PEN Center USA

Time is relative, as Einstein’s Theory of Special Relativity demonstrates. It gets weird too, as both movement and time fluctuate with gravity, and objects, when moving in space, follow the easiest route in accordance with the “Law of Cosmic Laziness,” (love that!) which has its own effect on time. Fun stuff to read up on if you want to explode your brain.

I’m concerned with a much simpler exploration of time. I’d like to call it Peel’s Theory of Relative Time, but I’m sure 1) I’m only the 6 billionth person to think of this, and 2) it’s probably not a subject worthy of scientific research (i.e., it’s probably just in our heads). Although, you never know, perhaps someone is studying this unlikely research subject, kind of like that Czech guy looking into cat-spread parasites that get into our brains and cause schizophrenia and other really fascinating behavioral changes that ensure the parasites' survival.

The aspect of time I’m interested in is how it speeds up as we age.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to be the next year older. Perhaps that’s because the next age usually conferred benefits. One could go to school when he reached a certain age, or get a game only intended for ages X and up, or watch slightly dirtier movies, PG movies instead of G. One could finally be a teenager and be allowed to stay up past a certain time, get a driver’s license, vote, drink, etc.

Time took forever then. I remember thinking I would never be 10, 16, 18. There were so many long afternoons of utter boredom. You just wanted the school year, or the day or the hour to be over.

I haven’t felt that way in ages. Now it all moves so quickly. And I must say, time kicked into another gear in January when this cycle of the Mark Program started. I swear I just wrote my last Mark Blog entry yesterday. But that was a week ago. It’ll be June before we know it.

I think the basis behind Peel’s Theory of Relative Time (presumptuous eh?) is that time goes faster the more activity we cram into it. When we’re kids, we spend afternoons not doing much. Looking at the clouds maybe. Riding our bikes. But as adults, and as we age and take on more responsibility, we pile on activities and time flies faster and faster.

The same thing happens with absorption in one task. Obviously my favorite absorptive task is writing (playing music does this for me as well). This works just like (theoretically) traveling through outer space at the speed of light. When the traveler returns to Earth, he could look at his watch and find that just a couple minutes have gone by. But on Earth, years went by. Time is different for space travelers, just as time is different for me when I write. I sit down in the morning, and when I look up somehow it’s dark again. Did I eat? Well no, only a couple minutes have passed. Wait, what do you mean nine hours have gone by?

No wonder I’m late to work almost every day.

My flight home from London last Sunday was one of those great absorptive experiences. Best flight ever. I boarded, we took off, I started writing (revising really), and we landed. That must be why Alan Watt told me he loves writing on a plane. It makes it a two-second flight.

Now, if I can just figure out how to slow time down. Oh wait, I know that one. That’s the Theory of Relative Traffic. Depending on the time of day and some other factors of physics, going the same distance can take twenty-three minutes or an hour and twenty-three minutes. God, I love science.

There was an interesting conversation on agent Betsy Lerner’s blog yesterday about the difference between publishing and writing. She said, "I often talk here about the agony of writing, of being a writer. […] I wonder if I’ve got it backwards. Isn’t writing the ecstasy? Publishing the agony?” I have to say I agree, and not just because I do love me some Betsy Lerner.

Now, I’m not gonna lie. From the very beginning I was looking for accolades and acceptance for my work. I have a seriously unhealthy obsession with celebrity and fame. For the record, I’m abundantly clear that I’ve chosen the wrong line of work for red carpets and private jets. But I lived for those red comments in the margins of the work I submitted in early workshops, and I’ve already written here—at length—about my desperate desire to please my first agent. But I’m talking about something a little different.

When I first started writing, I had no idea what the end result was going to be. I didn’t think I was writing a book-length work; I wasn’t worried about where my book would fit in in today’s shrinking publishing marketplace. I just wanted to write. The act of writing was joyful; I eagerly carved out the hours from my full-time job and my full-throttle life to sit down and do it. There was power in the sheer creation of something tangible, hopefully something beautiful, where there was once only a jumble of thought. Then, somewhere along the line, that shifted. As my first draft neared completion, I started dreading the blank page, worrying if what I was writing would appeal to a broad enough audience to find a legitimate home. A sure prescription for page death. I limped to the finish line, my last fifty pages anemic and pale under the weight of my fear.

A subsequent rewrite made it worse. Was it too glib? Not funny enough? Was it Augusten Burroughs-esque or Mary Karr lite? Jesus, I was asking all the wrong questions. I was asking publishing questions, questions I’d culled from reading too many Poets & Writers forums and the wrong aspiring writers' blogs. The end publishing result is none of my fucking business. (At least not until I *hypothetically* have a publishing contract. Whole different blog post.)

For me, it’s not publishing that’s the agony. It’s the agony of getting ahead of myself. There’s a lesson in there that I can apply to my whole life. Must. Not. Quote. Cliché. Here. You’re writers, you know what I mean, right?

I just came to the conclusion that I have a BIG crush on the Mark Program.

As I'm moving deeper into the revision process, I've realized how invaluable the workshop experience has been in terms of guiding my novel to its fullest potential. This statement may seem trite or obvious, but there are some variables in this particular workshop with the Mark that warrant some praise and thought.

Having been through many different workshop experiences, I can honestly say that this one is helping me in ways that no other workshop has. One reason is that there are only three people consistently reading my work. Three is a great number because if two people disagree on a certain point, the third party can weigh in, thereby swaying the pendulum to one definitive side and allowing the author to come to a conclusion on that point. Other workshops with eight to twelve people usually produce a chorus of divergent opinions that leave the writer confused about her own work. I have also had experiences in larger workshops where half the participants feel this way and half of them feel the opposite way, so that the feedback negates itself. With three participants, the workshop is intimate enough to foster a discussion, rather than an opportunity for everyone to simply sound off on the work. Otherwise, it's much more difficult for the writer to explore different possibilities in a thoughtful conversational atmosphere.

Also, this workshop meets every two weeks, and with each session the same people are reading your editorial decisions based on last week's feedback. So they get to see the rewrites, the darlings you’ve killed, the tiny tweaks you've made to propel the story forward. We’ve all seen our first thirty pages three times and each time we give each other feedback, from the micro to the macro, before going back to make the next draft as strong as possible. Then, when we all feel that the section is where it needs to be, we give the go-ahead for the writer to move on to the next part of their manuscript. In essence, we are all active in the evolution of each other's work.

Even in many M.F.A. programs, a full-length work doesn’t get the attention it deserves. Rather, it is parsed out in twenty-five-page chunks from semester to semester, with different readers and different teachers adding their opinions about only that chunk, but not about the work as a whole. This is not a negative comment on M.F.A. programs, but simply an example of why the Mark Program is so special. How many fellow writers in an M.F.A. program read your entire manuscript before beginning the revision process? This is a privilege, because it means that my fellow Markers and I are much more informed when we read each other's rewrites.

Factor in two great readers/writers, along with our leader Al Watt, and I blush a bit at my good fortune. This week, I went through each of their comments on my sixty-page submission and was astonished at how closely they had read, how observant they'd been about the changes I'd made from the previous draft, and how thoughtful their observations and questions were. From line edits to overarching thematic issues, nothing went unnoticed. The opportunity to submit that many pages is wonderful in itself, but having three people give you in-depth feedback is indispensable. As I began rewriting, inspired by their suggestions and comments, I felt energized and hopeful that my novel was changing, improving, and becoming a living, breathing thing.

Basically, this post is a love letter to the Mark, but more specifically, to my fellow writers at heart – Al, Shanna, and Carl. Happy Valentine’s Day, and let the power of three guide each of us to loving and realizing the full potential of our work.

Bookmark This is a weekly post featuring insight on craft and the writing life.

The following is an excerpt of Alexander Chee's essay on studying with Annie Dillard at Wesleyan University. Read the full essay on The Morning News.

One afternoon, at her direction, we brought in our pages, scissors and tape, and told to bring several drafts of an essay, one that we struggled with over many versions.

Now cut out only the best sentences, she said. And tape them on a blank page. And then when you have that, write in around them, she said. Fill in what’s missing and make it reach for the best of what you’ve written thus far.

I watched as the sentences that didn’t matter fell away.

You could think that your voice as a writer would just emerge naturally, all on its own, with no help whatsoever, but you’d be wrong. What I saw on the page was that the voice is in fact trapped, nervous, lazy. Even, and in my case, most especially, amnesiac. And that it had to be cut free.

After the lecture on verbs, we counted the verbs on the page, circled them, tallied the count for each page to the side and averaged them. Can you increase the average number of verbs per page, she asked. I got this exercise from Samuel Johnson, she told us, who believed in a lively page, and used to count his verbs. Now look at them. Have you used the right verbs? Is that the precise verb for that precise thing? Remember that adverbs are a sign that you’ve used the wrong verb. Verbs control when something is happening in the mind of the reader. Think carefully—when did this happen in relation to this? And is that how you’ve described it?

I stared, comprehendingly, at the circles on my page, and the bad choices surrounding them and inside them.

You can invent the details that don’t matter, she said. At the edges. You cannot invent the details that matter.

Continue reading.