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.
