I mentioned in an earlier post that I’ve often been accused of thinking things to death. A lot of times this hinders my creativity. For instance, I never seem to feel comfortable composing anything until I have thoroughly mapped it out ahead of time. Not just simple character or plot outlines, but taking things to their extreme. Perhaps I apply Chekhov’s gun to every single scenario and I’m always finding the unused firearm around every corner.
The first time I realized this was in graduate school. Granted, along with the writing workshops I couldn’t resist taking a full slate of literature classes, especially Lit Theory seminars. Not only was this taxing on my time, but trying to write a simple story became an exercise in creative deconstruction. One night during a weekly drinking session at the local watering hole, a good friend of mine, Tom Franklin, who was on the verge of a juicy book contract, pulled me aside. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months and during that time I’d gone from something bordering writer’s block to despair. I couldn’t get anything out, was relying on revising undergraduate pieces to get by in the workshops. I had even been considering switching over to Literature. Tom had heard the rumors and wanted to talk me out of it. He’d read my stuff and claimed to really like it. But during our conversation, he didn’t push the issue. As we often did, he and I discussed Hemingway or Barry Hannah or someone else who was making an impact on our writing at that time. When we got up to leave, Tom handed me a book. For months he’d been urging me to read Cormac McCarthy, so he’d decided to buy me a copy of All the Pretty Horses. It would be at least a few weeks before I realized the importance of what he’d given me. One rainy Sunday during spring break, I opened the McCarthy book and noticed some scribbling on the title page. Tom had written, “Don’t think, write.” I can tell you, I’m still trying.
