On Beginning a New Novel & Other Impossible Pursuits

December 28, 2013

I began, in earnest, working on my new novel as soon as I turned in my grades this December, but realized in some ways I'd been writing it in my head for almost a year. I don't normally work that way. I'm a planner; in fact, some of my friends call me Anne Planning for that very reason. For my novel Butter, I had numerous charts, plot outlines, pictorial timelines, and almost complete accountability for everything I was writing before I even wrote it. I'm pretty sure I knew (roughly) how it was going to end before I started it.  But this novel project feels different than anything I've worked on before.  Here's why:

1.  I got the idea while teaching a food writing class over a year ago.  I assigned a wide range of essays and articles, one of which was called, "The Long-Form Burrito Champion of the World," by Tom Burke (Tin House, Spring 2009).  It was about the strange and inexplicable world of competitive eaters, and for the life of me, I couldn't stop thinking about it long after I'd read it.  I began researching anything I could get my hands on about the topic. I watched hours and hours of youtube footage of both professional and amateur eating contests.  The question that kept rolling through my head was: why?  Why would someone go to such extreme measures, sometimes to the point of vomiting, and in the case of a woman in Japan, choking to death at a dumpling eating contest? What could be the psychological impetus for such a thing? What would drive someone to take up such an odd and grotesque "hobby"?

Lesson: when you truly cannot stop thinking about something and it begins to take over your life, it's probably a good idea to write about it.

2.  I spent almost the past five years working on a memoir about, among other things, my mother's life and her untimely death, and then, before I could even finish that draft, my father's death (who, in my opinion, completely went off the deep end, due to grief).  It was, of course, a rigorous, emotionally draining and creatively challenging process to write such a book.  I gave up on it at least two or three times.  It started out as a 385 page bloated emotional tome heavy on feelings; with the help of generous readers, I eventually wittled it down to a slim 250 pages and eliminated almost all "emotion" words from the book.  But working on that book did something to me as a writer.  I hadn't realized before taking this on how difficult it would be to write a memoir worthy of other readers.  For years I'd been harping on my creative writing students about how they had to find the balance between public/private, vulnerability/authenticity, scene/narration, and there I was, knee-deep in the struggle myself. The memoir's subject matter was so intense I felt the book had a choke hold on me, and though I finally feel as if I've come out the other side, it wiped me out, artistically, like nothing ever has.

Lesson:  after writing such a book, I needed to get back to fiction.  I wanted to inhabit a character who wasn't me, and so I now have Olive DeWitt, a 30-year old elementary PE teacher who falls into competitive eating for reasons I will keep on hold for now.  I find myself excited to create this person and the world she inhabits, and have been doing research that has involved driving around western New York, attending (and yes, participating in) local food eating contests, taking a sauerkraut making class, eating lunch at the Byron Hotel, and peering through the windows of Hickory Ridge Party House on a cold winter's day to see what kind of weddings they might put on. 

***

Because I'll be on sabbatical leave this next semester, I'm lucky enough to be able to focus almost 100% on writing this novel.  It's my plan to write a blog post every week just to keep myself honest, focused and on track.  Thanks for reading.

Let It Rain

This morning I watched CNN for two solid hours sitting on the floor of my living room wearing my pajamas.  The kids had gone off to school so I was finally able to catch up on stories and images I would never want them to see.

Two things struck me:

1.  How we have become "veterans" of national tragedy via terrorism.  This is not about being jaded or desensitized, but rather the way a deep, rugged strength solidifies inside us, the kind I imagine it would take to run 26.2 miles. The kind of strength it takes to bury someone you love.

2.  That this was another piece of our collective national history that my mother, now dead for five years, would not be part of. 

I'm not sure how to bridge this dichotomy between the personal and the public; I'm not sure I have to, but I do know this:  as soon as I heard the news about the Boston Marathon yesterday, I wanted to call my mother for no other reason than to say, "Can you believe how awful this is?!  And that sweet little boy?" and for my mother to then say, "What's wrong with people? What is wrong with people anyway?" and for us to commiserate and be sad together on the phone and to feel her love for me, like no other love, radiating through distance and time and for her to then ask about the kids, and for me to tell her that Hudson is having three friends over for his birthday this year and grilling gourmet sliders (she would laugh affectionately at this) and how Lily just got some purple jeans and thinks she's pretty cool wearing them, and on and on we'd go, ending back at a point of sadness neither one of us could ever understand.

* * *

I keep waiting for it to rain. I had planned to go running today, but now I want to run in heavy rain. I'm not going to wear my glasses even though the whole world will skew blurry without them. Clarity, today, is enigmatic, elusive.

On Teachability

 

Two creative writing students came to see me yesterday.

The first, I'll call her Claire, looked like a skier: long, thick blonde hair, healthy, vibrant complexion, hearty Patagonia fleece jacket, fur-lined boots.  She'd written an essay for my food writing class about going to the Naples Grape Festival with her father; the essay was all over the place and badly needed revising.  I spent about 30 minutes with her, going over it paragraph by paragraph, and in the process learned that her dad was a pole vaulter (what?), that she was a vegetarian who ate chicken wings, and that she was obsessed with the Hunt Hollow murders that'd taken place at an Allegheny ski lodge in the 1970s (decades before she was born).  There was a warmth about her, an openness, and I noticed her turning her head just slightly to read the book titles on my shelves.  Rarely did I have students who seemed this self-possessed, curious, whole. But what was even more extraordinary about her was that when I suggested cutting whole paragraphs of her piece, instead of balking, she said, "Yes, yes! That's so much better."  Revising on the scale I was suggesting takes bravery and trust.  When I tried explaining why readers didn't need a rundown of all the vendors at the festival, she lit up, and said, "I know!" with such  heartfelt conviction that I was momentarily flummoxed.  It wasn't usually this easy, and I was puzzled. She was definitely not a brown noser, and had always kept a professional distance in class.  What had made her so receptive? I wondered.  We talked for longer than we needed to, and by the end, she was the one coming up with things to slash from and add to her essay to make it better.  Embarrassingly enough, my cell phone rang and I told her I had to answer it because my son was home sick.  She nodded and kept checking out my bookshelves.  "He has pink eye," I said.  She nodded sympathetically. "Well, at least he doesn't have lice!"  We laughed about something else then—I can't remember what—but soon it was time for her to go. As she walked away, I noticed her backpack, neon green and hot pink, DaKine—a famous ski boarder brand. Complexity, mystery, followed her out the door.  

The second student, I'll call her Becca, came in and perched on the edge of my overstuffed armchair.  Everything about her read "rigid":  her slender nose, the way her purple beret sat like a perfect bubble around her head, her pale, waxen skin, the silver wire-framed glasses.  In class she got frustrated when I didn't call on her every time she raised her hand, which was constantly.  Her essay was about going to the Rochester Public Market with her R.A. and a bunch of people from her dorm.  Like most first-time creative writers, she included superfluous scenes like riding the elevators down to the van and giggling with everyone on the way there.  When I told her she should cut that, she couldn't understand why and I could feel her whole body repelling away from me.  "Because it isn't very interesting.  It has nothing to do with your experiences at the public market.  And," I said, "it makes you sound juvenile."  She argued with me that college students are juvenile.  She crossed her arms.  I knew this territory well, and felt my impatience flare.  I wanted to get home and go running before my daughter got off the school bus.  I had eaten only a yogurt and felt jagged and empty.  "I noticed there aren't any sensory details in your piece," I said, taking a new tack.  "You say you tried an empanada, but you don't describe anything about it—no taste, smell, texture—nothing."  She had a quick answer for this.  "Well, that's because I don't usually eat things like that and I don't remember anything about it."  The way she said it, arms crossed, indicated the burden was now on me.  I knew I should just let it go: there was no reaching her.  Would she go on to become a passionate and devoted writer?  Probably not. "Well, writers need to be extremely aware and observant of the world.  It's pretty much a job requirement."  She stared at me and nodded blankly.  I body languaged that we were done, shuffling papers and turning to my computer.  "Thank you very much," she said, then stormed off with her friend who had been lurking outside my door and listening to every word. 

The Complications of Pleasure

I have been thinking lately about pleasure and its complications.  For example, when I eat sushi, say, or really good Vietnamese food, I have a hard time holding back my expressions of enjoyment.  I exclaim over and over how good it is, how fabulous and amazing.  Last summer, one of my siblings commented about my "over-enjoying" things.  "God, Anne," this sibling said.  "Why does everything have to be such a big drama for you?  It's always, 'Oh, this is the best barbecue chicken ever!' Or, 'This is the most humid day ever!'  Isn't anything just normal or whatever for you? It's like everything is always totally over the top."

            I interpreted this as a criticism, and have thought about it off and on ever since. How could the expression of pleasure, I wondered, be considered wrong?  Or was it the extreme nature of it that was suspect?  Was it embarrassing? I began to wonder why neutrality was preferred. 

            Growing up in Minnesota, I was surrounded by German Lutheran stoics.  When something good happened, say, an accomplishment like getting a 4.0 GPA in high school, or getting a new car, you were not supposed to "toot your own horn."  I must admit I still subscribe to that, and grow uncomfortable when someone does indeed "toot" (myself included).  Humility was valued above all else, and drawing attention to yourself in any way was considered gauche and unseemly.  Even when the good thing was something as simple as a wonderful meal cooked, the response was still supposed to be metered and mild—or so had been my experience.  I remember my mother standing over the hot stove making a nice meal of calico beans, sweet corn and fried hamburger patties during hot and humid summer evenings.  She'd have a dishtowel tossed over her shoulder to wipe away her sweat as she stood over the steaming pots and pans.  As we ate, my dad scarfing everything down in less than two minutes, my mom would ask how it was.  I will never forget his response.  "Not bad, not bad." 

           Where was the joy? The pleasure?  The appreciation? Or at the very least, the recognition of goodness? 

            So, too, with hardship.

            In Minnesota, even when someone broke a bone or lost their job, the response was always, "Oh, it's not so bad. Could be worse."   I'll never forget my mom telling me that when she gave birth to all four of us children, she didn't make a single sound.  When I expressed shock about this, she said, "Well, I just learned to take my pain like a woman." This statement stuck with me, apparently, as was evidenced last week when I broke my nose.

            My husband, Mark, was out of town, so I took the kids with me to run some errands.  My college had just built a huge new fitness center, and though it was still under construction, they invited all faculty to come and get a free pass.  Why not? I thought. As we walked around the mammoth brand new structure, I was struck by a big open air entrance out to the stadium fields.  Only it wasn't open air. I crashed into a clear glass wall, and the pain was so intense that I can still feel it in my stomach as I write this.

            I stumbled outside.  "Am I bleeding?" I asked the kids.  They said yes.  The college student worker at the desk asked if I needed a Band-Aid. "I think there might be one downstairs," she said.

            "Well," I said.  "I just might need something to mop up this blood." 

            I started retching, got cold-hot sweats, and my head pounded and twisted with pain. I could barely move my jaw.  And what did I do?  I drove the kids home (mistake #1), didn't call anyone (mistake #2), hung over the toilet, retching and sobbing and bleeding, and said to the kids, "If anything happens to me, you know to call 911, right?" (mistake #3).  I heard them silently conferring in the kitchen. Poor things.

            I was fine, I told myself.  It wasn't until three days later, after Mark returned from his trip, that I was finally persuaded that a visit to the doctor was probably a good idea.  An x-ray quickly revealed that my nose was indeed broken.

            The expression of pain, of pleasure, is learned, not inherited. It can take years to undo lessons taught since birth.

           

           

My Father's Lottery

My Father's Lottery

by Anne Panning

He sits in the Buick under buggy
streetlights. Scratch-offs shed
silver dust onto his jeans as if
they're molting. Later, he'll stuff dollar
winners in his underwear
drawer where they'll settle
like an insect's folded wings. Power

ball tickets curve inside his wallet, warm
and pink as the shrimp he wishes
he could afford for dinner. Each
night they accumulate in fragile
piles thin as the soft moth's wings
that hover against his battered
porch light.

Driving Instructions: a sonnet

Driving Instructions

by Anne Panning

That night when you leave your mother's
dead body behind in the hospital, make
sure to look back one last time. Don't
forget this is finite, like the last green
slippers she knit you for Christmas
that will last one more winter, then snag
on a stray nail, unraveling right before
your eyes. And whatever you do, take the car
keys from your father, who will insist on driving
home even as the sky clots orange
with clouds of forgetting. "Anyone know any good
jokes?" he will say as he barrels down
the freeway, fine tuning the radio. Say:
no. Say: not yet. Say: let's slow down.


~Lake Affect Magazine, 2011

Eight Things You Should Never Buy Generic

1. Ketchup. It's got to be Heinz. Hunt's isn't as sweet, plus it's kind of pulpy, and let's not even talk about generic. Interesting side note: when I was in Peace Corps/Philippines, I learned to eat banana ketchup on almost everything. It was pale orange in color (not sure why) and chunky and sweet and I'd dip jicama strips into it for an afternoon snack or smear it on rice for dinner when all that was being served was fish heads.














2. Tape. It's got to be Scotch. I can say this after spending much of the recent Christmas season wrapping gifts with decidedly inferior store-brand tape. It's impossible to tear off; it doesn't stick adequately to most wrapping paper, and it's too skinny.









3. Mayo. It's got to be Hellman's, though I will also accept Kraft. (Miracle Whip is an entirely different story, and worthy of its own post). When I feel scrimpy and scroogey and occasionally buy the store-brand "salad dressing," I regret it. It's is a strange orangey-yellow color; it's wiggly and gelatinous; it's fatty and too oily on the tongue.


















4. Dish soap. I prefer Dawn, but will also occasionally accept Ajax, Ivory or any name brand that doesn't smell like gross-ass lavender perfume or something. Generic will not rise up to proper bubble performance and will peter out in the sink and not cut through grease. It's sad, really.

















5. Mac and Cheese. It's got to be Kraft, or, even better, Annie's. My son, Hudson, has recently shaken up the household by introducing Velveeta mac and cheese WITH BACON. Holy shit. I thought it would be terrible but it's pretty good. The biggest problem with generic mac and cheese is how gross it tastes. And also how the powder doesn't mix well.

















6. O.J. Anything but generic, which is watery and sour—a dreadful combination.


















7. It's got to be Jiff or Skippy. Good luck trying to spread generic on your soft bread. It'll rip it to shreds.













8. Diapers. Pampers or Huggies. This one is not negotiable. If you've ever had a baby, you know that cheap diapers do not contain those little curry-colored explosions newborns are prone to, or, god forbid, the later king-size toddler dumps.










...unless you're broke, of course (which I have been many times throughout my life), in which case, who cares! Anything goes.