“Ever tried? Ever failed? Try again. Fail again. Fail better.” Every writer knows the quote. Every writer knows failure. If you are a writer and you disagree, good for you. I have known failure.
I did an MFA. My final project was a collection of short stories, now called Grow Me Up and Other Oaths. Two years after I graduated from the MFA program, I was awarded a contract to publish Grow Me Up with a small publisher from the South. It made sense. Most of the stories took place in the South and took influence from my experience living in the Deep South from age five until almost eighteen, seminal years during which I read Flannery O’Connor, William Faulkner, and Eudora Welty in my English classes. The publisher sent a contract. I signed it. And we were on our way. At the end of the summer of 2012, I decided that I could put aside that project, since it would be published, and begin a new one. This new project was inspired by my visit to my partner’s birthplace: Odessa, Ukraine.
I wrote a post on Facebook much less detailed than this one, received several likes, and felt very validated. The publisher was small, but I felt like I was “making it.” When I asked about a publication date, I was dismayed to hear that it would be a couple of years before the book was published. I mentioned the long wait to Tobias Wolff, and he told me to look for another publisher.
In 2014, two years after I signed the contract, a month before the birth of my first daughter, I received an email from the publisher announcing that they were closing and that upcoming publications, including my own, were canceled. Having a baby on the way, I didn’t take the time one should to grieve the death of that project. Meanwhile, I was still working on this monster of a novel that I had begun when I had thought that I was “making it.”
So that’s what I mean when I say failure. Maybe I could rethink, rewrite the narrative to mean something else. I could resent the publisher for closing. I could blame a number of people and other factors for what happened. I continued along my path.
Since I was awarded that contract in 2012, I have become the father of two women. I have been first-hand witness to more than one person’s death. I have learned of horrible things that have happened in the past to those closest to me. These secrets cause me suffering. There has been joy. There has been pain. There has been a pandemic. I have failed and failed and failed. I can think that the failure has become better.
The project I began in 2012, a novel about Odessa, Ukraine, a woman from there, an Odessitka, and an American who learns Russian and travels there, this project is older than my oldest child. Are our works our children? They certainly demand and receive a lot of our attention.
The project, titled Two Big Differences, will be published by MGraphics in Fall 2021. It is slightly older than nine years, almost a quarter of my life.
At this point, I don’t believe in perfection. I also still have trouble believing it’s going to happen this time. I keep waiting for that email…I like to think that, if I’m still failing, at least I’m failing better, that right now what’s happening is the best of my failure, that I’ll keep trying. If you would like to read my novel, please reach out. It should be available this coming season.
George Saunders’ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: In Which Four Russians Give a Master Class on Writing, Reading, and Life is the latest popular writing craft manual to come out from a major publisher (Random House). Is it a writing craft manual or a collection of lectures such as Vladimir Nabokov’s Lectures on Literature? The former genre suggests a presentation of the idea that the manual is a guide on increasing the literary merit of one’s creative writing. The latter is one well-published writer’s theses about various works of literature.
As a manual on craft, A Swim has certainly been helpful to me and my process. It has given me new approaches and renewed a sense that this craft is one that eludes overthinking while also becoming more difficult the more a writer-practitioner develops. Saunders’ ideas suggest a way of “thinking with the story,” as David Jauss writes in On Writing Fiction, another book on craft.
But what troubled me in A Swim was the unanswered question of whether Saunders believes in universal literary merit, a quantifiable rubric with which to evaluate the “publishability” of a writer’s work. As Saunders writes in the chapter about Leo Tolstoy’s “Master and Man”: “I’ve worked with so many wildly talented writers over the years that I feel qualified to say that there are two things that separate writers who go on to publish from those who don’t.” Is that a guarantee? Is that what A Swim offers? It seems likely, then, that we’re reading the former genre.
The idea of universal literary merit is not new in American belles lettres. For example, we have the Best American series. Several years ago, a poet who, I presume, normally identified as a white male, submitted poems to Prairie Schooner under the Chinese, typically female name Yi-Fen Chou. These poems were later anthologized in Best American Poetry…, edited by Sherman Alexie, who admitted that he felt a kinship with Chou based on the presumed ethnicity of the poet. In a commentary on the controversy, poet Kazim Ali wrote in The Rumpus that any idea of universal literary merit is “predicated on a system of privileges based on race, class, gender, physical and mental abilities, sexuality and other factors.” I agree.
So we have an immediate problem with this new book on craft, one that the publishing industry would most likely hope to avoid. There has been a lot of discussion of #ownvoices, something any writer querying agents knows. According to Erik Hane and Laura Zats at Print Run podcast, the hashtag began as a way for readers to discover writers with whom they shared an identity group. But the publishing industry soon co-opted it, and it became a way to authenticate identity rather than simply connect readers with writers who identify as they do.
So why does Saunders use Russian writers specifically? They must be translated, so there’s an extra step between reader and writer. Does it make the content (four white men) more palatable that they’re Russian? I admit that, although I was always an admirer of Saunders’ courageous experimentation, I was particularly intrigued by A Swim… because I can read the originals of these stories. However, I don’t believe that I am the intended audience for this book. So, again, why include that extra step?
On many occasions, Saunders discusses the stories outside of their Russian context. But one of the Russophone writers consulted in the book has told me that there are many places where the Russian context would certainly change one’s reading. “In the Cart,” the first story by Anton Chekhov, takes us through a Russian village described by Saunders as “rough.” However, according to the Russophone writer with whom I spoke, it wouldn’t be taken as so rough by a Russian reader.
According to Saunders, the second story, “Singers,” from Sportman’s Sketches by Ivan Turgenev is mostly beautiful but unnecessary. Nonetheless, it works because the imaginary reader would like it too. Saunders writes: “A story is a frank, intimate conversation between equals.” But what about when the story is read by a professor in an MFA workshop? What about when a literary agent reads your story? What about when an editor or a slush reader of a literary journal reads it? Is it still a conversation? Is it still equal? The craft manual is a genre written by literary authorities, writers who have published well, who know how to do so, who know how to “amp up” their quantity of literary merit enough to reach the level of publishing and who believe in their authority, as Saunders writes. If writers of craft manuals and essays don’t believe in an idea of universal literary merit, why would another writer read such books? But, then, the reading of a story doesn’t sound like a conversation among equals. For a reading to be a conversation among equals, for it to involve taste, we have to surrender–at least to a larger degree than we have–this idea of the authority of the “more experienced” writer or editor or agent. The reason is that what’s often called simply “experience” often has something, perhaps a lot, to do with privilege. Right?
I find myself fearful of challenging this idea of literary merit from my position of privilege in some ways without the correlative success. In other words, shouldn’t I have reaped these unfair benefits? Shouldn’t Michael Derrick Hudson have without using a Chinese name? I wonder if this same question speaks to the tension in Saunders book created by the partial contextualization that these are Russian stories. They can’t be read in a universal way, can they? Saunders writes in the Turgenev chapter, “This model applies to these Russian stories we’re reading, and would have applied the first time some cavepeople gathered around a fire…” Okay, nevermind. We are talking about universal literary merit as upheld by four white men. In terms of class, Chekhov comes from peasants, of course. Gogol’s origins are also somewhat humble. Tolstoy and Turgenev come from the aristocracy. Privilege is present in each case.
It might be important to contextualize the writer himself here. Saunders has an engineering background.
It shows up in the increasing number of tools of quantification, scientific research, and statistics he uses to support his theses about these–what we must then call–universally masterful stories. We shouldn’t forget, however, that this way of looking at these stories is not the only way. Again, a Russophone can point out that Olenka, the main character of “The Darling,” the second Chekhov story, is a common type of Russian or Eastern European woman. I am a Russophone, and, were I to write a craft manual including a piece about this story, I would bring that to my writing. That tendency to decontextualize masks something. That something, I think, has to do with the attempt to create the illusion of universal literary merit. However, such an attempt can’t be made too obvious. And there is certainly a lot of value to Saunders’ close readings of these stories. But the close readings can’t, as Saunders admits, come too close without access to the original language. Take the Lev Tolstoy story “Master and Man” for example. The master is Vasili Brekhunov, whose last name suggests the Russian word брехнуть, the word used for when a dog yelps or bays as well as for lying. It fits the character–whom Saunders describes as a “stinker”–well. That is, Saunders is getting this characterization without the Russian reference. Nonetheless, that characterization might come sooner for a Russian reader. It might even come too soon, no offense to Tolstoy. Universal literary merit isn’t easy to quantify in this instance.
Of course, I’m being nitpicky, as many Russophone readers may be. There is a history of Slavists and other readers with access to the Russian shutting down translations due to what’s lost. But, again, why these translated Russian writers if the purpose of this craft manual is to describe a model for amping up literary merit? Even in an exclusively Russian context, as Boris Dralyuk points out in the above-linked podcast, writing by women is coming to the surface. These “masters” (forgive the scare quotes) are also masters because of male privilege, because of patriarchy.
Saunders, who is quick to identify as coming from the working class, is aware of how privilege might change a writer’s work. At the end of the chapter on “Master and Man,” he correctly identifies a problem with the story: Tolstoy fails to give the same interiority and humanity to Nikita, the peasant, that he gives to Brekhunov (Vasili), the landowner. According to Saunders, Nikolai Gogol has been guilty of this oversight as well with a female character in “Nevsky Prospect.” Saunders posits that a moral failing in a writer can translate into a technical failing. Perhaps that’s true. But any reader of American literature can wonder about the work of Nabokov called Lolita, narrated by a very eloquent and charming murderer-pedophile. Whether a moral failure or a deeply ironic text, Lolita begs the question about this idea of moral failure as technical failure. Many readers who would have been in conversation with Nabokov while reading might find themselves sympathetic to Humbert Humbert. Would the book have been better with more interiority from Lolita?
Perhaps that’s too much of a jump. It’s better to stick with what Saunders presents us. In the next chapter, an unreliable and probably prejudiced narrator is the whole point. This chapter discusses “Nose” by Gogol with his use of “skaz,” again a particularly Russian (or perhaps even Ukrainian?) mode of storytelling rife with irony. Any moral failings here are, on the other hand, ways that Gogol increases the humor and, therefore, literary merit of his writing. Here is where it’s most difficult for A Swim… to present an idea of universal literary merit. Gogol’s humor is sometimes untranslatable. I confess that I’ve repeated lines from Gogol in Russian and heard laughter that I myself didn’t feel, even though I was the one who recited the line. I didn’t laugh because, although I understood the Russian, I didn’t have the context of the years of knowing the text, the memories of reading it in various places, the way the humor might have relieved me during a difficult time. Now, after years of reading Russian, I have that. So the idea of universal literary merit also denies the context of time with a text. Especially when it comes to agents and other literary industry gatekeepers, I sometimes get the feeling that not enough time is spent with rejected texts. But, of course, how could that be when agents have to rush through the deluge of texts? Universal literary merit can help with filtering, can’t it?
But a filter works against the “conversation” idea Saunders sets up in A Swim… So this writing manual works well for life and craft but not necessarily for craft and industry, the literary industry. During that chapter, Saunders even discusses “surrendering the ego,” not the only time he uses the language of Buddhism to establish his ideas. Why not contextualize this aspect of our author’s perspective? Saunders is a Buddhist, and many of his ideas come from viewing literature with a Buddhist perspective. If it were more contextualized, (something along the lines of “I feel qualified and also apply a Buddhist perspective to my readings and advice…”), perhaps it would also make this writing feel more like a conversation than an artifact further establishing an idea of universal literary merit.
Why take away any of the context? It would seem that context works against generalized titular adjectives such as “Best,” and works against the authority a publisher might be trying to establish while carefully balancing the still rising awareness out there that there is no such thing as universal literary merit. A Swim… doesn’t avoid all context. It comes in handy for Saunders. In the last chapter, on Tolstoy’s “Alyosha the Pot,” Saunders returns to the theme of morality in storytelling. In this chapter, he’s taking morality in a new direction. Tolstoy doesn’t necessarily create a technical mistake due to a moral mistake. His morality is indecisive, and that’s what Saunders believes should be celebrated about the story. Nonetheless, morality, ambiguous or not, doesn’t save Russians from the horrors of the Soviet period, as Saunders writes in the conclusion of that chapter.
Unfortunately, at this point Saunders sounds sort of like a Cold War propagandist, mostly because he’s ignoring the many significant and, in some cases, horrible events and circumstances of the year in which Tolstoy wrote “Alyosha the Pot,” 1905. Much of what happened that year paved the way for the conditions of the Russian Revolution. Many of the details of, say, the conditions of workers in 1905 speak to the causes of the Russian Revolution and go beyond “czarist excesses,” as Saunders describes it. He quotes Solzhenitsyn, which is problematic in this context, as I have written before. Here’s where a lack of context sounds, to me at least, like a failure to recognize what the ideas fueling the Russian Revolution might have meant to people alive at that time in that place. Here’s where the idea of universal literary merit can look, well, supremacist.
After that the book concludes with a chapter entitled “We End.” The first sentence uses both the first-person and the second-person pronouns. To summarize, it discusses how any good ideas a writer takes from this craft manual were already there. Saunders merely enabled them. In other words, readers should believe that Saunders is no master but rather merely a practitioner, a good teacher, in other words. Any bad ideas, ideas that don’t work for us, are all his fault. He’ll take the blame for those. It’s a version of the “It’s not you, it’s me” line. Does anybody ever believe that line? I suppose it sounds fair, considering that his publication record is solid, his job secure. It’s very likely that any challenges to the ideas here won’t have an effect on his reputation or his publishing.
I, on the other hand, am a writer who has published a little bit. But my failure has been much vaster. Whether that’s because of a moral failing or something having to do with my identity, I don’t know. If I have been able to identify some simple principle mentioned in A Swim… or another craft manual and apply it to my writing, and if I will then be able to adjust my writing enough to reach some quantity of literary merit that would open the gates to publishing well enough to feel entitled to write my own craft manual, then my identity and all the time I spent morally failing–and, thus, technically failing at writing–wouldn’t matter. I would simply be a Writer. But that’s the writing self out of context. That it’s somehow better sounds, to me, like a form of supremacy. It’s a lie probably meant for somebody to make a lot of money, not to develop and propagate art.
It’s so refreshing how a successful writer like Rachel Kushner can write this strange story and fucking publish it with whichever fucking publisher she would like, Karma, who usually do art books. It’s like cursing a little too much. It’s uber fucking hipster. It’s fantastic.
3 July. The broadening and heightening of existence through marriage. Sermon text. But I almost sense it. When I say something it immediately and finally loses its importance, when I write it down it loses it too, but sometimes gains a new one. A band of little golden beads around a tanned throat.
Diaries, Franz Kafka
July 3rd is the birthday of Tom Cruise, myself, and the great writer Franz Kafka. This year was a calm and peaceful one, and I looked up what Franz Kafka wrote on his birthday in the past.
Often, Kafka was traveling on his birthday. The idea is a great one. He was even able to write some small amount on his birthday.
‘Mistaken,’ he repeated, and moved his index finger along the lines to calm their restlessness.
Diaries, Franz Kafka
Often Kafka is simply listing the images of what he sees, demonstrating his interest in the complex lives of children. I’ve felt a similar cloudiness on our birthday. I don’t know what to do with myself. This feeling is especially true on major milestone birthdays, like 40. There’s a feeling that I need to do something significant. But the feeling paralyzes me, as if because of it I can do nothing but wander through my environment observing and noting whatever I sense. Is that so bad on one’s birthday?
Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Geburtstag, Franz Kafka! I thank you for confirming my bafflement on our birthday.
While reading Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson, I think about how trans culture has changed our thoughts on identity.
“I love you” is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them.
Gender roles, all forms of identity can come off as quotations, repetitions, cliches. It’s the changing up, the variation, that excites us and that makes something pleasant for a person. In “God is Genderqueer” the author H. L. Hix and I discussed how exciting the changing of language can be.
Even in an old relationship, one that has lasted decades, new understandings, new variations can arise.
In the Fall of 2003, I took “Introduction to Literary Theory” with the Palestinian novelist Anton Shammas. In the first class, he said, “Learn all this stuff. Then forget it.” He laughed. We laughed. Then he said that was the best way to learn. I met one of my best friends in that class. I learned a lot. I still make jokes about Foucault’s “Death of the Author.” And I still reflect on what I learned about Orientalism. I still read Edward Said.
Anton Shammas, a Palestinian writer from Jerusalem, wrote Arabesques in Hebrew. It was a huge event, and Shammas’ family was threatened. He came to the University of Michigan, where I met him many years later in 2003.
Arabesques, true to its title, traces patterns in the lives of Palestinians living under the Occupation. With something similar to magical realism, Palestinians are born and die and pass on artifacts and objects that carry significance throughout the narrative. Often there are discussions of everyday objects that nonetheless link the lives of the Palestinian characters. Another thing that links their lives are the sufferings they have undergone.
I’m thinking of Anton Shammas and Arabesques after another war in Gaza. Again there are disproportionate casualties (including too many children) on the Palestinian and Israeli sides. Again there are those who reduce it all simply to “defense.” Again there are those who take on an apologetically guilty tone to explain how unfortunate it is that all are in this situation.
But something has changed. People are discussing what’s happening, no longer trying to “stay out of it.” I’m talking about everyday people. And there is an uneasy comparison with the protests following the murder of George Floyd last year, an uneasy connection with the Movement for Black Lives. I think of how Isabel Wilkerson describes the Great Migration as African Americans becoming refugees in their own country. People are asking good, difficult questions now about this conflict. My union, the Professional Staff Congress, in our delegate assembly, passed a resolution in support of the Palestinian people.
Of course, there are also discussions of rising anti-Semitism. When I think of that kind of hate, I think one antidote might be writing in the language of the oppressive other. I think of Primo Levi talking about the harsh KZ Lager German he knew. Primo Levi wrote in Italian and describes in The Periodic Table the Italian children’s rhymes about Jews that taunted him in his youth. Primo Levi said, “Today, the Palestinians are the Jews of the Israelis.”
Maybe history happens in waves. This year, of course, we know that change happens whether or not we acknowledge it. The world will never go back to “normal.”
To mark National Poetry Month in the United States, Punctured Lines asked two poets with recently published collections to interview one another. Both poets have strong personal and professional connections to the larger Russophone world. Natalya Sukhonos’sA Stranger Home (Moon Pie Press) explores themes of the mother-daughter connection, grief and loss, and finding someone and something to love in locales ranging from Odessa to San Francisco. Katherine E. Young’sWoman Drinking Absinthe (Alan Squire Publishing) concerns itself with transgressions, examined through a series of masks, including Greek drama, folk tales, Japonisme, post-Impressionism, opera, geometry, and planetary geology. In addition to their written comments, Sukhonos and Young have also produced a short video conversation highlighting several poems from each collection.
To those who follow this blog, thank you! I apologize that I have, until very recently, been sending you ads for things like air conditioners, etc. I want you to know that I will no longer be sending you ads. I will instead continue to send you my critical writings and anything else I pull it together enough to publish in the future. Hopefully, this whatever else will include some fiction, maybe even my novel, Two Big Differences. For now, if you haven’t read them, please look at my interview with Mikhail Iossel and the subsequent reading and conversation we had. In addition, I hope you will enjoy the interview I did with translator of the gospel, H. L. Hix, titled “God is Genderqueer,” which appeared on Holy Saturday. Finally, please also check out my translations of the poet Marina Eskina at Saint Ann’s Review and Cafe Review.
I’ll also be posting here my thoughts about what I’m reading, much of which will, I hope, be something of value to you. И, если Вы русскоязычный читатель, я буду писать о русской литературе тоже. Я приглашаю Вас прочитать и слушать.
Please stay in touch for further multimodal content including story maps and podcasts. And please feel free to reach out if you would like to discuss anything further. And please encourage others to follow.
After having read Whereabouts, Jhumpa Lahiri’s translation of her own Italian language novel, Dove Mi Trovo, I remember wandering through cities in parts of the world where my first language was not the common language. Lahiri’s unnamed first-person narrator wanders through an Italian-speaking city. This character is unlike Samuel Beckett’s unnamed (and Unnameable) first-person character in his originally French, autotranslated writings, usually describing scenes in an isolated countryside. The comparisons are limited. However, in both cases, the authors appear to use their access to a less primary language to explore how language shapes our world, how mental maps–like narratives–are very much specific to the languages in which they are conceived.