Pigeon in the Marble

The poet Archibald MacLeish (1892-1982), with whom I’ve just discovered I share a birthday, speaks of pigeons…

I am sure–I mean I am not sure at all but I believe–the master poets must come at their poems as a hawk on a pigeon in one dive. I can’t. I chip away like a stonemason who has got it into his head that there is a pigeon in that block of marble. But there’s a delight in the chipping. At least there’s a delight in it when your hunch that the pigeon in there is stronger than you are carries you along. There is no straining then nor are you strained–all assurance and confidence. Oh, you can be fooled, of course–there may be nothing there but a stone.

Bernard Malamud muses on process…

You write by sitting down and writing. There’s no particular time or place–you suit yourself, your nature. How one works, assuming he’s disciplined, doesn’t matter. If he or she is not disciplined, no sympathetic magic will help. The trick is to make time–not steal it–and produce the fiction. If the stories come, you get them written, you’re on the right track. Eventually everyone learns his or her own best way. The real mystery to crack is you.

I just started another Walker Percy novel (The Second Coming) and whenever I start a Percy novel I feel like I’m in the care of a veteran tour guide with a definite vision of what he’s going to show me. (In Percy’s case, and similar to his contemporary Flannery O’Connor, the vision is one infused with hope even as it diagnoses humanity’s ills.)

A published book of course is a finished product. Through his own means, Percy found his pigeon and set it in a thoughtfully-built cage. It’s not like I’m reading his first drafts. But at this point in my own writing, even my final versions of stories have to me a first draft feel, as though I of all people am not quite sure what I’m trying to share with the reader. Veteran tour guide I’m not.

A handful of postmodern writers (some educated at the McSweeney’s School of the Absurd) have been negative influences in this respect. But the strongest influence upon me comes from film, Wes Anderson’s films to be specific. With most of his movies, you think, man, he’s really evoked a feeling. That was some clever dialogue too. And the music, the music was perfect. But with the exceptions of Bottle Rocket and Rushmore, it’s always style before substance.

Wes Anderson then is the penultimate example of a Gen-X artist who spent his fortnight in the desert of Postmodernism and emerged blinded, imparting a cynical, ambivalent vision of the world. Yes, it’s a beautifully wrought vision (and in Wes’ case, a derivative one, borrowed as it is from the filmmakers of the French New Wave). But what does it all mean? There’s a haze covering each of his films that communicates that either he’s afraid, unwilling, or simply unable to convey hope in a fractured world.

And I’m still one of Wed Anderson’s biggest fans.

Anyway, back to the pigeon. You’ve got to sit down and find the pigeon in the block of marble. If it’s not there, move on to the next block. And while anyone can muster up the discipline for the pigeon hunt, you’ve got to find your own way. 300 words a day, two hours a day, in the morning, at lunch, at night. The story will come. Once you crack the mystery of you, there’s a breakthrough and the working, the writing, comes easy. To quote MacLeish, “there’s no straining…all assurance and confidence.”

And then, to connect all this to Percy, there’s what you’re trying to say. Or perhaps, what you’re actually saying by writing without knowing what you’re trying to say. What are you not saying and why? And also, why say it in this way against another?

Man, this is complicated business. Not only must I locate the pigeon in the marble, I’ve got to locate who I am as well. How do I view the world? If I have hope, why? And how do I write stories informed by those answers? Damn, I’m encased in marble too! Who’s to chip away at me?

That’s where I’m at with my stories. The world doesn’t need another Gen-X writer who puts his finger on the pulse of a despairing, ambivalent generation.

“Dickie Thon’s latest offering finally gives a voice to a despairing, ambivalent generation” – The New York Times.

“The despairing, ambivalent generation has at last found its Virgil to lead it through the deepest circles of Postmodernism’s Hell” – Paris Review.

“Keep an eye on Dickie Thon” – The Despairing, Ambivalent Generation Quarterly.

Where’s the hope in adding more static to the noise? A knowledgeable tour guide with a clearly distilled vision is needed.

Which is why I enjoy reading Percy. His vision is still relevant today. He’s a competent guide. He’s my Virgil.  Perhaps Flannery is my Beatrice.

Filed under: writing