Excerpt from the Raymond Carver interview with the Paris Review

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/3059/the-art-of-fiction-no-76-raymond-carver#.T7Za3X8MmaU.twitter

INTERVIEWER

What are your writing habits like? Are you always working on a story?

CARVER

When I'm writing, I write every day. It's lovely when that's happening. One day dovetailing into the next. Sometimes I don't even know what day of the week it is. The “paddle-wheel of days,” John Ashbery has called it. When I'm not writing, like now, when I'm tied up with teaching duties as I have been the last while, it's as if I've never written a word or had any desire to write. I fall into bad habits. I stay up too late and sleep in too long. But it's okay. I've learned to be patient and to bide my time. I had to learn that a long time ago. Patience. If I believed in signs, I suppose my sign would be the sign of the turtle. I write in fits and starts. But when I'm writing, I put in a lot of hours at the desk, ten or twelve or fifteen hours at a stretch, day after day. I love that, when that's happening. Much of this work time, understand, is given over to revising and rewriting. There's not much that I like better than to take a story that I've had around the house for a while and work it over again. It's the same with the poems I write. I'm in no hurry to send something off just after I write it, and I sometimes keep it around the house for months doing this or that to it, taking this out and putting that in. It doesn't take that long to do the first draft of the story, that usually happens in one sitting, but it does take a while to do the various versions of the story. I've done as many as twenty or thirty drafts of a story. Never less than ten or twelve drafts. It's instructive, and heartening both, to look at the early drafts of great writers. I'm thinking of the photographs of galleys belonging to Tolstoy, to name one writer who loved to revise. I mean, I don't know if he loved it or not, but he did a great deal of it. He was always revising, right down to the time of page proofs. He went through and rewrote War and Peace eight times and was still making corrections in the galleys. Things like this should hearten every writer whose first drafts are dreadful, like mine are.

No bus numbers: mustn't be stopping here.

Thoughts on a watery autumn evening,

This particular poet's dreaming,

A romance of the senses breathing a heaving 

Denouncement of the collective keening

'To keep the moment beating!

To believe the movement teeming!'

To descry the knowledge of all we wanted

And laugh for the love of being.

This earth is a play ground,

I am awake within it.

I keep my back upon the rock and stare up;

My eyes the framework for some fantastic cinema of the senses:

The clouds are white and skittish,

A frozen ripple of droplets floating in space,

The tree branches out,

A foreground focus,

A beautiful composition.

I send text messages, smoke cigarettes, 

Enjoy myself;

Grow heavy with the caffeeine stimulus,

And let light love me to the point of exaggerated movements;

Neurotic stutterings -

Entertainment for the masses.

What better way to spend a day

Than as yourself?

They say that the universe began with a great big bang,

And that all the particles which make us up,

Went hurtling into space.

Which became planets

And suns

And moons and ice and oxygen

And molten lava

And toast and bananas and grass

And toe nails

And reptilian creatures which stomped and roared

And meteors and chemicals and dreams.

They say that eventually,

This vast experience which began so furiously

Will lose steam in its argument for territory

And become introspective,

Slowly withdraw from the fight

And suck itself inwards to that point of light

That place where we all began,

To muse upon its journey.

So when all the universe does come crashing back into place,

I take solace in the fact

That though we may be apart now,

There, at least,

We will be whole again.

Something that meant something

The sheen
Is slick with amber
The streets all a'glow
Some footsteps might make a sound
An echo
Before the sole crunches the pavement
A sound born from
Beyond where it came
Going back to the same place
That it sprung.

Sitting out here,
Watching all this,
Thinking these things -
Oh my
How lovely.

They come from nowhere
Disappear hence,
But have their opinions;
Have their
Ways of seeing.

How lovely.
Isn't it?

Well,
What's the alternative?

Not much.
But one could always argue otherwise.
In fact,
Isn't that the whole point?

Heh.

Yes but -
Extremes.
And values!
And this
And that.
Means -
Something.
Something good.
Something pure.
Something
Definable.
And
Worthy.

Yes.
We'll change the world,
Shall we?

With this,
And that,
And,

There was this woman,
That I knew
Who was
Perfect.
Difficult to describe
(even for a ----),
Yet still -
She existed.

We had a lot of fun.

Didn't talk so much about
This.
Why?

Because we existed.
And was fun.

Echoes
Incontrovertible with
A footfall.
Something
That meant something.
(at the time)

Fuck Zen: Thoughts on Inspiration.

• Sever your incoming connections with the world.
  Isolate yourself within yourself.
  Yes - even email:
  Especially email.

• To get inspired, watch, read or listen to something awful that someone you know has made.
  Do not despise them for making it - celebrate it! They created something! That is a powerful achievement!  And to boot, they are now one up on you!
  But still allow yourself to feel mortified that it is out in the world, and then steel your resolve!
  Use the anger to get motivated, and make something better!


• Do not write cold.
  Warm up.
  Would you expect an athlete to compete in an olympic competition without stretching?


• Fuck zen.


• If you can't write, draw.
  If you can't draw, play guitar.
  If you can't play guitar, pace in circles around your room.
  If you can't pace in circles around your room, sleep.
  If you can't sleep, write.


• The internet is not your friend.
  It hates you.


• Do not think.
  Once again: DO NOT THINK.


• Holism.
  Write from the middle of your torso, just below your heart,
  Where you can still feel your guts in it.


• Background music is okay if you don't know the lyrics.


• Stop trying.


• Abundance; not scarcity.
  Why can't I have everything I want, when I want it, as I want it?


• Do not sit back in your chair.
  Lean forward.
  It may be bad for your posture, but it's good for your soul.

28 and Counting or, How Glow Worms Showed Me The Light.

Earlier today, I returned to Brisbane from a lovely, two and a half day birthday weekend away; the first part of which entailed spending an evening with my father, step-mother, sister and girlfriend on my parents' one and a half acre property out at New Beith, which is just behind Beaudesert.

My father has never been the kind of man to do things by halves, and he is very much a human who enjoys his creature-comforts.  Going out to visit them at their house is one my favourite escapes; not simply because their house is so homely and welcoming, and not just because their expansive and knowledgeable wine selection always takes a hearty beating on such visits - but because they are the nicest, most generous people that I know, and our lengthy and convoluted conversations are always so spiced with positivity, passion, humour and fond sentiments, that an evening with them always soothes whatever subconsciously ails me.  Unfortunately, I am a mortal creature, and will freely admit that I all too often take their existence for granted; but with my impending move to Melbourne looming, as my girlfriend and I drove away from their lovely house on Sunday afternoon, the reality of that yearning physical distance came at me with such force that I'm unashamed to admit I cried for my love of them, and my gratitude at being blessed with such wonderful people in my life, and for all the future occasions of drinking and talking that won't be quite as frequent.

The second part of my weekend was to be a surprise.

When I awoke (reluctantly, and in great agony) on Sunday morning, my lovely girlfriend (who had been clever enough NOT to take (first) the butterscotch schnapps and (second)the ice-cold sambuca my father, in all his wisdom, deemed appropriate to proffer at the close of the night) pounced on me, shaking me enthusiastically while singing happy birthday.  It was not the way I would've wished to greet the day, and despite her honorable sentiments, it would still take several hours, a few poached eggs, and many glasses of water interspersed with potent coffee before my ageing brains could solidify beneath the acidic bite of so much booze to even begin to contemplate anything other than crawling into the nearest hole and stuffing mud in my ears.  Around about the time Tess began to realise that the hangover was a good 'un, doubt consumed her; "You're going to hate what I've got planned for you today," she half-joked.  Palms pressed firmly into the sockets of my eyes, I mumbled from beneath the blankets, "I'm sure it will be perfect - unless you're taking me to a waterslide, bungee jumping, or anything to do with alcohol."
It was a brewery.

Now, I like to have a joke about my fondness for alcohol, but in all seriousness - drinking is one of my favourite pass-times.  And in actuality, being taken to a brewery for my birthday is probably one of the most thoughtful things anyone could possibly do for me (I am certain that it is no accident my first name is the modern derivative of that old Greek demi-god of wine and festivity).  Nonetheless, at first I thought she was joking - and when it became apparent that she wasn't, I sucked up as much good-will as I could muster and tried to feel both enthused at the notion of putting more alcohol into my shaking body, and grateful for the gift.

Thankfully, we arrived at the bed and breakfast shortly after the brewery had closed, and were content to spend the evening in a much more moderated way; with a beautiful meal at The Old Church (exactly as the name describes), before returning to our snug cottage at Camelot (nothing like the name describes) where we contented ourselves to playing grown-up by dressing in robes and lying on the divinely sumptuous bed while listening to jazz and eating a chocolate parfait the restaurant kindly made up us as a take-away.  


This morning, we found ourselves much recovered from Saturday's excess, and took our lazy old time with returning to Brisbane.  Although not technically my birthday, Tess was kind enough to allow me free reign of activities, and so at my child-like request, we made a bee-line for the famous glowworm caves, where I was ecstatic to find it nothing like what I had imagined.

Let me explain: as an ageing Gen-Y-er with my new-media job, remote-working situation, and plug-in, always online lifestyle, I have found in the last two years my expectations for 'entertainment' and 'experience' have crumbled beneath the seething weight of an Internet-induced fugue.  It shocks me to say I spend upwards of 90% of my day staring at a computer screen, either "working", "entertaining," "socialising," or "educating" myself, i.e. editing corporate videos for Internet distribution, distracting myself with that's-actually-not-very-funny-or-clever-when-you-really-think-about-it memes, loathsome forums populated with the damnable opinions of idiots all the world round, or the mosquito-like buzzing of constant-ticker, doom-and-gloom news.  I never wished, nor imagined I would permit myself to fall into such a mind-numbing loop; but unfortunately some rather dubious choices have lead me exactly thus.  But, despite having such easy, all-hours access to the world of ever-buzzing distraction, today I was over the moon to be meet a fellow who lived and breathed glow-worms as if they were the cure for cancer (and, they actually are helping with that); but not only this - this Aussie as okka, khaki-clad, cigarette smelling, Steve Irwin mimic (and I mean that with extraordinary tenderness) was bloody entertaining!

You see, my initial imagining of the place was as literal as you could think it - glow-worm caves.
Yep - caves with worms.  That glow.

Here I was thinking we'd go for a stroll through a cave, have a look-see, and then be on our merry way, having satisfied our minimal requirements for partaking in nature's evolutionary glory.  What I was amazed to find was a complete environmental preserve set up around these incredible little insects, with real human beings who did not give a damn about the latest Internet fad, or 'content'.  They were real people who made jokes, and were entertaining - actually entertaining - and not once during the thirty-minute tour did I doubt his sincerity.

I'm sure that ours was not the first, nor the last tour he would have taken through that day; yet he spoke every word with such a smile, with such natural enthusiasm, it was impossible not to grin back, and not to get more than a little excited about glowworms.

After we left the caves, we decided that it might be okay after all to drop in to the brewery for a small beer or two (lights, mind you); and our lunch consisted of a delicious cheese platter from the local cheese-makers.

It was, quite simply, the best birthday I've ever had.

But possibly the greatest thing of all happened when we got home.

A temperamental thing to begin with, in times of wet weather our Internet router becomes as dramatic as a Greek tragedy, dropping in and out of reception like a wailing chorus.  When we arrived back in Brisbane, our Internet router refused to connect me to the World Wide Web for several hours, forcing me to find other things to do.

So I wrote this.

And I am thankful for that, because I thoroughly enjoyed it - I thoroughly enjoyed reliving the past two days in my memory as I wrote it, and I thoroughly enjoyed reminding myself of what it is that I truly value in life; and it has nothing to do with "connecting", or "communities", or "experience."  It has to do with connecting, and community, and experience - in the real world.

And so I am going to make damned sure that I do more of it from now on.

A Difficult Conversation

Oh no why

                        Okay

                                                Really?  Yes.          Really?

Oh wow this

            Yeah no             no                                    no

                                                Yeah

                        Like,

                                    Really

                        Okay.

Okay.

No but yeah

            I know

                        But no

            Yeah

                        Okay

            Really?

                        Yeah

            But

                        No

                        …really

                                                Yeah

Oh

                                    Okay

Okay

Why Writing Is Not Dependent Upon Your Emotional State

This is a response to http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/why-its-easier-to-write-when-youre-sad/ and http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/why-its-harder-to-write-when-youre-happy/ from @ThoughtCatalog.

Why Writing Is Not Dependant Upon Your Emotional State.

Writing is a craft.  It is a learned skill.  The ability to know words, to understand language and to construct sentences is something which most of us are already familiar with – whether you see yourself as a writer or not – to varying degrees of astuteness and heritage.  But at the end of the day, saying that writing is easier when you’re sad is akin to saying that writing is hard when you don’t want to do it.

The real issue here is not whether or not writing is easier when you’re sad, but how your perception of writing manifests in the first place. 

The familiar image of the ‘Depressed Writer’ is a stereotype that continues to persist among the collective unconscious.  I have said in the past that stereotypes exist for a reason, and it is entirely true that this particular one is not an exception – writers, or any artist really, generally tend to be an overly emotional and dramatic bunch.  And that’s because our very trade depends upon the ebb and flow of drama – good writing involves arcs in which characters experience peaks and troughs, which should generally be triggered by dramatic twists.  A story in which the character is blissful throughout has a limited shelf life.

However, the idea that writing when you’re depressed is any more difficult to writing when you’re abundantly overjoyed is fucking stupid.

Writing is writing; ideas are ideas.  If you’re a good writer, then you write whether you’re happy, sad, depressed, ecstatic, high, drunk, sober, bored, inspired, uninspired or so busy that you have no spare moments to pen a shopping list, let alone a coherent thought.

The energy of your writing; the way you perceive that writing is another matter – but at the end of the day, it’s actually not that critical to whether you’re writing in the first place.

If you think that writing is easier when you’re sad, then that’s because you’re more caught up with the idea of what a writer is than what a writer does.  If you think that you have more inspiration when you’re sad, or that it’s easier to write well when you’re personally depressed because oh no my boyfriend left me!  Or I lost my iPhone!  Or I need to write an article for my blog and I don’t have any ideas!  Then you’re very clearly missing the point.

When asked what he thought the best intellectual training for a would-be writer was, Hemingway said, “Let’s say that he should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.”

You write about your experiences, your opinions and here’s-fucking-hoping a quirky idea that leads to some kind of point; good or bad, happy or sad, curvaceous or flat.

If you think that writing when you’re happy is difficult, then you need to pick another trade.