Y’all may not have noticed, but I truly love Margaret Atwood.
Gems recently unearthed from my online reading include:
George Saunders on what writers really do when they write is, hands down, the best description I’ve read of the writing process.
If you somehow missed the news, The Handmaid’s Tale is being newly adapted for television and is back on bestseller lists. Here’s Margaret Atwood on what her seminal novel means in the age of Trump.
I saw Get Out over the weekend.This movie works because it’s not only a chilling and entertaining horror movie, but it also comments in a meta way on the tropes of horror movies while exposing the societal issues we truly fear, which is what good horror should do. Here’s an interesting analysis on how Get Out exposes the myth of a postracial America, but beware–it has spoilers galore, and it’s best seeing this movie without know much about it.
Ever wonder why you never hear about Midwestern literature in the same sense as the Southern novel or the Western? I enjoy reading books with a strong sense of place. But I must confess that while I avidly track my reading of Southern, Western, and New England literature, and I can easily see the themes and connections running through those books, I never track my Midwestern reading. It just doesn’t seem to hold as much interest for me, as the Midwest doesn’t seem to be as much of a “character” as these other region are. Why literature and pop culture still can’t get the Midwest right.
Hag-Seed is Margaret Atwood’s contribution to the Hogarth Shakespeare series, which are retellings of Shakespeare plays set in contemporary times. (Previously, I read The Gap of Time by Jeanette Winterston, also in this series.) Atwood takes on one of my favorite Shakespeare plays, The Tempest, locating it in the world of small-time Canadian politics. Felix (Prospero), an avant-garde director at a local theatre festival, is betrayed and booted from his position by his partner Tony (Antonio). Felix exiles himself to a hovel in the middle of nowhere for twelve years, dreaming of revenge, but when he begins to see shades of his dead daughter Miranda (who grows older as time passes), he realizes he needs to get out of the house more. He takes a job teaching Shakespeare to medium-security prisoners, when the opportunity for revenge presents itself.
This was a mostly light-hearted retelling of The Tempest, and I like that Atwood managed to include a play within a play by staging The Tempest itself at the prison–how very Shakespearean of her. The prisoners themselves were affable and sympathetic, if somewhat indistinguishable, while the politicians were, of course, buffoons. Felix is a bit of a pathetic character, but Atwood deepens the story by adding the ghost of his daughter to the cast of characters. If you don’t know much about The Tempest before you begin, you will after you finish, as Atwood mixes in plenty of literary criticism. While somewhat gimmicky, and therefore feeling a trifle forced, this was overall an entertaining read.
The short book, Negotiating with the Dead, is a collection of six lectures Margaret Atwood gave on writing. This is not a typical writing handbook, dispensing now-cliched advice like “write what you know” and “show, don’t tell.” Rather, Atwood tackles the question of what does it mean to “be a writer?” What is the writer, anyway, and why are writers compelled to write? She ends up posing more questions than she answers.
The six lectures each address a different aspect of the Writer. Using examples from literature, poetry, and mythology, Atwood positions the writer as six archetypes. Indeed, each of her lectures could describe types of story as well as facets of the storyteller (more on that in a later post). Atwood’s insights are unusual but will ring true to anyone who has felt the urge to write, or indeed, to any creator, I suspect.
The following are my notes on each lecture. However, to gain full understanding of Atwood’s insights, you should read the book; it won’t take you long, and if you are interested in writing or literature, it is worth it.
(1) Orientation: Who do you think you are? What is “a writer,” and how did I become one?
“Who do you think you are?” is the question every writer gets asked, and every writer asks him/herself. Is the writer special? Society seems to accord the writer a certain respect. The writer cannot distinguish between the real and imagined: “Every life lived is also an inner life, a life created.”
(2) Duplicity: The jekyll hand, the hyde hand, and the slippery double. Why there are always two.
Every writer is a double: one-half does the living, one-half does the writing. “The writer is obscured by the image he himself has created.” The author is “the name without any body except a body of work.”
The printed text is like a musical score. New readers make the text new by finding fresh meaning in it. The “act of reading is like playing music and listening to it at the same time and the reader becomes his own interpreter.”
(3) Dedication: The great god pen. Apollo vs. Mammon: at whose altar should the writer worship?
The writer as priest/ess, serving “the potentially destructive cult of art for art’s sake.” The writer sacrifices him/herself for art and forfeits the “human ability to feel.”
In the question of money versus art, Atwood reaches no real conclusion except that women have it harder (always).
(4) Temptation: Prospero, the Wizard of Oz, Mephisto & Co. Who waves the wand, pulls the strings, or signs the Devil’s book?
Writers are haunted by their own inconsequence. “Nobody hates writers more than writers do. Nobody loves them more either.”
When money and power intersect art, they control what the writer may produce. This is the outside world’s influence. In other words, how much for your soul?
Where the writer influences the outside world, this is the writer’s social responsibility. What is the writer’s duty?
“The suffering will occur whether you like it or not.” Suffering is a result of writing, rather than a cause. Publishing is like being put on trial.
Trying for power is unethical, but not engaging with the world risks irrelevance. Is there a self-identity for the writer that combines responsibility with artistic integrity? Possibly the witness.
Can anything and everything be viewed as material? Not only does the writer lose the soul, but also the heart. The cold-eyed artist observes and records.
It isn’t the writer who decides whether his/her work is relevant–it’s the reader.
(5) Communion: Nobody to Nobody. The eternal triangle: the writer, the reader, and the book as go-between.
The common writerly dilemma is the question: Who is going to read this?
For whom does the writer write? Where is the writer when the reader is reading? (Not in the same room). The writer is the invisible man–not there but also solidly there at the same time.
The reader is a spy who overhears or trespasses. The reader is “nobody” (you, dear reader, constant reader). But the reader is also the reading public (the “admiring Bog”).
Books must travel from reader to reader to stay alive.
(6) Descent: Negotiating with the dead. Who makes the trip to the Underworld, and why? (This is the key chapter.)
All writing is motivated by a fear of and fascination with mortality. Writing is linked closely to anxiety about one’s own personal extinction. It is desire for (grasping at) immortality. Writing has apparent permanence; it survives its own performance.
Storytelling is the relation of events unfolding through time, and time runs out for everyone. The dead are situated outside of time but persist in the minds of the living. They know the past and the future. We can gain knowledge (stories) from them.
The dead can talk if you know how to listen, and they want to talk. Give the dead what they want to get what we want (knowledge, luck, protection, riches, glory, lost love). They want blood (life, sacrifice, revenge, food). However, they will retaliate if the deal is broken.
All writers learn from the dead. The dead control the past, so they also control the stories, and the truth. The writer makes the journey from “now” to “once upon a time.”
The writer goes to the Underworld (any “other world” outside of time) and brings back stories. The story is in the dark. The writer is of both worlds (double-natured).
It’s easy to go there but hard to come back. Then you must write it all down. Then the right reader must come along so it can speak.
A book is another country. You enter it, but then you must leave. You can’t live there. Even if someone is briefly brought to life in the writing, they are always lost again.
“By my voice I shall be known.”
Not full reviews or even necessarily recommendations, just some notes on what I’ve been reading.
I will never read all the dystopian and post-apocalyptic fiction out there, but I keep trying. This month I read a very early apocalypse story by Jack London: The Scarlet Plague (free to read online). This short story feels like an ur-story for George Stewart’s Earth Abides (also set in San Francisco). It doesn’t really have a plot; rather, it’s just a description of civilization’s quick fall from disease and a meditation on how easily humanity could return to savagery. Frequent readers of apocalyptic fiction will recognize a lot of ideas that were later fleshed out by other writers, but London should get credit for being one of the first. This might also be considered an early steampunk story, as well. London’s vision of the future–the plague hits in 2013–includes dirigibles and steam power, as well as some radically altered version of U.S. government. However, it’s also terribly classist and sexist. But it’s short enough to read in one sitting and would be of interest to anyone studying this genre of fiction.
I also read Margaret Atwood’s latest dystopia: The Heart Goes Last. (I linked to the NYT review, which I pretty much agree with.) Not every book by a favorite author can be great (with the exception of Jane Austen). Inevitably, a disappointment comes along, and here comes one from an author who is a personal hero of mine. Atwood’s messaging regarding security and freedom is pretty heavy-handed, the sexual content is more than a little disturbing, and the end just left me cold. It feels like a throw-off and certainly in no way resembles Atwood’s more masterful dystopias, Oryx and Crake and The Handmaid’s Tale.
I do have a book recommendation to post soon, and I am just starting another post-apocalyptic novel: Gold Fame Citrus by Claire Vaye Watkins.
“The pile of unread books we have on our bedside tables is often referred to as a graveyard of good intentions. The list of unread books on our Kindles is more of a black hole of fleeting intentions.” — Craig Mod
The New York Times says print is far from dead, and Craig Mod asks if digital books will ever replace print. After a torrid but brief love affair, I admit that I have been reading less on the Kindle and succumbing more to the allure of physical books. I still use the Kindle for throwaway books, travel, library books, and sampling. I think it is a terrific tool that has its uses, but it is not a replacement for books as objects. When I catalog my reads, I always categorize Kindle books as “read but unowned,” because books on the Kindle do not feel like they are really mine.
Margaret Atwood again: She says now is not the time for realistic fiction. When is it ever the time? If you’re looking for some wonderfully unrealistic fiction, try Jeff VanderMeer’s Southern Reach trilogy, among the best books I’ve read all year; here’s a piece about writing it by VanderMeer in The Atlantic.
More great stuff from Margaret Atwood! Brain Pickings shares a short animation that accompanies Atwood’s meditation on how technology shapes storytelling. Worth watching.