ellen meister
Matic,” you write, “it occurs to me that I could give birth to anything.”
Do you view the creative process as a birthing process? If so, can you
write anything? How do you conceive ideas that later become stories or
novels?
ellen meister: Yes, it’s exactly like the birthing process.
After I push out an eight-pound idea, I insist people bring flowers and
then stand over my creation weeping with joy. Then I make them go home
so I can take a nap.
But I’m afraid my creativity is a bit more limited than the character in
that story. I do like to experiment occasionally—especially in the flash
format—but when it comes to longer fiction I have a definite comfort zone
I tend to stay within. I’m very driven to entertain and, in fact, have
an almost pathological fear of boring the reader. So my longer fiction
does a lot of tap-dancing to keep the reader engaged. That includes
sprinkling the pages with humor and dropping in teases about what is yet
to unfold.
My ideas usually start out very small and, unfortunately, don’t grow
organically. I have to work pretty hard to turn one of my teeny
inspirations into a story. For instance, my forthcoming novel, SECRET
CONFESSIONS OF THE APPLEWOOD PTA, grew out of the idea that I wanted to
explore the secrets and heartache beneath the PTA faces I see so much in
my daily life. That doesn’t come close to being a plot, so I starting
writing reams of notes on different directions I could travel to achieve
that goal. The result is a book that I hope delivers equal amounts of
humor and pathos.
insolent rudder: Flannery O’Connor once said that anyone who
survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of her or
his life. You’ve written about the pain—and the resilience—of childhood;
how has your own childhood affected your writing and your storytelling?
ellen meister: I actually have a syllogism for that. All
writers are people who had painful childhoods, but not all people who had
painful childhoods are writers.
There are exceptions, of course, but the thing is, having a certain
amount of pain growing up drives you inward, forcing you to be more
contemplative than the lucky folks with idyllic childhoods. (All that
time swimmin’ in the swimmin’ hole, having raucous yet wholesome fun with
your brothers and sisters, turning down prom dates and posing for Norman
Rockwell paintings leaves little time for real thought.) For some, this
introspection grows into the desire to scratch words onto paper in an
effort to make sense of it all. It did for me.
insolent rudder: Who are your literary role models? Which
teacher inspired you the most to write?
ellen meister: Sadly, none of my childhood teachers inspired
me to do anything except swallow my gum so I wouldn’t have to wear it on
my nose. But I did have a college professor who taught me that rules
were meant to be broken. His name is Raymond Federman, and since he
writes metafiction, we’re about as different as two authors can be. But
he stretched my rigid thinking, which was a good thing.
The single biggest influence has to be J.D. Salinger. Other Salinger
fans may cringe at that, because he inspires such proprietary feelings we
tend to get a little queasy when someone else claims to appreciate him as
much we do. One of my goals as a writer is to understand how he manages
to touch so many of us so deeply.
Meanwhile, I’ll have to be satisfied with copying his penchant for
italics.
insolent rudder: Henry Miller once remarked that “every day
we slaughter our finest impulses.” How can writers keep their finest
impulses alive and still be “marketable”? (Or should writers even worry
about being “marketable”?)
ellen meister: I don’t think there’s anything wrong with
wanting to write commercial fiction, as long as you enjoy commercial
fiction. If you think it’s all crap and that you can toss out a
mainstream novel in your sleep and make a few bucks, you’re better off
selling real estate. Because if you don’t love what you’re writing, it’s
going to suck. Trust me.
Besides, the odds are so stacked against selling any book, no matter how
good, that you may as well write what you love.
insolent rudder: In Lu Chi’s Wen Fu (The Art of Writing), he
talks about facing “the terror,” which is facing the fear that the
“inkwell may run dry.” Since a writer may face the fear of a “dry
inkwell” on a fairly regular basis, what do you think is the best way to
deal with that fear?
ellen meister: Read. It not only chases anxiety away, but
clears the fuzz that keeps your ideas jammed in a corner.
insolent rudder: What’s the best piece of writing advice
that anyone ever gave you?
ellen meister: To paraphrase Salinger: write the story you
most want to read.
insolent rudder: What’s the worst piece of writing advice
that anyone ever gave you?
ellen meister: Probably one of those foolish things they try
to drum into you in elementary school, like never end a sentence in a
preposition. Ridiculous. Who came up with this? It has nothing to do
with the English language.
I think that knowing what advice to take and what to throw out is one of
the trickiest balancing acts for a writer. On the one hand, it’s
important to have an open mind and understand that your work can always
be improved. But you have to stay focused on your goals, because there
are a hundred different ways to write any particular story, and anyone
who gives you advice will offer it from their own subjective, and usually
quite valid, viewpoint.
I belong to an online writers’ workshop, where we post stories and
critique each others’ work. The way I deal with the input is to read
each review with an open mind, neither accepting nor rejecting the
advice. Then I let it sit for a while before revising the story, giving
my subconscious a chance to sift through the comments. When I finally do
my rewrite, it’s very clear which recommendations make sense for me.
insolent rudder: As you sit at your desk and write, what
books surround you? Which books on the shelves give you the most
incentive to write?
ellen meister: It’s funny, but I find that whatever I’m
reading at the moment has something important to teach me. Whether it’s
the most intense literary fiction or something lighter (I tend to
alternate), there always seems to be a small gem somewhere that has exact
relevance to whatever I’m working on. It’s a phenomenon, and makes me
think that there’s divine providence at work every time I pick up a
book.
Or maybe my subconscious reads over my shoulder with a flashlight looking
for the pieces that fit the gaps in my paragraphs or characters or story.
At any rate, I want to point out that writers who refuse to read anything
even slightly commercial could be missing out on some important lessons.
There’s always something to learn. Even when I’m in a masochistic enough
mood to read a book that’s so bad it makes me angry, I find something of
value. I’m not advocating that people read terrible books, just that
they keep an open mind.
insolent rudder: What’s the relationship between writing and
life?
ellen meister: Life is a bowl of cherries. Writing is where
you get to decide what to do with the pits.
Want to find out more about Ellen Meister? Go here and here.
