Jealous of Joyce

I looked forward to last Saturday for weeks. Joyce Carol Oates was giving a local lecture, a lecture that had already been rescheduled due to heavy snowfall. I haven’t read too much of her work; I don’t go for fiction much. But I have read enough to know she is a good writer.

Tom makes fun of me because I will watch BookTV, BookNews, or Book Notes on the more obscure cable channels, no matter what the subject. Nuclear physics? The Reagan years? Turkish politics? Bring it on. It is not the subjects that draw me: it is the authors. Each has a unique story of how they researched, how they found their audience, how they published. When I can steal some of these rather nerdy moments, I cuddle up with some popcorn and indulge.

Live writers are even more of a treat, and Joyce Carol Oates certainly filled the bill. Her physical appearance is striking: crimped hair, large glasses, and the lean body of a very dedicated runner. The story she read was striking, too – quite grotesque really: Madison Avenue sales girls turning on a rich, demanding customer in a very malevolent, violent scene. Although not my cup of tea, clearly this woman knows how to write! She is a Humanities professor at Princeton. Boy do I want that life someday: prolific writing, teaching other writers. What a dream it would be.

I didn’t raise my hand when she asked about writers in the audience (suddenly afraid I’d be called on to justify my existence). But I did take in every tidbit of the question and answer session.

Why am I jealous of Joyce? Mainly it is for her stockpile of ideas. My writing ideas come slowly, but it sounds like Joyce’s cup runneth over. She shared, with genuine sadness, that she was sure she would die before she got to write all of her ideas. No doubt, if her will allows it many years from now, she’ll be one of those authors with a series of posthumous publications.

In a few years, when I have tamed some of my debt, I want to take a year and try the real writing life. But I do fear running out of ideas. Where they come from and where they depart to is a vast mystery to me.

I was amused to think about her perhaps frustrated students: she doesn’t understand why they write 10 or 12 pages before getting to the meat of the story. To me, this is just the process. But Joyce forms a story nearly fully in her mind before doing any writing at all. She sees scenes in 3-D, like a hologram. She hears dialogue in her head. How can I get a mind like that?

I do know one thing: when I do get a breather (which is unfortunately quite rare) the ideas come in, first a trickle, then a modest stream (haven’t yet experienced a flood!). I am sorely tempted to try Miss Oates’ favorite pastime: running (read her essay: To Invigorate Literary Mind, Start Moving Literary Feet). I hate running, but if it will build me a stockpile of book proposals it would be worth it (plus, I might get skinny. What a pleasant side effect!).

Then there is the opposite Buddhist advice I have been reading: just sit. Sit and be open. Sit and let the ideas come. I could get into that. For a while I was doing a brief meditation before touching the keyboard, and it did seem to create a positive vibe.

I don’t think it is the physical activity (or the lack of it). It is an openness of mind, of spirit which I hope to acquire one day. It seems I can sit or run, and either way perhaps some more ideas will come. I just have to let them. It seems even a little jealousy can be a good thing.