Based on my encounters for the past two weeks, I know the first question lingering in your mind, so let’s get that out of the way: 39,212 words total. That’s an average of 2,614 words a day. Or, for those who think in page count, it’s 73 single-spaced pages written in 12-point font — and, as I confirmed for a middle schooler determined to note (loudly), “You’re not indenting!” – no, I don’t indent.
To his teacher, whom he surely told the following Monday that the writer in the library doesn’t indent her work (so he shouldn’t have to, either): I’ve very, very sorry. I should have said that, when I prepare manuscripts to send to editors, or anyone other than me who will read it, I do indent paragraphs. My deepest apologies.
Two weeks of writing a novel at the Central Library have brought many unexpected interactions like this. (Who knew that a pack of pre-teen boys would call me out on page formatting?) This Thursday, two girls, perhaps seven or eight years old, were gathered at the edge of the stanchions that rope off my living room from that of the library. Their arms linked, best friends obviously, they were incredibly courteous as they observed me, a strange adult lingering in captivity inside the ropes. Next to me, a large sign with pink lettering poses the question, “What is she doing?” as if to warn children about the dangers of my particular species. The girls snapped photos, but hesitated in taking one of the explanatory postcards, probably because they thought the cards were meant for adults.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them shimmy with excitement, then skip over to their parents who urged them to return to me. They were so cute, their noses twitching with curiosity, that I couldn’t resist removing my headphones to engage with them when they reappeared at the edge of the platform. “What’s the name of your book?” they whispered shyly, when I removed my headphones.
“The Year of the Tiger,” I said.
“That is so cool!” they squealed, before running away.
Was it? I was flattered, as it’s a working title, and kids are notorious for saying what they think, especially when something stinks. What I did think was so cool was that kids under 10 thought that seeing a real-live writer was interesting. After all, I’m sitting on a couch typing away at my laptop… it’s not like I’m throwing paint or devouring my tamer. But it’s a reaction that I hoped would happen —that young people, especially young women, would see this installation and be inspired, hopefully to go home and write— still, you never know how an idea will play out in real life.
Despite being an avid reader and writer all my life, the first time I saw a “real” writer was in my late twenties. It was David Sedaris, and he was reading, not writing. (He’s so small! I thought, although my nosebleed seats at Benaroya didn’t help.) I remember marveling at his talent and his nasal voice, wondering along with everyone else how he did it: how did he made us laugh one minute and utter the collective sound Aaaaah in the next? It was magic, the same way that my other favorite authors had the power to spellbind me with their work, seemingly instantaneously and with little effort as I turned the page. Surely, this talent came naturally and effortlessly; this is what they were meant to do in life.
I continue to believe that literary art is indeed so mystical because we never watch as it’s conjured. Even I secretly suspect that other writers possess a far superior ability to my own because — *poof!* their book is born onto a shelf seemingly from the ether, and I didn’t have to spend hours editing it. (Prolific authors such as Stephen King and Joyce Carol Oates only affirm my suspicions.) One day, a thick tome appears in the library and our discovery and consumption of its ideas happens as swiftly as the book was penned, we believe. Or, we don’t even stop to consider the work that went into it because we’re already bugging the librarian for her next recommendation.
Growing up, I didn’t have relationships with writers. For one, there were no writers in our surburban community, or if there were, my parents weren’t connected to them. My family consumed mostly read mass-market fiction, and those writers, like Anne Rice, Stephen King or Clive Cussler, lived far away. In high school, the writers whose work we read were dead (well, mostly) or likewise far removed; back then, even if they were alive, there was no internet that we could search for them on. I studied English Medieval Literature in college, so the authors I read were way dead. The person who created the work, and the work itself, were two very separate entities.
It wasn’t until the last five years that I’ve read contemporary authors who I could actually connect with in real life. Of course, it can be equally daunting to hear masters like Jo Ann Beard say that she lays down her work sentence by sentence, and that she doesn’t edit it once it’s written because, “If the sentence wasn’t perfect when I wrote it, I wouldn’t put it down.” (She went on to say that she tirelessly works and re-works sentences in her head line by line before she writes them, in case this sounds easy. If I tried to work this way, I’d never write a thing.) But to hear her explain her process and gain a sliver of insight into what it takes for her to write makes me read her work differently. It makes me read it slower, in fact.
As uncomfortable as it is to sit beneath a large screen where anyone can read what I’m writing [in its most naked, unpolished form], the transparency of A Novel Performance is the main reason for doing it. I love the questions I’m asked because they’re not always easy to answer. Having to explain what I do, how I do it and why (sometimes I have to think hard about that) is helping me to define my own process in explicit ways that I might not have come to on my own.
Some questions are easy: How long does it take for a writer to compose 39,212 words? (So far, about 60 hours.) Someone asked, do you erase? (Yes. You can watch me go back and forth over a line a couple times if it doesn’t feel quite right, although I can’t linger on any one part.) How do you know what happens next? (I created a very high-level outline that I’m using as a guide, but I’ve gone off-road a couple of times already.) After two weeks, are you tired of writing? (Fatigued, but not tired. The well may not be as deep from day to day, but it gets filled.)
People have asked if I’m crazy (yes, maybe) and where the furniture came from (it’s really mine; I bought the couch from Dania years ago and refinished the little side table myself. My boyfriend sorely misses his rug and lamp.)
My favorite question so far, though, came in passing from a woman pulling a large piece of luggage to the elevators across from me. She paused to take in the scene: a woman curled up by herself on a couch with her shoes off, a laptop teetering on top of her knees, surrounded by house plants and two red velvet pillows. She snorted and asked the room, quite loudly, ”Why you so special?!”
Every day when I arrive at the library to re-enact this scene, knowing that, even as an emerging writer I’m being supported to create art –to do the one thing in life that I feel made to do– I stop to ask myself that very same question.