Vindicated

The meeting Wednesday night of the Writers Support Group started with the organizer, who is an editor / publisher when he’s not leading groups, reading a manuscript that he received two years ago from a hopeful fiction writer with impressive credentials. It was an example, he said, of work in the raw, unedited, unpublishable. Why, people wanted to know, after he’d read a few pages of turgid, clichéd, juvenile, downright embarrassing prose, did you bother with it.

We saw the story in it, he said. And so he and his partner worked with the author to fix up (“rewrite” I said, and he didn’t disagree) the work until it was something worth publishing.

I confess, I would have sent the author packing. I’d not make a successful publisher. I don’t care how good the story is. I’d have sent J. K. Rowling packing, and I’d have missed the book publishing deal of the decade. To me, for what it’s worth, it’s not about the story; it’s never about the story. To me, it’s about the telling. I don’t care if you give away the ending; it’s the journey I’m interested it, not the destination.

The story? Tell that to Hemingway.

“What’s your book about Mr. Hemingway?”
“A man goes fishing.”
“Well, thank you. Don’t call us etc.”

Think of Henry Miller, James Joyce. Does Tropic Of Cancer have a storyline? What about James Kelman? Sure, things happen, but it’s not much of a story, is it. But it’s still fascinating prose. And I happen to be reading, at this very moment, two novels. One is the aforesaid Rowling – yes I’ve finally taken it upon myself to read Harry Potter. At the same time I’m reading Normal Girl, Molly Jong-Fast’s first (and so far only) novel. Rowling has a story to tell, but I find myself caring less and less with each page I turn. Jong-Fast, though, doesn’t really have a storyline at all. She follows a few days in the life of a 19 year old female, spoiled, rich, Jewish, semi-celebrity coke addict, and she does it with such incredible power that I wish the book were longer that its 122 pages.

I have no quarrel, though, with anyone. I realize that literature and writing are very personal, and what’s country for one is jazz for another. The group is more story-oriented and that’s fine. But it made me a bit nervous to read my stuff, because there isn’t much story in my stuff. What I brought with me, it’s all about feeling, personality, the subtle tension that exists between two co-workers who are not exactly flirting and not exactly not flirting.

And so I took a deep breath, read the thing, and waited for the bombs to fall. But I already saw people smiling, laughing a bit even (at the funny parts, not at the piece itself) and when I was done what I got was compliments. And sure, one person mentioned the fact that the story didn’t “go anywhere” (fair enough, it didn’t). And someone took issue with my “he said she said” style, and I expected that, but even he was countered by someone who said that it worked in the context.

And I took another breath, and I was done. It was someone else’s turn. And I thought of the fiasco at the other group, trying to read to people who could not care less.

I just needed to find the right group.

See? It’s not about the story, it’s the telling…