The Secret Lives of People in Love (15 page)

About the book

Voice

T
HE
S
ECRET
L
IVES OF
P
EOPLE IN
L
OVE
was the first complete book written in my own voice as a writer. Voice is sometimes referred to as a writer’s style. Finding your voice as a writer is like finding someone to devote yourself to forever. Writing in my voice allows me to untie emotional knots. Finding my voice was the second most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. Within the previous five years, I had written three books that were not in my voice but which contain moments where my voice is apparent, though not consistent throughout the whole work. These manuscripts sit under my bed like three eggs from which I hatched.

In a sense, they are the most important books I will ever write because they made me the writer I am now. That was how I found my voice—by writing my way into it.

Perhaps a writer’s most significant works may not be limited to the more public works of later life—but also those early manuscripts that functioned as a sort of drawing board. It would be interesting to read an author’s first and last books in the same sitting. In that sense,
The Secret Lives of People in Love
is the first book I ever wrote.

Process

A
T THE
M
USEUM
of the History of Science in Oxford, England, there is chalkboard that hangs behind a thin sheet of glass. It features strange mathematical markings that were written by Albert Einstein. While this set of equations is certainly something to behold in and of itself, it is really only the fruition of his labor—an illusion of success. The most important work probably took place over many afternoons, with hot cups of tea, lots of rubbing out, stopping to think and pet the cat, and staring out the window. Success is really nothing more than the record of failure. To be successful means you must be willing to fail more than anyone else.

In the same way that Homer’s Odysseus finds the value of his life in the journey rather than his eventual return to Ithaka, so too must the writer savor the process of crafting a sentence, reworking it, and then releasing it into the story like a clump of ice into the sea.

History of Stories

T
HE EARLIEST STORY
in this book was written in November of 2000 and is called “Snow Falls and Then Disappears.” I was in the first few weeks of an MFA program, living on the east end of Long Island, where the light is superb for evening walks. I set up a writing desk in front of a window with lamps and fresh flowers. I had moved into a small apartment above a garage where the landlords (a couple) housed their small collection of vintage Mercedes-Benz automobiles. It was the first time since leaving my parents’ home (seven years earlier) that I felt a peculiar domestic bliss. I knew I would be there for several years at least, with money to support myself from a student loan. Having somewhere to live and a small but dependable income was a real luxury after living in enormous, crumbling apartments in Europe, often without heat. The physical hardships of that bohemian life helped me to appreciate what a golden opportunity I was getting when I was accepted into the MFA program at Southampton. Of course, I had applied to three MFA programs the year before and was rejected (see “failure” in the previous section). Those years in Europe also helped me to establish a work ethic. I think it was Henry David Thoreau who said that the best meal is one eaten in the midst of starvation.

When I moved to Southampton for my graduate degree, age 25, I also
invested in some decent furniture and a computer. Writing on a modern computer after a decade on a typewriter was like trading a 1972 Land Rover for a Toyota Camry—comfort and efficiency at the expense of romantic discomfort and the omnipresent fear of mechanical breakdown. My roommate then was the brilliant and hilarious New York writer Danielle Esposito who not only brought books, books, books, but also things like stainless steel turkey pans, whisks imported from Italy, and a herd of mittens and hats. It was like living inside a J. Crew catalog. And when one of us was writing, the other made the tea and kept quiet.

Some people think that MFA graduate programs and writing workshops are a waste of time. I must say I disagree, because while it may be true that voice cannot be taught, it can certainly be coaxed to the page by good teachers. Sincere teachers are the ones who teach because they love rattling the bones of a story; they love being in the trenches of narrative, the alchemy of metaphor. Good teachers can help writers learn to see, and to take responsibility for their lives as writers and live accordingly—in other words, to afford themselves the physical and emotional space that writing demands. MFA programs rescue writers who are dangling off the ends of sentences they can’t finish. These programs also provide writers with a generous sense of community that they may never feel again. The years I spent in Southampton drinking coffee with my fellow students in the
common room, or ambling through East Hampton on a fall day with poems in our heads, riding the train all night from Manhattan, our pockets stuffed with scraps of paper that we’d scribbled on, the parties that went on until morning, the readings, the discovery of new books, the flings, the favors and the sacrifices for one another—unrivalled days.

I also feel that while it’s possible that a student in a graduate program for creative writing may not publish any books in the long term, the ability to craft stories and develop voice will inevitably make them more understanding parents, deepen their friendships, and lead to emotional rooms within that were previously locked or hidden from view. And any stories or memoirs a person crafts in their lifetime will live on long after they have died.

In some ways, the ability to write is the opportunity to live forever, and to love forever.

One of my first assignments as an MFA student was to write a short story for discussion in a workshop. I sat at my desk looking into the shallow woods beyond. And then it began to snow.

I began to write.

After two paragraphs I knew something was different. It felt effortless, but required almost an impossible presence of mind—a poise, a balance of feeling.

I wrote “Snow Falls and Then Disappears” in a few hours. It was
my first short story that was every published (in the
East Hampton Star
). And then it won several awards. And then in early 2001, Barbara Wersba of Bookman Press found me, and my career was launched.

When you find your voice, it will be obvious to you. The voice isn’t just the choice of words but the sense of rhythm and, perhaps most important, the tone. This is why I could never be the sort of writer who is competitive. Everyone has their own style; no two writers are alike, even if they pretend to be.

The Art of Spying

I
N SOME WAYS,
a writer is like a spy. Writing a story can sometimes begin with an obsessive awareness of what’s taking place around you. If I’m in a restaurant, I may jot down everything I’m eating, perhaps what I talked to the waiter about, the music that was playing, and perhaps any changes in lighting that I may have noticed during my meal. These details will later serve the story, either as relief or distraction, or simply as some embedded realism. When I’m writing, I don’t think to myself, This part needs embedded distraction. It just seems to flow subconsciously as an unthinking process I trust deeply. I think it’s useful for writers to be super-aware of their environment because everyday details are probably stranger, more miraculous, and more frightening than anything they could come up with. If ever I’m at someone’s house and they offer a tour, my eyes light up. There’s really nothing better than a house tour. So many of the apartments and homes in my stories are based on real apartments. For instance, in “Save as Many as You Ruin,” Gerard’s view of Manhattan is actually the view from the desk of Hilary Knight, where he drew all the Eloise illustrations.

Read on

Have You Read?

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