A few years ago I was teaching novel-writing at The Writer’s Room, a space above a consignment shop on Park Boulevard. One day I was stopped on the street outside by a young man I’ll call Daniel. He wanted me to read his novel – his seven-hundred page novel. He was sure it was ready to publish. I turned him down because experience has taught me that a seven-hundred page first novel is almost certainly NOT a good read. I offered instead to read and critique the first one hundred pages. Daniel was offended and told me at some length why I needed to read the whole book to get the “full impact of the story.”
I would sooner take a blow to the head.
At this point in the story, I need to tell you that Daniel was one of the few gorgeously handsome men I’d ever met: lots of shaggy, shiny black hair, an incandescent smile and Kiwi-green eyes. He was also a professional body builder and master of arcane martial arts. A true dish.
Daniel had no money, was living out of his van parked at the beach. I declared him a scholarship student, but not just because of his good looks. At that time I was teaching a novel-in-progress class that had been going for more than a year. The makeup of the group was youngish-middle-aged women and a couple of men in their fifties. The group had grown stale and predictable; Daniel was just what it needed. As I expected, class attendance went from eighty to one hundred percent most weeks. The scenes my long-time students brought to class got sexier and tougher and much more entertaining. Without warning, two women with grandchildren became blondes.
Everyone liked Daniel. The women who didn’t want to seduce him wanted to be his mother. The men relived their youthful adventures through him. Daniel had a sweetness that was more intense because it was so unexpected in a young man who had obviously been there and done it all and then some. Egos can be a problem in a read and critique group where everyone wants to be a star; but when it turned out that Daniel was a really remarkable writer, we were all happy for him. The first chapters of his novel about a seventeen year old boy bumming his way down the Queensland Gold Coast were gorgeous.
They were also agonizingly slow and overwritten. The metaphors were crisp and fresh but reading them was like being trapped in a snarl of gardenias. Point of view jumped character with no warning; tenses were unpredictable, and the adjectives lined up like surfers waiting for a wave. Each character, no matter his or her importance to the story, was given pages of full and loving description. We all liked Daniel and wanted him to succeed. We also wanted him to buy a grammar book and EDIT, PLEASE.
But he wouldn’t. I thought at first that this was the stubbornness I’d occasionally met in unpublished writers who equate revision with prostitution. Daniel and I had a number of long talks about this and gradually I understood that he could not revise his work because editing a manuscript requires discipline. It requires a willingness to cut and paste, to change and add where necessary and to subtract, subtract, subtract. Just as he had not been able to stick with high school through graduation or to hang onto a job for more than a few months, Daniel could not edit more than a page of his immense manuscript before he gave up and went back to describing new characters, new dark alley drug skirmishes, the next and best wave.
Eventually Daniel stopped coming to class at The Writer’s Room, and I never heard anymore from him. One thing I know for certain. He never published his novel. Writers like Daniel — though none as handsome and talented — have shown me that talent is a commonplace given to almost all of us in one form or another. It can’t be learned, it is a gift from God, generously given. Without discipline it amounts to very little.
Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying that if you have a talent for writing or drawing or singing it’s your God-required responsibility to become a professional. I tell my students that talent is meant to bring joy and do no harm. How we bring joy is entirely personal. One of the most gifted artists I know, a fabric designer, got sick of jumping through the hoops laid out by the companies she sold to. She keeps a magnificent garden now. A pianist I know is married to a cellist. They give concerts for their friends. Standing room only.
My gardener friend has learned the chemistry of compost. She understands design and color. She has chosen to use her talent in a way that demands hard physical exercise. A cousin of mine who is a weaver knows looms so well she builds her own. Just so, if you want to write a novel there are requirements and limitations, the disciplines imposed by language, pscychology and time. Daniel’s long and convoluted book wasn’t really a novel. It was a seven hundred pages of personal pleasure, a gift from God that kept him out of trouble. It needed discipline to turn it into a novel.
As every teacher knows, there are students, the memory of whom does not fade with time. I think of Daniel often. From what I know of boys and the world, I suspect he’s come to no good end. But here I have to stop myself because if I know that God is generous with gifts like a talent for writing, I also know that God is generous with second, third and fourth chances. So wherever Daniel is, I hope he’s healthy and has friends who support him. I hope he still keeps pen and paper close to hand.
The Writer’s Room above a consignment shop on Park Boulevard has wonderfully morphed into San Diego Writers Inc. The Ink Spot is a space for writers, writing and the literary arts located in the design center on Thirteenth Street. Every year, thousands of writers come through our doors. We hold readings, classes, workshops, forums, art shows and lots of parties to celebrate the written word. This month we’re holding our yearly fundraiser, BLAZING LAPTOPS MARATHON. If you’d like to help me find the self discipline to keep my butt in the chair writing for nine hours straight, follow this link. And wish me luck!
Drusilla Campbell
