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The
Warren Adler E-Sheet 35
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this issue:
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Greetings
From Publishing Central
We are happy to offer you another issue of
the Warren Adler E-Sheet, which
keeps you up to date on what is happening
in the author's world. This month, tales
from the writing life—and a short list
of our favorite literary blogs—make
their debut.
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The Writing Life (Part I)
In my long
career, I've been asked on numerous occasions
what it's like being a novelist? How did you
start? Where do your ideas come from? Is it a
lonely life? Is it fulfilling, exciting, worth
the struggle? From time to time, I thought it
would be interesting to share my experiences
with readers of this e-sheet. This is the
first installment that addresses those
questions.
It was my
freshman English teacher at New York
University who inspired me to become a writer.
His name was Don M. Wolfe and he hadn't
a clue that he had lit the fuse that set me on
my lifetime path.
New York
University's Upper
Campus, as it was. |
I was
seventeen years old. In those days New York
University had an uptown facility in the
Bronx, overlooking the East River, a
beautifully landscaped campus with a number of
Georgian type buildings and a famous promenade
called "The Hall of Fame." I lived with my
parents and brother in a two-bedroom apartment
in Crown Heights in Brooklyn, an hour and a
half subway ride from the campus.
Each morning
my mother would rise, cook my breakfast and
prepare two egg salad sandwiches for my lunch.
In those days such motherly conduct was not
considered pampering or female exploitation or
fear of not being loved by her offspring.
Mothering was a deeply respected, sincere and
accepted occupation and to me, loving one's
mother and father and visa versa was an inbred
fact of life.
The savory
and memorable sandwiches never lasted until
lunch. In those days, I was always hungry, not
by deprivation, simply an irresistible
appetite. The cost of college was twelve
dollars a point and since my father's
employment was sporadic and we were always
short of money, my mother had prevailed upon
one of her successful brothers to pay my
tuition.
After classes
I would work at odd jobs for pocket money. I
did not consider it a hardship. I get a laugh
out of people who cite their humble
beginnings. Never once did I feel humble or
deprived or poverty stricken. In fact, life
growing up in New York City was a never-ending
carousel of excitement and wonder.
Dr. Wolfe
would assign us compositions to write and
comment in red ink on our various literary
efforts. His emphasis was on imagery,
originality, and language. It was these
comments of encouragement and criticisms that
lit the fuse and confirmed what I barely
suspected, that I had, indeed, found my
calling. Or, by chance, it had found me.
Although I
had to take the required science and math
courses, it was my English courses,
particularly the European Novel class taught
by another inspiring professor, Professor
Ranney, which further buttressed my
ambition. In that three hour back and forth
subway ride to the Bronx campus, I lived in
the dazzling imaginary world created by the
great novelists and peopled by an
extraordinary cast of characters who seemed
more real than my fellow commuters. This total
immersion, which transported me far from the
cacophony and tumult of the speeding
underground train, convinced me that the only
occupation I would ever aspire to or cared
about was to write novels.
Burning
ambition is a glorious but debilitating
affliction, especially to a college graduate
barely out of his teens facing a formidable
and fiercely competitive post war environment.
The only job I was able to get was that of a
copy boy at the New York Daily News,
nightside, fourteen bucks a week. Jobwise, it
was just about as close to the written word
that I could get at the time.
All this
biographical trivia is by way of introduction
to the defining moments of my career
validation, the quintessential flowering of my
sworn and absolute fealty to the notion that I
must become a writer, whatever the odds,
however many detours or forbidding obstacles I
must face.
After
graduation, I registered to take an evening
course in creative writing at the New School
in Manhattan, given by Dr. Wolfe, that same
professor of English that had defined my
calling. The classes attracted a disparate
group of all ages and income levels, of both
genders, a number of returning veterans, some
with jobs, some unemployed. I think I was the
youngest of the class of thirty odd students.
We had one thing in common, the burning urge
to create works of the imagination, novels and
short stories, to learn the craft, be guided
and inspired by a wise mentor and, perhaps, by
each other.
We were truly
birds of a feather. To a man and woman, we
knew exactly what we wanted and dreamed about.
All were serious and determined people bonded
by a single unquenchable ambition, to express
our deepest thoughts and desires and
communicate them through characters and
environments of our own creation. I know it
sounds a bit lofty and ethereal, but we had
this palpable obsessive need to tell people
what was inside of us. A real writer knows in
his soul what I mean.
The format of
Dr. Wolfe's class was simple. We were to
submit a piece of work each week. Dr. Wolfe
would read and evaluate our efforts, write his
red inked comments of suggestions or praise on
our papers and choose a few of these works to
be read in class each week. Throughout the
course everyone had his or her chance at
reading to the class. We would discuss the
work and offer our own comments. Most of the
criticism was supportive and kindly and there
was the sense that our fellow students
recognized that each individual voice was
original and to be respected and it was our
profound duty to encourage each other.
One thing a
course in creative writing cannot teach was
talent. In my entire life I have never before
or since been exposed to so much rich writing
talent. It was truly extraordinary, an awesome
literary explosion.
Some of us
developed strong bonds. Once a week was not
enough. We broke up into groups that met at
other times. We'd sit around each other's
kitchens and read our work to each other,
comment and criticize, always supportive,
always in pursuit of the great goal, to be
published, recognized, make our mark. One of
my fellow students was
Mario Puzo. Others, I remember were
John Burress whose first novel was headed
to publication and Harold Applebaum,
whose poetry appeared frequently in the New
York Times when that paper used to published a
daily poem. Another was an ex-wife of Ira
Gershwin whose name escapes me and others
whose work was, in my opinion, of equal merit
or better than those who captured the golden
ring of fame and fortune.
Another class
at the New School was taught by
Charles Glicksberg, a professor of
English at Brooklyn College. Among his writing
students was
William Styron. In my second year I
took Professor Glicksberg's courses and found
him and my fellow students equally inspiring.
Some of the
material in those years found their way into
anthologies published through the New School.
You cannot image the joy we took in being
published, many of us for the first time. We
are talking about the years 1949 and 1950. The
books were entitled American Vanguard 1950,
Which Seed Will Grow, and a paperback
whose title I can't remember.
A number of
the writers in these classes became published
novelists, most of them within a decade of
their courses. We all know what happened to
Mario Puzo and William Styron. Others
published as much as a half a dozen novels of
great merit. The "star" of those years was the
late Leonard Bishop, who published a
number of novels and eventually became a
teacher of creative writing. Another was
Sigrid DeLima, a fine writer who also
published a number of novels. There were
others whose names escape me and their books
are probably gathering dust in attics or
disintegrating on bookshelves.
I had to
struggle through two more decades of
frustration and rejection before
my first novel was published. Other
considerations intervened. I had married young
and the priorities of family support
intervened, although I never really put my
dream on hold, writing my novels and stories
each morning before going to the office. But
that is another story to be told at a later
date.
In a sudden
burst of nostalgia, I recently went back to
those books published through the New School,
mostly to see if I recognized any other names
of those fabulously talented aspiring writers.
Fifty-five years have elapsed. Except for Puzo
and Styron, and those mentioned above, I could
barely recognize the names of any of the
others. Some I remembered only vaguely. If
author name recognition is a test of popular
success, I am sorry to say that except for the
two mentioned above, none of the authors in
those books have withstood that test. In no
way does that imply that their writing talents
were lesser than those whose names are more
recognizable. It does, however, imply that
lady luck, the favor of the publishing and
movie Gods and the lottery nature of timing
and coincidence have more to do with authorial
success than talent.
Through a
gauze of tears I looked over each name and
read their one-paragraph bios. All of them had
this great need, this grand obsession to
write, publish, be read, tell their stories.
They are, for me at least, all lost to the
mists of time.
Were those
who were published disappointed in the public
reaction to their work, unable to take the
blows of pompous critics long forgotten? Did
the publishers abandon them because of poor
sales? And what of those who were unpublished?
Did rejection destroy their incentive,
discourage them from continuing, defeat them?
Did they live their lives with their dream
still intact? Did fear of failure take hold on
their psyche?
Since I was
the youngest of this group, I can only assume
that many of them are dead. Did they die with
their obsession still resonating in their
souls? Or did they turn away in despair and
frustration?
The writing
life is a tough, cruel game, as is the life of
every artist. To a real writer, the kind I met
at the New School, commercial success was both
tantalizing and suspect. The fear of "selling
out" was the subtext of their striving. Was
"making it" really about money and fame? Or
something less tangible and mysterious, like
some secret and impossible longing for
immortality? I mourn for them, especially for
the ones whose names I do not recognize.
To one for
whom the dream is still pulsating and very
much alive, I can only speculate about my
fellow writers of those halcyon days. However
their lives turned out, to me they were among
the best, if not the best of their generation.
Other Voices, Other
Rooms Blogs
The rise of
the literary blog (shortened form of "web
log") continues to be a source of humor and
interest. Some of our favorite little blogs
that comment on the Writing Life include
The Reading Experience and
The Literary Saloon.
What do you
think about literary blogs? What are you
favorites? Let us know at
stonehousemail@yahoo.com.
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Warren
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