Is A Writer’s Block Something I Can Bang My Head On?

One thing I've learned about writing this year is that much of it is a science. Grammar plays a huge part in elegance and eloquence, and part of being a good writer is being able to tap into that during the revision process. But, of course, much of it remains subjective.

I just received comments on one of my essays from An Established Writer (not Advisor or Preceptor). Writer read the essay about my experience of seeing a Georgia O'Keeffe calendar seven months after condition-reporting the original painting. The essay begins in Borders at Christmastime, where I saw the O'Keeffe calendar with Yellow Cactus on the cover. It moves to the Eiteljorg museum, where I condition-reported Yellow Cactus, and then to Taos, where the painting was born. I think it's probably my strongest essay, and I've worked and worked and worked to tighten the narrative structure. I want it to take the reader on the same kind of journey that the painting took me on. I want it to stare art right in the face, with lush, vivid, descriptions, and then take a step back and think about why my experiences were so powerful.

Writer suggested that that framework was awkward and unnecessary. He says:

The problem is that your great subject–the difference between studying an original painting and looking at a mere reproduction–is hung, so to speak, in an awkward frame: the Borders/Christmas thing. You can cut all of that stuff and lose almost nothing. I know it's there to warm up to your subject, and to provide some comedy, but the reader doesn't want to warm up, she wants to go straight to the chase. And Christmas is not funny. It's been done to death. Avoid the subject at all cost. Your framing of your real, original story with this device detracts from the fascinating process of "interrogating" the paintings with the loupe, about which I urge you to say even more in your next draft. Hone in on that and the unnecessary information about Borders and Christmas and Taos' "discovery" by the white man and Walter Benjamin will fade away entirely, or into a mere sentence or two, and your essay will come into perfect focus. It's almost there.

This is incredibly interesting advice, and I don't really know what to make of it. I like the idea of having a framework that, to use museum jargon, is a kind of way-finder for the reader. And I've been pretty attached to the idea of reflecting on my experiences, not just relating them (hence Walter Benjamin). But I also appreciate that those aren't the strongest moments of the essay.

I've been working on this essay for months and months now, and it's difficult for me to have a good idea of what a reader might want. So I'm paying close attention to Writer's advice, since he hasn't seen previous versions of this essay. And subjectivity reenters the scene: who's to say that framework is better than no framework? Advisor and Preceptor–both excellent writers–have encouraged a narrative framework that carries the writer through the story. I wish that this was as scientific as establishing elegance through fun grammatical tricks, and I wish that there was some gold standard I could hold my work up to compare to.

I thought that the worst of the frustration would be over now that I've turned my rough draft in. How wrong I was… but I'm going to play around with Writer's advice and see what I think of the essay when it's been stripped of its frame. Stay tuned.

* * *

current book: still Mrs. Dalloway, although I'm far, far, behind where I should be
current music: The Deathray Davies' The Kick and The Snare
current socks: "I Heart San Francisco" socks covered in hearts and trolleys and sunshines and palm trees and golden gate bridges

south of the loop

Is A Writer’s Block Something I Can Bang My Head On?