From the October 6, 2009 New York Times (by way of the AML-list):

In an ingenious spin on the co-author strategy, Stephenie Meyer, who wrote the Twilight novels, said that her vampire hero appeared in a dream and then dictated the first book as fast as she could type. He did not demand a percentage of the advance. This does sound like a great strategy, and I understand that millions of American women currently have a dream of having that dream.

I am one of those American women. Oh, not for the reason I think the Times writer implied. I wouldn’t let a man for whom the destruction of the human female was his most primitive instinct near my computer, much less me. But I do dream of getting in on that “it-writes-itself” genre…especially since it seems to be paying now.

Heck, I give my writing away. I work my butt off trying to make my fiction good enough for someone to publish for free. Rephrase. Actually, I’ve worked my butt on, seeing as its grown rather large as I build my career as an unpaid artiste. So yeah, I want to write my dreams by dictation, make a boat load of money, and have a home gym and a personal trainer. And a maid. I’d even get a dog if I had someone to clean up after it. And a golf cart. I’ve always wanted to pick my kids up from school in a golf cart.  Way cool. Oh, and maybe I’d buy an electric can opener. No, an electric knife for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t want to seem worldly.

What about the rest of you? What would you buy if you made millions off your dreams?

I am making my way through the Carter-touted Story Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting by Robert McKee and have met some challenging ideas. I’d thought I’d run one up the flagpole.

Early in the book, McKee discusses his take on the decline of the storytelling craft. He faults what I’ll call the assembly line manufacture of stories. But he concludes this section like this:

The final cause for the decline of story runs very deep. Values, the positive/negative charges of life, are at the soul of our art. The writer shapes story around a perception of what’s worth living for, what’s worth dying for, what’s foolish to pursue, the meaning of justice, truth–the essential values. In decades past, writer and society more or less agreed on these questions, but more and more ours has become an age of moral and ethical cynicism, relativism, and subjectivism–a great confusion of values….

This erosion of values has brought with it a corresponding erosion of story. Unlike writers in the past, we can assume nothing. First we must dig deeply into life to uncover new insights, new refinements of value and meaning, then create a story vehicle that expresses our interpretation to an increasingly agnostic world. (17)

There is much to digest here. I’ve read the passage a billion times, trying to process it, to decide whether or not I stand with him. I think he is equating values with truth, and truth with morality and ethics. So when he mentions  the “erosion of values,” he could just as easily have written “erosion of morals.” Maybe that’s a leap since he speaks of “what’s foolish to pursue” as a value. Still, he seems to set up “moral and ethical cynicism, relativism, and subjectivism” as the opposite of value, so I’m sticking to my interpretation of value as, at least in part, morality. This fits nicely with my Mormon worldview, so I accepted his position.

In fact, the idea that people with morals, or moral people, are best suited to craft stories that attain a level of greatness excited me. I thought, Hallelujah! What good news for Mormon writers!

But then reality hit: The most devout, or morality-based, of Mormon stories tend to be far from the mark of great literature, a term I admit limps. Oh, I know that some Mormon lit is deep and meaningful, but much is not, particularly if it can wear the label “faith-promoting.” And don’t we think of faith-promoting stories and their writers as being especially morally steeped? I can’t speak for anyone except myself, but to me, these kinds of Deseret Bookish tales are superficial because they will surely reach a moral conclusion that is not only predictable,  but is “authorized.” I know from the outset what the moral boundaries of such a story will be.

Interestingly, McKee doesn’t mention anything about boundaries in his discussion of values, morals, or ethics. In fact, he says writers must “dig deeper,” which, to my mind, suggests moving beyond established boundaries. Yet to most Mormons, morality is defined by its boundaries.

Somewhere along the line, it dawned on me that I was interchanging the concept of morality with the idea of religious. Suddenly I lost confidence that religious writers are, by default, moral writers. Certainly our faith-promoting stories are bursting with Standards, spelled with a capital S, but are these Standards the same as values, ethics, and morals?

I’m left asking why today’s best literature is not being created by religious people. Shouldn’t the very cultures that most vociferously defend choosing the right, or doing what Jesus would, be the best at developing ideas that explore moral and ethical controversies?

Of course I acknowledge that many of the greatest writers of the 20th century had strong religious ties. But that is McKee’s point. Great stories used to be written by moral people, but, he argues, the morality and values behind these stories is no longer lauded on a large scale. This brings me back to the question: Have religious people–including Mormons–stopped (or never been) the McKee kind of moral?

One of my dearest LDS friends has cautioned me not to read the kinds of things I read, worrying that the books and journals she questions might challenge my testimony. She, like many others, only ingests reading material she feels is church-approved, or definitively ‘right,” and therefore safe. To her, if anything Joseph Smith taught or did proved  to be not “true,” then her entire religion–her life–falls into the chum bucket. Her primary investment is not discovering truth, but sustaining truth as she already has it.

Can that be a moral way to live?

Can a person with such a strong, overarching need to protect his/her core identity “dig deeply into life to uncover new insights, new refinements of value and meaning”? Can he/she “then create a story vehicle that expresse[s his/her] interpretation to an increasingly agnostic world”?

Here my brain spins, so I ask your opinion. Can a person’s faith conviction prevent him/her from becoming deeply, truly moral? If so, is this lack of morality preventing our writers from crafting masterpieces? I tend to think so.

Back in February, I vowed to take three or four weeks off from all literary pursuits in order to get my house in order. I’m proud to report that I have finally completed the job. I know, I know. Its June, and June is four months after February. I wasn’t lazy and slow moving: I was naive. I had no idea how much back-breaking labor it would take to clean every square inch of my nearly 4,000 square foot home, particularly since every time I scrubbed a surface, someone scuffed it.

I’d like to prove to you that my house is as clean as I say, and so I invite you to enjoy a voyeuristic visit to my house at open2view.com. Simply click on the state of Texas and, in the “search for property by ID#” box type in 2274.  You guessed it. Now that my never-before-clean immaculately kept home in Heath, Texas is clean, we are selling it.

Let me rephrase: Now that I know what it takes to truly–and I mean truly–keep this house clean, I can’t wait to dump it. [All reasonable offers will be considered.] Take a good look at the 13th photo in that line-up on the virtual tour. That’s my desk. There is no work on it. Zero. Zip. None. I don’t want my desk to look like that. I want to write. I want to be overcome by deadlines and to be heard banging my head against it because I can’t make some metaphor work. I’m just not that into feather dusters.

So we’re downsizing. It was my idea. Less to clean. Less housework to ignore. More freedom to write. We’ll close next week on a house that is approximately half the size of what we’re in now. Hallelujah and glory be!

[You know, Texas really is a very pleasant and affordable place to live, in case you were wondering.]

Regardless, this experience has left me thinking about the writer I used to be. In the process of gutting this palace I live in, I happened upon several stories I’d written eight, ten, fifteen years ago, stories that never saw publication. Because I didn’t remember writing them, I read each with an editor’s eyes. I realized the writer I’d been–the old me–hadn’t yet understood how hard I’d have to work at writing in order to make a story publishable.  Oh, I’m sure I thought I did, but just as I thought I knew how to clean, I didn’t have a clue.

Maybe my prose in those old stories was, generally speaking, controlled, but I hadn’t yet learned to dig into a story, to get my hands dirty examining how words examine life. The stories, were, at best, a surface cleaning of an idea. These certainly were not the kind of stories that go after the deep recesses of the human life, the kind that clear the gunk out of the crevices in the baseboards and take a discarded toothbrush to the underside of the toilet bowl rim.

 Of course, I would’ve thought you were wrong if you told me that then. Or I would’ve become depressed, thinking I’d worked so hard already and that I just couldn’t write any better. But I’ve learned over the years that stories I think I can spit out in weeks take months, and those I “should” be able to do in months take years. Writing is exacting. Its brutal work–for me anyway, especially since the requirements of daily life don’t vacation.

Even now, as I sit here thinking over my next writing project, I get a fuzzy feeling in my gut because I understand how big an undertaking it will be and how many chores I’ll have to overlook in order to finish it. As I type, I can hear the spiders spinning their cobwebs on my plantation shutters. I’m hoping that, with a smaller house, I’ll feel less guilt. Anybody want to lay odds on that?

I have a moving image in my mind that I replay as if it were film. It stars a child ( a boy I think, even if his hair is long) and he sits, hidden away in a dark recess–an attic, a basement, an old, empty barn–with only his eyes showing above the collar of his jacket. He beams a flashlight on the pages of a book. Although I cannot see most of his face, the rise of his brow, the trepidation in his eyes, tell me something unusual is going on. The camera in my mind rotates, moving smoothly from the front of the boy around him, until I am looking over his shoulder, until the viusal I see is of the open book. He reads the last word on the page, then turns it–but the new page is blank. Empty. White.

But then the child’s eyes begin to move right to left, and words pop onto the page, appearing no faster or slower than the child’s eyes can take them in. He feels the importance of every word, pays close attention to them, because the story exists only up to the point he is reading.

This is how a writer must read.

In pop psychology circles, the notion of living in the moment moves in and out of common discourse. Generally speaking, we accept the idea that it is better to live in the here and now than to dwell on the past or overvalue the future. All that matters is present with us.

This concept translates effectively to the reading experience. Just as the child in my brain film absorbed only the words as he arrived at them, so must writers concentrate on “living” in the moment that each word represents–because this is where the power of every story lies.

The power to create meaning out of words is something reader response theorists suggest rests in the hands of the reader. Of course it is correct that any given reader might, for instance, apply a different rate of speed to the word “slow.” But what the reader response theorists don’t seem to understand is that each word the individual reads is (or should be) placed on the page by a writer whose purpose is to manipulate, to control the experience the reader has. Put bluntly, an effective writer is a manipulator.

While the “word “manipulator” has negative connotations, it is precisely the right term. Those little black marks a writer puts on a page can completely transform a person’s state of mind in a matter of moments. The ability to order words in such a way that their placement causes a happy person to weep with sorrow is power. Maybe it is fair to say that the reader maintains the power to attach meaning to words, but it is the writer who controls the placement of those words and who, therefore, controls the reader.

Control: How do writers learn that control?

Answer: Read in the moment. Writers, myself included, are often tempted to read ahead of themselves, to use their knowledge of the craft to anticipate what will occur in the text. There can be value in this, I suppose, because it keeps us always wondering how we would handle, for instance, plotting. But danger lurks in this form of reading because the story is not our story. It is irrelevant how we would handle another writer’s story, a waste of our time. Not only that, reading this way tends to position us as the critic is positioned, as one who evaluates the strengths and weaknesses of a story and passes a judgement.

I suggest that reading is a more effective educational tool when a writer abandons his inclination to critque and remembers how it felt to read when in childhood, before he or she had enough experience with stories or the writing of them to hazard a guess about what comes next. Practice forgetting that there is a next page and concentrate on what you think and feel as you work your way through a story. Absorb words one at a time. Become aware of the connotation, the sound of the word, its beat and rhythm and how these work together to create in you what you feel as you read. How do these simple black marks on a page move you toward meaning? What about this word; what about this phrase built by these words; what about these passages built by these phrases built by these words create in you the sense of place, character, mood, and tone? What do you feel in the here-and-now of the page?

The key to reading like a writer is to learn to examine your response to a text, not to examine the text itself. Focus on your personal responses as they happen. Read as if, like the fictional child in the opening of this post, there will be no next word until you completely focus on the one your eyes are drinking in. Remember, recognizing how words manipulate you will teach you how your words will manipulate others.

A year ago, my department head assigned me to teach a sophomore literature class in addition to my regular freshman composition courses. While I didn’t like the idea of building another curriculum, I did look forward to teaching literature. I earnestly began reading the anthology I was provided, but when I tried to devise teaching strategies–historical, cultural, textual, rhetorical–my knees weakened because I realized that I am no longer capable of looking at literature through the eyes of a literature professor. I can’t pick up a book and search for the author’s intent, or worry about archetype and symbol, or celebrate the use of metaphor for metaphor’s sake. The gears in my brain have completely shifted off that track.

I figured if I proceeded teaching the lit course the way my inclinations drove me, I’d be ruined. I could almost hear the future complaints of my colleagues, leveled at those who would become my former students:

“I don’t care if your last English professor did explain exactly why some literature bores you and why some doesn’t. You still have to read Don Quixote–and like it!”

As it turned out, the gods saved me: The class didn’t attract enough students and was canceled. But the experience drove home to me the fact that creative writers are very different animals from literature professors.

I teach the Toulmin model of argument to my freshmen composition students, and many of them struggle to understand how his analysis of argument will help them write better college essays. I tell them that it may not help them write better–but that it should help them rewrite better essays because knowing the model will improve their ability to critique their own work. (How they groan!) I then speak the words some have waited all their academic years to hear:

The problem with academic-types is that they approach things backwards. They begin with a finished product–a piece of completed and published writing–and then figure out what in that text makes it successful. In other words, they read the text so that they know what it accomplishes–its feeling, flavor, motive, objective–and then they return to the text to hunt up all he rhetorical devices that are in line with that end result. Once this is done, they turn to the student–some of whom are novice writers–and hand over what amounts to a grocery list of things that make a book successful.

But we all know that a well-stocked pantry does not a delicious meal make. Any of us who have had the writing workshop experience know that that grocery list of literary devices does not, in and of itself, guarantee a successful or compelling piece of literature. Some symbols don’t work; some metaphors detract; some descriptive writing is tedious . . .

And this is where we find many early-stage writers, sitting around those workshop tables, wondering what magic is required to tranform all the proper ingredients into the “right” ingredients. In a recent post on the AML list, one such talented artist stated plainly that she doesn’t know how to write a novel. She asked for advice. More than one respondent suggested, among other things, that she read, read, read. Read everything. Read everyday.

I agree, but with a caveat: Read like a writer.

Unlike literary scholars who begin with a finished product, writers begin with a blank comptuer screen. They must figure out how to use words to build a story that effectively manipulates their audience. Because what a writer does is so vastly different from what a lit professor/critic does, it makes little sense to read the way they taught us: First, forward for familiarity with the text; and then backwards (or by moving back through the text) for interpretive meaning . . . which, of course, is derived through traditional literary analysis.

In other words, reading like a literature professor will not do much to improve a writer’s skill. A writer must read like a writer. The first step in that process is to forget about traditional literary analysis. I don’t care if you are writing lit fiction or not. Literary analysis is post-game commentary offered by literature aficianados who have nothing to do with the actual game play, or with the building of story.

Did you hear the one about the NFL quarterback who called an audible in the Super Bowl because he knew the talking heads in the press box would approve of the play? Or the one about the NBA coach who listened to reel after reel of post-game commentary about his team’s performance–and then developed his next game plan based on what he heard so that the commentators would praise him on television?

If your child dreams of playing short stop in the big leagues, would you recommend he learn baseball from the announcer?

These notions are ludicrous. They’re backwards. Likewise, it is silly for writers to expect to learn to play their game at the top level by aiming for positive analysis from the literati, or by striving to shove into their writing all the things the literati notice in “good” fiction. If creative writers want to achieve the cohesiveness that pleases their literature professors, they should stop thinking like those professors, stop approaching literature in the same manner and with the same mindset. Professors–critics–work backwards. Again, they begin with a finished product and from it, they develop insight.

The creative writer, on the other hand, works forward–from insight to finished product. So the writer must read as he or she writes: Read forward.

My space is limited, and I’ve only scratched the surface. I haven’t time right now to explore further the notion of reading like a writer, or what it means to read forward. However, I’ll return to this topic next month and flesh out my thinking about what these things mean. But in the interim, chew on this assertion:

Reading like a writer means that you approach literature with naivete.

Discuss.

Master Po to Kaine, upon their first meeting.

Suddenly, I, Lisa Torcasso Downing, am Master Po. I’ve taken on a charge, a kid in the ward who wants to become a writer.

Yeah, I know. Teenagers who want to be writers are a dime a dozen and most of them fade away. But those of us who have stuck with it were once kids who wanted to be writers, so I have a tender spot.

Add to the mix that this kid is being ganged up on by the adults surrounding him, minus his mother, and I couldn’t turn my back. You see, the teen made the mistake of vocalizing his ambition to the practical-minded, also know as his Young Men’s President.

I became embroiled in the situation one Sunday while minding my own business, reshelving paperback Bibles in the church library. In walked the ward Young Men’s president and another man, also called to serve in the organization.

“Sister Downing,” the president said to me, “I hear you are a writer.” Instantly, I knew he’d been talking to his wife, who is my visiting teacher. She knows I write and publish, but has never asked to read any of my work.

You see, I may not be blind like the real Master Po, but I am invisible, which, I suppose, is the next “best” thing.

I considered replying that I’ve given writing up. After all, I’ve learned that church folks who say “I hear you are a writer” usually follow it up with some version of one of the following: Can you write the annual ward history? Can you write the Relief Society/Primary/YM or YW newsletter? Can you read through my How-To manuscript on genealogy and tell me if it’s any good?

Not stuff I want to do. But I gave it up, told the truth. I confessed, “I am a writer.” I figured it was safe because, over the years, I’ve learned to say no to ward histories, newsletters, and the random manuscripts of by amateurs.

But what these two men asked stunned me.

“Sister Downing,” the president began, “we’d like you to come in some Wednesday night and address the young men about your career.”

My husband, who happened to be wheeling a television cart into place, chuckled and teased, “You want her to tell them how much money she makes?”

They laughed a little too loudly and the YM president explained, “We have a young man who wants to be a writer.”

The picture was becoming clearer. I said, “And you want me to talk him out of it.”

“Precisely,” the second man said. More laughter.

Here my husband redeemed himself. “It’s hard work. The kid’ll need another job.”

I smile. “Or a husband.”

They don’t want that for the boy. No, they said, all they want is for me to provide the cold, hard facts.

Or, in other words, they want to hold me up as an example of why a person should not become a writer.

Hm.

So naturally I said, “Sure, I’ll do Career Night.”

What I didn’t say is that there is no way in H-E-double toothpick I’d discourage this kid. In fact, I determined to do everything in my power to teach him what I know in the hopes that he could someday become visible as something other than a pain in the butt (which even he’ll admit he’s been good at).

Long story short: That Career Night never happened. I showed up, armed with stats on paying jobs for writers and editors, as well as information on my paying job as a professor, but the targeted priest had been injured that day and couldn’t attend. Realizing he was a no-show, I approached the YM president and suggested that we reschedule. I expected him to politely decline, to say something like, “No, you’ve prepared and we’ve got a roomful of other young men here you can talk to.”

But he agreed and sent me home. After all, we wouldn’t want to a) waste the time of the other boys when there was a basketball court in the building; or b) lose out on the chance to publicly shame the kid for being stupid enough to pick writing as a profession.

Oh, they asked me to come in and speak the next Wednesday, but my schedule didn’t permit it. And golly gee, four days later (that Sunday night) the official, annual Career Night Fireside for both the young men and young women occurred . . . without a word about it to me. The target was there, so he learned about unusual professions like doctor, lawyer, and engineer. I’m sure that solved the problem.

So I sent the kid’s mother an email, telling her I’d decided not to follow through with doing Career Night. I explained a wee bit about me and my work in writing and editing. I offered to take her son under my wing and teach him how to write, provided he meets my requirements, which I spelled out. Her response was positive.

On Sunday, the boy showed up at the church library grinning and wearing a yellow headband.

“Master Po,” he said, bowing his head, “I’m Grasshopper. Teach me.”

And so it begins.

I smiled and told him I’d pick him up for this week’s writer’s workshop.

I hope the kid is serious enough to work and rework and eat some humble pie. I hope he can punctuate and that his syntax doesn’t suck. I hope he makes Orson Scott Card look like a schmuck. I hope he wins a Pulitzer or a Nebula, or, for that matter, the school district writing contest.

Mostly, I hope someday he’s not invisible, that his talent develops, and that he reaches the point where it will be showcased publicly. I can’t predict his future, but the one thing I can guarantee is that he won’t be invisible to me.