Chip's Writing Lessons #63
IN THIS ISSUE
Writers Speak | Richard Powers on books as empathy machines
Interview | 4 Questions with Kelley Benham French
Craft Lesson | Write around the margins
Podcast to Savor | The New York Times Book Review
Tip of the Week | Select, don’t compress
WRITERS SPEAK
“Books themselves are empathy machines and travels to other planets. They’re ways that we have of participating in sensibilities that are not ours.”
— Richard Powers
INTERVIEW | 4 QUESTIONS WITH KELLEY BENHAM FRENCH
Kelley Benham French
Kelley Benham French is senior editor for narrative and special projects at USA TODAY and a professor of practice in journalism at Indiana University. She spent a decade at the Tampa Bay Times, where she was a 2013 Pulitzer finalist. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana, with her three daughters and her husband, the writer Thomas French.
What’s the most important lesson you’ve learned about writing?
That writing is an extension of your lived experience, and no number of all-nighters at the computer or overtime shifts in the newsroom will bring maturity, wisdom, empathy or perspective to your work. It’s hard to describe something you’ve never felt. It’s hard to truly listen unless you’re willing to be changed. The writers I admire have rich and messy lives. So, say yes to things. Say yes to walking instead of driving, to loving something you are bound to lose, to spending time with someone lonely, to booking the cheap ticket at the last second, to doing whatever the thing is you would do were you not afraid.
What has been the biggest surprise of your writing life?
That I’m still doing it. Like everyone, I started out sure I’d fail or be forced into PR by poverty. I am a serious introvert, and I wasn’t sure I could do the reporting, honestly. But it turns out that introversion is just one more tool. I’ve had an amazing time doing work I cared about for people I admired. I met the smartest, quirkiest, fiercest, most loyal people and married one of them. I’ve made plenty of money. I have always felt good about this thing that I devoted my professional life to. It’s an honorable and important thing.
If you had to use a metaphor to describe yourself as a writer, what would it be and why?
I’m Chicken Little. I worry a lot, and fret and brood and pace and sulk, and then while I’m painting the garage or trimming the dog’s toenails, I’ll get a piece of an idea, then another piece, and another. So when I’m writing, it always looks like I’m not writing, and I always feel like I’m going to die or get fired. I don’t sit down at a keyboard until I have to, but by then, it all just comes out of me and it’s fine. This really annoys my husband, by the way.
What’s the single best piece of writing advice anyone ever gave you?
Two cheers for understatement — Mike Wilson.
CRAFT LESSON | WRITE AROUND THE MARGINS
Finding time to write is a constant challenge in most writer’s lives. Except for the fortunate few whose bestsellers keep them afloat, most of us search—and often fail—to find free moments for dreaming of ideas, structuring, composing and revising the stories that are closest to our souls.
As an inveterate listener of The New York Times Book Review podcast (see below), I was heartened the other day to read the Review’s editor, Pamela Paul, touch on the subject in a recent interview.
“I don’t get to write during the day because my day job is overseeing book coverage…and editing,” she said. “That means writing is squeezed into the margins of my days.” Between editing the Review and motherhood, Paul’s is a full life, so it’s interesting to see what borders exist that enable her to find time to write books. She’s published several, the most recent being “100 Things We’ve Lost to the Internet.”
“Pre-COVID,” Paul said, “I did most of my writing on the train to work. Initially, I persuaded myself that I would only need to work one-way. That delusion was quickly dispelled by reality, and when I’m writing a book, it generally takes up much of the weekends as well.”
Paul also writes essays or short pieces for her paper, and those are written “in a fury of inspiration. It spills out quickly and prevents me from sleeping.”
But what if you commute by car, are already kept up at night by your baby’s squalling, or simply need a good night’s rest to function during the day? What if much of the weekend is taken up by chores, family time, dates, etc.? Where can other margins be found? Here are a few possibilities:
Set the alarm an hour early to write while the rest of the house is asleep.
Pass on lunch with colleagues to eat at your desk and use the rest of the time to work on your novel, short story or essay.
Carve an hour or two for yourself on the weekend, which leaves the rest of the 48 hours to accomplish everything you couldn’t do during the week.
Write in short bursts. It’s amazing how many words you can type in 15 minutes, if you lower your standards, and remarkable to see how quickly you can generate a rough draft ready for revision.
Finally, take a hard look at how you spend your days. How many hours do TV sports consume? Scrolling through Instagram and TikTok? How much time spent binge-watching “Squid Game” could you devote to writing?
If you’re too wiped out at the end of the day—I get that—at least try putting down your phone and taking your draft—either on your laptop or, better still, a printout—to the couch or your favorite chair and start marking it up. This sort of task switching, I’ve found, is energizing. Afterward, I can’t wait to make the changes.
Just as margins exist on all sides of the page, so do borders of time in our lives. The smart writer looks for—and takes advantage—of them.
PODCAST TO SAVOR | THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to get paid to read books for a living? Or talk with the author of an acclaimed new book? Those questions come to mind every time I listen to The New York Times Book Review podcast, which is a lot lately. Helmed by Pamela Paul, the Review’s book-wise, author-friendly host, this podcast is tailor-made for writers, since reading is the foundation of good writing.
Each episode features two lengthy interviews with authors of a new fiction or nonfiction book or the writer of a recent review; a quick look at the state of publishing; and a roundtable discussion of what the Review’s editors and critics are reading. It’s ear candy for bibliophiles. For writers, it’s a chance to hear riveting behind-the-book accounts that reveal jewel-like glimpses into the writing process, as well as learn what expert readers think about writing and books.
One of my favorites: the annual reveal of the best 10 works of fiction and nonfiction selected by the editors, who explain their choices and put in a plug for also-rans. Listening to their recommendations makes me want to run to the library or see how much a Kindle version costs.
TIP OF THE WEEK | SELECT, DON’T COMPRESS
Your story is too long. You know it, or your editor has told you. Faced with this reality, many writers start whittling away words or phrases, a sentence here or there and then, nervously, check their word count. Better they abide by a Yoda-like dictum set down by the late writing teaching Donald M. Murray, who said, “Brevity is achieved by selection, not compression.”
The first few times I heard Don, who was my mentor and best friend for 25 years, say that or I read it in one of his many books on writing, I was mystified. “Selection?” “Compression?” What was he talking about?
The concepts were too abstract, until Don brought it down to a more concrete level for me. You trim a story, he said, by taking out entire passages, scenes and whole paragraphs, not the odd sentence or clause here or there. “But,” I gasped, “some of that’s my best stuff.” “You’ll be surprised,” he said, “that when you select and delete blocks of text that, very often, they aren’t as badly missed as you think.”
I found that he was right, as have writers I have coached. When I’ve asked if they need a particular section, often the answer is a “no,” sometimes grudging, but an acknowledgment nonetheless that their story is overwritten and that something that seemed important during the reporting is less relevant once the writing begins.
“Just because something is part of your writing process,” Julie Moos, my longtime, wise editor at The Poynter Institute, once told me, “doesn’t mean it has to be part of my reading process.” The first time it stung, but it became a familiar mantra trotted out when I would watch over her shoulder and agree that yes, that section or quote could go. It made for tighter, sharper stories. Isn’t that what we’re all striving for?
Don’t be afraid to whack away at your story with a machete. You can always save what you cut in a separate file, if it turns out some of the information is needed. Chances are, if it comes up, you’ll be restoring a shadow of its bloated self.
BEFORE YOU GO
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May the writing go well, and may you be well.
Nulla dies sine linea / Never a day without a line
Black Lives Matter