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The New Germany

Lit Klatsch: Ambivalence: Adventures in Israel and Palestine
Jonathan Garfinkel
 

So I am living in Germany under somewhat unusual circumstances.

That is, I’m living in a castle.

The castle is called Schloss Solitude and was built in the 18th century by Duke Karl-Eugen. It was actually his summer home and party palace, as it was just up the road (some 30 miles) from his main palace in Ludwisburg. Apparently he’d throw extravagant parties here in the summer, bringing everybody to the palace from Ludwisburg by horse-drawn carriage. Rumor has it the path was covered in salt – fake snow – to make it seem, well, Christmasy, I guess. In July. Oh, to be stupidly rich.  

Anyhow, they’ve converted the cavalry part of the palace into studios for artists. Every two years some 2000 artists from various disciplines are invited to apply for a long-term residency here. I was one of 70 accepted (as a writer) and given a studio and a flat for 8 months, plus a stipend of 1000 euro per month.

Life is pretty, well, castle-y here. It’s 30 minutes from the city of Stuttgart, in the middle of a forest, on top of a hill. So it’s quiet. I sleep well. I write, read, and in the evenings I hang out with artists from all over the world: Brazil, Poland, Indonesia, Mexico, Austria.  What else. There’s a fridge full of German beer. I walk in the forest, write poems on birch bark. No, I don’t do that. But the time to read, to write, to talk to other artists is invaluable. There is an important exchange here that goes on – many collaborations (of various kinds) begin in these castle walls. And the amazing thing is this international residency is paid for by the Baden-Wurtenberg government. I don’t know too many other countries where the state gives 1.5 million euro a year to an institution to bring artists under-35 from all over the world to make art.

Sometimes there are openings of fellows' work. There are readings, film screenings, and art festivals where people from Stuttgart come to visit. I’ve started a soccer league, and San Francisco-based artist Joshua Greene and I started up a Jewish Jogging Club together (current membership consisting of two). We throw parties, too, of course. There is something of the camp feel to this place – I mean summer camp.

Schloss Solitude: A castle in GermanySchloss Solitude: A castle in GermanySome of my best experiences have been meeting German writers of my generation. The talks about history are what impress me the most. There is an awareness of history and politics that I find fascinating – a curiosity and compulsion lacking in many circles I've traveled in before. Given what’s gone on here the past century, the Germans of my generation have inherited a bizarre and difficult outlook on the world. My writer-friend Benjamin’s father survived Dachau, and his grandfather (on his mother’s side) was an SS-commander of a village in Ukraine.  It's no wonder he’s a writer.

Often talk turns to politics between Benjamin and I. The other day we were talking American elections. He can’t understand the big deal made about the potential next American president’s personality. “Here, in Germany, we don’t want exciting characters. We want someone who can run the country well. And who cares if Obama is an exciting speaker? We all remember what happened the last time when we had a leader who could speak passionately.”

Of course, Germans have a huge obsession with Obama, as we saw in the crowds for the Berlin speech this past summer. In fact, it is often lamented that the rest of the world gets a raw deal in these matters – America affects everyone and everything so much, yet we don’t get to vote. We’re relying on Joe-the-not-plumber to decide the fate of the world.

And so on and so forth.

Germany in the 21st century really is an incredible confluence of forces – artistic, political, intellectual. Perhaps it is its complicated history that has made it so artistically open here. People talk about a renaissance, especially in Berlin (and especially within Germany's wildly innovative theatre scene). Renaissance or not, I have found myself surprised to say this: I like this country and I like being a writer here.  I’ve said this openly to other Jewish artists I’ve met during my time in Germany and they echo this sentiment – there’s a growing number of American Jews and Israelis moving to Berlin. It’s a good place to be an artist right now. And we Jews who are returning, temporarily or permanently, can quickly brush up on our German, made easy, of course, by the Yiddish we were taught by our grandparents.

Jonathan Garfinkel, author of Ambivalence: Adventures in Israel and Palestine, is guest-blogging on Jewcy, and he'll be here all week. Stay tuned.

 


 

Etgar Keret's Unique Portrayal of Israeli Life

sucomn
 

The seeming sweetness of Israeli author and auteur Etgar Keret in a phone interview feels startling at first, given his reputation for writing stinging short prose that flies to the heart of the human condition — and then needles it further by setting it amid the danger and uncertainty of daily life in Israel.

But in conversation, he comes across as being devoted more to his parents — Polish Holocaust survivors — and their legacy, than to his own mounting reputation as Israel's pre-eminent author of contemporary letters.

Keret, 41, has long identified with his parents, who, both just teens when the Nazi onslaught ended, fled Europe for the Holy Land.

As a child, "I would pretend to be a local, even though I grew up here all my life. I always kind of felt like an extension of them," he says from his home in Tel Aviv.

 

The full interview can be found in the Albany Times-Union. You can read the rest by clicking here.

 


 

Book Club: Matrimony

JewcyTodd
 
Joshua Henkin, author of Matrimony, spent the past week guest blogging on Jewcy.  He teed off with a post about the election of Barack Obama to the presidency.  Then he critiqued the expression of certain decades film and literature, followed with a startling revelation that Joshua Henkin is fat, pondered the meaning of the term "Jewish American fiction," and finally, he deduced that fiction doesn't need reasons.  Got a hankering for more Henkin?  Buy his book!
 

Secret Blogger Crushes

Lit Klatsch: Ask for a Convertible
Danit Brown
 

Danit Brown, author of Ask for a Convertible, will be blogging all week as one of Jewcy's Lit Klatsch bloggers. Danit's book uses a fictional character to discuss life as an Israeli-American who has trouble fitting into both her parents' homelands.

When I was a teenager, I knew a girl who was such a big fan of the TV show Fame that she would take snapshots of her TV screen and send the stars of the show gifts on their birthdays. At the time, I thought she was weird: yes, I too have had dreams in which I was being wooed by celebrities (most notably, Barry Williams a.k.a. Greg Brady, but also, more recently, Barack Obama and Kelly Ripa), but even way back in junior high, I already knew instinctively that these people had better things to do than answer my mail.

And then my husband introduced me to the wonder that is blogging.

Continue reading...

 

"Standing By The Work Is The Only Option"

From: Nellie Hermann
To: Joshua Henkin
Re: Standing By the Work


Hi Josh--

I have to say I agree completely (hopefully all our agreeing doesn't make our conversation boring, but I'm happy about it) with your thoughts about MFA programs. It's a complicated issue, and I don't think there's any statement you can make (is there ever?) that doesn't need some kind of qualifier. Maybe that’s just a way of saying that I can see both sides. I agree one hundred percent that there is a vast ocean of difference between wanting to be a writer, romanticizing the writer and the writing life, and actually doing the work and producing writing. In this sense, yes, a thousand times, to going to the library and reading rather than going to Pamplona to chase the bulls. Have you read Bellow's Henderson the Rain King? The book is set in Africa, and he'd never been there when he wrote it, and I think this is an important element of why the book works so well.

On the other hand, I do think that the proliferation of MFA programs encourages a certain amount of laziness about writing that doesn't really serve anyone. Writing workshops can backfire: Writers need role models and guidance, but some MFA programs come up short.Writing workshops can backfire: Writers need role models and guidance, but some MFA programs come up short. Unfortunately not all writing teachers are as engaged as you no doubt are, or as my own professors were, and so the experience can vary so widely that it's really hard to judge. My experience in grad school was a good one, mostly because I had four wonderful mentors who were smart and challenging, and because by the end of my time I had found a handful of peers that I respect as writers and hope to keep as readers for my whole life. In the wrong program, though, or with the wrong group of people, I could see this experience backfiring in many ways. Especially at a program like mine, at Columbia, where funding is virtually unheard of. I do think writing can be taught, or if not taught then certainly guided; but there needs to be a certain quality of mind on the part of the student. A wish to be guided, someone who’s on the lookout and open to models, and, right, willing to put in the time in front of the blank page. That’s the real bottom line. I think that models and teachers are necessary to a writer's success and growth, but I don't think the MFA, per se, is necessary by any means.

As far as the anxiety goes, I do think that the proliferation of MFA programs (and the accompanying criticism of them) contributes to a certain culture of writer-celebrity and also of writer-devaluing that is of no help to anyone. I don't know enough about the publishing business to make any kind of comparison, but I wonder at the numbers of works of fiction that are published today versus say 30 or 40 years ago, when MFA programs were non-existent. Are there more of them? Are they better, now, on the whole? I doubt it. There may be just no way to really get a handle on it. For my part, I'm not sure that my anxiety about publishing a work of autobiographical fiction has much to do with the larger societal idea that young writers haven't "lived" enough to have anything to write about -- I think it's pretty safe to say that what I personally experienced before the age of 18 was quite enough to fill a few books, and I'm not worried about anyone coming back at me with that. It's not as if there is no act of imagination or art in turning real life into a work of fiction. But it's the flipside of the same coin; I feel waves of anxiety already, when people ask me right off the bat whether my book is autobiographical without knowing anything about me or the work. "Well you're young, so it must be," is the argument, which is twisted, and which is what I so want to rebel against. I'm also scared that people will read my book and assume, for this same reason, it's all true, because if it were all true (which it's not, for the record), that would somehow make the work easier to write off, and easier to have done. But at the end of this train of thought is that a lot of this is simply insecurity, and yes, again, the tentativeness needs to be eradicated, the apologies left at the door. Standing by the work is the only option, and solution. This will be my mantra, and I only hope I have the strength to follow it.




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"Every Word Counts"

From: Joshua Henkin
To: Nellie Hermann

Re: MFAs

I know writers who say they don't read while they're writing for fear of being too influenced. But if, like most writers, you're writing all the time, then that means you're never going to read, which is a real problem for a writer since the best education you can get is from other books. Besides, I've never understood the anxiety of influence. We should all want to be influenced -- just as long as we're being influenced by the right stuff. Imitation is how writers achieve their own voice. There was a class in imitation when I was in grad school -- one week you wrote like Woolf, the next week you wrote like Faulkner--and everyone found it tremendously helpful.

It's interesting that you mention Philip Roth’s visit; I had a very similar experience with Richard Ford. This was shortly after he'd won the Pulitzer for Independence Day, and he was sitting there with Charles Baxter, a wonderful writer and one of our teachers. Ford said that he and Charlie were both at that stage in their careers when they sometimes got paid for work they hadn't yet written and that was nice, but that the page was just as blank every time they sat down. And though at that point I had only published a couple of short stories, I realized that even if I managed to achieve further success as a writer, the page was going to feel just as blank. I feel that more than ever now. You reach a point where you know that what you write won't be so abysmal that it wouldn't pass freshman English, but will it be really good? Will it be magical, will it jump off the page? Why is it that we read a novel we love, and then we read another novel by the same person and don't love it nearly as much, and then we read a third novel by them and we love that one? Were they good and then bad and then good again? I just think that some books work and some don't and there's often no telling why. Charles Baxter has three early novels that were never published, and he might say that those unpublished works were instrumental in getting him to where he is. For the same reason, I have no regrets about the three thousand pages I threw out. You need to throw out a lot of bad pages in order to get to the good ones. In that sense, I'm temperamentally well suited to being a writer. What separates the men from the boys and the women from the girls is the ability and inclination to rewrite--to really revise in a deep way.

I also understand what Roth was saying about the time between novel. In a way that's why I started to write novels in the first place -- because I was having that experience to the nth power with short stories (with novels, it happens only once every few years, whereas with stories it can happen every couple of months). I happen to love stories, am perplexed as to why story collections don't sell (you'd think, with today's attention spans...), and think that in many ways stories are harder than novels because there's so little room for error, every word counts.

The issue of not apologizing is important. Which doesn't mean that a writer
shouldn't be receptive to criticism, editing, etc. There's not a writer in the world who isn't helped by a good reader (I have several who really saved MATRIMONY a few times along the way). But the key is never to be tentative. Fiction is about convincing your readers that something untrue is in fact true. That's no easy feat. A writer is basically up a creek if they themselves aren't convinced that what they're writing is true. You have to do what Zadie Smith told Charlie Rose: take your readers by the lapels and refuse to let them disbelieve. Zadie Smith: A model of non-tentativeness.Zadie Smith: A model of non-tentativeness.

Sometimes I see real tentativeness in my students' work, even on the sentence level. They’ll write sentences like "she turned slightly to the left" or "he was a little nervous." Why not just say "she turned to the left" or "he was nervous"? Words like "slightly", "a little," "somewhat," etc -- all these qualifiers -- are littered all over my students' stories and they almost always weaken the work. It's as if the writer is saying, well, maybe you're not going to believe me when I say the character is nervous, so I'll say she's slightly nervous, how about that?

I don't mean to make such a big deal about a single word, except what else are writers going to make a big deal about if not words, and it's a rare to be tentative on the sentence level without also being tentative on the bigger levels of narrative and character. I feel the same way about foreshadowing. Too many writers over-foreshadow--it's another case of under-confidence. I visited a book group recently -- they were discussing MATRIMONY -- and there ensued a long discussion of a key betrayal discovered midway through the novel (sorry to be coy--don't want to ruin things for people who haven't yet read the book). Anyway, someone asked me why I didn't foreshadow that betrayal more--why didn't I leave more popcorn along the narrative trail so that what happened could have been seen. The answer is that I didn't want it to be seen. In general when we’re busy trying to foreshadow events, we’re stepping out of our characters' heads and out of the fictional dream state. Flannery O'connor talks about a good ending to a story being both surprising and inevitable--you didn't predict it, but once you get there it feels exactly right. I think that's true not just for endings but for everything about a piece of fiction.

Speaking of O'Connor, she also said (in her wonderful book of essays Mystery and Manners) that anyone who's lived until the age of 10 has enough material to write about for a lifetime. Which I think is her way of saying that there's no reason to be embarrassed about writing autobiographically -- and so I agree, you have nothing to apologize for when it comes to your novel. There are pitfalls, of course, to writing autobiographically, but I think there are greater pitfalls to writing about material that isn't close enough to you. In MATRIMONY, Professor Chesterfield tells Julian that he should write what he knows about what he doesn't know or what he doesn't know about what he knows -- sounds like a bad LSAT problem. But what he means, and what Julian takes to heart (and what I take to heart), is that a writer needs to find a balance between being too close to and being too far from the material. My undergrads, in particular, tend to err to one extreme or the other. They write simply what they know (a transcript of Friday night's frat party) or simply what they don't know (martians). But what a writer needs to do is be close enough to the material that there's heart in it, that something's at stake, that the writer is at risk, but not so close to it that the writer is concerned about fidelity to actual truth. Fiction is about using the imagination to get at a deeper kind of truth. All that said, I'd rather be too close to my material than too far from it. It's much harder to put heart into something you don't care about than to achieve the kind of aesthetic distance necessary to make autobiographical material work. Which is my longwinded way of saying that I'm all for writing from one's own experience, and though the plot/events of MATRIMONY are fabricated, the kind of people I'm writing about, the situations they're in, the concerns they have all come from my own concerns in some deep, even if hidden, way.

My sense is that the anxiety I spoke of about writing about writing and the anxiety you spoke of about writing an autobiographical novel may come from a similar place in our culture -- that we privileged Americans, children of the university, haven't lived enough and that if you're writing about your own experience then you're being narrow, self-indulgent, solipsistic, etc. While it's certainly true that there's a good deal of solipsistic fiction out there, I don't think it's confined to those who are writing autobiographically, and I think O'Connor is right. If anything, I think writers should be writing closer to home, not farther from it. Hemingway was certainly a good writer, but I see him as responsible (perhaps inadvertently) for a lot of the nonsense about how a writer should live/what a writer should do. I'm talking about this idea that the way to be a writer is go hike the Himalayas, or hang out in cafes in Paris, or Kyoto, or Prague. Well, all of those are fine things to do, but if an aspiring writer asked me whether it would be better to spend a year in Nepal or a year in the local library reading great books, I'd say the latter without an instant's hesitation. The writer as cowboy -- this is all the product of some romantic idea that people have, and these are usually people who are more interested in being writers than in actually writing. This whole issue has very much been on my mind because I’ve recently written a number of essays in the blogosphere and in print about MFA programs -- my experience being in one and now teaching in a few of them. I argue that, though MFA programs aren't for everyone, they can, if you combine the right student with the right teacher, be incredibly helpful. I know they were for me, and I've seen many of my own students make tremendous leaps. The attitude that is so prevalent is that writing can't be taught, that it shouldn't be taught, that it's all a big scam. I disagree strongly. What I'm getting at is I think the cultural forces that make people feel the need to apologize for writing about writing or writing autobiographically are also the forces that dismiss MFA programs as overpriced finishing schools. While I think there are many legitimate criticisms of MFAs, I think the programs and writing workshops in general are unfairly maligned. So I want to end this round of our correspondence with a question for you. I gather you went through an MFA program yourself. What was your experience like, what are your thoughts about MFA programs in general, and do you think there's any relation between the criticism of MFA programs and some of the broader issues we've been talking about regarding what material from life is and isn't fiction-worthy?


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"We Have To Take What We Do Seriously, Or Who Will?"

From: Nellie Hermann
To: Joshua Henkin

Re: Writing About Writing
Stoner by John Williams: Skyrocketed to Nellie's top five immediately.Stoner by John Williams: Skyrocketed to Nellie's top five immediately.
Hi Josh,

So many meaty thoughts to chew on.

I have read Crossing to Safety-- though it has been a long time, and I probably should revisit it. I loved it when I read it, and now I can see the inspiration for Matrimony, for sure. I am always interested in how writers use models for their work. I know people who look directly to the texts they've loved, copying structures exactly, and others who just owe a debt to a book because it inspired them so. But finding models is such a crucial part of the whole process, and certainly of pulling yourself back when you're feeling like you have no idea what you're doing.

Which, I'm happy to hear you say, is so much of the time! It’s heartening to hear that other writers feel that sense of floundering. Philip Roth came to a grad school class I was in once and said that he never is more depressed than when he’s in between books. He didn't say that he necessarily ever feels like he doesn't know how to write another one (I mean this is Philip Roth we're talking about) but at least he has some version of that too. And I like the idea that maybe this is part of the process for novel writing precisely because novels are such beasts, in the sense that every one is (or should be) unique, and every one calls for a completely different set of rules and a different approach and attack, and the key is to have the patience to figure out the right tools for the next one. Hard, because change is always hard, and patience is always hard, and because you can never be sure you're on the right track. But isn't that always the way.

I found what you said about the present moment (vs. flashbacks) so interesting. It particularly hit home for me because in an earlier draft of my novel I had the narrative leaping back and forth between a present tense narrative and long past tense sections. One of my first readers (and an important teacher of mine) made the (very key) point that structuring the book in this way served to devalue the past tense sections, as the reader was always waiting to get back to the present and see what happened next, and therefore disengaged from the direct emotion of the past sections. This led me to a complete restructuring, so that now the book goes chronologically, and the present tense part only comes at the end. It's so fascinating to me how important these structural changes are, in a novel, and how much these leaps of time (that, yes, as you point out, seem to a reader to be so effortless) affect the way the book is read, and processed, and understood. One of the greatest pieces of advice I got about writing a novel -- which is exactly what you say you eventually did in your book -- was from a teacher who said that the key to novel writing was trusting that you could jump in time, and that actually the more gaps you have that you don't fill in, the better. You you don't have to say "and then she worked in a restaurant for 4 years," you can just skip to four years later. Sounds easy, but it's so hard to take that leap of faith, trusting your readers to fill things in.

I agree with you, too, on the "writers writing about writing". The distinction you draw strikes me as the right one: there's a difference between dropping a random reference to writing a short story, and embodying a character who happens to be a writer. I think, really, that that aforementioned teacher would probably even agree with that. If your character is a writer, and if you take him seriously as such, then it becomes another occupation, and it really comes down to the quality of mind that you apply to the treatment of it. I think your point about tentativeness is especially key, and is one I take to heart. I have been feeling like apologizing a lot lately...mostly for writing an autobiographical novel, which for some reason makes me feel some kind of shame, or need for apology...and it comes down to the same point. Never apologize! Tentativeness is death! We have to take what we do seriously, or who will? It's the same thing with finding time in your life to do the work...if you succumb to the phone ringing or to someone asking you to have a coffee during your writing hours it's tantamount to the same kind of apology, to devaluing the job as not as important (I am particularly guilty of this right now, too).

Also, about sentiment: I truly don't understand books without it. It is always the writers who are straightforward about feeling and truth that I most admire. Have you read Stoner, by John Williams, by the way? Most people haven't, and I'm on a personal crusade of getting people to read it. It skyrocketed to my top five pretty much immediately. There are few books that are this clear on sentiment, without becoming necessarily sentimental. But I think, finally, what I found most enlightening about the sentiment in the Mia/Cancer part of Matrimony was the way that you took on her fear. I think fear is rare for fiction. It struck me while I was reading about Mia's fear that it’s rare for a character's fear to be so boldly portrayed.


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DAILY SHVITZ

The Office On Strike

Eli Valley

Delightfully Meta: The writer/actors of "The Office" dish on working in a greedy, soul-sucking corporation.

Much more on this excellent blog supporting the writers.


DAILY SHVITZ

Grace Paley, 1922-2007

Elisa

Ample Grace in EvidenceWe lost a great woman yesterday, Jewcers. One of the most profoundly gifted literary voices of the last century, not to mention a truly wonderful human being. Anyone who was ever in the same room with Ms. Paley can surely attest to her warmth, generosity, and enormity of spirit.

The best way to honor her memory is to read her. So read her, why dont you?


DAILY SHVITZ

Shalom Auslander Is Pissed Off And We Love Him For It

Elisa
Totally rollicking good time, this column.  Vitriol!  Misanthropy!  Mother-baiting! Righteously Furious!Righteously Furious!

Gary Shteyngart’s comments in the New York Times a few months back, bemoaning today’s total lack of hot, nasty writer-feud action, jump to mind.   (I immediately tried to pick a fight with Gary after that; told him he was a useless wankrag.  But he didn’t bite.  He just said “Yeah, I know.”  Then I felt bad.)  

But perhaps Auslander -- who seems so deliciously unafraid to take it to the mat -- is the great white hope of future literary backbiting!  I’d like to see him re-direct some of that L.A. hatred onto, say, Marisha Pessl (to whose shite I am purposefully not linking, petty bitch that I am).

At any rate, glad to see not everybody’s committed to the nicety-nice-nice.  Even if the target of Auslander’s ire is about forty feet wide.  (Amen, however: L.A. should burn!)