It’s odd how self-promotion can suck the joy out of things you used to do for free

I’m sure most people who read or know about my blog think that I write here as a way of maintaining a footprint so that people will read / buy my book!

Actually this is far from the truth. I’ve been posting here for nine years, ever since August of 2008. In that time, the blog’s gone through the normal vicissitudes as my interest has peaked and faded and then peaked again. It’s even gone through one (rather recent) name change! But it’s never been about selling the book or promoting myself. Indeed, I’d rather hoped for the reverse effect: I’d hoped that the release of my book would draw more readers to this space!

However now that my book has come and gone (though not entirely, the paperback is still in stores!) and since I don’t have a book coming out next year (nor, most likely, the year after that), I am somehow feeling a lot less pressure to post here. Which is an odd thing, when you think about it, since, as I said, I was posting here long before there was even the prospect of a book (long before I was writing novels at all, in fact).

Anyways, I’m rolling with it.

My life has been thoroughly unexciting lately. I came back from my honeymoon. Ummm, I’ve been writing a lot. I read Anne Applebaum’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book about the gulag (it’s entitled, unsurprisingly, Gulag: A History), and now I’m reading Orlando Figes’s book about private life in Stalinist Russia: The Whisperers. I’m pretty fascinated by the Soviet Union. It was such utopianism on such a grand scale that it seems unimaginable to me, and I thoroughly understand why it captured the minds of so many leftists in the West. I also understand the history of conservatism much better. It’s a lot easier to see the value of conservatism when it’s positioned as a defense against this sort of radical social change (as opposed to when the radical social change is, say, school integration or gay marriage).

 

I think I’ve found the exact point where early-period Henry James transitions to middle-period Henry James

Was recently reading The Princess Casamassima, which is Henry James’s attempt to write a serious, naturalistic book about the emotional and physical life of the working class. Now I know some people are laughing at that sentence, but I don’t think it’s bad! The man is a master of psychology and characterization, and in this book he writes some characters that are truly deep and interesting, whether its Millicent Hemming, a beautiful shopgirl who thinks she’s sort of on top of the world, to Hyacinth Robinson, a bookbinder and anarchist who’s slowly swayed by the lure of the upper classes.

The first two thirds of the book were riveting. I loved the characters being introduced and the deepening and complication of their relationships.

But the last third was a slog! And as I was reading it, I was like…hmm…I remember this slog. It’s exactly like Henry James’s middle-period book What Maisie Knew, where the book turns into all this arch, sideways commentary between and about the various characters, and it feels like you’re lost in this labyrinth where everything is implied and never said.

And then I looked up when Henry James had written this book, and I realized he’d written it right after The Bostonians (one of my favorite of his books) and a few years before What Maisie Knew, and I was like ahah, I’ve found it! The exact moment where Henry James was like…screw this typical comedy of manners stuff, I am a master of this, and I can do it in my sleep. I’m gonna try something different.

Working on multiple projects at once

Hey blog readers! I’ve come back from my honeymoon feeling really creatively energized. I’ve got a bunch of stuff, in a bunch of genres, cooking at once. I’ve realized that often when I hit a stopping point in a project, it’s because there’s something I need to work out, and at that point the best thing to do is to step away and let my subconscious hammer away at it.

But then what do I do for the rest of my allotted writing time???

That’s why I’ve decided to work on multiple projects in a day. I have the projects prioritized in my mind, and I start with the one that I most want to make progress on. Then I write until I hit what I think is a stopping point, and then I’ve been moving on to a second project, and sometimes even a third project.

My second project is really interesting! It’s a YA fantasy novel I was working on in the summer of 2015. I got more than halfway through the book, but then I had some issues and started to feel like the book was really shitty. But I went back and reread it and was like No! This book is good! It contains the heart of longing!

So I picked it back up. I saw exactly why I’d stopped where I did: one of the plot strands had completely lost all momentum. But I went back and revamped it so it was thematically more attached to the rest of the narrative. And now the whole thing is humming along really well! It’s nice to be working on long-form speculative fiction. This book is an epistolary novel (very much inspired by Dangerous Liaisons, which is what I was reading that summer) about a non-magical boy who keeps trying to sweet-talk his way into a Hogwarts style wizarding school.

My tertiary projects vary. The other day I spent a bunch of time submitting stories. I’ve worked on revising some short stuff. Have tried my hand at some things I might self-publish. We’ll see! It’s nice to keep busy, though.

The strong can afford to play it safe; the weak need to gamble

TheRiseandFalloftheThirdReich.jpgSuddenly, for some weird unaccountable reason that has nothing to do with recent political developments, because obviously fascism is totally in the past and has nothing to do with our current post-racial post-nationalist utopia, I’ve become interested in the history of totalitarian regimes. Earlier in the year, I read quite a bit about Stalinist Russia (from which my takeaway was that it was astonishing how non-cynical and genuinely idealistic so many of those communists, including the leaders, happened to be–at times they would’ve achieved much better outcomes if they’d been a little more realistic), and now, over my honeymoon, I’ve made my way through William Shirer’s immense Rise And Fall Of The Third Reich.

In some ways I don’t know that this book is that great as an actual analysis of the reasons why Nazi Germany rose and developed the way it did. The book was written in the 50s, and it relies very heavily on the diaries and other communications by/from Germany political, military, and social leaders. As such, it tended to be more of a history of things people told themselves, rather than of things as they actually were.

However, I still was incredibly fascinated by all the little facets of Hitler’s rise that I wasn’t familiar with. Shirer begins with Hitler’s birth and upbringing, and he goes through to the establishment of the Nazi Party, and then his consolidation of power. There was just so much great stuff. All through our honeymoon, I kept going to Rachel and being like, “Wow, Hitler is doing some really insane stuff!”

For instance, I think one of the most fascinating things is that, after the abortive Beer Hall Putsch, Hitler transformed the Nazi Party into a genuine political party: one that contested and fought elections. They used strong arm tactics, it’s true, but they actually campaigned and won real elections, in which the terms were largely set by their political opponents. But then, the moment Hitler became Chancellor, and I mean literally on that day and on that week, he systematically dismantled his country’s democracy! I mean this is like if Donald Trump had, within his first year in office, said that there were gonna be no more state governments–the states would all be under the direct control of the federal government–and no more elections–and no more uncensored speech–and established a single party state–and created a secret police–and–and–

It was an astonishingly nimble maneuver. I would think, just sitting at home in my armchair, that organizations designed to contest elections would, necessarily, be democratic, and that they would be unwilling to accept this sort of totalitarian dominance. But nope the Nazi Party was an entire organization that was as cynical as Hitler and as committed to pursuing power by any means.

I also realized that much of Hitler’s success just came from the fact that he was willing to take astonishingly large gambles. Other people might move cautiously when it comes to taking power, but nope, Hitler is like I’m gonna get appointed dictator within a few months of taking office. And in the early years of his expansion, Hitler routinely left his border with France totally uncovered in order to invade the Sudetenland or invade Austria or invade Poland. He took massive risks, of the sort you’re really not supposed to take. But I think his reasoning was that he was in an inherently weak position, and the only way for the weaker party to win is to be willing to risk more than the big guys.

Which put a lot of things in perspective for me. There are in this world so many seemingly incompetent people who are huge successes, and the temptation is to be like, well, maybe they’re secret geniuses. But they’re not! Really they’re just gamblers. Like Trump, every time he opened his mouth, he bet big. Other politicians would backpedal and avoid the shit he said, because they might be able to win by playing it safe, but Trump could only win if he was able to set himself apart.

I don’t think this is an analysis Trump made though! I think that there have ALWAYS been gamblers in American political life: Ralph Nader, Bernie Sanders, Jesse Jackson, Lyndon LaRouche, George Wallace, Theodore Roosevelt (the third time he ran), William Jennings Bryan, Abraham Lincoln. And when the historical moment has been right, and the Republic has been at its weakest and most troubled, these gamblers have tended to win.

 

I was explaining this to Rachel and she was like, “Hmm, so we need to be willing to take big risks, then?”

And I was like, “I don’t know if that’s the takeaway.”

The problem is, you don’t know if now is your moment. Nobody does! Most gamblers fail! Political life contains a hundred thousand Donald Trumps who never went anywhere. And there’s no way, a priori, of knowing if you’re going to be the one who wins or the one who loses. The thing about gambling is that in the long run, you usually lose.

And it was the same with Hitler. He never really changed throughout his regime. Up to the last days of the war, he was still making big gambles. But the numbers eventually told against him.

The smart advice is “Don’t risk anything you can’t afford to lose.” But, historically, the most successful gamblers have risked plenty they couldn’t afford to lose. Lincoln and the Republican party risked the entire American experiment. They wagered with the lives of millions of people, free and enslaved. But the secessionists were big gamblers too. They risked even more than Lincoln, and they lost big. Hillary Clinton, when fighting the election, knew she was wagering not just her political future but with our entire nation’s, and she chose to play it safe. But the mere fact that she lost doesn’t mean she was wrong to do so! The things she did, and the way she fought, were designed to minimize Donald Trump’s chances of victory. If she’d gambled bigger, it would’ve entailed risks that, in the long run, probably would’ve eroded her chances of winning.

I think in any contest, assuming all you want is to win, I think what makes sense the most sense is for stronger opponent–the one who has the weight of money and institutional support–to play it safe, and for the weaker opponent to gamble.

The problem is that most big contests in real life don’t have repeats. What happens is what happens, and you either win or you lose. But if you view all American elections as being a continuation of the same contest, you see that playing it safe tends to be the better choice. Like what if, in 1992,  either Clinton and Bush, seeing Perot temporarily in the lead, had pivoted and turned into insurgents? Well, probably the other major-party candidate would’ve won. But if Perot had won (which, for a while, you’ll remember, looked VERY possible), there’d have been a bunch of post-facto analysis about how the major party candidates dropped the ball.

A lot of pollsters got shit for not predicting Trump’s victory, but I, like everybody I know, was checking 538 every single day, and Nate Silver put Trump’s chances of victory at, like, 25 percent. He crunched the numbers and showed that there was high variability in some key states, which is why Trump had a higher chance of winning than Romney had had 4 years earlier, despite having the same poll numbers. And the mere fact that Trump won doesn’t invalidate his analysis.

Similarly, people are calling for major changes in what the Democratic party stands for and in how it fights elections, and I think those are merited, both for political and moral reasons, but not because of this election. In fact, if anything, the Democratic party is much stronger than the Republican party in presidential politics, and it is well-served by playing it safe. The Democratic party is weak because of the nature of our federal system, which gives seventy senators to thirty percent of the population. That’s a structural weaknesss, of exactly the sort that merits gambling.

In this, as with everything, what works best is to have actual principles and beliefs. If you have true moral beliefs then you don’t need to decide whether to gamble or to play it safe, because you’re not simply playing to win: you’re playing to win right. If you have real moral beliefs, then there are terms on which you’d refuse to win and there are things for which you believe it is truly important to speak out for. Unfortunately, I think having real, deeply-felt moral beliefs is generally a gamble in political life. Which is not to say that no moral people exist in politics! In fact I think politics is full of moral people: it’s just that the winners tend to be those with moral systems that are compatible with the, to me, abhorrent things that an American politician (wage aggressive war, support the prison state, maintain universal surveillance, etc) needs to espouse in order to win elections.

That’s the problem with gambling. You are not unique and special, and you don’t get to win just because you’re a risk-taker. No, if you gamble, then you’re giving yourself over to the zeitgeist, and you will only win if your particular gamble happens to fit the needs of the people.

One way into the heart of longing is through envy

Yesterday I was walking through Zurich’s Aaldstadt, the old city (yes, I’m still on my honeymoon), and it was sunny and the cobblestoned streets were full of young, beautiful, carefree people who were sitting at cafes and wandering the parks (just like me), and I was like…sigh. I want to be like them. I want to feel the way that I imagine they feel. I want to project the image that they project.

And I was thinking, as I walked, that there are so many people in the world that I envy, and that this might be a way to get into the heart of longing, so I got back home and I made a list of people I envy. I’m not gonna share it here, because it’s private, but the entries aren’t specific names, they’re actually very general (i.e. esteemed poets; rock stars; people who live with their best friends). But in each of the entries I saw a possible story.

I want to get good at something meaningful

I’ve been playing computer games recently, and it’s been really fun. There’s this service I signed up for: Nvidia GeForce NOW. It lets you play games on your crappy mac! Mine has no graphics card or anything, and I can play the best games at the best graphics settings. Basically the game is installed on some virtual machine someplace, and they just stream it to you. The whole thing is game-changing. Oh yeah, and you can also play PC games on a Mac, no problem.

Anyway I’ve been playing this Lord of the Rings game: Shadow of Mordor. It’s an open world game, sort of Grand Theft Auto style, where you’re a ranger trapped in Mordor, trying to assemble an army to take down Sauron. The game has a really steep learning curve. Basic combat is difficult to master, especially in the beginning, when you have no powers. Anyway before leaving on my honeymoon I played a bunch of this game, and it was really satisfying to get better at it! By the end, I’d finally gained the skills to be able to just hop into combat, no sneaking around or gathering resources necessary, and kill forty or fifty orcs.

But at the same time, the whole thing is a bit stupid. It’s not meaningful in the least. Playing games is blowing off steam, but it’s qualitatively quite different from reading books or watching TV. The latter are pretty passive, they don’t require much from you. You’re a receptacle. But when you play games, you’re gaining mastery. You’re improving yourself.

I feel like maybe that’s something which is missing from my life. I want to get good at something meaningful. Please no suggestions! I know you’ll just tell me to meditate or learn a language or some crap. No thank you. I’d like it to be something meaningful FOR ME, and I think I have a different definition of meaningful from other people.

We’ll see though. I’m gonna ponder it.

When you find the heart of longing, things begin coming up

I’m writing a book now about a guy who drinks very heavily; I don’t think I’ve ever had a hard-drinking character (though I’ve had sober characters), because when you write somebody who drinks a lot, you also need to convey the upside of drinking. It can’t all be vomiting and sadness! There’s a majesty (at least on the inside) to real drunkenness and real alcoholism, and if you can’t get into that, then all you’ve done is pathologized your character and stripped them of their individuality.

Anyway, so this character drinks very heavily, and I feel like I’m starting to get into their heart of longing, because when I write, things come up. I’ll be writing something, and suddenly I’ll be able to feel things from my drinking days that I’d forgotten up until this moment. Little bits of sense impression, fragments of feelings, and other detritus.

I don’t think that our brain stores memories haphazardly. I think it only stores things that are connected to deep emotions, and when things start coming back to you, then you know you’re beginning to touch on those emotions.

(Yes I am doing a little writing on my honeymoon. What, am I supposed to quite entirely for two weeks?)

Gonna be afk for awhile

I started my honeymoon a few days ago, but I joked on Facebook that I wasn’t gonna bother setting a vacation reply on my email because, who was I kidding, of course I was gonna check my email while I was gone! However now I’m learning that the villa we booked on Lake Como (I know, it’s like the setting of a Henry James novel) doesn’t have internet, so I guess I will be out of touch for awhile!!!

Talk to y’all later!

I guess it’s not really surprising that young adult fiction might have an ageism problem

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Been thinking a lot about ageism within the writing community. More specifically, about younger writers shutting out or belittling older writers. Ageism to me is fascinating, because it’s the only form of prejudice where you go from oppressed to oppressor and then back to oppressed, and in most cases this happens without you even realizing.

Like, when you’re a kid it makes sense to hate on older people, because you’re establishing your independence. But at some point, without even realizing it, you become a person in the prime of your life—somebody who has real power within your local sphere—but, in most cases, you continue to perceive yourself as a Young Turk who’s doing battle with your elders.

You see this so much in the tech sector, here in San Francisco, where you have people in their mid-to-late twenties who are working in positions of power, and they’re still talking about older people as if they’re old fogies who’re set in their ways, without realizing…this is gross. These people you’re talking about aren’t your teachers, and they’re not your parents. They’re not people who’re using their age as a way of controlling you. Instead they’re coming to you, asking for collaboration and for jobs, and you’re dismissing them because of their age.

But the young’uns don’t realize it, because they never adjusted to thinking of themselves as powerful people.

In most fields, of course, the effect is muted, because, at least up until retirement age, older people continue to have most of the power. For instance, in academia (and I’m including creative writing academia here), younger academics might have age-prejudice, but I wouldn’t call them ageist, because the older professors in the department, even when they’ve ceased to publish or contribute, oftentimes still have an outsized amount of power.

In traditional fields, you see ageism manifest at the outskirts, whenever younger people with middling status have to interact with older people who have low or declining status. For instance, older lecturers in departments get treated even worse than younger lecturers, because younger lecturers, it’s assuming, might be on their way someplace. Older middle managers are treated worse than younger middle managers, and it’s for the same reason. Whenever older people have the same status as younger people, it’s assumed that the older person is less innovative and intelligent, even though both might have the same productivity.

 

As I said, in literary fiction, academia is a countervailing force, creating an institutional environment in which older people can hold onto power. And in science fiction and fantasy, fandom serves much the same function. Because fan activities are grounded and controlled by older people (so far as I can tell) and Hugo voting also skews older, there remains a place for older people (which you can see in the case of older writers who get nominated for awards even after younger ones have begun to dismiss them).

But I’ve found that the young adult field is rank with ageism. It’s probably the worst environment for it that I’ve ever seen, because there’s no countervailing force that gives older people an advantage. First of all, the field is new. There was no young adult publishing, at least as we know it, twenty years ago. Secondly, it has no memory. Careers don’t even last for five years. There’s at least fifty percent attrition (if not more!) between book one and book two. The number of people who put out a book three is probably less than ten percent. This field chews up people and spits them out. Afterwards, I have no idea where they (we?) go. I’m pretty sure they (we?) just quite writing. In YA, an “older” writer who’s successful might be someone like Stephanie Meyer or Gayle Forman (who’re both only in their forties!) Even our “Old Guard” is barely into middle age.

Finally, this is a field that is about the magical primacy of teenagerhood, and it’s dedicated to the notion that there is nothing teenagers can’t do, and that there’s no feeling or thought that they’re not capable of. And when you’re surrounded by those sorts of semiotics, it’s sort of unavoidable that you would slowly begin to discount the value of age.

As a result, at YA writer events, you usually see cliques form by age. The twentysomethings hang out together, the thirtysomethings hang out together, and the fortysomethings hang out together. I don’t know where the fifty- and sixtysomethings go. They get shunted aside fully. As I said, I don’t think the YA field even has a place in its cultural imagination for people who’re over fifty, so most of what I’m talking about here is ‘age discrimination’ against people who’re, like, forty-seven.

Now I don’t necessarily think this is the worst thing in the world. America today, at least amongst the sorts of middle- and upper-class people who write YA books, is a pretty age-segregated place. There are entire neighborhoods and towns where only young people live, or where all the homes are “starter” homes. I’m thirty-one, and I go to parties here in San Francisco, and I almost never see somebody who’s older than forty (this is not the case, I’ll note, in other places, especially rural areas, or in ethnic and religious enclaves, in rural Oregon, in Salt Lake City, and at certain Indian events, I’ve been shocked at times to see people of all ages getting drunk together). I think all of this makes us really unused to socializing with older people, which, after all, is something different from socializing with younger people. You’re gonna talk about different shit. Have different concerns. Maybe have different political opinions. So if people gravitate to others of their own age, I totally get it.

Where it becomes a problem is when one of the ages is more powerful than the other ages. And in YA writing, I think it’s true, the perception exists that the younger you are, the more likely you are to get buzz and to succeed as a writer.

Now I don’t know how true this perception this. It could be entirely false. As I said, I don’t think New York publishing necessarily cares a lot about the age of a debut author.

But because the perception exists amongst authors, I think it leads to a lot of resentment when younger people hang out together. Because in that case it’s not just like cleaving to like, it’s actually the Hot Young Things all getting together and hording their success.

Furthermore, it can lead to some desperate social maneuvers that (somewhat comically) oftentimes resemble an inverted high school, with older writers doing their best to speak and dress in a younger fashion so as to ingratiate themselves with younger authors. None of which is something I think is particularly necessary, by the way! I don’t think popularity with other authors correlates with your book’s success. These are all just neurotic games that we play. But the fact is that while we’re waiting to succeed or fail, we still have to live in this social environment, and I think these sorts of social dynamics make it into a more unpleasant place for everybody.

Some advice to aspiring writers on how to search for the heart of longing

tolkien-biopic.jpgIn earlier posts I’ve written somewhat about the heart of longing, and I believe I might even have said that there’s no point in writing anything unless you begin with the heart of longing. This is the sort of thing that people often say: “There’s no point in writing unless you are (pure of heart / care only about the work / find that you can’t do anything else / etc / etc).” And people say this stuff even though they know it’s complete bullshit.

People don’t write because they’ve found some mystical, transcendent reason for writing. No, they usually begin writing because of vanity. It’s the same reason kids aspire to be actors or rock stars. Writing is a romantic occupation. People admire writers. Bookish kids, especially, tend to admire writers. And if you’re a bookish kid, you often want, more than anything, to be like the hero of a book. And since bookish kids are unlikely to grow up and slay dragons, they oftentimes decide that they want to be artistic heroes. They’d like to be Ray Bradbury slaving away at a rented typewriter in his library. They’d like to be a thin, ascetic J.R.R. Tolkien smoking a pipe and dreaming up entire languages. They want to Auntie Jane Austen, who sits at her escritoire in the parlor like all the other old maids, but who, unbeknownst even to her kin, is producing works that’ll last for two hundred years.

That is where the impulse to write comes from.

So given that you’re beginning totally backwards, not with any idea in mind or anything in particular to say, but only with the vague, unformed desire to live a bold and interesting life, how do you go about writing a book?

This is where so much writing advice breaks down, since much of it is given out by freaks. Yes, some minority of writers do blaze with a singular and unique vision even at an early age, and it’s these writers who tend to reap a disproportionate amount of success in the field and, hence, position themselves later as dispensers of advice.

And as for the rest of the advice-givers, I think the long years of failure in this field will often alter you in ways that it’s difficult to see and understand. We began, at age 14 or 18 or 22 or 25 or 45 with these romantic notions, but those ideas fade after awhile, because: a) we never achieve any success; b) whatever success we do achieve tends to be so unsatisfying that we find it difficult to believe we ever lusted after it; and c) we eventually discover our voices and, as the joys of success fade, we find that the joy we take in the writing tends to increase.

Thus we end up, in middle age, saying things like, “It’s not worth writing unless you start out with the heart of longing.” Because this is something that we, after twelve or fifteen years of striving, have learned on such an intuitive level that we’ve forgotten we ever felt differently.

 

So much nonsense has been written about finding your creativity. The real, honest truth is that everybody has to come by their creativity in their own way. There are some people who call up the muse with a snap of the fingers; they know exactly what they want to write, and they sit down and do it on command. And it’s these people who perpetuate the notion that writing is a craft. They’re the ones who say stuff like, “Writer’s block is a ridiculous notion. Writing is a job, just like being a plumber, and have you ever heard of plumbers getting plumber’s block?”

But the truth is, writing is not like being a plumber. Plumbers aren’t presented with a blank space and told, “Hey, do something with this! Maybe it ought to involve water and shitting? I don’t know. Be creative! But also make me feel something. Oh yeah, and it should preferably appeal to enough people that a major multinational corporation can make money off of it.”

Writing is about creation something from nothing. It’s a creative profession. And in every creative profession, people are at the mercy of their own imaginations. Sometimes that thing you need—the idea or the character or the setting or whatever—simply does not come.

Not being able to find the heart of longing is simply one possible way that a writer’s imagination can fail them. There are others, and many of these other failure states are much harder to remedy.

But right now I’m talking about the heart of longing. And I think that as writers, especially writers of genre fiction, we’re often a little bit scared to write from a place that’s very personal. For one thing, we might be afraid that our ‘very personal’ place is trite and that nobody will care about it. If you’re a white woman in your late twenties or early thirties who’s afraid of never finding love, for instance, then you might think, oh the world has enough of this, and nobody will want to read it. Nothing new can come from this. I ought to write a story about a soldier returning home from Iraq to a nation that’s forgotten him.

Or if you’re a geeky kid who grew up playing video games and watching sci-fi movies, then maybe you’re so accustomed to reading and watching narratives about people who’re very different from you (gun-toting space marines, for instance) that you’ve lost sight of the connection between that space marine, who seems to never feel any pain or misery, and your own longing to be a hero. When we read or watch something in order to be transported to somewhere new, we often purposefully obscure or turn away from the things within ourselves that are driving this desire to escape.

But I don’t think you can write a decent Star Wars or a Lord of the Rings or a Dune unless you’re in touch with exactly those things. Paradoxically, it’s only by delving deep within ourselves that we will be able to create works that allow other people to transcend their own fears.

Which is to say that in some ways finding the heart of longing isn’t an imaginative act at all. It’s the opposite. I think it’s about looking inside yourself and finding the places where longing stirs within you. What do you want? What are you afraid of losing?

And I don’t mean that you should articulate these desires. Anything that can be plainly explicated is useless as a source for fiction, because fiction is about those feelings that can’t be conveyed except through actions and images. What I’m saying is that if you want to find the heart of longing, you should observe yourself as you move through the world. Where do you experience longing? And not just desire: I’m talking about that bone-deep, painful longing. Where do you experience the feelings that you’re afraid to admit even to yourself?

Every writer has at least one longing, which is the desire to write a great book. But the longings I am talking about go so much deeper than that. The longing to write a great book is almost a paltry one, because it’s something that’s within your power. You can sit down, day after day, and try to write a book. But in your life, you contain desires that are already lost to you. I will never be a secret agent. I will never walk on Mars. I will never be Casanova. These things are not possible for me. And yet the desires remain inside me. If you can find those scarred places, then that’s where you’ll find the heart of longing.

Initially, these desires will only reveal themselves in the briefest glimpses. I mean you’ll feel a pang and then, quicker than you catch hold of it, the pang will be gone, and while you’ll be left with the memory of its passing, you won’t remember the feeling of it.

The effort to pin down these desires is a tough one. The temptation is to take the memory of the desire and try to write something immediately. But that won’t work; you’ll produce something that’s nothing more than a pastiche of other things you once loved.

What you need is to work to reproduce the desire itself. When you write, think about that desire, and whenever you write something that makes the desire flicker to life, then you should follow that trail until the desire dies down. Finally, after some time, it’s possible that you’ll hit upon a voice—not a first-person voice, necessarily, but a certain cadence and rhythm and set of words and images—that make this desire come to life more fully than it ever has before. And once you have that voice, you can begin to write your book.

In my experience the search for the heart of longing is never something that happens entirely behind the keyboard or computer screen. You can’t sit alone in a room and conjure up the heart of longing. If your hunt for the heart of longing takes place entirely behind the computer screen, you’ll end up producing a whisper of something that feels sort of right, and then saying to yourself, “Well that’s it. That’s the real thing.”

But if you occasionally go out into the world and experience the desire in its natural habitat, you’ll see that what you’ve made doesn’t really capture the real thing at all, and you’ll go back to work and produce something better.

And yet…most of the work does need to take place while you’re alone, struggling with the words. Because finding the heart of longing is only the start of the journey; the real work comes when we try to create something, on the page, that can arouse that longing within other people.