

Writing is an act of faith, a precarious balance of arrogance and naiveté - the belief that what you're writing is important and worth telling combined with the childlike certainty that nothing else matters. Screw with the balance and the ability to produce great fiction goes out the window. If you think too long on how to repair your story you risk destroying it as well as the innate confidence that allowed you to write the story in the first place. And that’s when you’re screwed.