"Voice" in Student Writing

The concept of “voice” is somewhat controversial in academic circles. Here I put that controversy aside to share my experiences with “voice” in my students’ writing. We are aware of voice in the writing of well-known authors. But it is much harder to discern, naturally, in that of amateur writers, especially students. Most students take a while to develop distinctive voices, and often produce a high proportion of pedestrian, unoriginal writing. But over time, whether in academic or creative writing, they gradually develop, or uncover, their own idiosyncratic and particular ways of expressing themselves. It is such a pleasure to see their imaginations at work, to read an unusual turn of phrase, or to note a sense of humor or a unique perspective. When this happens, something exciting occurs: the student’s voice calls out to the reader in a specific way that only that student could enact. What a joy that is for the reader!

"Lucky in the Corner," by Carol Anshaw

Having enjoyed Carol Anshaw's newest novel, "Carry the One" (and written about it here on 4/8/12), I decided to read one of her earlier novels, "Lucky in the Corner" (Houghton Mifflin, 2002), and enjoyed it as well. The most crucial relationship in the novel is the complex and vexed one between Nora and her college-age daughter Fern, but their relationship is embedded in a tangle of other relationships with lovers, parents, siblings, and friends. Nora, who has a similarly complicated relationship with her own mother, Lynette, left her husband Russell some years ago, when Fern was very young; Nora could no longer suppress or ignore her true lesbian self. She has now been for many years in a relationship with Jeanne, and together they have created a calm and happy home. But Nora's desire for another great passion tempts her to betray Jeanne with Pam. Meanwhile, Fern is doing well in college, loves her Uncle Harold (whose alter ego is Dolores), has a part-time job as a telephone psychic, starts a relationship with James, and becomes increasingly responsible for her friend Tracy's baby Vaughn. She is also in danger of losing her dog Lucky, whom she dearly loves, and who represents to her a kind of stability and continuity throughout all the changes in her life (her parents' divorce, her mother coming out as a lesbian, etc.); he is now old and arthritic, and in clearly declining health. The story moves along quickly, the characters are interesting, and although they are in nontraditional family configurations, readers can relate to the misunderstandings and communication breakdowns among them. What the novel portrays well is the ways in which we all have contradictory impulses that are hard to reconcile. For example, Nora loves her daughter and her partner, yet can't stop herself from betraying them as she follows her passion. Fern loves her mother, but doesn't trust her not to let her down again, so she doesn't let Nora get too close to her. My only reservation about the novel is that its portrayals of the characters, while realistic and sympathetic, do not seem to go deep enough. I found myself wishing that the characters had shared more about themselves. Perhaps because of this, I found the novel enjoyable but not memorable.

Do We Believe Good-Looking Authors Write Better?

In a New Yorker article about Albert Camus (“Facing History,” 4/2/12), Adam Gopnik puts forth the intriguing theory that we, the reading public, give more credit to good-looking authors than to those who are less so. He begins by noting that Camus “was a terrifically good-looking guy whom women fell for hopelessly” and that this was part of his appeal. He goes on to assert that “when handsome men or beautiful women take up the work of the intellect, it impresses us because we know they could have chosen other paths to being impressive.” The rest of Gopnik’s article on Camus focuses on more usual literary and political topics, but the introductory assertion caught my attention and made me wonder about its validity. What IS true is that writers’ appearances -- especially those of women writers -- are often mentioned in reviews, biographies, and other works about them. Just recently, in Jonathan Franzen’s New Yorker article on Edith Wharton (about which I posted here on 2/22/12), he made the point that Wharton was “not pretty” and speculated about how that affected her writing. Another woman writer whose lack of beauty is often pointed out was George Eliot. Some writers who have been romanticized, such as Byron and Kerouac, are known for their looks (and life styles) as well as their literary work. Photographs of writers on book jackets often appear to be somewhat glamorized. Maybe there is some truth to Gopnik’s assertion; who doesn’t like to look at beautiful people, whether writers or others? But I resist believing that we readers actually give attractive authors more credit for their writing. Surely we are not that shallow?

About Mr. Bennet in "Pride and Prejudice"

I have read Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” many times, and heard audio versions several times. Each time I am struck by different aspects of the novel. While recently listening to this timeless book read to me on CD by the estimable Flo Gibson, I focused on Mr. Bennet, the father of Elizabeth and her four sisters. Everyone knows that Mrs. Bennet is rather crude and embarrassing at times, especially in her pursuit of husbands for her five daughters. But Mr. Bennet, because he is more sophisticated, scholarly, and wryly humorous, gets a pass, at least to a certain point. But truly he is just as bad a parent as Mrs. Bennet is, and with less excuse, as he is much more intelligent. He loves his girls, but just doesn’t get very involved with raising them, or with putting any sensible limits on them, especially his out-of-control youngest daughter, Lydia. He can’t be bothered; he would rather stay in his study reading, or entertain himself by teasing his wife and daughters. For example, Elizabeth pleads with him not to let Lydia go stay with Colonel and Mrs. Forster in Brighton, but he carelessly thinks she will be fine, and he can't make the effort to stand up to Lydia's pleading. The only time he admits his errors as a father is when Lydia runs off with Wickham, and even then he states that he will admit them once and then not again. This event is a disaster for the family, and only Darcy’s intervention saves the day. I realize that although I was critical of Mr. Bennet about this episode during past readings, I had really been letting him off the hook because of his love of books, his humorous remarks, and his having the discernment to prefer Elizabeth as his favorite daughter. Ironically, she is similar to her father in her intellect and sense of humor, but has much more awareness and sense than he does, at least regarding raising his daughters.

Wolitzer on Gender Inequities in the Book World

Readers of this blog know that a topic I occasionally address, and one that I feel strongly about, is gender inequities in the book world. Even today, when many women writers are published and widely read, there are problems. The novelist Meg Wolitzer recently (4/1/12) wrote in the New York Times Book Review an essay titled “The Second Shelf” (an allusion to Simone de Beauvoir’s feminist manifesto, “The Second Sex”). She argues, as other women writers have recently done as well (e.g., Jennifer Egan), that when women write about marriage, families, sex, and children, their work is labeled as “women’s fiction,” but when male novelists write about the same topics, their work is not labeled or ghettoized, but praised. Case in point (as Wolitzer’s essay begins): “If ‘The Marriage Plot,' by Jeffrey Eugenides, had been written by a woman yet still had the same title and wedding ring on its cover, would it have received a great deal of serious literary attention? Or would this novel (which I loved) have been relegated to ‘Women’s Fiction,’ that close-quartered lower shelf where books emphasizing relationships and the interior lives of women are often relegated?” Further, Wolitzer states, “Some people, especially some men, see most fiction by women as one soft, undifferentiated mass that has little to do with them.” This concern about inequity is backed up by facts: for example, VIDA, a women’s literary organization, showed statistically that “women get shockingly short shrift as reviewers and reviewees in most prestigious publications. Of all the authors reviewed in the publications it tracked, three-fourths were men.” Such practices disadvantage women writers, limit their audiences, and limit the kind of recognition they receive. Wolitzer acknowledges that there are many exceptions: women writers whose books have sold well and been acclaimed. But, she concludes, “the top tier of literary fiction – where the air is rich and the view is great and where a book enters the public imagination and the current conversation – tends to feel peculiarly, disproportionately male.” Many female authors feel the same; for example, in the “letters to the editor” section of the NYT Book Review on 4/15/12, there was a letter of strong agreement with Wolitzer, signed by 89 women writers. What will it take to change this inequitable situation?

"The Red Book," by Deborah Copaken Kogan

Why am I and many other readers so drawn to fiction set in Ivy League colleges (or their prep school predecessors – witness the big bestseller of a few years ago, “Prep”)? Is it the same impulse that has made many readers through the years want to read about the upper class, the affluent -- a kind of wanting to learn how the upper crust (what we now call “the 1%") lives? Is it admiration, envy, jealousy, political criticism, outrage? Or something much simpler: wallowing in the opulent details of the lives of the rich? It is perhaps a win-win situation: We can enjoy the pleasures of the luxury that the affluent experience, but also take a kind of satisfaction in seeing that the rich have the same problems we all do: health problems, relationship problems, family problems, work problems, unhappiness, and yes, sometimes even money problems. (Meanwhile, as someone very concerned about the huge inequities in the distribution of income/assets in the U.S., a part of me feels guilty about enjoying reading about the lives of the rich…) (In a strange sort of way, this kind of novel is a successor to Edith Wharton’s far better written novels that I recently wrote about, her novels about the rich in New York 140 years ago.) This is not to say that everyone who goes to Ivy League colleges is rich, but most -- especially the ones written about in fiction -- are at least upper-middle-class. This is a long prologue to saying that as I expected from the description that I would, I thoroughly enjoyed Deborah Copaken Kogan’s novel, “The Red Book” (Voice/Hyperion, 2012), about a group of friends who graduated from Harvard and are now at their 20th Class Reunion. We learn about them through their surprisingly (unrealistically?) candid entries in Harvard’s alumni publication, the “red book,” and through a description of what happens during the days of the reunion in Cambridge; there is plenty of action, involving not only the four friends but their spouses, partners, children, friends, and acquaintances. The four main characters are Clover, Mia, Jane, and Addison. (This is another popular and seductive trope in current novels: the group of women friends and how their lives develop -- full of drama and crisis -- separately and intertwined.). Each character’s role is somewhat predictable: Addison is the spoiled rich girl, Clover the half-black scholarship girl, Jane the adopted Vietnamese war orphan, and Mia perhaps the happiest and most mainstream one, but frustrated not to carry out her dreams of a career in acting. There is certainly more than a hint of formula in this novel and in the characters; is this high-flown “chick lit”? “Ivy League lit”? “Girlfriends lit”? Whichever category we might put it in, the novel tells a good story (actually several stories), is expertly constructed, is reasonably well written, and definitely keeps the attention of the reader.

Pamela Paul's "Books I Have Read" List and Mine

"Bob." That is the name Pamela Paul, a New York Times Book Review editor, gives the notebook in which she keeps a list of books she has read. "Book of Books" = "Bob." I enjoyed reading Paul's essay about Bob in the 4/15/12 NYT Book Review. But when she spoke of having kept her list for 24 years, I had to smile, with just a tiny touch of -- I admit it! -- superiority. Although I have never given it a name, I have kept such a list since earlyish childhood (see my posts about this when I first started this blog, on 1/24/10 and 1/25/10), for a total (so far!) of - ahem! - 51 years! I am now in "Volume III" -- which simply means in my third plain lined school notebook -- and have read a total of 5231 books (some are repeats). Paul and I differ a little bit in our list method. For example, she includes books she didn't finish, but marks them with "inc." for "incomplete"; I do not list unfinished books at all. She occasionally notes where she was when she read a certain book (China, France); I have not done that. I occasionally note whether the book is a repeat read, and whether I listened to the book in audio form. A similarity is the condition of the notebooks. She says "Bob is showing his age. At some point I spilled coffee on him; the gray cover is mottled, and one corner is woody and bare." My "Volume I," a notebook bought from the school supply store at my school in India, with the name of the Indian town on it, is worn at the edges, and Volume II shows some signs of age as well. But despite the large disparity in the number of years Paul and I have kept our notebooks of "books read" lists, we both value our lists very highly. Paul claims that "Were my house to burst suddenly into flames, I would bypass the laptop and photo albums...in order to rescue Bob," and I completely understand that statement!

"The Age of Innocence," by Edith Wharton

What can I say that hasn’t already been said many times about Edith Wharton’s wonderful, beautifully written, always revelatory novel, “The Age of Innocence”? All I can do is describe my own feelings when I read or hear it. I have read this book several times, and have just finished listening to it on CD. (Coincidentally, I wrote about my admiration of Wharton's work on 4/18/10, exactly two years ago.) Published in 1920, "The Age of Innocence" is set in the New York of the upper crust in the 1870s. Like most of Wharton’s novels, this book contrasts the great wealth and privilege held by its characters, on the one hand, and the way they are trapped by severe conventional limits on their behavior, on the other hand. Even the men are bound in this way, but they at least have some outlets, some freedoms, some possibilities that the women do not. There is only one way for women of this class at that time: the way of least resistance, the way of following society’s expectations to the letter. It is a kind of golden cage. The great (unconsummated) love affair between Newland Archer and Ellen Olenska is thwarted by society’s conventions. But Newland still has protections and possibilities; Ellen, as a woman separated from her husband but not allowed, by the standards of her family, to divorce, can never have a legitimate marriage or love again. Even May Welland, Archer’s wife, who is able to keep her husband, knows that his true love and passion is for another woman. Only time brings a kind of acceptance for all three of these characters. But Wharton’s fiction is a powerful reminder of the constrictions imposed on women by convention and of society’s punishments for those who attempt to break free. Wharton’s novels -- especially “The Age of Innocence” and “House of Mirth” -- are among those that I re-read every few years. I always learn something new from them and, despite the sad messages of these books, I also take pleasure in reading them, because of the beauty of the writing, and because of the exquisite portrayals of the characters and of the society in which they live.

"The Beginner's Goodbye," by Anne Tyler

The wonderful Anne Tyler knows so much about family, marriage, and aging, among the many things she is wise about. Over the years I have read almost all -- 17, I believe -- of her 19 novels. Her novels always seem deceptively plain and straightforward, with little in the way of embellishments, experimentation, or flash. But they are rich with real life, down-to-earth life, life that readers can relate to. Her recent novels have tended to feature mature (middle-aged or older) characters (see, for example, my 2/3/10 post on “Noah’s Compass”), and as a “mature” person myself, I appreciate this perspective. Tyler’s newest novel, “The Beginner’s Goodbye” (Knopf, 2012), also features a late-middle-aged character, Aaron, whose wife Dorothy has recently died, but has come back to visit him a few times. (Usually I don’t like fiction with elements of the supernatural, but this novel integrates these visits in such a natural, low-key way, and a way that is really just a device to explore Aaron’s feelings about Dorothy and about their marriage, that I didn’t find the device distracting.) Aaron, like many of Tyler’s protagonists, is somewhat of an introvert, and somewhat out of touch with his own feelings, but willing to learn, in his own slow-paced way. He had loved Dorothy deeply, and misses her badly, but he now sees that he had misunderstood and failed her in some ways during their courtship and marriage. Her occasional visits, and their conversations, give him a second chance to come to an understanding with her, and to achieve some peace for both of them. And by the time she stops visiting, he has realized that his life will go on, and that there is a possibility of joy and even love still awaiting him. “The Beginner’s Goodbye” is a novel about what we learn (if we are fortunate) as we get older, about the capacity to change, and about second chances.

Carl Sagan on Books

A Facebook friend posted this wonderful quotation on books from Carl Sagan:

"What an astonishing thing a book is. It's a flat object made from a tree with flexible parts on which are imprinted lots of funny dark squiqqles. But one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic."

"How To Be Black," by Baratunde Thurston

Baratunde Thurston’s “How To Be Black” (Harper, 2012) is, as one might expect from an “Onion” writer, a deft combination of humor and the serious. Tongue firmly in cheek, Thurston addresses not only racism, but also the discomfort that both African-Americans and those of other races – mainly white – often feel in talking about race. His chapter titles include “When Did You First Realize You Were Black?”, “How Black Are You?”, “Do You Know What an Oreo Is?”, “How to Be The Black Friend,” and “How to Be the Angry Negro.” Thurston includes many stories from his own life, stories that show the balancing act he has lived, and that inform his writing of this book. He grew up in 1980s Washington, D.C.; his father was shot during a drug deal when Thurston was six years old; his mother was a “hippie” and activist who made sure her son got an excellent education, attending an exclusive private school (Sidwell Friends) and at the same time attending a Saturday group on black history and culture (Ankobia). She wanted him to know and be proud of his black ancestry and culture, and at the same time to be comfortable anywhere in society. He went to Harvard; a multi-talented person, he now is, among other things, a blogger for Jack and Jill Politics and a writer for the Onion. There are so many pages I want to quote from, but just for one small sample: In the chapter “How to Be the Black Employee,” Thurston writes that once a black person is hired, he/she is expected not only to do the job she/he was hired for, but also a. to represent all black people; b. to prove that the company is not racist; and c. to “increase the coolness of the office environment.” As part of Job B, the black employee must join the ubiquitous “diversity committee”; the author states that “the primary functions of the diversity committee are to establish meetings, generate reports, and use the word ‘diversity.’” As someone who has, over the years –- like you, probably –- seen and perhaps been part of various diversity committees at various institutions (job, school, professional organization), all well intentioned, I have to smile at his description. Thurston intends this book to inform and to provoke thought and understanding; he uses humor as the vehicle, and does so very effectively.

"Make It Stay," by Joan Frank

Joan Frank’s brief new novel, “Make It Stay” (Permanent Press, 2012) is a meditation on friendship, marriage, what changes and what doesn’t, aging, and mortality. The main characters are two couples portrayed over a period of decades: the narrator, named Rae, her Scottish husband Neil, Neil’s best friend Mike, and Mike’s wife Tilda. They live in an idyllic small town in Northern California, where Mike -- an outsized (physically and socially) character -- befriends Neil (along with everyone else around). Neil is grateful to Mike for “adopting” him when he first moved to the area. Rae likes Mike but is a little cautious around him, and also has to be careful not to criticize him to Neil. Tilda is a somewhat unreadable and odd character; she and Mike don’t seem to fit together, and she and Rae do not get along well, although they preserve an amicable surface with each other for the sake of their husbands. The story ends in loss and sadness, yet the surviving characters have learned to treasure the life they have and its reassuring pleasures and joys. There is a bit of mystery about some of the characters and events, but the main themes of the novel are the vagaries of friendship and marriage, and -- as reviewer Elizabeth Benedict wrote -- “the frightening fragility of life.” Nothing can, in the long run, "make it stay" the same; life marches on. The author is particularly good at portraying the ups and downs of marriage, and the wonderful comfort that a longtime marriage can provide, if one is fortunate. Although Rae married late, and initially felt the marriage was possibly a mistake, she grew into it. “Against ridiculous odds we became a thing: part him, part me. All I know is it had to do with time” (p. 12). As someone married a long time myself, this resonates with me. As an aside, I enjoyed -- in this novel as in Frank’s earlier fiction (see my posts of 7/6/10 and 7/11/10) -- the Northern California setting; although she creates a fictitious town, it is redolent of areas and towns north of San Francisco that I have visited.

"Carry the One," by Carol Anshaw

“Carry the One” (Simon & Schuster, 2012), a novel by Carol Anshaw, is a sad but engrossing story of a group of young people who in 1983 were involved in a car accident that killed a young girl. For the rest of their lives, these (mostly related) characters remember and mourn the accident, and respond to it in different ways in their life choices and activities. Olivia, the driver, who was high at the time of the accident, chooses to go to prison; she doesn’t fight the case. Her boyfriend Nick, a gifted astronomer, loses himself in drugs and drink. His sister Alice, a talented painter, keeps painting the young girl at various stages of her life, as she imagines them. Their sister Carmen is an activist, fighting for every liberal cause, at the risk of her own safety. The way the characters are affected by, and deal with the aftermath of, the accident is one theme; the way their lives interweave over the years is another. The three siblings are united by their knowledge of their parents’ shortcomings, and by their fierce loyalty to each other. For example, Alice and Carmen, despite knowing how hopeless their efforts are, keep rescuing their brother Nick over and over again from the consequences of his horrific drug and alcohol binges. For most of the characters, there is some partial redemption by the end of the story, albeit redemption hard-earned over many years. And despite its sad premises, there is much else to savor in the novel: well-drawn characters, romance, love of family, art, travel, suspense, the ups and downs of the characters' lives, resilience on the part of some and not on the part of others, and more. For readers who look for believable characters and their relationships, this book will satisfy. The novel is also interesting in its evocation of American history and culture over the past thirty or so years.

Why Did I Bring "Mudwoman" Home from the Library?

I saw a review of Joyce Carol Oates' new novel, "Mudwoman," thought it looked intriguing, requested it from the library, was notified it was in and waiting for me, checked it out and took it home, and put it on my pile of "to read" books. When I took it off the pile to start reading it, I suddenly wondered WHY I had brought it home. Although I admire Oates, I pretty much stopped reading her many years ago, with very occasional exceptions. In general, her work is too dark and too sensational for my taste. Yet each time a new novel comes out, I wonder if this time I will enjoy it, and shouldn't miss it. So, as if enacting a ritual, I slmost always read the review and track down the book. Then I flip through it and decide that no, in fact, once again, I am NOT going to read it. And once again, I take the book back to the library unread. And so it is with "Mudwoman." Yes, I am drawn in by the premise of a woman Ivy League college president with a lurid childhood lurking in the background, threatening to overtake her and change her life again. The prominent woman, the secret lover, the sensational back story...all call out to me, but when it comes to it, I just don't want to actually read the novel. So, yes, once again, the Oates novel is sitting on my "to return to the library unread" pile.

As a coda to the above: It may seem strange that I occasionally write here about books that I DON'T read. But I believe that such books are part of one's reading life: the "maybe-I-will, but, then again, after all, I guess I won't" books.

"Life on Moors"

My friend B. brought to my attention a recent (3/9/12) New York Times Magazine article by Daphne Merkin titled "Life on Moors: The Ghostly Allure of Bronte Country Beckons a Writer Back." Merkin recently visited the area in Yorkshire that is "the obdurate, timeless landscape that bred the celebrated Bronte sisters and fertilized their singular literary imaginations." She writes about their tiny village of Haworth, in the "remote, windswept setting where they [the Brontes] felt most at home." She remembers being drawn as a young woman to the Brontes' characters and to their writing "so powerfully about female aspirations and subversive love." She finds that although there are some tourists there, the village is remarkably unchanged, and -- according to a local bookstore owner -- that the village is full of eccentrics. Merkin writes that she is "struck by the overwhelming sense of solitariness that this landscape invokes -- and also by its eerie allure." Coincidentally, my colleague/friend A., who teaches at a university in England, posted today on Facebook that he has finally read Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights," and found it, although "beautifully written," "such a depressing story of human depravity." His post reminded me of how my own feelings regarding "Wuthering Heights" had changed over the years. When I was young, I found it dramatic, romantic, and brooding; as I noted here on 5/4/10, when I tried to re-read it a few years back, I found it so dark and crazily intense that I couldn't continue reading. I do, on the other hand, love Charlotte Bronte's novels, especially "Jane Eyre" and "Villette," and have re-read each of them several times with great pleasure.

Back from Conferences

I just got back from two great back-to-back academic conferences, one in Boston and one in Philadelphia. I learned a lot, saw a lot of colleagues and friends, and had a wonderful time. But this is why I haven't posted for several days. I not only didn't post but also barely read anything, as I was busy (in a good way!) from morning to late evening. This follows my usual experience at conferences: I read far less than usual when I am there. The only exception is reading on the plane. This time I caught up with a stack of magazines on the long flight there, and read stories by Edith Wharton on the way back. I will post on the Wharton collection when I finish it, but I can say now that it was good company on the airplane!