Restrictive Character Description

(Describe a classmate without using name, hair color or clothing.)

            Despite her small stature, she strikes me as a woman who would hate to be described as “petite.” Petite, to her, might translate into diminutive, to tiny and easy to overlook, which are things she certainly is not. Indeed she is short and slight, but looking into her face, into her often-narrowed catch-everything eyes, one can see easily the bigness of her character. And its in her eyes where you’ll find the most of her because she isn’t one to exercise her voice without due provocation. She is exact and cerebral, critical and opinionated, confident but in no rush to prove it to the room. Where some source their thoughts in their mouth, she hides them within her, waits for the right moment to share, the appropriate venue to disclose, carefully and thoughtfully, what she knows is really going on here. She’s like the person sitting next to you on the bus, who you’re sure hasn’t been listening to that fight you’re having immodestly with a family member over a cell phone, until you hang up near tears, and she looks over to you and says simply and quietly that one small, reflective thing that will make you feel better when you were sure that nothing in that moment could. She is a woman unafraid of shortness, but perhaps forever annoyed by the implication that what is small cannot be expansive.

Sea Change: How Newspapers Remind Me That Nonfiction Is Not Doomed

It seems rather fitting that we end this course’s reading on newspaper writing. We began the semester with Paige’s promise that now is the best time to be a writer of nonfiction, and since that proclamation we’ve spent weeks traversing the modern genre, asking what makes good nonfiction, what formats it thrives in, and how it is changing. I think most will agree that we found many (and sometimes differing) answers to these questions. And so now we come to newspapers, those embattled, historic flagships of the nonfiction genre that just about every one of my parents’ friends point to as a reason for why I might just be better off securing a teaching gig and writing “on the side.” Newspapers have been in decline for decades for a multitude of reasons (alterations in ad revenue and direction, changes in media, etc.,) but I’ll go out on a limb here and say that writing and writers are not the primary reason—or even one of them. Sure, each publication battles (or should) with the caliber of its content, but it is rarely the words on the page that spell out this medium’s demise. On the contrary, newspapers provide room not only for excellent investigative journalism and other necessary works, but, as evidenced in this week’s reading, some truly artful, gripping, witty articles of nonfiction. Forget pyramid structuring or third-person removed—Paul Sahre, Amy Ellis Nutt, and Tom Wolfe remind me that while the newsprint word may be faltering, the craftsmanship within it certainly is not. For this reading response, I’ll focus upon “The Wreck of the Lady Mary.”

            I was a little surprised to see Amy Ellis Nutt’s Star-Ledger article on our reading list—not because of any preconceptions regarding the author, but rather because the Star-Ledger was always a staple in my house (as my parents were both NJ natives) but maintained a value amongst the adult readers somewhere above the Detroit News and Ann Arbor News (RIP) but certainly below the New York Times and the Detroit Free Press. I had it pegged as a bit of a rag, which has made my reading of “The Wreck of the Lady Mary” a happy, fulfilling experience. Since reading this article, I’ve explored NJ.com and found that, hey—the Ledger really does print some great work.

What struck me most about this article was its slowness, which stands as a distinct contrast to what I normally think of when I think of newspaper articles. It is careful yet smoothly flowing, detailed but not meticulous. Her characterizations of the men on the Lady Mary, as well as those intimately involved in the after-effects of its sinking, are often, for a lack of a better word, beautiful in its simplicity:

“Tim, still cradled in the basket is carefully lowered to the ground. The entire time, Downham continues CPR, even as Tim is lifted onto a gurney. Both bodies are put in the second ambulance, to be taken to the morgue at Shore Memorial Hospital, nine miles from Atlantic City. Finally Downham stops the compressions. ‘Is there anything else I could have done?’ he asks the EMT. ‘No,’ the man replies. ‘Nothing.’” (The conclusion of Part 2)

Here, I see Nutt using the inherent barriers of newspaper writing to her and to the story’s advantage. This excerpt is filled with fact, with information that helps move the story along—just as a good newspaper article “should” be. Through the display of these facts, however, and without editorializing, she determines for us mood, scene and character. Through the absence of certain stated facts (that Tim and Bobo are long-dead and that CPR was surely fruitless while putting a corpse in a body bag), having trust in the reader and in the thrust of her narrative, she emphasizes the emotional impact of the scene.

            Another element of this article that stood out to me was how seamlessly Nutt was able to build composite scenes, telling the whole story (or something close to it) through a cobbling together of what were surely many interviews. She is able to demonstrate (how, exactly, I don’t yet fully understand) to the reader that there are reputable sources of the information she relays, but she doesn’t muddy up her narrative by telling us directly when and where from which the information came. Take for example the very first part of Part 1. “Seesawing across the ocean, he cannot tell east from west, up from down. At the top of a wave the night sky spins open, then slides away. Buckets of stars spill to the sea.” She lets this image sit with us, the stunning description building immediately the scene, which Jose Arias surely described to her. But she doesn’t write, “As Arias told me.” No, she trusts in her research, narrative and her readers to infer the journalistic integrity behind these sentences.

            One critique of “The Wreck of the Lady Mary” that I can’t quite seem to reckon with is the general lack of answers it yields regarding the “mystery” of the boats’ sinking. To her and her editors’ credit, Nutt was very upfront in her article regarding the limitations she met in trying to uncover what really happened that morning in March 2009. The biggest problem was that they were unable to speak with Reederie Thomas Schulte, the owner of the Cap Beatrice—or anyone associated with him, apparently. It is great that Nutt is so forthcoming about these hurdles, along being explicit about the research she did on scallop boats and on dry suits, but honesty doesn’t make up for the fact that, to me, once the stories of the sinking, rescue and emotional aftermath were told, the article appears to be spinning its wheels. Nutt basically lays out for us the questions that remain amidst the wreck, but is unable to find any answers—which, to me signifies another area where honesty could have been applied. Why couldn’t Nutt have said, following Part 3 that no conclusive evidence was found in demystifying the wreck and, rather than stringing us on for the next 2 chapters, merely cut out the whole “clue” and “lead” thing? There is nothing wrong with exploring the mystery surrounding the wreck, but I ask that we don’t pretend that this article was able to do work that it wasn’t. I suspect that either Nutt or her editors were weary of packaging an article that was geared towards human interest-type story telling, and therefore concluded that the way to keep people readings for 5 separate chapters is to pose a conflict (why did the boat sink?) and a promise of a solution—which never comes. This bothers me because I feel that Nutt’s writing drives this article so solidly by itself that it seems as almost a disservice to her creative skill to frame this piece like some sort of investigation into Titanic’s sinking. However, this critique seems to me to be a writerly one, as I cannot see the average reader having problems with the lack of resolution within this article.

So, it is appropriate that, in a course which promised to change my mood and opinion surrounding the genre, we at last look to newspapers, the proverbial zombie of the nonfiction world and find on its pages living, breathing, excellent writing. I’m happy to report that Paige delivered on her promise—when even the most damned medium of our set is still yielding superior work and forming new places and spaces to share it, I know that now really is a great time to write nonfiction.

Notes on Authorial Presence in Encounters with the Archdruid

The Glen Canyon Dam. Source: wildnatureimages.com [Ed. note: Ironic website for this picture to come from.]

        

    I’ve never read a work of nonfiction with an authorial presence quite like the one John McPhee strikes in Encounters with the Archdruid. On the page, McPhee is unavoidably extant, but somehow manages to stay out of the fray, letting the subjects and the scene come alive around and without him. Though I wonder if others might disagree with me, I found the author’s presence to be remarkably without conflict—we know that he has deep ties with David Brower but he does not allow this fact to obscure the validity of his reporting. With the help of a certain narrative grace, McPhee is able balance between being a part of the story and the observer of it, all without ever truly letting on his own position on the politics at hand.

            Here are some points I think might be interesting to discuss in class:

McPhee’s mediator presence – I would argue that the author asserts himself as a mediator in that he is largely impartial, is the person who brings Brower together with his “adversaries,” and is sometimes the one asking the questions debated between his subjects. Is McPhee’s mediation the key to the success of his authorial presence in this book?

Allusions to relationships with characters off the page – How does McPhee include evidence of a relationship with Brower that goes beyond this book without allowing such information to compromise his credibility?

Overt presence vs covert presence – At times, McPhee sets a scene as though he is no part of it. [pg. 93: “Fraser is cruising through Sea Pines in an air-conditioned green dodge. . .”] At other times, he introduces a scene with his personal observations. [pg. 174: “Mile 130. The water is smooth here, and will be smooth for three hundred yards, and then we are going over another rapid.”] How does he do both in one volume—and pull it off? Is one technique better than the other? Would anyone in the class argue that he should have stayed with one technique for the entire book?

Notes on Character Profiles

There are few works that I enjoy reading more than character profiles—entire bodies of writing dedicated to parsing out the fascinating nuances of an individual. One of the reasons why I flipped literary sides from fiction to nonfiction was my reverence for authentic character. People and the quiet dramas that consume them enthrall me—so much so that I began to feel that neglecting this ready wealth of resources that sit beside me on the bus, pass me on the stairs, talk loudly into their cell phones ahead of me in line, was a tantamount to criminal. For a person like myself, who so easily becomes absorbed by the miniscule concerns of my little life, the idea that the personal worlds of others are just as complex and discouraging at mine is deeply comforting. I am drawn to the formulating depths of individual character, and therefore drawn to writing that dives in to such places.

It seems to me that a great profile is neither wholly complimentary, nor is it wholly damning. It should come close to both the truth of how that person is perceived by the public and the realities of how they perceive themselves. A great character profile should be human, and by that I mean multifaceted, vaguely self-contradictory, a little gritty and illuminating in the connections it builds (or does not build) between the individual and the masses. I would argue that all great nonfiction should have elements of an excellent character profile—even nonfiction that does not include humans, as character can be found far beyond the limits of flesh and blood.

Our readings this week is evidence not just of superior character profiles, but also of the different forms such profiles can successfully embody. We have a character built through pointed questions and a subject’s own words in “Janet Malcolm, The Art of Nonfiction No. 4.” Joan Schenkar briefly but concisely explores Theodora Keogh’s character through a double lens of her life and her writing. And, in John Jeremiah Sullivan’s work, we have an essay that analyzes Andrew Lytle’s character by evaluating its decline or adulteration in the Southern writer’s old age.  Three different subjects, three different authors, three different forms—but these pieces are the same in that they each offer unique and moving insight into the lives they profile.

Some note on each of these works:

Andrew Lytle. Source: thefsw.org

"Mister Lytle: An Essay." There are many admirable elements to this essay, not least of which is the smooth-flowing prose that both sets a scene and analyzes it. What I admire most about this piece, however, is that Sullivan resists the urge to go beyond the scope of his own knowledge concerning Lytle. He could have easily provided some summary of who Lytle was before he became so old, could have gone on about his publishing credits and reputation prior to his sad cabin days. Instead of going this easy, diplomatic route, Sullivan instead offers up a profile that hinges upon what old age did and did not take from Lytle. He doesn’t pussy-foot around Lytle’s decrepitude but lets it stand as an authentic representation of the author’s character and style.  Is this character profile a complete representation of the Lytle himself? Yes, in that it shows him as he was during the year Sullivan knew him, and no, because it shows him as he was during just that year. But who is to say that a character profile must be thorough, all encompassing? I appreciate that Sullivan threw out the notion that he needed to represent the author in all of his dimensions and instead focused in on one dimension to hint towards all of the many other elements of this fascinating character.

Ms. Keogh. Source: newyorksocialdiary.com

"The Late, Great Theodora Keogh." This is a rather cosmetic comment, but I must say that I truly appreciated the two photos included in this article. Because it was short in length, these visual aides added an extra element to Schenkar’s profile. The photos back up in an indescribable way the assertions made about Keogh’s character. It makes me think about the Devil in the White City and how changed the text may have been had Larson included photos of Holmes, the murderer.

Janet Malcolm. Source: www.jewishjournal.com

"Janet Malcolm, The Art of Nonfiction No. 4." What struck me most about this interview was how much one can learn about Malcolm’s character from the questions she chose not to answer from the interviewer. At first, my thought was that the candidness of a face-to-face interview would be lost in an email exchange, but I was happy to see that I was wrong. You can feel the tension between Malcolm and some of these questions, as well as some of her own answers, and these tensions reveal much about the author, especially in regards to how she sees herself and wants others to see her.

Of course, one must consider the venue in regards to the success of these profiles—and I look forward to reading what my brilliant classmates have to say on this subject. All three of these pieces are from The Paris Review—a magazine for writers, produced by writers. With it’s nearly 60 years of existence and masthead and TOC so continually weighted by the lustrous names of the literary elite, this publication has an aura and influence all its own. Such provenance and authority no doubt influences the work produced for its pages.

First—The Paris Review seems to know its audience. They don’t waste precious space detailing each author’s bibliography because they assume their readers will already know such information, or at least will possess the smarts and incentive to look it up. Furthermore, The Paris Review knows the lens through which its articles are read. This is writing for writers, meaning that inquiries into the nuances of the profession, of technique and philosophy are prioritized. These three pieces are not profiles that are concerned only with the subject as a writer, or with the subject as a layperson—these writings demonstrate the necessity of evaluating both sides—of evaluating a writer’s professional and personal life in order to obtain the most insightful profile. They seek to enlighten the reader not just to the useful bits of writerly advice the subject divulges or divulged, but also to the ways in which the subject lived, thought, struggled. In these areas the authors of these pieces seem to have mined the most value, for they are pointing us towards writerly lessons that the subject himself may not have known he could offer. In addition to gearing articles to its specific audience and creating space for three-dimensional artist profiles, the editors and writers of The Paris Review also ensure that the text printed is of a comparable caliber to the text they analyze. By this I mean only that the writing produced for the magazine is often rich, smart and beautiful, which of course seems only fitting given its topics and contributors. Such excellent prose translates into powerful profiles in these three instances, which then lends to the narrative authority of the authors.

I have questions regarding the reception that these sorts of works have/had outside of the writing community. Though I know no non-writers who read The Paris Review, I do know quite a few non-writers who read The New Yorker, which often publishes similar author profiles in its editions. My fellow book-nerds tend to love these long-form inquiries into the writers’ life, but those less enchanted by the literary world have voiced annoyance regarding such pieces. Some claim that profiles like these can be “boring” since they don’t really care about how many hours the author spends writing a day, or what kind of pen she can’t live without. Others find such profiles almost offensive—they claim that there is something lost when a writer pulls back the curtain to reveal the grimy inner-workings behind the production of a celebrated volume. Its as though the magic of literature is being stolen from them in these close looks into writers’ lives. These are individuals that maintain that a book should stand alone and that understanding it should be done without the consideration of its creator. Of course, I can’t fully sympathize with these complaints, but I can’t shake the need to question what might be lost in looking at a writer’s professional work through her personal life. Does doing so enlighten or narrow our view of the literature? For writers, the answer to this seems easy, since we gain so much from seeing the “big” picture surrounding a work of great writing—but what about the rest of us? 

Untitled

I have now seen seven starched deathbeds, their occupants fading quickly beneath the gleam of the hospital floresents, of the low, late October sun, of the frosty February morning light. I have been to eleven lily-scented funerals where I always wore the same black dress—slinky and strapless with a cardigan pulled over for modesty’s sake. I have written and given two trite eulogies. I’ve eaten countless deviled eggs and store-bought cookies and raw broccoli florets in the basements of churches all along the east coast. I’ve laughed cruelly at tearful renditions of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” I’ve given sympathy and I’ve received it, or tried to.

Over the past eight years, death has ruled my life. So has the sloppy, soppy clichés that go along with such a melodramatic statement. This parade of finality and mortality just seems to have found a steady route along my front door. And I’m not talking about the peaceful, went-in-his-sleep kind of death—I’m talking long, drawn out, death-rattle-for-days type death, and the kind that is the sudden, mysterious, took-in-his-prime type.

It began with a beloved uncle, a Catholic priest who despite admitting to himself in middle age that he was gay and desperately lonely, still made the choice to dedicate his life to god. When they found his cancer it had so thoroughly occupied each component of his body that they were at a loss to find its origin. Next was my mother who, at 51 decided not to go to the doctor with a worrisome pain until she had me packed and moved-in to my first year in college. Within a year she would die with gasping breath on her side of the bed she shared with my father. After that and within a year was my maternal grandfather—cancer, too and just as sudden and torturous. Then another uncle, who drowned beneath his surfboard on a shallow sandbar off the Jersey shore. There were others—another grandfather, a grandmother, another uncle, a godmother. Each of these deaths were initiated with hospital visits—mostly to comfort the dying but once to identify a body. That was followed by “final plans,” by phone calls to notify the family, by finding funeral directors and grave plots and the right kind of reading or insight to give the funerals’ officiators. They concluded with efforts to give away or dissolve the deceased’s possessions, homes, pets. It has become strangely routine, regular—a bizarre banality of trauma.

At the beginning of this long trail of death, I spent every energy immersing myself in it. I cried a lot. I tried positive thinking briefly, and when that didn’t work, copious drinking. I continually asked why and how did these things could happen, as though the answers would somehow cure the problem or at least console me. I couldn’t stop thinking that things were turning out the wrong way—that my life and the lives of others were meant to be something much different than the grim shaded shapes they were becoming. I gave myself to grief the way some give themselves to god. I dedicated morning, afternoon and night to it. I went on cemeterial pilgrimages and brooded over minor details of monumental events. It consumed me and I let it.

At the gathering held after my mother’s funeral, the house was hot and crowded and filled with people who wanted to hug, or to relay some bit of supposed wisdom. I was overwhelmed and exhausted, still stuck in that tight black dress and chunky heels. After the first hour, I felt a sudden, terrible urge to flee so I made my way to the backdoor and broke out of it into the November air. I had no coat or scarf and the crisp cold stung my face and arms but if felt good. It felt like I could breathe for the first time in days.

There in the dark beyond the patio furniture stood a man about my age, sucking a cigarette with his hands in his pocket. I recognized him. We had gone to high school together but we weren’t close and I was shocked to see him here, at my family’s house in his best funeral attire. He turned to me as I closed the door and took the cigarette out of his mouth, ready to say something but I stopped him by holding up my hand. The last thing I wanted to hear were more condolences—that was why I had escaped into the cold Michigan winter. He looked hurt and concerned, and so I knew I needed to speak.

“Can I have one of those?” I asked, pointing to the red ember of his cigarette. He nodded and took a red package out of his pocket, opened it and handed me a filtered Marlborogh and a light.

I had never smoked before—never had the desire to. I was something of a health nut and worried, well, worried about getting cancer and dying a terrible death dragged down by lungs blackened and polyped like those showed to us in health class. But there on the back porch, it seemed like the only right thing to do in the world was to take a drag from that cigarette. There was nothing stopping me. I accepted his light and sucked—the smoke rushed from my mouth in a cloud that’s dimensions were accentuated by the cool air. It was one of the sweetest breaths I’d ever taken.

That night, instead of crying more or asking why or going over again and again the details of my mother’s last moments—how the dog was there in the room with us, the low moan my father made, the way she squeezed my hand a full minute after her final breath--I smoked a half pack of this man’s cigarettes and I drank a pint of tequila. My lungs and my mouth were too filled with smoke to ask why and how—in fact, I stopped asking anything at all. I gave myself up to smoke and cancer and the inevitability of death and the truth that it is always looming. It didn’t make me feel better, but it didn’t make me feel worse.

Seven years later and 5 deaths later, I still smoke. But I also still ask questions.