Action
Writing and reading are, technically, actions, but they don't feel like it. For me, action happens out in the world, living, and action is needed for good writing.
Weekly Three
HEAR: I watched Woody Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York last night. If not his best flick, I love Allen’s sharp storytelling. The movie reminded me of that unique, cocktail-lounge brand of jazz. Here’s “I’ll Know” by the Timothy Kay Band.
READ: In this newsletter, I quote from and write about E.B. White’s interview with the Paris Review. He thoughtfully talks about his approach to writing and reading.
VIEW: This 100-year-old photo, taken in 1920, depicts a Japanese photographer and his wife's portrait in a mirror. The beautiful couple is smiling as they hold each other tenderly. This historically insignificant artifact from the past is a precious monument to humanity.
No. 38: Action
“If a man (who writes) feels like going to a zoo, he should by all means go to a zoo.”
E.B. White
I wake up not knowing what the day will bring. A regiment there is none. Discipline there is little. Routine there is not.
There are hopes, though, of what might be accomplished. Each day I cast my line into the pond on the chance of landing a fish, and sometimes I get lucky. There was the time, for example, I rode my bike through the woods and found a set of narrow steel tracks winding through the trees. A little later, a miniature steam train came rolling down them, caboose and all. This was something beautiful to experience and interesting to jot down in my notebook — a big fish caught.
Not every day guarantees a big fish, though, but if I cast my line I’m sure to drag something up. Often it’s lakeweed, but lakeweed is fine. Only by pursuing the biggest fish do I encounter the middling oddities that are, I see in the end, more beautiful than my dream catch.
But what’s the best way to go fishing?
One constant of each day is reading. Whether an article or essay or story or part of a story, I read something in the morning, afternoon, or night, sometimes all three. By reading I almost always stumble upon some glimmering idea, but I haven’t always read books like they were the world’s newest invention. In the past, my preferred method of fishing was adventure. I still explore, but not as much. I default to words and sentences instead of trails and trees.
Have I been reading too much? Time spent reading is time spent not writing and time spent not adventuring. I read to study the craft of writing and because I love it, but when does it end? Should my time spent cracking books be deliberately minimized?
In the past months I’ve spent hundreds of hours reading to a mere twenty or thirty on writing. Reading seems a ritual the writer should practice, and I genuinely enjoy it — I could read for eternity and my booklist would rise to the occasion — but it might be viewed as an addictive habit at odds with the writer’s duty to go out and live, live, live then report back on their experiences.
Reading an old Paris Review interview with E.B. White, the author of Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little, I recognized a writer with tendencies like my own in the times before I buried myself under a pile of books.
“I was never a voracious reader and, in fact, have done little reading in my life,” he told the the journal. “There are too many other things I would rather do than read.”
For the same reason, I was never a voracious reader either (but I was an intermittent bookworm). I’m gradually becoming voracious.
“I don’t like being indoors and get out every chance I get,” White continued. “In order to read, one must sit down, usually indoors. I am restless and would rather sail a boat than crack a book.”
My middle ground is carrying a folding beach chair to the park so I can read in the grass under the sun.
It’s no requirement a great writer be a great reader, but reading for me is a great joy. It’s less joyful finding the balance between action and stillness. My problem lies in identifying the line in the sand that separates admiring art and making it, especially when that line can be obscured or blown away by the slightest gust of wind. To know when to interpret life alone and when to study another’s interpretation of life is not easy. The decision is made even harder by knowing another’s interpretation of life can refine mine.
Admittedly, some choices are easier than others.
“I would rather watch the circus or a ball game than ballet,” White responds to a question about his interests in the other arts.
Same here, White. But why not both? I’ve never attended an opera and I’m curious.
If I trust my gut, I’ve been reading too much, likely because I’ve fallen under a false spell that says there are certain required readings to achieve literary mastery. This is simply not the case, and if White’s work wasn’t enough to illustrate this, he dispels this idea in his interview.
“A writer who waits for ideal conditions under which to work will die without putting a word on paper,” he says.
And so I will put more words on paper and spend less time reading them.
But then, what about E.B. White interviews about reading? ♦
Mailbox
Regarding last week’s newsletter, Fame, I feel the same the same way about fame. The part about fame being irrevocable hits hard. I think having everyone observe you all the time is very bad for people. It’s unnatural to have so many people know who you are. To never be able to go unnoticed would be confusing and overwhelming and just bad for your psyche. Like you said, it’s a tough act to follow.
– Adam
Before reading last week’s newsletter, Fame, I saw the Anthony Bourdain documentary with my son. Excellent film. It helped us understand a little more about Bourdain’s final act. There were definitely some tears filling the eyes at the end but, overall, it was helpful and cathartic for us and hopefully equally healing for the friends and family Bourdain left behind.
It’s an interesting observation, Matt, that fans could feel filled up and satisfied by his cordial company without wondering if he was filled up by theirs. That’s a lonely place that, I imagine, was pretty familiar to him. I appreciate and agree with your summary of thoughts on his life.
I guess it was my son who got me to read Kitchen Confidential a few years back. All of us at the house loved watching his show and were stunned when we learned of his death. Christopher managed to (wanted to . . . needed to?) continue watching his show, but it took me a while to feel up to it. I do believe the documentary helped me work through some of that grief, a grief that so many people feel. I can’t imagine how hard it was for those who really knew him.
You know the term “tortured soul.” Like so many terms, it has been overused, but it seems to have a rightful place in Bourdain’s case. The film is a good look into the life of an artist, regardless of genre or medium. I hope you’ll see it and let me know what you think.
– Fred
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