I think Ann Patchett is a beautiful writer, but when I read her philosophy behind that beautiful writing, something inside me rises up in protest.
She takes issue in The Getaway Car with a fellow guest at a wedding who
believes everyone has a Great American Novel inside them. Ann Patchett thinks that’s not the case just as not
everyone has a great floral arrangement within them. I think they’re both confusing the relatively
modern construct of a novel (first the alphabet and the act of writing had to
develop, along with the printing press, etc.) with story which always was and
always will be. The earliest humans
sitting around the very first campfire probably said something like: “tell us the one about ...” I doubt
they asked for a query and synopsis first.
Not
everyone has a floral arrangement in them, but everyone has an appreciation for
and a capacity for understanding beauty.
We all have a story. We all ARE
stories with a distinct beginning, middle and an end. I once interviewed Al Hyslop who had been an
actor, a journalist, the producer of Kaptain Kangaroo, and a producer of Sesame
Street and after he retired, a director of citizen theater. I asked him how he was able to transition
between all those professions. He didn’t
make a distinction between any of them.
He maintains he was always in the business of good stories, well told.
The
story is a field of wildflowers; the great American novel is a bouquet of cut
flowers artificially arranged. Confusing
the great American novel with story is confusing the vehicle with the
trip. Sure, not everyone is capable of
writing the American novel, that is, not everyone has a Mercedes, the means,
the style, the knowledge of the craft, but we all have an intrinsic sense of
direction of a story. Training helps,
but isn’t the point in and of itself.
Doctors, for example were trained at one point in blood-letting. MFA programs are training writers with the
knowledge and craft of the times, for good or for bad. That doesn’t mean what they’re producing will
be a timeless story.
