Mark Twain & Me by Melissa A. Bartell
Mark Twain has often been credited with saying that the coldest winter he ever saw, was summer in San Francisco. In fact, while the sentiment is valid, there is no proof he ever said such a thing. Not about San Francisco, anyway. He did say almost exactly that about Paris. Nevertheless, Twain echoes in my head more when I’m in San Francisco than when I’m in any other city. In a way, though I’ve never met him, he’s like a virtual mentor. I’m even thinking of getting one of those ID-type bracelets and having it engraved with WWTD: What Would Twain Do? (Or I would, but cheap metal gives me a rash.)
Last month, I attended a writing workshop in San Francisco. I was worried when I got there that I would be told to pack my laptop and go home. I worried I wouldn’t connect with anyone. I worried that my tendency to clam up in large groups of strangers (and by large I mean “more than two”) would hold me back. In fact, for the whole week before I left, and even for the day and a half before I met any of my fellow writers, I practiced pretending I wasn’t shy. I chatted inanely with cabbies, waiters, and strangers on the airplane. I told the people at the nail salon where I was going, and why. “I’m going to San Francisco,” I said, “to workshop a novel. It’s about the first coffee bar on Mars.”
You know that episode of Sex and the City where Carrie meets a woman in the restroom, and the woman makes a face upon realizing that Carrie is Aidan’s ex? I’ve learned that when people hear you’re writing science fiction, there’s a “genre face.” Even my aunt, whom I love and respect, when she reads some of my work writes things like, “You know I don’t read science fiction, so I don’t really know if this is any good, but you should consider using loftier language.”
Earlier today, I read an article in one of the L.A. Times blogs about how genre authors get pigeonholed no matter how good they are, and about how mainstream, and especially literary, authors are often afraid to admit something they wrote is really science fiction, or fantasy, or anything that smacks of being non-literary or non-mainstream fiction. It mentioned that there’s a misconception that genre fiction is all bad. It’s not. Well, no more so than anything else. After all, Theodore Sturgeon himself said, “Ninety percent of SF [science fiction] is crud, but then, 90% of everything is crud.” (This sentiment came to be known as “Sturgeon’s Law,” in much the same way that a popular quotation about technology and magic is known as “Clarke’s Law.”)
“…I’m enough of a pragmatist to believe that any novel you can sell is better than seven thousand that you don’t.“
Arguments about whether or not real writers write science fiction – or any genre fiction – aside, I found the workshop to be one of the most intense, exhausting, rewarding experiences I’ve ever had. I mean, I was a little bit upset when I arrived thinking I was going to tell a sweet coffee story that just happened to be on Mars, and was picked on (good naturedly) at the very first dinner about that, but I also recognize that the first novel one actually sells is not always the novel one really wants to write, and I’m enough of a pragmatist to believe that any novel you can sell is better than seven thousand that you don’t. Birds. Hand. You know what I mean.
I also learned that just as Natalie Goldberg’s Rules of Writing apply to improvisational comedy, improv techniques apply to writing. “Begin in the middle,” we’re told. So when I reformulated my pitch, I ditched the original opening and we now get to Mars in chapter two, instead of the end of the book. “Eliminate the phrase ‘decided to’,” is another commonly-heard post-show note, and I applied that as well. My main character no longer takes time to decide to go to Mars. She goes. It’s an action.
All the improvements to my story, and my outline were great, and having my writing abilities validated in my one-on-one meeting, was great, too, and even though I got a blister on my foot, and realized how very NOT used to hills I am, the week of weather in the mid-sixties was welcome after a month of 100+ degrees at home in Texas, but the best part of the workshop was that I found myself sitting in a room of men and women from all walks of life who had just one thing in common: we were writers. It didn’t matter that some of us were techie and some traditional, that we were different ages, and had vastly different levels of experience. We were all there because our dreams are tied to the written word.
Most people leave their hearts in San Francisco. I found new confidence there. I think Mark Twain would have been pleased with me. Of course, Mark Twain knew that some cities are inherently more “writerly” than others. San Francisco is one such, as is Paris. New York is, too, sometimes, but the words you write in New York tend to be grittier than those you write elsewhere. The words you write in San Francisco, on the other hand, tend to be either wistful or startling, and sometimes both. Twain himself wrote, “San Francisco is a city of startling events.” I’m pretty certain he knew what he was talking about. After all, he didn’t just write mainstream fiction, and brilliant, incisive satire; he also wrote science fiction.
What? You’ve never read A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court?
Melissa A. Bartell earns her living by writing articles for an SEO marketing firm, and is working on her first novel. She lives near Dallas, TX with her husband, two dogs, and more computers than anyone really needs. She is the Senior Editor here at All Things Girl. Find out more about her on our About page, or visit her website.
