Interview with Rebecca McClanahan
Interview by Jenna Glatzer

Rebecca McClanahan has published four volumes of poetry, two books about writing (Word Painting: A Guide to Writing More Descriptively  and Write Your Heart Out) and One Word Deep: Lectures and Readings (Ashland Poetry Press). Her work has appeared in The Best American Essays, The Best American Poetry, Georgia Review, Gettysburg Review, Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. The Riddle Song and Other Mysteries, a new book of essays,  is forthcoming from University of Georgia Press in March 2002. McClanahan, who received a Pushcart Prize in Fiction, the Wood prize from Poetry, and the Carter prize for the essay from Shenandoah, lives with her husband in New York City.

How did you get your start as a writer?

My interest in words came early.  Thanks in part to a great-aunt who was an avid reader and with whom I shared a room for several years while I was growing up, I read everything I could get my hands on-- from the Bible and classic novels and poetry to mystery thrillers and seed catalogues and the backs of cereal boxes. My first original creations, beginning when I was six, were songs I composed in the bathtub.

I began writing poetry in high school, and it was pretty bad-- full of clichés and forced rhyme, and overly-sentimental.  I never showed my work to anyone until college, when a writing teacher encouraged me to continue. I’ve always held outside jobs-- first to put myself through college and later to help support my writing obsessions. Some jobs were odder than others.  I’ve been a church organist, a proofreader, a school teacher, a secretary, a part-time actress, an Avon lady, and even one of those unfortunate souls condemned to stand behind the return counter at Sears' Catalogue Store. No matter what job I had, I never stopped writing, though for years I was terrified of making my work public. Finally, after I finished graduate school, I began to publish. I’ve always used whatever mode the writing demands--poetry, fiction, essay, or song lyric.  Each genre has its own rhythm and I try to listen for the natural beat. Writing does not come easily to me, but I’ve written because of an inner driving force that leaves me little choice in the matter.

Your book begins by dispelling many myths about writing.  One that I particularly liked was "Writers know in advance exactly where they're going, and they get there."  It reminded me of an old English teacher of mine who used to insist that we extensively outline before beginning a new piece.  What do you think of this advice?

Your English teacher’s advice actually works for some writers and for many writing tasks. As for me, the only time I find outlines helpful is for short nonfiction pieces like expository essays, and then, only during the revision stage. When I’m drafting a nonfiction book like WRITE YOUR HEART OUT, outlines can help me design the overall shape of the book, but I always end up veering off course.

When I’m writing poems, stories, or personal essays, however, outlines are useless for me-- as they appear to be for dozens of writers I know personally and hundreds whose journals, letters, interviews and memoirs I’ve studied. For most of us, writing appears to be an ongoing act of discovery, or, as John Updike says, “a constant search for what one is saying.” Some writers begin in the dark, with only a word, a phrase, a cloudy image or emotion to guide them; they feel their way to the light. Some, like Katherine Anne Porter, who said she always knew where she was going and how her stories would end, write the ending first and then, in Porter’s words, “go back and work towards it,” thus making a kind of backwards discovery. Still others map out a plan but quickly discard it when the road unexpectedly veers off in a more intriguing direction.

How do you make time for writing?

I’m glad you said “make time” rather than “find time,” because finding time is pretty near impossible, at least for me. Making time for writing usually means just that: making time. Time doesn’t come to you. You have to go to it. This may require stalking time, stealing time, or simply taking it, by force if necessary. I write every day; it’s just the best rhythm for me. But scheduling writing into your life doesn’t mean that you must write every day. Some writers work one or two afternoons a week, or on weekends, or only while traveling, or only in the summer when they’re not teaching classes. David Huddle suggests that you write often enough so that you miss it if you don’t do it. I agree.

If keeping a journal feels like a chore, what am I doing wrong?

Some people get bogged down in journal writing because they feel they have to write every day, for example, or that they have to use journal writing strictly as therapy or as a form of catharsis. That’s too narrow a view. In WRITE YOUR HEART OUT I detail lots of different approaches to journal writing, including keeping a “passage journal” in which you record your journey not through a particular week, month, or year, but through a particular life passage. I also talk about using journal writing to locate writing subjects, to practice different writing approaches and forms, to record details and events that you can later transform into poems or stories, and many other possibilities.

How can I "place a window" into my memory?

Place is a powerful window into memory. Once you mentally situate yourself inside a room in the past, memories will probably flood in on their own. If they don’t, try drawing a map of the place. It can be a bird’s eye view or any other viewpoint that appeals to you. As you write, describe the place from your chosen vantage point. “From where I lay,” you might begin, or “I glanced up from my book to see....”  Try different angles. Move in for close-ups, pull back for the big view. Then, fill in with specific details. If you’re remembering the high school auditorium where you rehearsed every afternoon, don’t forget the worn burgundy curtains, the upright piano, the molded plastic chair where you sat, the music stand that held your marked-up copy of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Look closely. The smallest window can open onto a memory.
Sometimes the window isn’t a visual image but a smell, sound, taste or texture. At some point in the writing, try closing your eyes and reentering the scene using a sense other than sight. When you close your eyes against the physical scene at hand, a window may open into dream or imagination.
 
Why do you think writers often write when feeling sad, angry, lonely, etc., but rarely when happy?

Many people report that they write only when they’re hurt, afraid, lonely, heartbroken, or otherwise in turmoil. It’s what I call the foxhole syndrome: writing as desperate prayer. When the bullets start zinging close to our heads, we drop to our knees, crawl into our writing dens, and start praying with paper and pen. But when the smoke clears, we crawl out, stretch, breathe deeply, drop the words like spent ammunition, and walk back to our comfortable lives. Why is it that so many of us feel compelled to write during difficult times yet barely think of writing when our lives are sailing happily along?

Maybe when we’re happy we’re too absorbed in our happiness to think of anything else. Why stop the carousel when the music is so bright, the colors flashing past our eyes?

And if we’re accustomed to writing primarily to vent anger or sadness, navigate our way through dark territory, or to “fix” problems, when things are going well we may feel, in essence, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” If nothing’s wrong, why do we need to write?

We may even suspect that writing during times of joy might jinx our happiness, tempt the fates.

Often, though, our failure to write during times of joy stems from an inability to recognize present happiness. Pain makes itself known; when we’re hurting, most of us can’t help but feel the pain. But happiness can sneak up on us. As the centenarian who was interviewed said, sighing deeply, “Life is so daily.”  Most days, I move through my life with little thought of the small joys which comprise it. Nothing’s really wrong, but nothing’s really right either. Or so it seems. Actually, plenty is right; I just haven’t taken time to notice

I like that you include letter writing as a "legitimate" form of writing.  Should I really count "thank you" notes to Aunt Barbara and steamy love notes as opportunities to work on my writing?

Yes. Letter writing is a way to get words flowing, record experiences, talk through problems, try out ideas, exercise your writing voice, and experiment with various literary forms. Letter writing provides a real-life context in which to place your thoughts and feelings. When you write a letter, your audience is clear and specific. Like a radio station tuned to a particular station, your thoughts are tuned toward one frequency, providing a built-in focus for your words. It can also help you discover or rediscover your natural writing voice, especially if you’re a “people” person, someone who is unaccustomed to being alone; letter writing provides at least the illusion of company.  So if you thrive on social interaction, the knowledge that a real person is at the receiving end of your words may liberate your writing voice, especially if that person is a sympathetic and trusted listener. When you know your audience, and when your audience knows you, you may feel freer to be yourself, to kick off your shoes, sit a spell, and talk through whatever is on your mind.

Letter writing offers a final bonus. Because it encourages both spontaneous expression and focused communication, it can serve as a rehearsal for the writing of poems, stories, essays, articles, and other literary pieces. The seeds of many of Thoreau’s essays can be traced to his letters, and Steinbeck’s daily “diary-letters” to his wife while he was traveling across the country became his famous Travels With Charley. Steinbeck’s countless other letters—he’s purported to have written as many as seven a day—served as warm up exercises for his novels and stories.

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Visit Rebecca's website at http://www.mcclanmuse.com.

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