As predicted, another sleepless night is upon me. I say predicted because I knew since I got up at nine in the morning, yesterday, that I was going into another twenty-four hours of restlessness. The thing is–I have to write another book. It’s no longer a choice. If I don’t write then I don’t sleep, no matter how many exercise DVD’s I manage to sweat through. My mind is restless.
After finishing Candace Busnell’s “One Fifth” for the fifth time (ironically), I reached for a collection of short stories by Amy Hempel. Amy Hemphil is an extraordinary short story writer. Her talent is boundless. As I read her stories, I can only imagine the length and breath of her sleeping troubles. If a mediocre writer like me, suffers the way I do, I would never want to be her.
My favorite story of hers’ is this one: The Most Girl Part of Me. As you read it, notice how she only gives you three or four pieces of solid information. Everything else is a small detail that groups together to tell a bigger story, a story perhaps bigger and even more incredible, because it’s never told outright. Of course, by the end, it’s all so clear. That’s her gift. She’s like an artist with an array of fine, stiff, paint brushes. She uses tiny strokes and at the end–whalla!–it’s a meadow! It’s a burning bush! It’s the face of Jesus!
She really is extraordinary.
The first time I ever heard about Amy Hemphil was in a writers workshop in New York. For weeks before the workshop, I’d been ravenous, writing furiously, day and night, a novel I’d started sophomore year of college. I thought I was literally on fire. The words and descriptions were flowing so endlessly, all the while, the pages forming a tidy pile on the carpet by my feet. On the day of the workshop, I felt almost as if I didn’t need it. Things were going so well for me. I had an agent–not just any agent, one who’s client had won a Pultizer Prize–interested in reading an advanced copy of my debut novel. I’d churned out six beefy chapters, a remarkable sixty-three pages, single spaced, and had to force myself to step away from the computer. Yes, you could say I felt fairly confident in my ability as a composer of words.
Then I started to read Amy Hemphil, and felt immediately dwarfed by her effortless ability to create something out of nothing.
I never wrote another word of that novel. After Amy, I looked at my writing with fresh eyes, and saw it for what it really was: severely lacking. It was such a revolutionary moment, that I ended up deleting and shredding, all my work from the prior weeks, taking me back to the first chapter, the one I’d written one sleepless night, sophomore year.
I admit now that my actions were melodramatic. It’s never healthy to compare yourself to someone else, and besides, there was already somebody out there–an agent!–who thought I had something worthwhile to say. Still, it wasn’t good enough for me. That’s why it’s so hard for me to write a ‘serious novel’. Every time I try, I end up with the novels that I’ve published so far–light, fun comedy. Sure, these types of books have their place, but I’m never going to be satisfied until I’m able to write what I set out to write in the first place.
Maybe I’ll be able to finally spit it out. Maybe not, who knows? Until then I have Amy and her incredible sentences, to keep my eye on the bar. If you’ve never read it, I hope after reading this blog, you will. The link is below AGAIN. This time, click on it!
The Most Girl Part of Me by Amy Hemphil
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La Dolce Vita 