Chris Orcutt, Writer

Some of you will disagree, but I believe we don't have as much choice about what we write as we might think.

For years, my father, Al, encouraged me to write about sex because he was convinced that sex sells. He was right, of course—sex does sell—but he was wrong, as all non-writers are when they suggest ideas or subjects for writers to use, in thinking that I could instantly adopt his idea with the enthusiasm necessary to create a book-length work.

Now, I realize that all writers have to be able to get into ideas that aren't wholly their own, but we can usually only do this when there's an outside motivator—like money. Getting paid, whether as a newspaper reporter (which I've been) or as a speechwriter (which I've also been), has a way of making you excited about whatever topics interest the client.

But more than the kind of writing we writers do, I'm really talking about the ideas we find ourselves attracted to, and where this is concerned, I believe we don't have much choice. The writing heart wants what it wants.

An HD still of me from Get Lamp, my friend Jason's upcoming
film about text adventures and interactive fiction. I used it
because my didacticism in the still matches this piece.

In my own case, part of me wishes I were more attracted to non-fiction. As a writer seeking publication, just from an odds standpoint life would be easier; there are far more nonfiction books than fiction published every year.

But again, we don't get much say in what captivates us. I have no idea why I find redheads so damn alluring, but I do. Similarly, I don't get to choose the ideas or characters or voices that grab me by the lapel and either shout or breathe hotly in my ear. Nope, they choose me.

What we write is also determined by something much more prosaic: how our brains work. I have friends who think in data, in facts. Jason, mentioned above, is one of these guys. He and people like him amaze me in their ability to consume vast quantities of information, categorize it, assimilate it, report on it, etc. This may explain why Jason leans toward documentary filmmaking and internet history/archiving. Suffice it to say, I'm not one of these fellows. I like to do what Sherlock Holmes did, which is to keep all but the most essential tools out of my "brain-attic." I have to, in fact.

I am a heavily right-brained, lateral thinker. With the exception of a few subjects that I know a lot about, I don't have a lot of information on file. The best way I can describe my thinking process (and other fiction writers I know have described a similar process) is continuously asking myself, "What if?" A person's quirky mannerism makes me wonder, "What if he did that in a bank and they misunderstood him? What would happen?" Frequently these "what-if's" lead to imagining a character, who routinely manifests as a voice. Each voice has a particular rhythm and diction, and she might be be cunning, shy, unstable, or selfish.

Why this photo? Simple: I love redheads.

The thing is, I don't get to choose the idea. The idea floating around in the ether, the one that insists on being written, chooses me, and that's that.

And as much as I'd like to write a chapter for a nonfiction book and bang out a proposal and have my agent sell the book—often just on the basis of a proposal—I can't because the writing heart wants what the writing heart wants.

Posted by Chris Orcutt at 04:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In the Book of Genesis, God tests Abraham's faith by requiring him to bind his son, Issac, to an altar and sacrifice him. We all know how the story ends: at the last minute an angel intervenes, telling Abraham not to harm the boy.

The point was that God used the thing that Abraham cared the most about—his son—to test his faith. This act has been scrutinized over the centuries by the best thinkers. In fact, one of my favorite philosophers, Søren Kierkegaard, dedicated a very good book to the subject of Abraham's faith and what it means for Faith in general.

The sentence on the cover says it all: This ain't light readin'.

The idea of putting our dreams on the altar comes from Abraham's act. Lately I've begun to wonder whether I should be writing fiction, or at least whether I should be making it the main thrust of my writing. I think my fiction is good, and this view has been corroborated by many professionals in writing and publishing, not to mention a number of readers I respect. But as good as it may be, sometimes it's a question of timing. Folks just ain't buyin' what you're sellin' right now.

I believe that everything happens for a reason, and to the point of unanswered prayers or unfulfilled dreams, I believe that sometimes God, Spirit, the Force, or the Universe (or whatever you believe governs our cosmic soup) delays giving us our heart's desires because He or It wants to give us a chance to change our minds. Imagine for a moment if we got everything we wanted exactly when we wanted it. Remember the saying, "Be careful what you ask for because you just might get it"? Being made to wait for our dreams to come to pass gives us an opportunity to change our minds, and I think that's important.

In my case, I've begun to wonder if I want to be writing mystery fiction. I've already begun to feel stymied by the genre in that the conventions are pretty rigid and formulaic, and if you have anything serious to say about the world, this clearly isn't the forum for it. I've also begun to question what good my fiction would be doing for the world.

How will another murder mystery help people to improve their lives? How will this kind of writing do anything other than provide people with a temporary escape from the drudgery of everyday life? Not that the ability to do this has no value. It does. I just don't think I'm content with that.

A part of me misses teaching. Inspiring people. Awakening people to new ideas, things they've never considered before. Raising people's confidence and self-esteem. In short, I've been wondering if I should be writing work that teaches more than it entertains.

Today I made a decision. I'm taking what has been my most precious dream for a long time—becoming a successful published author of commercial fiction—and putting it on the altar. If I need to sacrifice that dream to find my true purpose, my true calling, then I'm willing to do it.

Posted by Chris Orcutt at 04:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A classic problem given to first-year philosophy students is Buridan's Ass. For those of you who don't know it (or knew it and forgot), here it is:

A hungry ass stands between two piles of hay, both equally large and equally fresh. Because it has no rational reason to choose one over the other, it chooses neither, and as a result starves to death.

Although I consider myself a decisive person, I've thought about this problem a lot over the years and quite often find myself in similar situations. This morning, at the grocery store checkout, both registers were available, and both of the cashiers are equally pleasant, competent people, so I was frozen between the two for a few seconds. At the diner, I've been faced with this problem when both of my preferred seats on either side of the diner were open, and the two waitresses were equally attractive. What usually happens is that I catch myself in an endless loop, like the old BASIC routine of

10 PRINT "I can't decide!"

20 GOTO 10

I mention this because lately I've been stuck on what I should be writing about. I have several equally interesting projects to choose from, all at the same point in their development, and for this reason I find myself, like the stupid ass, unable to choose any of them.

The cubbies where my piles of hay are stored.

Yet I won't be stuck like this forever. Ultimately I'll sense myself leaning towards one project more than another, and the farther I lean, the closer I'll be to that project and the more sense it will make to go with that one instead of the other.

While many philosophers have critiqued the problem of Buridan's Ass better than I ever could, the issue I've always had with it is that it fails to take into account the concept of entropy. Just about any system, if left alone for a while, will tend toward disorder, and the more disorderly a system becomes, the greater likelihood there is for imbalances—one option becoming more appealing than another.

In the meantime, I'll let myself be stuck, just like that ass.

Posted by Chris Orcutt at 12:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I never get sick. I mean never. The last time I was sick was three years ago with a cold, and just before that, a herniated disc. Which is why I don't know what to do with myself today because I'm sick.

But even though I was sick, I wrote today. You can count on it—on days that I don't write something for this or my other blog, NotWriting.com, I have written something, whether it be pages in a new novel, a scene in a screenplay, words for a business writing assignment, an entry in my private journal, you name it. The fact is, I write every day. Every day.

Yesterday, because I was confined to bed and didn't have the patience for writing in html on the blog, I worked in pencil on the synopsis of my new novel. That's the 1-page single-spaced document that will accompany my book to editors and film production companies. I dread writing the synopsis because a part of me feels that synopsis-writing has nothing to do with novel-writing, and that if a reader wants to know how it ends, I want to tell him, "Read the book."

But I did it. I wrote, just as I write every day, and I didn't do it out of a sense of duty or self-discipline. I did it because I truly love to write.

A Royal DeLuxe by a pool. That's it—no grand
metaphor, nothing. Just liked the picture.

My wife thinks I'm freakishly self-disciplined, and to the outside observer, I can see why she would think this. Every day, around 5am if I'm deep into a project, I shuffle across the hall to my office and get started. But I don't do it out of a sense of self-discipline. In fact, I think self-discipline is a lousy motivator over the long-term. Self-discipline may get you to sit up in bed, but only love will motivate you to leave the warmth of that bed, get dressed and embark on the loneliest enterprise there is—writing.

Many years ago, I had a revelation in which I finally understood the oft-quoted line by writers and other artists: "Process, not product." You have to enjoy the process of the craft you're engaged in and do it for its own sake, not for the final product or its perceived rewards.

Since then, if I'm ever feeling down or lacking motivation, instead of trying to discipline myself to write, I make a list of what I love about it, and always topping the list is my love of what I call "the line."

"The line" is that one sentence, that one piece of description, that one snatch of dialogue that comes out of nowhere and surprises you. You, the writer, have no idea where it came from; you know it's good, that's all. And ultimately, I think it's that love of the line that keeps writers writing. You simply have to love language, and if you don't, nothing short of self-flagellation would make you do this.

Hemingway's posthumous memoir of his early years in Paris.

Each year, I'll reread a few books where the gorgeous prose inspires me: Hemingway's A Moveable Feast, Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, T.C. Boyle's East is East, Nabokov's Lolita, and Flaubert's Madame Bovary (or Tolstoy's Anna Karenina—depending on whether I want to read about the infidelities of a French or Russian woman). And more than the characters or plot, what you're reading for is the love. To witness great writers' love for the art and how they expressed it.

I didn't feel well today, but I wrote. And I wrote because I love writing.

Posted by Chris Orcutt at 07:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Having trouble sleeping? Disenchanted with life, your writing, your sneakers? Are you between writing projects, suffering from a peculiar brand of postpartum depression that only writers of long works understand?

If so, you may suffer from In-Between Syndrome. Ask your doctor if alcohol, bipolar meds, or a gun may be right for you.

The other day I finished the fifth, and what I hope will be the last, draft of my newest novel and sent it off to my agent for her comments. Every time I finish a book, I find myself moping around for the next two weeks, saying things to my wife like, "I feel lost," or "What do I do now?"

Invariably, Alexas makes the mistake of trying to be rational with me. "You're always happiest when you're writing," she chirps. "Why not start a new project?"

Thanks for the tip, bitch.

The upside to In-Between Syndrome is that I have time to do some entries on my blogs (like this one) and update my websites in general. The downside is that I begin to wonder if shooting myself or being mauled by wild dogs would be so bad.

Regardless, I'm back for a while. At least until I start writing again.

Posted by Chris Orcutt at 09:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)