In Ernest Hemingway’s first published novel, “The Sun Also Rises,” there’s a brief exchange of dialog between two minor characters when one asks the other how he went bankrupt.
“Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually and then suddenly.”
That quote resonated with me because it’s the way I stopped writing: gradually and then suddenly. I haven’t written a blog post in over a month. I used to write ten or twelve posts a month. Then it was eight or nine. Maybe six. Then suddenly: none.
Same thing with the novel I was working on. For months, I had a vision and hummed along in a writing groove, then things got choppy and I gradually slowed down, writing less and doubting more, and then suddenly I stopped.
It’s not just the writing, either. My reading has fallen off as well. I mentioned “The Sun Also Rises”— it’s the only book I’ve finished reading (re-reading from my youth) in more than a month. I’ve started several books, read them partially, and put them down. Then all at once I stopped reading novels. The Hemingway novel is the exception, maybe because it’s a short read and a trip down memory lane to when I thought Hemingway was the godfather of modern American literature (Nobel Prize 1954).
Gradually and then suddenly.
I ask myself why. I haven’t run out of ideas for this blog. I keep a list of things to write about, but suddenly don’t have the motivation to write them. No spark. For the novel I’ve been working on, it’s more complicated. For each of my five published books, during the writing process I’ve at times had to claw my way out of chasms of uncertainty and weather storms of low confidence: in the characters, the story, the structure, the voice, my skills, the overall point of even being a writer. But eventually I pulled together and wrote the book.
I’m finding there are advantages to not writing. My tennis game has improved because I’ve been playing more. The backhand has more spin and shape. A few points are getting won on the serve. I’ve also tackled a complex (for me) job of replacing a section of cracked and weathered cedar siding on my house, saving a costly contractor bill. I’ve devoted time to friends. We just returned from a getaway to Montreal, one of my favorite cities in the world.
Part of my writing pause is related to the recent publication of “The Suitor.” A book that I’ve owned for years is now the property of whoever reads it. Readers have had (mostly) positive things to say about the novel—but I don’t have enough readers; I don’t sell enough books or get widespread attention or acclaimed reviews. Bottom line: my books aren’t adored enough. A blow to my writing spirit, this is, a darkening of anything I might label my “artistic value.”
“The Sun Also Rises” was published to mixed reviews. It was an early modernist novel featuring Hemingway’s spare, realistic prose and occasional chaotic syntax. The narrative follows Jake Barnes, a disillusioned character of the “lost generation” drifting around Europe post-World War I. Later, many critics said this was Hemingway’s best novel. For those interested in the author who influenced entire generations of writers (male and white, mostly) there’s also the poetic “The Old Man and the Sea.” And my favorite: “A Farwell to Arms,” about which Hemingway said he rewrote the last page thirty-nine times. That’s my kind of writer.
I write books and then conclude no one cares. I decide I care. And I discover someone else does. I hear from a reader about “The Suitor” who says Art went way over the top trying to protect his daughter; another reader tells me Art acted heroically to protect her. One reader thinks Kyle is an untrustworthy schemer; another is sure Kyle is a sincere young man in love with Anna. Different reader perspectives are eliciting different reader reactions. This I like. I’m feeling a little better.
And then I get this from a reader, not about “The Suitor” but about my previous novel, “In Flight.” It was about the ending, which some readers said they didn’t like or understand, but this reader said the ending was one of the best she’s ever read and it will always stay with her.
That’s all I want. That’s all I need. I’d prefer it to be times ten thousand, but I have to take what I can get. So here I am clawing my way out of the hole. Type-type-typing. Writing this blog post, examining the detritus of my novel-in-progress for salvageable parts. A little at a time. An hour here, a couple of hours there. I’m back at my desk. I’ll rewrite this thirty-nine times if needed. There’s a chance I’ll get going again—gradually and then suddenly.
