December 30, 2004
Andre Dubus
I don't remember what first brought me to the writings of Andre Dubus, but I do remember my introduction occurred two days after he died of a heartache in 1999. I've always been sad about that.
At the time, I was very new to the writing life and I read Dubus' stories the way I read everything then, with a new eye for details like sentences and metaphors and characters. I had been reading stories all my life, and suddenly I needed to learn how to write them. So it seemed natural to devour every new writer that came along, even if I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking for.
In examining the works of Dubus, a writer's writer as his obituary proclaimed, I found his essays. The first collection, Broken Vessels, includes pieces written well before the tragic accident in which he lost the use of his legs trying to help two people on the side of a highway, as well as pieces about the accident and its aftermath. Meditations From A Moveable Chair, his second collection of essays, was his last book before his death. Dubus' essays, like his stories, are infused with the same spirituality that defined him as a person and a writer. His religion seems to be a hard one: born of hard lives, hard loves, and harder circumstances. His characters are often not nice people, but their faith, in spite of this meanness, infuse them with a gritty reality that is wholly believable, even if their gods are not. And his essays reflect the same feelings in his own life.
My favorite essays are the ones about writing. More than any other writer I have read, Dubus' take on writing makes me want to write. He doesn't mince words - it's tough work and there may not be anything fun about it, but it's what you've got to do, if it's what you've got to do. I know, after I've given myself a shot of Dubus, that no matter what I write at that moment, I can fix it later, and that if the story must be told, I'll find someway to do it. I once stumbled across an interview with Dubus on the Internet from Excerpt, a journal put out by the English Department at Southwest Texas University. [Unfortunately, the link is broken!] There's a part where he's talking to a friend who's not a writer, but whose wife is a writer and is having some trouble.
The friend says: "Well (this woman has published a book), I guess a writer doesn't feel any better than his last book." I said:"Skipper, I don't feel any better than what I wrote today." And his eyes opened and my eyes opened--two epiphanies--and I got a look at that light and thought this guy actually does not hate himself at night for what he did today. He does not worry about getting through the night and getting back to the desk and getting something done tomorrow. I'm not happy if I don't write, but I'm always afraid to go to the desk. It's very simple because you're not sure you can do it.
My favorite story by Andre Dubus is "The Fat Girl." First off, I love the opening paragraph:
Her name was Louise. Once when she was sixteen a boy kissed her at a barbecue; he was drunk and he jammed his tongue into her mouth and ran his hands up and down her hips. Her father kissed her often. He was thin and kind and she could see in his eyes when he looked at her the lights of love and pity.
I love the way he mixes food and sex and love. Certainly not an original idea, but Dubus makes it feel original. The juxtaposition of the words thin and kind and kissed her often. Each one placed for maximum effect. What I love too about this story is it's essentially told to the reader. There are only a few traditional scenes, meaning dialogue and action, but the characters live within the story. Writers who can do this, tell the story without showing the story, always intrigue me. But I guess, really, he does show the story because it all plays out very vividly within the reader's mind.
Posted by Knit One Read Too at December 30, 2004 05:15 PM
Comments
Cara, this is fantastic! Now you've got my mind churning. Where do I start? First, I've never understood that mindset "I have to make myself sit down to write 'x' number of words today or else I'm good for nothing." Honestly, if I let that thought cross my mind, I wouldn't get a single word down. For me, the joy is sitting down to a blank screen, feeling that tingle go down my spine, waiting for something to beep in the brain (a silly thought usually gets it going) and then letting the fingers fly. I never worry about getting it right the first time because the real writing occurs in the editing. Just like sculpting, you keep shaping it until it becomes visible. And just like knitting, it should be FUN. It should be a joy to create with words, not a chore. Of course, if I tried to write fiction, I'd probably end up going stark raving mad. So I stick with writing about what makes me tick.
Second, fiction. I've never wanted to analyze how a writer pulls it off because it is "magic" to me. (Very odd sentence for an English lit major to write, I admit.) I know the books that touch my soul and I know the books that make me think "WTF?" But after reading your post here, you've got me all excited to learn how to read in order to understand how the writer brings it together. I like fiction with big ideas. I don't have patience for long descriptive passages or novels that are high on dialogue but low on insight. And I crave that unique voice. The one that speaks to the reader on a level that is almost beyond articulation. There are few books that stay with me over the long haul. The two that had the most impact on me in the last couple of years were "Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress" by Dai Sijie and "Empire Falls" by Richard Russo. Not only did I enjoy reading these two from cover to cover, but the "big feeling" in each book has stayed with me. Probably has more to do with relating each to my own life experience but also has much to do with the talent of these particular writers.
Can we add Andre Dubus to the list? Thanks for doing this, Cara. What an awesome way to start off the new year!
Posted by: Kerstin at December 31, 2004 06:39 AM
Kerstin,
You must read "The Fat Girl," just for the voice, and ending alone.
When we have the book discussions, I will be bringing the writerly angle to the table - it's the only way I can read now. I can't help but look at things in terms of craft elements (point of view, voice, description, story structure, character, etc.)
You've got the writing thing right. I don't write everyday - I can't write everyday. It's not how I work. But I can think about writing everyday - which is writing in my book. I understand that it's my process.
And, again, you're right on with the blank screen. I tell my students that their mantra needs to be "I can change it later, I can ALWAYS change it later!" and just get that shit on the page. (Do I follow my own advice, not enough, unfortunately.)
Writers block doesn't have anything to do with not having stuff to write - it has to do with your generator self and your editor self battling it out in your head. You get ready to write and that bastard editor says this is crap. What are you doing? Silencing the editor is the first step to great writing.
I'm so glad I did this!
Posted by: Cara at December 31, 2004 08:22 AM
Here is another writer's review of Dubus's short stories--Tobias Wolff in the LA Times Book Review, March 24, 2002, reviewing In the Bedroom. (The full review can probably be obtained from the LA Times Archives. This is the excerpt I posted 3/25/02.)
Reading through them ensemble, I was struck by their plenitude. Part of the pleasure of writing short stories is learning what you can live without. The form relies on an acute, watchful reader--an aficionado, really--who is insulted by fat explanation, fat description, by anything reducible to something more essential; but the consciousness of that scrutiny can lead to a chill, starved sort of story in which the writer seems hesitant to tell you anything at all for fear of being common. I know; I've written a few.
Dubus never succumbed to this anorexic impulse. His language is full-throated, and he's not afraid to linger on the undramatic, even languorous moments in which we define ourselves--conversation over a barbecue, a divorced father driving home alone after dropping off his kids. Dubus takes his time; his stories, like his sentences, tend to run long. But that vigilant reader prowling the flock for bloated stragglers will never catch Dubus out, because at his most complex, he is still irreducible.
Thank you for reminding me of this writer, Cara, and that I must finally actually read his stories!
Posted by: JBB at December 31, 2004 03:28 PM
Cara -- would you mind editing my comment for me please? The italics tags didn't pick up the second paragraph of the Wolff quote. The paragraph beginning "Dubus never succumbed...." and ending "...he is still irreducible." should also be italicized. Sorry! And thanks.
Posted by: JBB at December 31, 2004 03:33 PM