YEARS OF BASS

 

Writing is hard. I'll write it again…writing is hard. Writing now is hard. Readers of this blog – and that is written with the assumption that I have "readers" are, at this point, probably pretty exhausted with reading about my struggles with maintaining a steady writing habit here. I believe I use these few lines about the pains as a sort of runway to get the post off the ground. It's a simple, clear runway that I can return to easily. There are other runways, but at this time, I'll use it until I get better at taking off from other runways.

Another runway I like to use is the mention of how happy I am to read (insert author's name here) again. In this case, we'll use Updike. I usually refer readers to the anthology spreadsheet linked on the side of this page to see how many times I have written about Updike or when we will encounter him again.

So, in this struggle of writing, I am exercising the ability to write and…think. At least, that's what I'm told is happening. And in exercising these two skills, I am supposed to get better at them. Rather than being told what to think, there is a bit of independent thought happening as I poke at the keys. My thoughts are supposed to develop, and the ability to convey those thoughts through writing is also supposed to improve.

At least, that's what everyone tells me… and I tell everyone else.

I guess we'll have to see about that. Perhaps all this will stave off the mental decline that awaits us as the years tick past. (This whole BASS exercise will be a great way to track my ups and downs of the reading/thinking/writing skill, I suppose). I do think this is an impressive collection for me to reflect upon someday, and perhaps this line of thought that I seem to be dwelling upon at this moment is appropriate when reflecting on Updike's story.

Encountering Updike at the beginning of BASS 1993 was a surprise as I glanced over the table of contents on the back cover. The stories are usually ordered alphabetically by the author's last name in the anthology. The last time this order was disrupted was by John Gardner in 1982.  

1993's editor, Louise Erdrich, explains in her introduction:

"I wanted to play with the order so that I could set off the strengths of each piece. The collection begins with the most evocative first paragraph, which I think belongs to John Updike's "Playing with Dynamite," an unostentatious, painful, faultless story about a crack in the ice, a marriage and a man's entry into the uneven, reality of old age."

Wow – "unostentatious, painful, faultless" – an impressive collection of three words, and then the placement of the story at the beginning of the anthology – quite the honor.

As I prepared this morning to sit and write about this story, I glanced at the first paragraph, fully prepared to skim it, and then skim the rest of the story to refresh my memory and then get into writing about it. After a quick skim and moving onto the second page, I realized that I hadn't read this story yet and that, luckily, I had some time to read it this morning before moving into the writing phase. The story quickly absorbed me as I found it relatable, and interestingly, when I came to the part of the story describing the destruction of the bird's nest, I realized that I had already encountered this story. I can only imagine reading it in an Updike collection several years ago, but it was interesting that this portion of the story triggered my memory. Surprisingly, it wasn't the mention of old age or sex that stuck with me; it was the birds. I'll have to unpack that over the next few days.

In any case, I was generally satisfied with this story, as it squared nicely with what I have come to enjoy about Updike's writing, what he submits to The New Yorker, and what they choose to publish.

In the Contributor's notes at the back of the volume, Updike writes that this particular story was written on request from the new editor of The New Yorker. He said it was a woman, so I can conclude it was Tina Brown.

Updike writes – "Flattered silly, I pawed through the slips of paper on which I jot down story ideas, often just the titles, and came upon this title. One thing led to another, as I sat at the word processor, most of them having to do with the sensations and hallucinations of late middle age. I have written about aging, doddery, nostalgic American men whose names begin with "F" before, and let loosely related incidents weave their way around a central theme, or bitter fact, before; but the recipe seemed to produce a warmer, richer dish than usual here — at least its presence in this collection encourages me to think so. Life is an adventure, all right, from beginning to end, but life after sixty is a part of the tale that perhaps is more eagerly told than heard. It is the young we love, in print as on the silver screen, as they play with the dynamite of mating. For some time, I have noticed, my heroes seem older than I feel to myself, as if, lacking sex appeal to make them dramatic, they are cozying up to death."

I chose to include this passage from the Notes section as it hit me harder than the story. The "hit" is the relatable message that is conveyed by Updike. Sure, it was there in the story, but to read the message without it being deciphered caused me to re-read and rub the thick pages of the anthology between my thumb and index finger a few more minutes before setting the book aside.