I felt shallow, but I was there because my father had always said, Whatever it is you want to do, find the person who does it best, and then see if they will teach you. I can still hear her say it: Put all your deaths, accidents and diseases up front, at the beginning. The accident is that in the spring of my sophomore year, I fell asleep in the drawing class of the chair of the art department and woke to her firm grip on my shoulder.
Jacqueline Gourevitch, the painter, mother to Phillip, the writer. She was at the time an elegant, imperious woman with dark short curly hair and a formal but warm manner. I remember she was known for her paintings of clouds. I had made something with some pieces of my life, rearranged into something else.
Before that, she had loved my work and often praised it to the class. Afterward, I could do nothing right. I was shut out. I spent the summer before my junior year wondering what to do, which in this case meant becoming a vegan, cycling 20 miles a day, working for my mother as the night manager of a seafood restaurant we owned, and getting my weight down to lbs from I turned into a brown line drawing, eating strawberry fruit popsicles while I rang up lobsters and fries for tourists.
And then in the last days of August, a school friend who lived in the next town over called me at home. Can I borrow it, he asked. Can I come by and get it this afternoon? After I hung up the phone, I wrote a story on that typewriter in the four hours before he arrived that I can still remember, partly for how it came out as I now know very few stories do: I was an amnesiac about my accomplishments.
In high school, I won a prize from the Geraldine R. But those felt like accidents, in a life next door to mine. For some reason this first short story satisfied in me the idea that I could write in a way that these other things did not. I had made something with some pieces of my life, rearranged into something else, like an exercise from that drawing class that combined three life studies into a single fictional tableau.
The story was about a boy who spends the summer riding a bicycle me , who gets hit by a car and goes into a coma, where he dreams constantly of his accident until he wakes this happened to my dad, but also, the fateful art class. All I could tell in that moment was that I had finally made an impression on myself. And whatever it was that I did when I writing a story, I wanted to do it again. I closed the typewriter case and handed it over. Instead, I went to the post office after he left, a little guilty, like I was doing something illicit, and submitted the story.
I saw your name on the list, my friend said, weeks later, back at school, with something like hurt in his voice. I had no idea what a novella was or how to write one, and the excitement I felt as I read her note turned to confusion and then sadness. Great and enviable things were happening for me.
I thought I could choose a destiny. She walks to class because she lives a few blocks from our classroom building in a beautiful house with her husband and her daughter, and each time I pass it on campus, I feel, like a pulse through the air, the idea of her there. Years later, when she no longer lives there, and I am teaching there, I feel the lack of it. The dark green trees behind her on the Wesleyan campus sharpen her outline.
She is dressed in pale colors, pearls at her neck and ears. She holds out her hand. The class had a rhythm to it dictated by how she had quit smoking to please her new husband.
She lets the smoke curl out a little and then exhales brusquely. Thanks, she says, and hands it back, and then she smiles again and walks inside. At least one of them. I feel virtuous as I kick it into the gutter.
She undid the top of the thermos with a swift twist, poured a cup of coffee into the cup that was also the thermos top, and sipped at it as she gave us a big smile and looked around the room. A shadowy crowd of the faceless rejected formed around us briefly. A feeling of terror at the near miss came and then passed.
We were long-distance, she told me, at one of our longer smoke breaks. We met at a conference. She laughed at this, as at a prank. She would set her legal pad down, covered in notes, and pour the coffee, which she would drink as she unwrapped the caramels and ate them. A small pile of plastic wrappers grew by her left hand on the desk.
The wrappers would flutter a little as she whipped the pages of her legal pad back and forth, and spoke in epigrams about writing that often led to short lectures but were sometimes lists: Never quote dialogue you can summarize.
Avoid describing crowd scenes but especially party scenes. She began almost drowsily, but soon went at a pell-mell pace. Not frantic, but operatic. Then she might pause, check her notes in a brief silence, and launch in another direction, as we finished making our notes and the sound of our writing died down.
The silence in the room was the sound of our minds turning this over. But she was already on her feet at the chalkboard, writing out a directory of copyediting marks: Stet is Latin and means let it stand… When I draw a line through something and it comes up with this little pig tail on it that means get rid of it. There was that much to say. Each week we turned in our assignments on a Tuesday, and by Thursday we had them back again, the space between the triple-spaced lines and also the margins filled with her penciled notes.
This had arrows drawn pointing off towards the amazing sentence and the disappointing one. In her class, I learned that while I had spoken English all of my life, there was actually very little I knew about it.
English was born from low German, a language that was good for categorization, and had filled itself in with words from Latin and Anglo Saxon words, and was now in the process of eating things from Asian languages.
Latinates were polysyllabic, and Anglo Saxon words were short, with perhaps two syllables at best. A good writer made use of both to vary sentence rhythms. No one likes to be told how to feel about something. And if you doubt that, just go ahead. Try and tell someone how to feel. From the things Annie circled in my drafts, it was clear one answer to my problem really was, in a sense, Maine.
The degraded syntax of the Scottish settlers forced to Maine by their British lords, using indirect speech as they went and then after they stayed.
The passive voice in particular was a crisis. And on this topic, I remember one of her fugues almost exactly:. The chaos by now was with her notebook and the wrappers, the storm on the desk, a crescendo fueled by the sugar and caffeine.
I remember in this case a pause, her looking off into the middle distance, and then back at her notebook as she said, I mean, just what exactly is going on inside your piece?
The literary essay, as she saw it, was a moral exercise that involved direct engagement with the unknown, whether it was a foreign civilization or your mind, and what mattered in this was you. You are the only one of you, she said of it. New paperback edition, Harper Collins, One part of Encounters takes place in China, where I was part of a delegation of six American writers and publishers representing the United States just after the fall of the Gang of Four.
In the second half, I helped host a bunch of Chinese writers party members. This part includes a trip with Alan Ginsberg and the Chinese writers to Disneyland. I think it's hilarious. For writers, it is a warm, rambling conversation with a stimulating and extraordinarily talented colleague. In the process of writing Living by Fiction , I talked myself into writing an old-fashioned novel. It tells the story of the first European settlers plunked down on the Pacific Northwest coast.
They watched the ship sail away. During the many years of its writing I never allowed myself to read anything that postdated the year I was writing about, nor did I use any anachronistic word. Many readers bought and loved this bookaccording to my mail now at Yale. Latest text, Harper Perennial, Christian Bourgois Editeur, Mornings Like This includes found poems. I took phrases from old books and arranged them into poems, many ironic.
Each poem comprises phases from a different book. From a long list I culled from each old book. The poems do not concern the books' topics. A good trick should look hard and be easy.
These poems were a bad trick. They look easy and were really hard. The true-story topics in each of seven chapters are "birth, sand, China, clouds, numbers, Israel, encounters, thinker, evil, and now. Hasidism, Teilhard de Chardin and fossil Homo erectus, the formation of sand, the critical importance of the individual in a world of almost 7 billion individuals, and the absurdity of the doctrines of divine omniscience, divine mercy, and divine omnipotence.
Selected the entries and rewrote lots. Use this for latest short texts. The Maytrees is a short, spare novel of lifelong love between husband and wife. Many readers prefer The Maytrees with its spare prose, good story, and lack of metaphysicsto Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Other readers think that the prize necessarily goes to the best book. Tickets For a Prayer Wheel poems In this book of poems, I sounded many of the same themes to which I devoted my subsequent prose.
University of Missouri Press,
Annie Dillard did a phenomenal job with Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, and she’s one of my favorite writers, so I figured I could do little better for a book on writing. But rather than being a handbook on how to write, The Writing Life is a collection of stories accumulated during the writing of several books/5().
Annie Dillard's impassioned plea for the writing life is as hypnotic as it is tangible. She will take you to writing desks in remote cabins and isolated studies (keep the world out, as much as you can) to evoke the various stages of writing (elation, excitement, despair, immobility, doubt).4/5.
The Writing Life, by Annie Dillard, published in with pages of large font text is an easy read. It has weathered the almost two decades since it's first issue simply fine. It consists of six chapters which I've roughly titled: What writing is about, Where we write, The writing life, Writing a book, Being stuck, and The writer as an artist/5(11). Dear Annie Dillard, My name is Alexander Chee, and I’m a senior English major. I’ve taken Fiction 1 with Phyllis Rose and Advanced Fiction with Kit Reed, and last summer, I studied with Mary Robison and Toby Olson at the Bennington Writers Workshop.
The writing has changed, in your hands, and in a twinkling, from an expression of your notions to an epistemological tool. The new place interests you because it is not clear. The Writing Life - Kindle edition by Annie Dillard. Download it once and read it on your Kindle device, PC, phones or tablets. Use features like bookmarks, note taking and highlighting while reading The Writing Life/5().