The Art of Novel Writing

I read voraciously. Ask Warren—there are always stacks of books and articles on my side of the little couch on which we spend most of our evenings. My piles tend towards non-fiction. Without making a precise study of my reading patterns, I would estimate I read non-fiction over fiction at a rate of at least 5-1, and that is being conservative.

Sometimes my stack of books-in-waiting will be replaced with a tower of young adult (YA) fiction, which is a genre unto itself. But rarely does adult fiction of any ilk figure into the stack or linger long in the pile.

I am not sure what it is about fiction, especially contemporary fiction. I find most of it inconsistent and unsatisfying. I don't approach each novel looking for the Great American Novel (or the equivalent from other countries), but I do always carry the faint hope for something with a little more staying power than a stale cookie or tired sandwich.

My fiction choices are the books most readily sanchezed. I just sanchezed one last night; I finished one last week that should have been tossed.

But there are exceptions. I recently read Ruth Ozeki's A Tale Told in the Time Being. I wrote my son Ben that I had started it with indifference and was unsure whether I would stay with it, but gradually the story pulled me in. When I finished, I wrote,  "I cannot recommend it highly enough. I cannot describe it, except to say I have never seen a novel structured  in quite this way, with a quantum physics thread through it that makes the narrative work." (Hint: You can read the book without understanding the quantum physics. Trust me on that.)

A really well-written novel, weaving together characters and story lines into a glowing tapestry, is an art. It is a carefully layered savory pie, with a rich vein of portobello mushrooms threaded through the zucchini and the onions. A well-written novel is a celebration and a feast.

This past week I came away from the fiction table, satisfied and sated.

The recommendation came over a year ago from my dear daughter-in-law Alise, no slouch herself when it comes to reading. She had just finished The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach and wrote that the book was "sort of old-fashioned in its storytelling. Especially if you read a lot of contemporary literature, which seems to me, at least, to often be very cynical and overly opaque to the point of seeming affected...This novel, by contrast, is just plain good storytelling." (Good enough storytelling that Alise by her own admission stayed up to the middle of the night to finish it.)

I finally good around to checking out The Art of Fielding. My only regret is I waited so long to read it.

The Art of Fielding has a solid baseball foundation in it, but you need not be a baseball fan to understand the story. There is a strong current of Herman Melville too, but you need not know your Melville to enjoy the book. There are five primary characters, but you need not fall in love with any of them to follow the novel. 

What you need is an appreciation of the art of writing, the art of carefully fashioning a story. You need to appreciate the author's skill in seeing one story line run to the distant horizon, and being able to also see the other story lines joining in at a gentle sweep and strengthening the main line. Harbach exercises that craft precisely and beautifully. 

The Art of Fielding is about baseball and Melville. It is also about death, life, desire, perfection, loss of faith, and about finding that faith in oneself all over again. Like all great novels, it is about universal themes set in the most ordinary of settings.

I mentioned the book last Wednesday to my friend Mel, another book devourer, and she immediately said, "Oh, I LOVED that book." She had read it some months ago. "I remember I just didn't want it to end."

I told Mel I was afraid I was at the same place. When she and I spoke, I had another 20-25 pages left. I knew the ending was coming, and I just didn't want to let the story go.

I finished The Art of Fielding that evening and set it on the coffee table reverently. Warren was at a meeting; I was alone in the house. I put my hand on the cover and said aloud to the empty house, "That was a great book." 

I emailed Mel. "That was beautiful."

I emailed Alise, thanking her for the recommendation. She responded, "I LOVED it. I don't really read many novels these days (mostly non-fiction for me). But Art of Fielding was such a good, kind of old-fashioned novel. I devoured it."

I raved to Ben about it when he called to wish me a happy birthday. Ben had also read the book and was most enthusiastic about it. 

And now I am writing about the book, because it is just too good not to.

It is time to take the book back to the library. I will hand it over sadly, hoping that it will soon fall into someone else's hands. I do not buy a lot of books anymore, but this one may have to be an exception. It is a keeper.

Baseball season opened April 1. The radios in the car and house are all set to the Cincinnati Reds (Warren's team, not mine). I love baseball, and I love to hear it on the radio. There is a rhythm to a good game and an old-fashioned storytelling aspect to a well-called game. How timely that just as the stadiums roar back to life for another season that I finish The Art of Fielding.

And as in a good baseball game, where the bases are loaded, the payoff pitch is on the way, and the announcer is quiet while the pitch carries forward,  the last line of the book delivers that same hushed anticipation.

"The ball came off the bat." 

Beautiful. 

"Tell It GOODBYE!"

Back in the 80s, I lived for several years in California - first in the Bay Area and then in Stockton. I watched and listened to a lot of Oakland A's baseball during those years, having acquired a penchant for the A's back when Catfish Hunter, Sal Bando, and Rollie Fingers, to name a few, put together three consecutive World Series victories.

The early 80s were also golden years for the Athletics. Those were the years of José Canseco (before he self-destructed) and Mark McGwire (before he took steroids). There was Walt Weiss, who followed Canseco and McGwire as the third consecutive AL Rookie of the Year to come from the A's, and Dave Kingman, the team's formidable DH. I saw Rickey Henderson steal bases with aplomb, on his way to the all-time record, and I got to watch Reggie Jackson close out his career.

The A's are on my mind today. Well, really, I am thinking of their iconic broadcast team of Bill King, Lon Simmons, and Ray Fosse. In particular, Lon Simmons is on my mind. He was known for calling a home run as it sailed towards the wall: "Back…back…wayyyyy back…tell it GOODBYE!"

We have just come out of the marathon known as 4th of July concerts: setting up stages, breaking down stages, loading instruments, unloading instruments, rehearsals, sound checks, concerts (two), and everything else in between. Warren did yeoman's duty, like he always does, and many of his board members stepped up as well to set up, break down, load, unload, and run needed errands. I was there too.

Yesterday, after one final group walk of the campus grounds to make sure all was clean and then hauling the bagged trash to the college dumpsters, Warren and I went home and finally, finally stopped moving.

The July 4th marathon was over.

Tell it GOODBYE.

This morning, as I assessed the week and the month ahead, I could not shake Lon Simmons or his call from my head. If I tried to focus on this week's calendar, my mind kept circling back to the weekend we had just finished, and I would hear Lon call "Tell it GOODBYE!" If I tried to focus on the events of last weekend, my mind would jump ahead to the events of this week, and Lon would again broadcast over the roar of the crowd, "Tell it GOODBYE."

You get the picture.

I finally shared my inner soundtrack with Warren, who laughed and said "Not yet!" He was headed off to his office, where the remains of the holiday awaited. With Montana fast approaching, he is trying to finish up any remaining pieces of Season 31 and position the Symphony to launch Season 32 (while planning, you realize, for Seasons 33, 34, and 35). There was no Lon Simmons calling in his head.

Of course there wasn't. Lon is in my head today.

Tell it GOODBYE.

I am taking a slow day. It is hot (again, still, yet) today so I am sticking inside. Tell it GOODBYE. I am still drained from the weekend's events. Tell it GOODBYE. I picked up a virus sometime between here and the lake and back again, and it has taken the edge off my energy for the day. I am trusting it will pass. Tell it GOODBYE.

This summer has passed by all too swiftly so far. Behind us already are Sam's birthday and the holiday concerts. Tell it GOODBYE. The garden has moved swiftly from seedlings to blossoms and beyond, and I have barely kept up with it, let along documented the changes. Tell it GOODBYE.

Ahead lies navigating July, with some tricky runs in it, before launching for Montana. I am afraid if I am not paying attention, all too soon Lon will be calling the game for the entire summer.

Tell it GOODBYE.

Not yet, Lon. Let me catch my breath first. Let me take the time to watch the fireflies rise up at dusk. Let me stop and watch the bees work over the pumpkin blossoms. Let me ride with Warren out to Prospect for ice cream, sitting with our sundaes on the church steps down the block, just like we did 38 years ago. Let me look - really, really look - and listen and take in the trip west and back, on routes I have not traced in three decades.

Let me catch the summer in my hands, let it run out through my fingers slowly.

And only when summer is done and the garden picked and the fair is coming to town, then you can make your call, Lon. But whisper it for me, will you?

"Tell it goodbye…tell it goodbye…tell it goodbye."