Tag: Reflections from Ann S Epstein Writer

I don’t consider myself a “Jewish writer” or the author of “Jewish literature.” Most of the protagonists in my novels and stories are not Jewish; those who are, are not necessarily concerned with matters of religious faith, observance, or identity. However, I resonate with this statement by Dara Horn (scholar, novelist, and essayist author of People Love Dead Jews), who says, “My understanding of Jewish literature — descriptive, not prescriptive — is less about language and more about artistic humility. The best writers avoid giving their characters redemptive endings, or epiphanies, or moments of grace — things that our subtly Christian culture has taught us to expect from literature, and things that many of my favorite Hebrew and Yiddish writers clearly never even thought about. Instead, their stories rarely resolve because life rarely does. These authors are asking questions rather than providing answers” (Hadassah Magazine, November-December 2023). According to Horn’s definition, I am a Jewish writer. My stories have ambiguous endings. The characters may have hopes or hypotheses, but the narrative doesn’t provide a neat answer about what happens next in their lives. Nor are my badly behaving protagonists fully redeemed, although they may be working toward that end. Moses, the “hero” of the Torah, is praised for being a “humble” man. Likewise, honoring the story of our origins, Jewish writers are humble too. More in NOVELS and SHORT STORIES.

Why writers write: “I write to dispel the myths that I am a mad prophet or poor suffering soul.” – Gloria E. Anzaldúa

I adore chocolate and eat it very day. Yet I increasingly appreciate the taste of vanilla. Real vanilla (not artificial vanillin) is fruity and spicy-sweet with a mild floral aroma. So how did this complex flavor earn the epithet “plain vanilla,” synonymous with bland, boring, unadventurous, in short, blah? It wasn’t always so. In the 18th century, when vanilla was scarce, it was an incitement to lust. The Marquis de Sade purportedly spiked desserts with vanilla and Spanish fly. A German physician claimed to have turned “no fewer than 342 impotent men into astonishing lovers.” But when vanillin was synthesized in 1874, making it cheap and readily available, it lost its cache as a luxury. Fortunately, vanilla is undergoing a high-end revival, much like coffee and chocolate. Beans are now imported not only from Madagascar (source of 80 percent of the world’s vanilla), but also Hawaii, Mexico, Peru, India, Sri Lanka, Tanzania, and elsewhere. Each terroir brings its own distinctive flavor(s). Vanilla is once again classy. Might the same happen to trite literary metaphors, taken out of retirement like old clothes and paraded as vintage treasures? I nominate “sweet as honey,” given that the decline of the bee population has made honey scarce. What banal metaphors would you like to see revived?

There’s nothing “plain” about these fragrant vanilla beans

In “Go Long and Cut, or Write Short and Add?” (The Writer, 01/14/21), Libby Cudmore asks several writers to share their approach to creating first drafts. Cudmore defines the two methods as the “vomit,” in which the writer puts everything onto the page and cuts later, and the “skeleton,” in which they lay out the main characters and plot before adding details on the next round. The authors she interviews are split in their approach. I’m definitely a “vomit” rather than a “skeleton” first-drafter, with some caveats. For me, revision primarily means cutting or “killing my darlings.” By the time I’ve finished the first draft and go back to the beginning, I can judge when a scene is overdeveloped, redundant, or even irrelevant because a character or plot point has emerged more organically later or taken a different turn. That said, by the time I’m three-quarters of the way into the first draft, I start to fret about its burgeoning length and begin to write tighter. Also, because the narrative is so well established by then, I no longer feel an urge to cram in the back story. Basically, that “vomit” first draft is me talking to myself, getting my thoughts on the page so I don’t lose them. I also keep a “Parking Lot” file where I jot down ideas for later chapters, or things to remember when I revise earlier ones. I’m a child of the 60s, when we “let it all hang out.” As I age, I’m more selective about what hangs out and what remains tucked in. The same can be said of my manuscripts. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

Every writer strives to “nail the phrase” that captures an idea or clinches a scene. The writer-as-reader both applauds and envies when another author does. So kudos to Ian Frazier (“Rereading ‘Lolita,’” The New Yorker, December 14, 2020), describing driving down Old Route 66 as an adult: “I’ll see something I remember from my childhood, and the tiny neural address that held the memory in my brain will still be there.” I hope Frazier did a jig when the phrase “tiny neural address” danced into his mind. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.

“If you’re a storyteller, you face that notorious bugbear called an ending. Maybe you’ll write your way into it, or maybe you’ll plan it out in advance. Whatever your process, your ending needs to ring true. No tricks. No clichés” (“The Last Chapter” by Jack Smith, The Writer, December 2020). I begin with a general idea of how a story will end, but I write my way to the specifics. As I get to know characters and eavesdrop on scenes, the ending takes shape and changes. Whatever emerges, the ending must be earned to satisfy the writer and reader alike. Read more of my thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.

A truism of writing instruction is “Show, don’t tell.” Anton Chekhov admonishes “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Ernest Hemingway exhorts “Show readers everything, tell them nothing.” But not every writer agrees with this advice. Alexandra Schwartz, interviewing novelist and playwright Ayad Akhtar (“Making a Scene,” The New Yorker, September 21, 2020), reports “Writers of the show-don’t tell school might worry about didacticism undermining artistry, but Akhtar has a different philosophy. ‘Telling is amazing — some of my best experiences have been being told stuff,’ he told me.” My view is that it depends on the skill and balance with which each form is executed. A skillful teller can be engaging; an endless monologue devoid of interaction. An inventive shower can be enthralling; the relentless hammer of action exhausting. As Francine Prose says of Alice Munro, “Needless to say, many great [writers] combine dramatic showing with long sections of flat-out authorial narration.” More thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.

“Writing a book is like moving into an imaginary house. The author, the sole inhabitant, wanders from room to room, choosing furnishings, correcting imperfections, adding new wings” (“Labyrinths,” a profile of author Susanna Clark by Laura Miller, The New Yorker, September 14, 2020). I agree with Miller’s description, save one major modification. The book’s characters are also inhabitants. It’s true that the abode a writer creates is not a democracy; the final choices are made solely by the author. However, sometimes those other inhabitants persuade, insist, or nag the writer to make a different choice. Read more thoughts about writing in REFLECTIONS.

“One need not become another person, or to have had exactly the same experience, in order to imagine that person’s life — which is why the foundation of metaphor is empathy. Art and metaphor do not make other people’s experiences identical. They make other people’s experiences imaginable [italics author’s].” So says David Moser in Sontag: Her Life and Work, taking issue with Sontag’s final paragraph in Regarding the Pain of Others in which she claims we cannot understand or imagine what others have gone through unless we’ve served on the front lines with them. I agree with Moser, and bristle when creative people are accused of cultural appropriation, which denies our capacity for imagination and our right to empathize with the human condition. On the contrary, creativity demands that we go beyond our own boundaries and enter the world of the other. See more of my thoughts on writing in REFLECTIONS.

The July–August 2020 issue of Poets & Writers features thirteen quotes by “Authors on Creativity in Quarantine” describing their (in)ability to write during the pandemic. Says one guilt-free poet: “I’m not writing a lot creatively right now. I am having wonderful exchanges with my students. I go out and talk to my neighbors. I guess this will all end up in a poem. But maybe not. And that’s just fine” (Gabrielle Calvocoressi). COVID-19 has not affected the amount of creative writing I do. I still write every day. Nor do I feel compelled to act as a witness to the pandemic, although my characters may be more fearful, angrier, or in search of escape. But the act of writing itself remains constant. And that’s just fine. For more of my thoughts on writing, see REFLECTIONS.