ELIZABETH BENEDICT: December 2009 I set the alarm for nine o’clock, but can’t sleep past eight today, even though I went to bed at two, or was it three? Never been a good sleeper. And there’s no such thing as a routine when promoting a book. In that semi-dream state before getting out of bed, I remember an event I haven’t thought of for years: soon after we moved to Manhattan, when I was eight, my parents woke us in the middle of the night. There’d been an explosion nearby, and we had to leave the building. Outside, the air was filled with sirens, the sidewalks with sleepy families huddled together, coats over their pajamas. We walked many blocks, looking back to see what we were escaping. All this time later – 1962? 63? – I can’t summon the details. If I write about it, I can force myself to remember – and make up the rest.
Elizabeth Benedict says, "Get in touch with your material. Write from that place rather than a place of cleverness, artifice, and/or showing off. Editing the essays in the 3Ms reminded me anew of the power of starting with our deepest material – and then doing something wonderful with it." This lands with me today. As part of spring cleaning, I'm forcing myself to read the many lit mags and anthologies I collected over the years. Too much of it, just as with my own earlier and no doubt present writing, feels a touch of "cleverness, artifice, and/or showing off." And, for that matter, so to me does New Yorker fiction all too often. Love the idea of "starting with our deepest material and then doing something wonderful with it." Oh for the joy of wonderful!
Elizabeth Benedict says, "Get in touch with your material. Write from that place rather than a place of cleverness, artifice, and/or showing off. Editing the essays in the 3Ms reminded me anew of the power of starting with our deepest material – and then doing something wonderful with it." This lands with me today. As part of spring cleaning, I'm forcing myself to read the many lit mags and anthologies I collected over the years. Too much of it, just as with my own earlier and no doubt present writing, feels a touch of "cleverness, artifice, and/or showing off." And, for that matter, so to me does New Yorker fiction all too often. Love the idea of "starting with our deepest material and then doing something wonderful with it." Oh for the joy of wonderful!