The Shakespeare Deniers make lots of flimsy claims, as well as assertions that are anachronistic. These might look solid at first glance, convincing people who don’t know the period Shakespeare wrote in. Deep-fried Doubters want you to believe that there have always been suspicions about “authorship,” but that’s completely false. Nobody in Shakespeare’s time and for years afterwards every doubted that he wrote the plays. The “controversy” started in the middle of the 19th century.
Nobody tells you that one of the best things that can happen when you become an author is that you get to hang out with other authors. At panels, conferences, book signings, and just casually when you run into them on your travels. It may not be the Fellowship of The Ring, but there’s a connection.
When I had only been publishing for a few years I was lucky enough to be on the Jewish Book Fair circuit at the same time as Walter Mosley. We were both appearing in Houston and when I told the fair’s director how much I admired him, she graciously asked if I’d like to stay an extra day and meet him (!). I not only joined a group for dinner, I heard him give a splendid reading. Later Mosley and I had drinks and talked about the dynamics of building a series.
I’ve had dinner with the witty and urbane Edmund White in Paris after meeting him at an awards ceremony in D.C. He gave me an insider’s advice about what to see in and near Paris that first-time tourists usually miss, and thanks to him I spent a glorious day at the amazing chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte. As he had predicted, it was almost empty by tourists.
At a summer Oxford University conference, the charming, friendly thriller writer Val McDermid rescued me from the humiliating spectacle of passing out in an overcrowded, boiling hot lecture room which had just one measly fan (the Brits, you know). She deftly got me to the river where we sat for a few wonderful hours, cooling off, talking about our careers, life, and love as we watched little boats pass by.
I can’t count how many authors have been gracious enough to write blurbs for my many books, and one who was too busy to read that particular book actually invited me to teach at the summer workshop she ran instead. Author after author has been unfailingly kind to me in one way or another.
There’ve been some very colorful exceptions. My favorite was the New York Times best seller who I had been exchanging some notes with because we admired each other’s work. That author invited me and my spouse over for drinks the next time we were in New York.The visit was going to be one fun piece of a blowout birthday weekend that included dinner at the Russian Tea Room. When we got to New York and I called from the luxury hotel we’d splurged on, the writer insisted I had the date wrong. That wasn’t possible, since, well, I did know my own birthday and had said I was coming in for it. This literary star was super frosty on the phone and even sent a postcard later telling us about the wonderful menu we had missed….
But a childhood TV hero was staying at the hotel, and when I saw him in the lobby I got to tell him how much I loved his show; I spent time that weekend with my best friend from college; the hotel’s Sunday brunch was stupendous; and I had terrific seats to see B.D. Wong and John Lithgow in M. Butterfly.
This wasn’t the only weird interaction with an author, but in the end, the generous and friendly ones have vastly outnumbered the others. And the exceptions have given me great material….
Lev Raphael is the author of two dozen books in genres from memoir to mystery, including Writer’s Block is Bunk.
As a writer, I’ve always had a particular kind of wanderlust: I’m not into doing anything extreme or uncomfortable. I like going someplace where the challenges are along the lines of learning a new language, or deepening the command of one I already know. Someplace where I’ll be drawn into deep contemplation of a landscape, a street, even a marvelous meal. I have hungry eyes.
I’ve never felt the need to rack up “points” by seeing a lot, though. I want to savor a place I visit. When I was in London a few years ago, I went to my favorite museum The Wallace Collection twice, timing my second visit when there would be as few other visitors as possible so that I could spend as much time as possible contemplating paintings I wanted to see again and truly appreciate. And a perfect day in Florence for me was visiting a church and enjoying its art, savoring a long lunch, then taking in another church followed by a long dinner–with both meals at the Piazza Santo Spirito, and the churches nearby.
If I’m abroad and I find a restaurant or café I enjoy after having tried a few others, I keep going back. I don’t need to continue trying others, looking for some Holy Grail of Dining. In the new city the familiar setting, staff, and menu appeal to me and I’d rather try as many different dishes on that menu as I can.
Spending a week in Ghent recently, it didn’t take long sampling eateries around the train station of Gent-Sint-Pieters to decide that Café Parti was where I could happily have lunch and dinner as often as possible. The vibe was hip and neighborly. The staff was friendly and I used as much of my newly-acquired Dutch as possible, though my French is so much better. I got good recommendations for specials, and I chatted just a bit about what I was doing there, where I was going (Antwerp for the Rubens Museum), and when I got back, the differences between Antwerp and Ghent. It made me feel as If wasn’t just skimming across the surface of the culture.
In the same way, I took more cabs than trams in Ghent because I’ve often found that I learn a lot from cab drivers in foreign cities. My father was a cab driver years ago in New York and that’s always a point of connection; I sit in the front passenger seat to make conversation easier. When my Dutch failed me, I asked if I could switch to French, which was usually fine, but there was always English as a fallback. I learned that in Ghent, tourists came predominantly from Germany, The Netherlands, France–and China. And, unexpectedly, that the park near my hotel wasn’t especially safe at night. I got a colorful and detailed warning despite not needing one, but hey, he was being friendly, and Ghent prides itself on being “The City of Trust and Love.” Of course, for me as a writer, there’s a story in that conversation….
Lev Raphael is the author of the memoir/travelogue My Germany and 24 other books in many genres.
The psychologist Otto Rank wrote that artists are perpetually in conflict with life. They need seclusion to produce their work, but they also need to go out into the world for stimulation to create their art.
Whatever takes me away from home, I’m always receptive to possible locations for stories, essays, and books–and I return with lots of notes and photographs. I was recently in Ghent, Belgium on a travel grant, liaising with officials from Ghent University to explore the possibility of a study abroad program with Michigan State University. The city is widely called “a hidden gem.” It’s all that, and more. Day after day I felt bombarded with impressions and ideas I knew would fuel my writing down the road. I fell in love with a city I’d known almost nothing about, and fell hard. Here’s why.
First there are the people. As my favorite author Henry James would have put it, “the note” of the city is friendliness. I got that vibe everywhere, whether in sandwich or coffee shops, stores, restaurants, and even from strangers who helped me when I got slightly lost. Some of them walked a short distance with me to make sure I was headed in the right direction.
As a writer, I seek comfort and quiet when I travel and the Carlton Hotel Gent was the epitome of those things. Family owned, boutique-style, it was smoothly run, ultra-quiet, close to the train station, served delicious breakfasts, and the owners were perfect guides to the city and its restaurants. The hip Café Parti was nearby and if could’ve eaten every lunch and dinner there, I would have. It served Belgian specialties that I’d sampled before in Brussels and Bruges, but they were exceptional, especially the stoofvlees, a beef stew made with dark beer, and the onglet, hanger steak better than any I’d had in the U.S.
I liked the modern lines of the hotel and the Café Parti (above) because Ghent has so much history in its architecture, from the Renaissance buildings along the canals, to the Romanesque St. Bavo Cathedral and the medieval Gravensteen fortress at the city center. Dipping in and out of these different periods was intensely enjoyable. And so was sampling my favorite Belgian chocolate, Neuhaus, and a Ghent specialty, neuzekes, candies filled with raspberry syrup that look like little pointed hats and are partly made with gum Arabic. They’re sensational.
Bikes are king in Ghent, or so they say, and it apparently has the largest bike-friendly zone in Europe. Ghent was the first city to designate a street as a “cycle street”—meaning that cars have to stay behind bikes. They’re everywhere, weaving through traffic and around the trams which snake along the sinuous streets which seem unlike any other street plan I’m familiar with from my previous years of visiting Western. There was something very calming about riding a tram or just watching one.
For a city which is the third largest port in Belgium, and has 250,000 residents, Ghent never felt overwhelming. It welcomed and fascinated me, and unlike the more famous Bruges half an hour away (which has twice as many tourists), it didn’t feel like a museum despite the amazing architecture from so many different periods.
Before I got there, I had plans to set a novel elsewhere in Flanders, but after this past week, the novel-in-progress has moved to Ghent. Frankly, I wish I could, too. For awhile, anyway….
Lev Raphael is the author of the memoir/travelogue My Germany and 24 other books in many genres. He speaks French, German, and some Dutch.
Recently, a Washington, DC hairdresser was asked to do hair for someone in the public eye who was going to attend the Inauguration.
This person tried to bargain down the hairdresser’s rate and then proposed something very different than payment: “exposure.” If she would do the job for free, she could be sure her business would get PR on social media.
The hairdresser declined–and rightly so.
As a writer, I hear stories like this all the time from other writers at all stages in their careers who are asked to work for free in one way or another with the promise of that elusive (and dubious) thing exposure. It always strikes a sour note.
I understand why people want to get something for nothing. And it’s also not hard to see why the fantasy of exposure is so tempting to newbie writers. People don’t know who you are yet, and nowadays everyone thinks that we’re all just one click away from becoming viral.
But unless someone incredibly famous at the level of Oprah or Ellen with amazing media access makes you an offer, you might as well pass.
Even after having published two dozen books, I still get asked to write things for free with the promise that it’s somehow going to enhance my stature in the world and make me oh-so-much better known. As if I’m a beggar and I’ve just been waiting for that specific handout.
The offer sometimes feels insulting, but I don’t care anymore. I know how empty the promise is, and I decline.
And so should anyone who doesn’t want to waste their time. Writers need to value what they do. A young writer I know was all excited about the possibility of her first invitation to do a reading to a special interest group for her debut novel and I urged her to ask for a nominal speaker’s fee. She asked why. Wasn’t it enough that she was going to have an audience?
I told her that being paid something would mean that the group inviting her took her seriously, and that she did the same thing herself. It would set a standard going forward.
Writers, artists, professional of all kinds aren’t charities. What we all do is work and it deserves recognition and respect as work unless we’re donating it to raise money for a charity. Selling ourselves short is never a winning proposition.
Lev Raphael currently teaches creative writing at Michigan State University and has published books in a dozen different genres from memoir to mystery.
For as long as I can remember, I was a monogamous reader. I’d start a book and read it straight through no matter how much time that took. Even if I didn’t like it, I had to finish it.
College and graduate school didn’t change my book monogamy. Even when my reading load was very heavy, I never read a book on the down low. That seemed shifty and wrong. Once during my MFA program I had to read Bleak House, The Wings of the Dove and two novels by Iris Murdoch all in one week, but I didn’t cheat. I slogged along serially, losing sleep but determined to be faithful. My roommate later claimed I was prone to hysterical laughter that week, but monogamy can make anyone desperate, right?
Years later, when I was reviewing for a handful of magazines and newspapers and two public radio stations, I still didn’t cheat. My motto: One man, one book.
Now I’m a hopeless book slut. I can’t seem to keep my hands off all the books piled in my study, by my bed, in the den, and sent to me by publishers. I’ll try to stay focused but then a new book shows up in the mail, somewhere on line and I go all Iggy Pop: “You look so good to me….”
This has nothing to do with competition from downloading music, Facebook or Twitter, texting, or binge-watching the latest Netflix original show like the hilarious Lovesick. It’s the books that compete with each other. Some months I’m reading as many as five to six books at a time. That means bookmarks, Post-it notes, a pen or pencil, a napkin, a comb, my phone, a restaurant receipt or whatever else is handy will be poking out from books all around the house. Keeping my place(s).
That also means some weeks I shun all book reviews, especially the New York Times Book Review. I don’t want to hear about another new book in any genre, don’t want to risk being tempted.
So what’s in my book harem right now? Biographies of President Buchanan and Thomas Beckett. Rebecca Mead’s memoir about reading Middlemarch. A short novel by Anthony Trollope. Nathaniel Philbrick’s history of Bunker Hill. Susan Jacoby’s The Age of Unreason. Poldark by Winston Graham. And a book about contemporary populism worldwide, just to stay connected to current events.
And I’m about to order a biography of the art collector Peggy Guggenheim because I just saw a documentary about her and I still remember visiting her famous museum in Venice….I just couldn’t resist her life, her loves, her art.
Lev Raphael is the author of Book Lust! and twenty-four other books in many genres.
I’ve been doing readings from my award-winning fiction since the early 90s and one of the common questions I get afterwards is “Do your characters ever tell you what to do?” or “Do your characters ever get away from you?”
That question is a fascinating doorway into how people tend to perceive authors and the writing process–and how they want to.
My answer is plain: Never. And here’s what I mean. Everything that appears in my books, every aspect of plot, setting, dialogue, characterization, action is mine. Hell, the punctuation is mine, or as much mine as anything can be in this life of transience. I created it all, and even if I got advice from an editor or was inspired by other writers, the final form is mine. The words are mine, the rhythms are mine. It’s all shaped by me as a writer, as an artist, consciously and unconsciously.
My characters are not independent of who I am. They don’t speak to me: I speak through them.
Saying a character surprised me is dramatic, but it’s not accurate. I surprised myself. Something was churning away inside, some unexpected connection got made that changed what I was working on. This happens constantly when we write: a mix of editing and revision and creation at the sentence level and the chapter level.
But many writers love to grin and say, “Yes” in answer to the question above, and then they tell dramatic stories that make audiences smile and even laugh. It seems to confirm something to non-writers about what it’s like to write; it makes the whole experience more romantic and glamorous than it actually is. And casts authors as at least mildly eccentric, and not entirely in control of themselves or their work when the truth is completely different.
Once I was nearing the end of a book and realized I had the wrong person committing murder. It wasn’t the murderer speaking to me, or the victim piping up, or even the gun giving me advice. It was the mind of a writer spinning straw into gold. And after a long and fruitful career, I’m glad those moments keep coming.
Lev Raphael is the author of a guide to the writing life, Writer’s Block is Bunk, and 24 other books in genres from memoir to mystery.
It’s pretty common to hear writers talk about their first drafts as “shit” or “shitty.” Sadly, even some of my student writers do it.
They have a model in Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. If she puts it that way, she must be right, and she says all good writers write them. Seriously? How does she know this for a fact?
“Shitty” is an adjective I’ve never used to describe my first drafts. It’s also a word I’ve never used in any creative writing class or workshop I’ve taught And I discourage my student writers from using it because I think it can be damaging. It can undermine how you feel about your work.
You get writers used to applying a word like that to a first draft and it’s too easy for them to survey their in dark times and think, “This is total shit.” Writers have to deal with enough doubts about their abilities as it is.
None of the first drafts of my hundreds of stories, essays, reviews, or blogs were “shitty.” Some were even pretty good. Surprisingly good. But I always knew they were just a starting point and that they would always need much more work. That’s a given, it’s part of the process.
For me, any first draft is just opening a door. I feel a sense of adventure and expectation because I never know where the piece will end up. Sometimes it goes right into the waste paper basket or gets deleted. So what?
But slamming it as “shitty,” even if I’m frustrated or disappointed, is setting a road block in my own way. The drafts may be a mess, sure. Sloppy, unfocused, rough, undisciplined, chaotic, jumbled, scattered, unpolished, inferior–any words like that will do.
The world is full of nasty critics–don’t be one of them when it comes to your own writing.
Lev Raphael is the author of Writer’s Block is Bunk (Guide to The Writing Life) and 24 other books in genres from memoir to mystery.
I grew up watching Gore Vidal on TV and enjoying his wit. He was a liberal version of William F. Buckley, Jr.: witty, insanely well-read, cosmopolitan, and delightfully snide. But like Buckley, he oozed privilege and contempt, and his act could wear thin.
I think that’s why he’s never been a favorite author of mine. Though I’ve read a handful of his novels over the years and his memoir Palimpsest, none of his books made that great an impression on me. I do remember him wafting through Anais Nin’s Diaries where he seemed fascinating and somewhat creepy, a young man on the make. Nin’s take on him was almost more interesting than Vidal himself.
A writer friend recently recommended that I read Jay Parini’s new Vidal biography just as I’d finished reading a review essay about it in the New Yorker. That piece offered me an insight into Vidal I’d never expected. In the late 70s, Vidal told the novelist Martin Amis that he’d been reading D. H. Lawrence and this is what he thought about Lawrence:
“Every page I think, Jesus, what a fag. Jesus, what a faggot this guy sounds.”
Where do you start to unpack lines like that? Despite his attempts to blur the question, Vidal was gay, lived with a man and only had sex with men. And here he was, using “faggot” as invective. But putting that aside, what did he find in Lawrence’s work that evoked so much contempt? Vidal comes across in that bizarre outburst as an anti-intellectual boob, a yahoo–or a bigot.
Unless he was simply jealous. Because Lawrence reached artistic heights Vidal couldn’t even approach. Lawrence is one of the 20th century’s greatest writers. Can Vidal even compare? Has he written anything as profound or beautiful as Women in Love?
I’ve been reading and re-reading Lawrence for years. He can definitely be excessive and melodramatic, but his soaring prose always moves me, and so does his grasp of human psychology and his understanding of how passion can shipwreck us. Lawrence’s depth of feeling, his imagery, and his rhapsodic voice always blow me away when I return to his fiction.
I’ve never revisited any book of Vidal’s and I’ve never wanted to. The New Yorker piece quotes some of Vidal’s work but it left me as cold as the anecdotes of his studied hauteur. I’d happily read a new biography of Lawrence, though. And it’s probably time for me to go back to Women in Love, which I’ve read a handful of times. Or perhaps some of his wonderful short fiction. Or his pungent, quirky Studies in American Literature. Or The Fox. So many terrific choices….
Working on my most recently published book, I ran into a significant problem. To move the novel forward, I needed my protagonist to have a confrontation with a minor character. I knew what this woman’s role was in the book and how she drove the plot forward.
But the woman herself was a blank. I had no idea what she looked like, what she sounded like, what kind of house she had. None of that was real. And so I did when I’ve learned to do after many years as an author: I let go. Consciously, that is.
I knew I would be musing about it freely and without stress if I focused my attention elsewhere. Walking my dogs was one choice. Working out at the gym was even better. Freeing my mind and focusing on repetitive physical activity (treadmill, weights) has always helped me write. Even if I’m not consciously writing, my subconscious is beavering away at the problem, pondering the questions I’ve posed myself.
After a few weeks, the answers came to me when I did something a bit different: I worked out three days in a row instead of taking a day off between workouts. Suddenly I could see this woman limping up to her front door past the impatiens. I knew why she had planted them, and why she limped.
But I didn’t head right to my PC or make any kind of notes. I let the scene build. Adding layers and complications. Making connections with other parts of the book. Many words, many realities.
After so many years of writing and publishing, I knew my own process well enough to know that I wasn’t ready. I wanted to have a draft in my head since the scene would anchor a whole chapter and push the book to its dark climax.
Writing isn’t just the physical act of clicking keys or wielding pen or pencil or even dictating. It takes place invisibly–to everyone else but us authors. That’s why it sometimes feels so magical. And that’s why it’s often hard to answer the question “What are you working on?” I often don’t want to say, and sometimes I’m not entirely sure.
It’s actually a lot easier when someone asks me “Are you writing a new book?” My reply is “Always.”