What I Learned from Thomas Edison and Steven Soderbergh and How it Applies to Novelists
By Julianna Baggott | May 3, 2013 |
photo HoneysuckleSalvage, via Etsy
On a recent flight to Dallas, I read a short biography of Thomas Edison put out by Time Magazine that I’d bought at an airport kiosk. I learned that Edison’s first invention was a commercial failure. He invented a vote tabulator so that votes could be counted efficiently and quickly. When he took the invention to politicians, he realized that the losing side wanted a slow head count so that they could gather support; and at some point or another, every politician is on the losing side of a vote. No one wanted it.
And so Edison decided he would never invent another product that didn’t have a built-in demand.
When I first started out, I would have never applied this lesson to writing. In fact, I would have seen this kind of thinking to be sell-out thinking, and I’d have street-fought against it thuggishly.
I believed in writing what I now call heart work. I think most novelists have heart work – the things they must write because they’re bound up in the pistons of the heart itself. It’s part-exorcism, part-translating-the-senseless-world — part-respiration, breathing in some organically necessary way.
I’ve written a lot of my heart work, that stuff that needed out, but, at a certain point in my career – and it wasn’t a dramatic shift, it was a slow dawning – I realized that I’d written much of the stuff I needed to write, for my own sake, and I started to think about what readers needed and wanted to read. The novel as a collaboration between writer and reader – the incredible translation of the worlds I’ve created then inked on a page that then become images in the reader’s mind, that fascination took hold. I wanted to collaborate. I wanted to be read.
In the film world, this idea of wanting an audience isn’t thought of as selling out at all. Theater needs people in the seats or it isn’t theater. The film world both begins and ends with collaborative thinking. The idea of one person dreaming something up and creating it, stem to stern, doesn’t exist there.
This brings me back to Edison, who was one of the first to really set up a research lab full of people working on the same problem. Before, we had the system of the solitary inventors, working on their own.
But the idea of solitude – and even isolation from readers – still exists for writers. We have still have solitary novelists; and the idea that solitude – and being cut off from the demands and desires of readers – persists, as an ideal. (Edison fits here too; he also made important advances in the film industry and created the first kind of modern day studio, again collaborative in nature.)
Novelists get very, very hung up on the idea of selling out, of purity of purpose. It often makes them rigid. These novelists often resist criticism and balk at anything that seems to sniff of bowing to what the reader wants.
Steven Soderbergh recently gave a beautiful speech, talking about the decline of cinema. He pointed out the distinctions between movies and cinema. And, at least in part, he talks about audience. “[Cinema] is the polar opposite of generic or arbitrary and the result is as unique as a signature or a fingerprint. It isn’t made by a committee, and it isn’t made by a company, and it isn’t made by the audience. It means that if this filmmaker didn’t do it, it either wouldn’t exist at all, or it wouldn’t exist in anything like this form.”
He contends that both movies and cinema can be wonderful, and both can be crap. The difference is that cinema has a specific point of view. I would agree that literary and commercial novels can both be crap, can both fail, and also each can be excellent. And, personally, the blur of both is where some of my favorite writing exists, but here I’m speaking as a reader. What Soderbergh longs for is freedom to create.
Since novelists don’t require millions of dollars to make their art, we have an advantage in freedom, but that freedom can be our damnation too.
After reading Soderbergh’s speech, I began thinking how very behind literary writers are in our thinking. We’re spoiled in that our creative process is God-like – we create our entire worlds with autonomy – and yet when that God-like creative process hits an industry, are writers ever truly prepared?
In part, I think MFA programs protect young writers from the commercial demands of the business – with good intentions. But in so doing, they cut them off from some essential discussions, some ways in which the students must decide how to see themselves in the great landscape of the publishing industry. Sometimes, just to put it plainly, they don’t discuss how to be an artist and still be able to eat, much less send your own kids to college. While programs protect their students’ relationships with the page, MFA students aren’t often challenged to see what’s coming and how to adapt, perhaps, in order to survive.
I talk about art versus entertainment from time to time. No one knows – aside from myself – whether any certain work of mine is art or entertainment or both; that’s my call. I’ve learned – having done much of my heart work – that when I’m creating art, entertainment happens. And when I think I’m creating entertainment, art happens. I would add that both entertainment and art can happen when the reader is considered, even deeply, bowingly considered.
Many novels back, I started writing things with the reader’s heart leading mine. My own heart was tired, in fact, having done its heart work, and wanted to be led. (I’d published three literary novels in three years – by literary, I mean that I was focused mostly on art happening, but even from the start, I was always aware of audience. I was never a full purist.)
First in considering the reader more keenly, I started to write what I’d wanted to read as a child, writing under the pen name, N.E. Bode, weird, wild whimsy for ages 8-13 – most notably The Anybodies Trilogy.
I collaborated on a novel with Steve Almond called Which Brings Me to You, leaning on his heart a little, hoping that his energy would fuel my own work, and it did. Which Brings Me to You is a fiery novel in many ways. Both Steve and I were the other’s immediate reader – chapter by chapter – and that had a profound impact on the creation of the book. In fact, it was the book.
Eventually, I started writing novels under the pen name Bridget Asher because there were things I wanted to say to women my own age. This could be labeled “building a brand,” and these would be foul words in some literary circles, and a term I’ve never heard whispered in an MFA program. The most recent is The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, and so, even under a pen name, my heart work continued even as I was looking more outward than inward.
My poetry followed a similar pattern. This Country of Mothers is very personal and includes a lot of heart work. The next, Lizzie Borden in Love, however, is a collection of poems in famous women’s voices. I delved into their heart work, and, in the end, found out that their voices charged mine, the pistons were thrumming again. And here, because we’re talking poetry, this isn’t about commerce, but it is still, very much so, about reaching readers – in other words: accessibility. (The same arguments abound in poetry circles. We just use different terms. Readership and respect are things I’ve talked — both as different kinds of handcuffs.)
The truth is that even when I don’t think I’m doing my own heart work, and I think, like Edison, that I’m creating something that I hope people want to read, something they actually might need, my own heart work is still getting done. It’s simply more subconscious.
While writing the dystopian thriller, Pure, did I have much in common with the main character who has a doll head fused to her fist, the ash darkening the doll’s pursed lips, the click of its eyelids? On the surface, no. But, later, I knew that I was writing out fears and desires that ran deep in me – things from my own childhood and teen years and, later in the book, my own fears as a mother.
Over the past few years, I’ve tried to understand what makes a bestseller. (And here, I’d love to talk about how Soderbergh’s take on the studio system parallels the publishing industry, but I have to save that for another time…) My definition of a bestseller is multilayered, but one simple version is this: A bestseller is made when the writer’s urgent need to tell a certain story is met with the audience’s urgent need to hear it. I have more complex theories – ones that only explain backwards and can’t truly predict the next big book – but this is my clearest definition.
Urgent need – in the telling and in the receiving. If your story isn’t urgent to you, it isn’t going to feel urgent to readers. Of course, you can’t gauge what readers – on the large scale – urgently need to hear. But you can start with yourself. What’s the urgent story I need to tell? In fact, you have to start with yourself. Who else is there?
Regardless of what I write, and for whom, the heart has to be there – whether writing from a deeply personal place or in the voice of Camille Claudel or Helen Keller or from the heart of a girl with a doll-head fused to her fist, hiding in an ashen cabinet in a post-apocalyptic world.
Let the pistons in your heart start pounding.
Be urgent.
Julianna Baggott is the author of over 20 books, including two New York Times Notable Books of the Year, PURE and HARRIET WOLF’S SEVENTH BOOK OF WONDERS. She runs a film and television production company, Mildred’s Moving Picture Show,. Her latest book I’D REALLY PREFER NOT TO BE HERE WITH YOU is a collection of stories, many of which are in development at places like Netflix, Paramount, and Amblin. The feature film WHICH BRINGS ME TO YOU, based on the novel she co-wrote with Steve Almond, is currently streaming. www.juliannabaggott.com
When I was a junior in high school back in the late ’60s, I had a marvelous English teacher. He taught us about voice by having us write short stories in that voice. Of course, we had to read first. For instance, the unit on “gothic” included excerpts from The Castle of Otronto, Dracula, The Scarlet Letter and the short stories of Flannery O’Connor. So, at 16, I wrote a vampire story in response to the unit. It was thrilling, and I experienced (for the first time!) that urgency you describe.
I still have that urgency, but another urgency has slowly but surely asserted itself in one of my writers’ groups … and that’s the urgency of “building a platform.” The “movie,” with all its incumbent buzz and marketing. For writers who have not gone through the process of honing their craft over a period of years, drawing out the heart work, and are just now experiencing the pounding of the pistons, it is truly a dilemma. Writers like me.
I guess I don’t think so hard about heartwork vs. commercial. I write what I write and I think it’s channeled from deep within myself and very readable material simultaneously. What I take from Edison is this: It might take me several books before one catches fire and lights up like a bulb. I’m working on book three.
There it is: heartwork and urgency. If I don’t let that show in my novel, what do I have? Something empty? Heartwork is that internal flame that keeps this unpublished writer still reaching for readers and hoping. Thanks for an insightful post!
This is an interesting discussion. Much of this goes on in the subconscious & marrying the conscious with it is essential. I don’t know yet how to balance heart with “what I think the reader wants” but I do know if I am not excited about my work, it comes through on the page. The reader will feel it. Again, the subconscious knows! Its strange to me when people ask “why” you want to write what you are writing & if you say “so people will read it, lots of people” they say “oh that’s is a bad reason “why” … you need to write for you. If that were true, then I say “why write at all.” Keep a journal. ANd go to bed. Its easier.
Julianna-
So nice to see you here. How are you?
>Urgent need – in the telling and in the receiving. If your story isn’t urgent to you, it isn’t going to feel urgent to readers.
I have been teaching this to commercial writers for years. It’s been a theme in my books on the craft of fiction.
You would think it would be fundamental to the teaching of fiction in MFA programs, but I have to say an awful lot of what I read from that world doesn’t show evidence of heart work. Style yes, urgency no.
I believe the dichotomy of literary vs. commercial fiction is false. The whole concept of genre is dying in the 21st Century, as it should. Great fiction is strong stories beautifully told. It is an embrace of every aspect of the craft, a use of every artful means.
You well describe the mystery surrounding what makes fiction appealing vs. what makes it art. I feel that the very culture of writers has created this needless quagmire. It is long past time for the worlds of literary and commercial writers to stop sneering at each other.
In an age that needs powerful fiction more than ever–stories to move hearts, change minds and even change the world–it is urgent that novelists get beyond embrace of style and worship of story alone.
What’s important is not to tap together a small, shaky platform to gain a smidgen of respect but for all fiction writers to erect a body of literature that shouts to the world with thunderous compassion. We must be led by the heart. And, wonderfully, that’s the start of what makes novels popular.
Thank you for saying it, and for opening your heart and journey to us today.
Donald —
Your name and your book already popped up in the comments of my FB post to this. Funny. Yes. I’m with you.
I just switched from teaching in MFA creative writing program in an Eng Dept to the college of motion picture arts (all at FSU) — and now that I teach screenwriters, I’m not just allowed but must teach the market demands or else I’m wasting the writers time and putting them into situations where they’ll come in unprepped and fail — not that they won’t fail. They will; that’s the process. But they won’t fail in some specific ways where I can help. It’s really a great relief to be able to talk openly about these things in the new setting and clarifying about what I felt I couldn’t talk about in the last.
Nice to be in touch again!
julianna
Edison was so ahead of his time. We’re still trying to catch up. I do believe writers should write their story and leave the trends behind.
Very thoughtful post, and it is analogous to the separation of pure research vs. applied research and commercial development. It all begins with heart, but it is inevitable that as we grow, we seek to have an audience, to share what we know. Whenever I have an unsalable project, I remember that Edison, too, worked with hundreds of filaments that did not work.
Julianna,
I loved reading your blog. It reminds me that I need to focus on what I want to write. I had tried to write a book about 8 years ago and it did not turn out the way I wished. I picked it back up and started writing again. I have decided that writing in the first person is not where I need to go. I will be rewriting the beginning in the third person. I like the idea. Thank you for sharing your process.
Lori Owen
Great post Julianna!
You are SO right about the primacy of the subconscious. A novel is a massive creative undertaking. So many creative decisions are involved along the way, from concept to final edit, that it becomes impossible for a writer to withhold their heart work, no matter how hard they may resist.
So why this fear of selling out? That we will somehow lose our own identities if we pander to the business of, gasp, selling our art?
I personally believe that underlying this fear is the deeper fear that we will fail if we try.
As writers. we work for months at a time in seclusion, with no feedback from the outside world. During that time, there is the constant nagging fear that our book will suck, that no one will EVER buy it, fighting against the hope of hopes that our precious thought-baby will SELL, SELL, SELL!!
The pressure this struggle creates can become so great, our intellects will often shout at our fears: “SHUT UP YOU! IT’S NOT ABOUT MONEY AND SUCCESS!! IT’S ABOUT ART! THERE IS NO PRICE ON ART! ART IS PURE! NOW GO AWAY!!”
I believe this is wasted energy.
That’s why I strive to think like a live performer. Imagine you are a street juggler or busker. You’ve got your juggling balls, or harmonica, and your empty hat. All you want by the end of the day is for your hat to be full of cash. if your act isn’t working, you adjust. You don’t have time to erect elaborate intellectual barricades against self doubt. So you juggle chainsaws. You pause from blowing on your harmonica to sing about heartbreak. Why? So you can afford to buy dinner that night. And you inevitably see results when you change your approach to have greater appeal to passersby.
When you fire up the farting chainsaws, people stop and gape and ooh and aah. When you sing about how your man is a dog because he’s sleeping with your best friend, people clap, reach into their pockets, and spare change rains into your hat. And not one of them calls you a sell out. Because you have entertained them. With YOUR art and YOUR heart, and a whole lotta urgency.
Thanks for the post, Julia. “… [while] I’m creating something that I hope people want to read, something they actually might need, my own heart work is still getting done.” That is the goal, isn’t it?
I did a BA in creative writing years ago at UCSD. I had two mentors: The Very Serious German novelist Reinhard Lettau, who was strictly a “writers should be obscure, the marketplace corrupts” kind of guy. (No one read his work, not even his devoted students.) And William F. Murray, who published a slew of smart, hip detective novels, travel books, opera books, and was an essayist for the New Yorker. Bill taught that writers write to be read, that I must aim to communicate, evoke, touch. I think back on my mentors (both dead now) and it’s Bill’s advice that holds up best in this brave new world of publishing.
Because I’d like a refresher course on the art of integrating literary and commercial fiction, I just ordered Donald Maass’ _Writing 21st Century Fiction_. It was a bit hard to find (it’s not even listed on Donald’s own web site!). I finally ordered from AbeBooks.com.
Hi Julianna–
Great piece. As a novelist and also a writer of nonfiction, i ALWAYS think about audience–perhaps because i came up through journalism. THat’s not the same, of course, as letting your intended audience dictate what you’re writing, but i think it’s a mistake, if you want to make a living as a writer or even if you want people to READ what you’re writing, to not at least think about it. The trick is finding that fine line between not selling out and not writing something no one wants to read. Having read some of your work (with more on the list! just finished PURE and loved it!), i would say you have done it. My one complaint is that i don’t think ALL MFA programs are against thinking about audience. At least, i don’t recall my own, at the University of Arizona, being this way. Yes, there were plenty of “literary” novelists and obscure poets teaching there (all with fine lessons of their own to impart), but I also had the pleasure of being taught by Terry MacMillan, Vivian Gornick, and other commercially popular writers who I think would never stress writing from the heart OVER making your writing accessible/adigestible. You need to find a balance, that’s all. Anyway, i am printing this piece for the next time I myself teach creative writing! Thanks so much. xx
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Writing is deeply personel. But in order to attract readers you have to show them that you’re interested in them first. In talking with a friend, I don’t want her to drone on about herself but rather relate to me. When you show you’re reader that you’re interested in them they become interested in you.
I guess I did my pure “heart work” back in junior high — and thank god for that. My subconscious is pretty boring, so I don’t inflict it on people often. Since then I’ve always thought about the audience, although I think I’m more like Telsa than Edison, but Telsa was a fabulous performer.
My most successful work has been done to answer a creative problem, like “How come most spoken word sounds like hip hop and not Laurie Anderson?” or “Is it possible to write about spirituality so an atheist will understand it?”or “Is it possible to write a gay male romance?”
The older I get, the less of a snob I become.
Julianna,
Thanks for such an insightful essay on an important topic. My own view is a writer must write what he or she is passionate about, but the key to me is not to find the commercial sweet spot, but to write a compelling story. Story is what sells, but it must come from the heart. Thanks again and the comments are very enlightening as well.
I loved this post. What a gift. Thank you!
I always write what I need to write, whyever I need to write it. I edit to connect to a reader. Well, no. I do write with a reader in mind, but usually the reader I have in mind is the reader I was when I first felt passionate about a book. But I know if I’ going to send something out into the world, I’ve got to make it for the reader as well. It’s like talking to one’s self vs talking to another person. How I talk to myself is a bit different than how I talk to others. The goal is different. Same with writing.
[…] an effective story is both well-told and compelling. Check out Donald Maas’ comment on Julianna Baggott’s post at Writer (un)Boxed for his succinct analysis of the false dichotomy between stories that are sold to us as […]
[…] Essay by MFA Writing Program at Greensboro alum Julianna Baggott over at Writer Unboxed: https://staging-writerunboxed.kinsta.cloud/2013/05/03/what-i-learned-from-thomas-edison-and-how-it-applies-to-novelist… […]