In the autumn of 2006, while still quite new to Australia, I was doing my first ever writing residency – in a yellow house in the Blue Mountains called Varuna, which once belonged to the novelist Eleanor Dark. Every night we, the fortunate guests, feasted on the Varuna cook’s curries and other culinary wonders. Every night my housemates – a poet who wrote villanelles, a novelist who was also a yogi, and a terrifyingly prolific New Zealander who at once whipped up plays, poetry and fiction – discussed the daily progress of their books. Every night I sat mostly silent. After dinner I went to the former maid’s room I was staying in to lie on its monastically narrow bed, read and cry myself to sleep.
I was progressing nowhere. My story had no clear direction, even though I’d been writing it for two years. I was hoping a fortnight away from my routines would help me to finally capture that elusive work, but it rained heavily when I arrived and, at first, I blamed my failings on the gloom of the weather. Later, when the rain stopped, I blamed Varuna’s library, whose wealth of good books overwhelmed me. What was the point of writing anything new? I fought that thought by picking up volumes by Gail Jones, Sasha Soldatow and Brian Castro to spark my fire with their bewitching prose, but nothing helped. Good writing became a mystery I was unable to solve.
Towards the end of my stay, I gave up writing altogether. I took long walks in the mountains. I bought a halter dress with blue flowers. I called my husband many times a day and sat in my garden studio, looking at yellow roses and bundles of cockatoos luxuriating in the comfort of well-established trees. I, too, had comfort: generous windows, a large desk, a sofa to daydream on. I sat in a studio that was every writer’s daydream feeling even more miserable than I did at night. My only happy day was when the New Zealander, satisfied with her output, took me along for a trek to the Three Sisters. The air was moist and warm, the foliage laden thick with silvery spiderwebs, and neither of us mentioned writing for the entirety of our trip. Soon after, I returned to Melbourne feeling my life was devoid of meaning. I did have a good dress though.
***
To explain my failure to write in the magic of Varuna, I have to tell you about the years that preceded that stay – my early years in Australia, when for the first time ever I didn’t know what to write about. The life baggage I’d arrived with seemed too foreign, even compared to that of other migrants here; Russians, Israelis and especially Russian-Israelis like me are as rare as unicorns in Australia. I thought, who would care for my stories if I wrote about what I knew? And I didn’t feel ‘qualified’ to write about my new country. However, I noticed how often my new acquaintances seemed fascinated by my childhood spent in Odessa’s dissident circles, under the watchful eye of the KGB. It seemed like this was a kosher subject for a book – something that people here would like to read about. All the signs were there, to the extent that I was even awarded a literary grant and, later, that residency at Varuna – to support the writing of my childhood memoir.
I had more reasons for writing that book. The story of Soviet Jewish dissidents, which once made headlines in the West, were largely forgotten by then. I wanted to rescue it from oblivion. And I wanted to pay tribute to the courage of my parents. I was clearly meant to write that book. So I worked on it, and worked. For writing it always felt like work, never pleasure. My written words reflected that unfortunate state of things. Still, it took me several years to let go of that book. Even after coming back from Varuna, when I finally admitted to myself I wasn’t passionate about the work, I persevered for some time – out of duty, ‘just to finish’ it, and most of all because I didn’t know what else I could write…
***
Emotionally honest writing begins at the very beginning – with the choice of our themes. Or as VS Naipaul put it: ‘Half a writer’s work… is the discovery of his subject.’ (Before he found his own, he grew so desperate and insecure that he began to write with a pencil – a more tentative instrument.)
Good literature, I believe, arises out of a pressing need to express something. I cannot picture a serious artist working without an urgent matter they are driven to explore. Isn’t writing all about being possessed, seized, obsessed? But there I was back then, not trusting my intuition as I had with my previous books. Instead, I made a deliberate, cerebral choice to write what I thought I ought to, for a range of honourable as well as cowardly and calculating reasons…
I don’t like rules in writing, but I do have several tenets I hold dear, and since that failed memoir, one of them has been: write only about what is urgent. This may seem like a self-evident principle, however I think it does take courage to resist fashions or vanity or the desire to please others; to forego considering such questions as: What do I know best? What sells? What subject shows me as the most moral, and generally superior, human being? It takes courage to follow subjects urgent to us, even if they cause us discomfort or seem to hold no interest to anyone else.
Paradoxically, perhaps, books devised with an audience in mind tend not to appeal to readers. Writing that lacks authorial desire and curiosity is usually dishonest and flat. Whereas books conceived out of some innate need are more likely to crackle with electricity and be urgent for the readers as well even if their subject is quite pedestrian. I am thinking here about the phenomenal international success of Knausgaard’s 6-volume masterpiece My Struggle, where he examines his relatively uneventful, but urgent to him, life. On the reverse side, even more or less formulaic bestsellers often originate from an internal drive – the mega-selling authors Stephen King and Patricia Highsmith both describe in their respective books On Writing and Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction how, at least in the early writing stages, they write foremostly to please themselves.
My desire for a subject often manifests itself through an image, most likely spatial, and I know I want to write something because I want to enter that place and the certain mood it induces in me. Urgency can be also rooted in – for fiction writers just like for memoirists – the ‘significant moments’ in our lives, as Raymond Carver put it; or in our passions to borrow this time from Isaac Bashevis Singer, who suggested that ‘every writer must write… [about] the things he is pondering about, or brooding over. This is in part what gives writer his charm and makes him genuine. It’s only the amateur who will take any topic.’ Memoirists write directly about what matters to them, whereas fiction writers may sublimate their experiences and passions.
Bashevis Singer acknowledges that few people have a large number of genuine passions, the kind fit to power a story. But he thinks this doesn’t need to limit our writing, that ‘a writer can describe countless variations’ on each topic they are passionate about. If you look at D.H. Lawrence’s oeuvre, the importance of love in human condition is what all his novels are about, like in The Rainbow where his protagonists dispute the then-popular notion that one is ought to sacrifice himself for his nation’s good and place love above that. And most of Chekhov’s stories and plays can be summarised along the lines of ‘it’s about a group of bored, unfulfilled, defeated people stuck together in a provincial setting’. And yet I can never get enough of Chekhov. I found reading Bashevis Singer liberating as I, too, am drawn to writing about the same themes time and again – the dark side of desire, the female body, self-destructiveness… I used to worry about repeating myself, but now I nurse my recurring obsessions. I trust that if they return it is because I haven’t exhausted my study of them yet. And I am definitely done with having lukewarm, pragmatic relationships to my works. Now I won’t commit to a subject unless I am haunted by it.
Thank you Lee. I know it’s trite to say this piece inspired me , but your words arrived on the perfect morning. My fear of not being good enough messes with my head but the narrative won’t let me go. What I’m trying to do seems to have taken over my body and even though I worry about doing the subject matter justice I cant walk away from it.
Thank you.
Susan, not trite at all and thank you! I’m so excited for you that you are possessed by a subject right now. I know very well from experience this fear of ‘not doing justice’, but this is why we writers luckily have the re-drafting process… Or so I tell myself every time I share your feeling 🙂
Thank you, Lee. Your words ring true to me. Innate subjects niggle within, time and again, and urge me to write. I have hardly written any poems during this isolated time, but am drawn by grief & nature to walk and sleep & cry. I am starting to return to these niggles, spurred by much journal writing, self examination & observing the outside world. Your Varuna experience gives me hope, that I can trust the words will surface & form themselves into poems if they must. This honesty is so easily forgotten; you’ve reminded me. Thank you.
Dearest Tru, thank you for your moving response and for being so honest about the toll this time takes on you. I can relate so much… Including the urge for self-examination. I suspect you’ll end up drawing beautiful poetry from the well of your Self xx
And why do we, like you, ‘never tire of Chekov’?
I’ll return to this article of yours many times… out of ‘urgency I think. Thank you, Lee!
Anne-Marie, thank you! And how good to hear here is another writer we both love.
Thanks Lee. A lot of wisdom. x
good to hear from you, my dear friend, and thank you! xx
Most interesting piece. We end up choosing an idea or theme that keeps us up at night, that we constantly rake over and worry that it might not be good enough. Because it matters so much. When choosing subject matter close to us, there’s often an expectation that the writing will pour out. Unfortunately that isn’t necessarily the case…
Peter, so true! Finding the right subject doesn’t necessarily make the writing easier. But then I remind myself that whatever is not difficult for me to write is usually not interesting for others to read… Thank you for your response!
Beautiful Lee. Deep insights that, in an instant, have helped with ‘early writer terror’. Thank you.
Oh, Lindy, this is just wonderful to hear! Thank you and happy writing.
This is wonderful, Lee, thank you. And so timely, as I have been mulling of late over a new idea for a novel, and doubting, because it’s the same thing I’m always writing about! Motherhood. Or perhaps more accurately, navigating what motherhood is in a patriarchy. But you have said it perfectly: my obsession returns because I’ve not yet exhausted my study of it. So I will welcome this quiet urgency, as it continues to marinate. xo
Kim, and your novels are all so different, you have so much to say on the topic so I’m not surprised at all you haven’t exhausted it… You know I love your work! Thank you xx
Thank you Lee for your honesty about that dreadful time at Varuna. So true that we should write what we are passionate about – we must be driven. Thanks for reminding us of that.
Jennifer, thank you! I’m so glad my story resonates with you.
As others have noted, these are words some of us will come back to, often. You’ve eloquently explained what I call my ‘night mind’—the activist deep inside who goes without sleep, who edits my work overnight, offering her corrections and improvements at odd hours. When I’m not ‘haunted’ by what I’m writing, she has nothing to say. The night mind dials out. When she is up and about, chattering, I know I’m onto something.
Thank you for this assurance.
Al, many thanks! I’m fascinated by your concept of ‘night mind – thank you for sharing this.
What a beautiful burst of sunshine, Lee. Thank you.
Your post resonates with me too – though I dare say I’m still a babe in the dark and scary woods when it comes to this writing business. I’ve just completed my latest draft of a 80,000 word novel based on a true story and it’s been the urgency to tell the story – my story, my way! – with my blood and guts poured all over it – that keeps me going during the many days of doubt.
Yes, I’m driven by it, haunted by it and my ghost walks within 24/7. If for nobody else – and I’ve had these thoughts – I’m doing my best to please my ghost and keep him happy. I’ll need to. Long way to go yet.
I’ve loved your writing, Lee (esp ‘The Dangerous Bride’).
Don, thank you for your generous words – they mean a lot! And your description of your writing drive makes me think you’re no ‘babe in the woods’, but a self-aware, committed writer. May your ghost materialise soon in papery flesh, in bookshops!
Dear Lee, your inspirational post resonates so much for me. That urgency carried me through many drafts of No Small Shame, even when I wasn’t sure that anyone else would want to read it and my doubts about writing ordinary lives. But that same urgency made me persist and when I gave over to writing the story I wanted to tell, it really opened up layers I’d never considered. Almost like magic! Chris ps: I hope you will experience the magic of Varuna next time.
Chris, I’m so glad you persevered and let the urgency carry you! And I did go back to Varuna many times since, and most stays were wonderful. But it was bad luck being there when I was so blocked, that first time…
This was a wonderful piece, Lee. Would you mind if I included it in my readings for a Creative Writing course at the University of Central Asia in Kyrgyzstan where I’m teaching? Many thanks, Lucy Palmer
Lucy, thank you so much! And of course, I’ll be honored to know you’re using my text in your teaching. Kyrgyzstan… Your job certainly makes me nostalgic now, even though while I lived in Russia I never visited there. But I met people from the region.
Thanks, Lee. Our obsessions and preoccupations fuel that urgency. I’m with you in going back time and again to that which matters most to us. Your words here remind me of Siri Hustvedt’s wonderful statement about her own writing as ‘circling the wound’. Isn’t this what we as writers do much of the time?
Liz, I love this Hustvedt quote. Thank you for this and thank you for your generous response here!
Thanks for sharing this Lee. I found it inspiring on a number of levels; that it’s okay to feel passionate and obsessed by something you want to write about even if it means you end up writing about it for the rest of your life(!), writing with urgency, and also the definition of different writers perform, “Memoirists write directly about what matters to them, whereas fiction writers may sublimate their experiences and passions.” I suspect I’ll never be able to write fiction and it’s again, it’s nice to feel that’s okay too. Whilst I know that intellectually, your explanation some how made sense to the ongoing debate (at least in my head) that writers can write both.
Scott, big thank you for your response; I’m so glad my reflections here resonated with you. The fact that you’ve thought about your own subject matter and genre already so deeply tells me you know what you need to as a writer!