Sleepwriting

Writing is most fun for me when holding a piece of paper I’ve just written something on and making a fist while holding it in my hand, closing my fist and crumpling the piece of paper into a ball, then throwing the little ball across the room so that it lands in the trashcan or somewhere close to the trashcan so that it can be retrieved and tossed directly into the can.

Sometimes, too often, as soon as I write something it seems already dead, DOA, or needs some face-lifting or lip balm or, in my case, a haircut.

Nicholson Baker, writer, spoke the other night at Arion Press in The Presidio. Baker’s talk was titled ‘The Weight of Paper’. He also revealed that he’s writing a book about painting, having become a painter. Baker’s disarming; I admired one of the novels he’s written but was most taken with his non-fiction book, ‘Human Smoke’, a tale of the build-up and US follow through to World War 1, perhaps the most unnecessary, wasteful exercise in Greek tragedy. To write ‘Human Smoke’ must have been a grueling task, butt-to-chair then pen-on-paper that turned Baker to painting.

Painting does something good for writers, something that’s good for the writer that writing itself didn’t heal, didn’t explain clearly, to writer or reader, didn’t reveal an aspect of the story the writer had hoped to tell, whether knowing it or not. Paint is wonderful that way, paint is much more tolerant, though paint too is a demanding and will whisper sweet suggestions that you pick up all the paper you’ve crumpled into balls and thrown onto the floor and take up your paintbrush to paint them.

Sleep’s another issue, related to writing but not writing per se. My sleep patterns, such as they are—erratic, somewhat judgmental, even critical—are very personal. I can’t talk about my sleep patterns without revealing things I can’t reveal, other than to say that every act of writing is also an act of avoidance.

**Surprise! I read just this morning in the NY TIMES that a Gabriel Garcia Marquez mss. was recently ‘found’ by his two sons who are going ahead and publishing it against the late writer’s wishes. A very interesting dynamic between father and sons that’s mystifying to me; as much as I admire Marquez and as much as I admire my two sons, both good writers and good thinkers.

Neither a writer nor a painter be. Photo by participant writer and painter.