Lady Writer
Famous Lady Writer is in town. Tonight she gave a talk on the relationship between writers' fictions and their real lives. She began her talk by recounting a comment she received at a reading: "You write so convincingly about adultery! Have you ever had an affair?" (The answer was no).
Famous Lady Writer went on to discuss Lorrie Moore, whose "People Like That Are the Only People Here" was billed as fiction when it was published in the New Yorker, yet was accompanied by Moore's photo and a pull quote: "Are you taking notes?" "No." "You're not?" "No, I can't. Not this! I write fiction. This isn't fiction." Famous Lady Writer argued that the New Yorker gratuitously blurred the lines between Moore the writer and Moore the person.
Famous Lady Writer also cited Alice Munro as an example of a writer who couldn't possibly draw from her own life for her fiction, because her stories incorporate such a wide variety of plots and characters. Her comment piqued my interest; first, because I adore Munro, and second, because Munro strikes me as precisely the kind of writer who's always mined her biography heavily, from her early stories of clever, ambitious girls escaping the provinces at whatever moral cost, to her later stories of successful, creative women older women from the provinces reckoning with aging parents, troubled adult children, and past loves. The interesting question for me is how Munro is able to remain so compelling, despite a certain obsessive recycling of themes and characters.
So in the Q & A following her talk, I asked Famous Lady Writer what she thought. I prefaced my question with the comment, "I'm sure you've read much more Munro than I have."
Famous Lady Writer: Well, if you read more Munro, I think you'll see what a range she has. Especially now, she writes so much about mortality.
Me: Yes, I think her characters are aging with her.
Famous Lady Writer: If you read more Munro, you'll see that I'm right.
Honestly, what kind of rhetorical strategy is that? I don't know whether I'm more chagrined by her patronizing attitude or by my tactical error: my initial show of deference invited her condescension. She took my rhetorical humility at face value. Doesn't she know she's supposed to respond in kind, with her own show of modesty?
EDITED TO ADD
I change my mind: I heart Famous Lady Writer. She's been with us all week, and she's lovely: warm, down-to-earth, approachable. I don't know what was up the night of her reading, but please don't hold it against her.
Famous Lady Writer went on to discuss Lorrie Moore, whose "People Like That Are the Only People Here" was billed as fiction when it was published in the New Yorker, yet was accompanied by Moore's photo and a pull quote: "Are you taking notes?" "No." "You're not?" "No, I can't. Not this! I write fiction. This isn't fiction." Famous Lady Writer argued that the New Yorker gratuitously blurred the lines between Moore the writer and Moore the person.
Famous Lady Writer also cited Alice Munro as an example of a writer who couldn't possibly draw from her own life for her fiction, because her stories incorporate such a wide variety of plots and characters. Her comment piqued my interest; first, because I adore Munro, and second, because Munro strikes me as precisely the kind of writer who's always mined her biography heavily, from her early stories of clever, ambitious girls escaping the provinces at whatever moral cost, to her later stories of successful, creative women older women from the provinces reckoning with aging parents, troubled adult children, and past loves. The interesting question for me is how Munro is able to remain so compelling, despite a certain obsessive recycling of themes and characters.
So in the Q & A following her talk, I asked Famous Lady Writer what she thought. I prefaced my question with the comment, "I'm sure you've read much more Munro than I have."
Famous Lady Writer: Well, if you read more Munro, I think you'll see what a range she has. Especially now, she writes so much about mortality.
Me: Yes, I think her characters are aging with her.
Famous Lady Writer: If you read more Munro, you'll see that I'm right.
Honestly, what kind of rhetorical strategy is that? I don't know whether I'm more chagrined by her patronizing attitude or by my tactical error: my initial show of deference invited her condescension. She took my rhetorical humility at face value. Doesn't she know she's supposed to respond in kind, with her own show of modesty?
EDITED TO ADD
I change my mind: I heart Famous Lady Writer. She's been with us all week, and she's lovely: warm, down-to-earth, approachable. I don't know what was up the night of her reading, but please don't hold it against her.
posted by Wanda Ball at 10:36 PM
12 Comments:
I don't know if it'll make you feel any better, but a few thoughts about last night:
1) During the Q & A, she cut almost every question short; in most cases, she veered away from the question or gave a generic answer.
2) I suspect there's an interesting answer to your question (mainly because it's a good question), but I honestly haven't read enough Munro--or haven't read her recently enough--to say exactly what it is. I think a good answer might be that the stories mirror where she is in her life, whether it's processing her younger experience or processing her concerns about aging, which makes "emotional autobiography" a good (though vague) answer.
3) I hate to say it, but her talk wasn't all that interesting or surprising to me. I think it was pitched to an audience with less reading experience than us, if that doesn't sound too condescending. (And if it does, well, that's me.) Lots of vague references to what's really "true"; one of these days, I'm going to raise my hand and ask, "what's this truth thing you speak of?"
Thanks, Crazy, that does make me feel better. And I second your notion that her talk was pitched to, say, advanced undergrads. I feel that way about a lot of the writers who pass through here. Great for the undergrads, not so great for us.
I'm gonna stick a banana in her tailpipe.
Famous Lady Writer's, that is.
Oh, chicky, I'm afraid you've got your mind in some NYC gutter.
Chicky was raised on the streets. She lives and dies by a code of honor through violence. She's a poet--and she's armed.
Actually, some of us just had lunch with Famous Lady Writer, and she was totally cool--warm and down-to-earth. So, please hold on to the banana, Chicky.
I like holding this banana.
I'm in love with Wanda Ball. When does her book come out?
Amfine: Aw, I'm touched. But don't hold your breath
. . .
Chicky: You hold on to that banana for as long as you like, dear.
Hey wonderbal, I enjoy very much your post and am especially intrigued by what I see as an etiquette clash, or an etiquette gray-zone: namely your probing this: "Doesn't she know she's supposed to respond in kind, with her own show of modesty?" I would love to hear what Laura M. would have to say about this. But as aspiring writers we're supposed to be deferential, aren't we, to such arch-angels as the Visiting Lady, and as welcoming professionals, also, it behooves us (or I've often felt it behooves me) to frame a Q so as to leave as much room as possible for the one Q'd: and this also just as a riposte to the standard 'gladiatorial combat' method of q&a that's de facto at so many academic settings.... How do we pose our questions so as to draw the most thoughtful, comfortable, responsible answers, and is actual productive communication in such a forum possible.... And who are you, and who am I, and will the fruit flies take over my house?
Excellent questions, Prof Mackerel. I could have been less deferential, but then, I didn't want to appear arrogant, always a liability for a grad student, especially a female one. Overconfidence charms in men, grates in women, you know?
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