By Ann Patchett
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Sample text
No. If you’re building a house with a downstairs master bedroom, and then decide to move the bedroom upstairs, the bedroom has not taken over the house. You have simply changed your mind, and your architectural plans, something that is considerably easier to do before the house is completely built (or the novel is entirely written). No matter what you may have heard, the characters don’t write their story. Oh, people love to believe that, and certain writers love to tell it—I was typing away and then all of a sudden it was as if I had been possessed.
There was the time she came to class and said she couldn’t return stories because she had been robbed the night before. A burglar had broken into her apartment and tied her to the kitchen chair. She’d then proceeded to talk to him about his hard life for more than an hour. In the end, he took her camera and her bag full of our homework. I’m sure I was not alone in thinking how lucky that guy was to have gotten so much of Grace’s undivided attention. Another time, she came to class and herded us all into a school van, then she drove us to Times Square.
I entered high school poetry competitions and won them. I would say that a deep, early love of poetry should be mandatory for all writers. A close examination of language did me nothing but good. When I arrived at Sarah Lawrence College as a freshman, I submitted my poems and was admitted into Jane Cooper’s poetry class. I was seventeen. Jane Cooper was a kind and gentle soul whose poor health was exceedingly bad the year I studied with her. She faded in her own class, which was primarily run by a group of seniors and several graduate students, the best of whom was a woman named Robyn, who drove a Volvo and wore a raccoon coat.