Talking Back to Markus Zusak (Because I Can)

Many thanks to Sharon for sharing the interview with Markus Zusak on Monday here.

She posted two interviews, and I watched both of them--and took notes! The Book Thief is one of my favorite novels, which is exactly what the author intended. (I talk back to him about that in a moment.)

Yes, the novel is fabulous, wonderful, poignant, contradictory, spine-chilling. But mostly it is human, so I wanted to hear what he had to say.

Markus: The inspiration for The Book Thief came from my own life, the stories I grew up hearing at the kitchen table about my family's experience in Nazi Germany and Austria. (A paraphrase. I never took shorthand, a true regret.)

Me: Hey, that's where I get my inspiration, only my family didn't live through a horrendous war and the cruelty that rode its back. My family's history is boring. But you're so right about writing out of your own life.

It took me three novels to write through my biggest fear, being left alone like my mother. My father died when I was three, so the reality of brevity is very real to me. I'm surprised I didn't fill a bookshelf with that bit of inspiration.

The rest of my novels are like that, too, Markus--ordinary people caught up in dramas that require extraordinary strength. Not so different from yours, really, if you squint down hard.

Markus: Try to write someone's favorite book.

Me: What do you think I've been doing? Sorry, that was snarky. Obviously, I have some room to grow here. The key, I think, is that I must, must, must forget about selling the story, which is tough, but oh so necessary if I'm to write my favorite book. Only by writing my favorite story will I write someone else's favorite story.

Markus: I edited the first 80-90 pages of The Book Thief 150 to 200 times.

Me: Shut up! That's crazy. You weren't under contract, were you? This is how it was for my first book, too. I have a tub the size of a casket filled to the top with my edited pages. I use the tub as a visual aid when I talk to classrooms about self-editing. Kids are relieved to see all those pages. They mean they don't have to get their words spot-on perfect the first time. Thanks for reminding me of the same thing.

Markus: The Book Thief changed my life. I always want to write stories that means something. This story meant everything to me.

Me: The trick then, I suppose, is to write about things that move us as authors deeply, so that every story we write means everything to us. We'll need a vacation to places with umbrella drinks between those stories, or, at least, we should need a vacation.

Thanks for letting me talk back to you, Markus. Do you have a critique group? Yeah, that's what I thought. Just thought I'd ask.

Where do you get your inspiration? Do you think book contracts stifle creativity or spur it on? Is it possible for every story to be our everything story? 

Monday at the Movies: Markus Zusak

 

Today we're sharing an interview with Markus Zusak, best-selling author of the acclaimed The Book Thief. He talks about the inspiration for and the evolution of his remarkable story, which started out as a novella. I hope you enjoy.

 

 

And if you'd like a longer interview, here is one where Markus talks about the writing process.

 

 

 

 



Hunting Adjectives with Elephant Guns

Bonnie's post on Monday made me sit up and pay attention. Bonnie climbed into the bully pulpit for the sake of nouns, the building blocks readers use to create story worlds and those shadows we all hope to leave with our readers. (Sharon's post on Wednesday made me rethink my daily words, the ones I fling about recklessly. Thanks for that, friend. I am resolved to do better.)

And so I went a-hunting for adjectives as she had done. I found few extraneous uses, but they're there. I also admired strong nouns like never before.

This was such a powerful exercise that I've done the work for you. I've collected seven random samples from novels we've all loved. Some are more adjective-rich than others. I hope you'll look at these 50-word snippets and help me decide if any of the adjectives should be scratched, or if a more descriptive noun could have been used.

Remember, adjectives aren't the bad guys. We do tend to lean heavily on them in our writing. The trick is to use the strongest noun possible (cottage rather than house; beret rather than hat) to minimize the need to slow-down-the-action adjectives.

Yep, this is how writers have fun, so jump in!

[Note: I italicized the adjectives for you. I didn't italicize adjectives with linking verbs. That makes things messy but does show what a complex task lay before us each day. Also, I have missed a few or thousands.]

I finished reading the letter and closed my eyes. I was thinking, So many tears for Elder Sister, so much joy for me. I was grateful that we followed the custom of my not falling into your husband's house until just before the birth of your first child. I still had...Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Lisa See

We had been wandering for so long I forgot what it was like to live within the walls or sleep through the night. In that time I lost all I might have possessed if Jerusalem had not fallen: a husband, a family, a future of my own. My girlhood disappeared in...The Dovekeepers, Alice Hoffman

A day after the Evers funeral, Miss Leefolt's mama stop by for a visit. She live up in Greenwood, Mississippi, and she driving down to New Orleans. She don't knock. Miss Fredericks just waltz on in the living room where I'm ironing. She give me a lemony smile. I go...The Help, Kathryn Stockett

When he was pushed out by the rest of his family, the relief struggled inside him like an obscenity. It was something he didn't want to feel, but nonetheless, he felt it with such gusto it made him want to throw up. How could he? How could he? But he did...The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Restlessness rippled through the schoolroom like waves of wind through wheat. A teacher on a discipline rampage can be a fearsome thing; every student ever born knows that. But we never expected that kind of behavior from Morrie. Nonetheless he seemed to go out of his way to pick fault...The Whistling Season, Ivan Doig

The polar bears lies on his stomach, head and snout stretched in front of him. In repose he looks harmless--cuddly even, with most of his bulk concentrated in the lower third of his body. He takes a deep, halting breath and then exhales a long, rumbling groan. Poor thing. Water for Elephants, Sara Gruen
Note: Some would have italicized polar bear, but when it's a species, as the animals in the following example, I prefer to read the two-word phrase as a noun.

The Stark River flowed around the oxbow at Murrayville the way blood flowed through Margo Crane's heart. She rowed upstream to see wood ducks, canvasbacks, and ospreys and to search for tiger salamanders in the ferns. She drifted downstream to find painted turtles sunning on fallen trees...Once Upon a River, Bonnie Jo Campbell

Did any of our authors go crazy with adjectives? Did they use adjectives when a strong noun would have been more powerful? Look at your own writing, too. Is this a new awareness for you? What are you doing this weekend? I'm going to a mineral hot springs with the family. Thanks for spending time with us. We so enjoy your company.

The Art of Reading

I recently read Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, for my book club. It had been on my list for more than a year, so I was looking forward to getting beyond the opening pages, which I'd read online when deciding whether or not to add it to my list. It was way beyond the story I had anticipated, taking a very dark turn and staying there throughout most of the novel. Dark in the vein of Phantom of the Opera, The Book Thief and Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children. But the story was masterfully written, and the characters wore their flesh all too convincingly.

The setting is Barcelona, Spain, 1945. The protaganist is Daniel Sempere, an 11-year-old boy who is truly an old soul. The opening takes place at The Cemetery of Forgotten Books -- and that's where Zafon captured me, right in the first sentence, at that sadly intriguing place. Daniel's father takes him there and tells him he can select one book, and that once selected, Daniel is responsible for that book, "making sure that it will never disappear, that it will always stay alive." He tells Daniel, "Every book ... has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands ... its soul strengthens."

The novel parallels two worlds: the world of Daniel Sempere, and that of Julian Carax, the author of the book Daniel selected from The Cemetery of Forgotten Books, titled The Shadow of the Wind. It's believed to be the last of Carax's books in existence, for someone has gone to deadly extremes to rid the world of his novels. Immediately Daniel is thrust into the mystery surrounding Julian Carax's life, both personal and professional, a mystery frought with intrigue, danger and murder. The tension doesn't let up from page one.

But there were two lines near the end of the book that I had to stop and contemplate for a while. On page 444, one of the characters says, "Julian had once told me that a story is a letter the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise."  And on page 484, "Bea says that the art of reading is slowly dying, that it's an intimate ritual, that a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us, that when we read, we do it with all our heart and mind ..."

Those quotes are bookends that examine a novel from the author's perspective on one hand, and from the reader's perspective on the other. "... a letter the author writes himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise." I agree with that line to a point. I do believe a book is written as much for the author as it is for the reader. I'm not so sure that it's to discover things the author would otherwise be unable to discover. Rather I believe, from my own experience at least, that it helps her untangle complex issues she might not have the energy or courage to examine any other way. "...the art of reading is ... an intimate ritual ... a book is a mirror that offers us only what we already carry inside us ..." That line I do agree with whole-heartedly. I think that's why books are as intensely personal as a painting or a song. What pierces me to the marrow may mean nothing at all to you. And I'm pierced because I relate to whatever the issue may be. I think that's why, as Megan said in a comment to Patti's post last Friday, "We appreciate, and probably look for or expect, different things from novels, which is why there are books that some of us love and others are disappointed in." If you're like me you begin a novel with anticipation that you and the novel are going to have a soul connection on one level or another. Yes, there are novels we select for a light read, that we don't look to for any special meaning. But those books that do beckon us for a deeper experience can be hugely impacting if they connect with us, or hugely disappointing if they fail to do so.

What is your perspective on those quotes. What book have you most recently connected with on a deep level?

More on Naturally Beautiful Novels: A Roundtable Discussion

Thank you all for your comments on Monday's guest post by Athol Dickson. Debbie is on a well-earned vacation, but the rest of us have jotted down our thoughts on some of the points that Athol made, and we share them here.

One of the elements Athol mentioned was Symbolism. One great source of information about biblical symbolism is the Dictionary of Biblical Imagery, whose subtitle is: An encyclopedic exploration of the images, symbols, motifs, metaphors, figures of speech and literary patterns of the Bible.

In order to provide what Athol also mentioned, Hope, an author needs to understand the theme of reversal as universal to good literature. A satisfying novel puts a character the reader cares about into a hopeless situation. (That's what the Bible is all about, right? Our hopeless situation without God.) Not sure how to use a theme like that? If you look up the theme of reversal in this dictionary, you can see how the best Author of all time, the Holy Spirit, demonstrated that divine theme in the lives of people like Adam and Eve, Abraham, Jacob, Esther, the Resurrection. Once an author sees how that pattern works, it's easier to emulate that satisfying pattern in one's own writing.

The Bible is fecund : ) with raw material for novels using its symbolism, as everyone from Faulkner to Francine Rivers has overtly demonstrated. I know that Bonnie has written an excellent book that uses the downfall of King Saul as her basis.

Beauty is many things to many people. As I read Athol's post, Ikeptthinking that perhaps "organic" would be a better word. Using "organic" wouldanswer the question of why such writing cannot be taught. Because it's already in you. It's defeating for a writer who is just starting out to believe he or she may be incapable of beautiful writing because of a lack of enigmatic gifting. Beautiful writing is honest. Stripped of pretense, it shines with naked humanity. Beautiful writing comes from the raw experience of life on the planet, and is tended to in the soil of the writer's soul. Organic writing can be harvested by anyone with the patience to bring it up a teaspoon at a time. You can only use a teaspoon because soul matter is dense with meaning, and complex in structure. One small measure at a time is all we can handle. Yes, we must all work hard on our craft. And when it comes to our art, we must practice organic writing -- hauling up the deepest truths -- and we will find our stories will be the beauty of bare honesty which touches the soul of everyone who reads them.

I love that Bonnie connected organic writing with beauty with truth. Perhaps the best part of good fiction is that it tells the truth -- not truisms, but something real we've scratched from our own soil, at cost to ourselves. That lovely feeling we get when we read great writing may be gratitude, that someone had the courage of bare honesty. It takes faith: the writer must believe that truth is always beautiful, no matter how it looks at first glance. I have a painting in my living room, painted by a Japanese artist my husband once knew, of a burnt tree in a snowbank on a winter day. It reflects an esthetic that finds beauty in sorrow and loss. In Brennan Manning's novel, Patched Together, the main character must walk through "the dazzling darkness of sheer trust," before he reaches the "Cave of Bright Darkness," where he meets . . . Well. The novel ends on "A good day. A very good day."

I've redoubled my reading since working at the library. One gift the library offers is the freedom to say no thanks to a less than beautiful piece of fiction, and while I've been as polite as possible, even favorite authors have been returned with pages unread. In my arrogance, I would add one more element to Mr. Dickson's essay: Truth. All of the other elements can be there, but without truth, the story structure collapses and the suspension of belief necessary to be immersed in a piece of fiction is broken.

In a novel, truth is honest emotion and justifiable motivations. I returned a book unread when a teen girl finds her mother dead in their home. Alas, the mother was a hoarder and an ill-tempered one at that, but the girl won't call for help until she cleans the house -- without the neighbors noticing. I understood the mortification factor for the girl, but what teenage girl do you know who would be comfortable with a dead body in the house? Not beautiful. Not true. Gone. I returned another book that resolved a horrific tragedy with simplistic, shallow really, answers. Books I loved this year for their beauty and truth were The Book Thief, Home, Half Broke Horses, and Mudbound.

When I first read Athol's post on Novel Journey, I was touched by his statement that, "Beautiful novels often take us deep into the darkest corner of the human condition, but in the end, they usually leave us with a sense of hope." I believe that as a reader and I believe that as a writer. There's no novel so satisfying to me, than a novel that does exactly what Athol described. It's that line that drew me to his post in the first place, but there was something in each of his points that spoke to me. In the paragraph on Simplicity, Athol concludes, "Beautiful novels are simple in the sense that they are easily read, but as every novelist knows, to write simply is anything but easy." That is so true. It happens when a writer is careful about every idea, every scene, and every word; the macro and the mirco of the work. Each part must count and carry its own weight. I love to happen upon a line in a novel that represents the idea that Athol put forth, when you know the author was careful to find the exact and unexpected word to make just the right point. I never pass by with pausing a moment in my appreciation.

In the paragraph on Rhythm Athol said, "The novelist who writes beautifully is constantly aware of how her words will 'sound' in her reader's mind" and will work to make sure the cadence is what it should be. By reading your work aloud, as Athol suggests, you'll find the glitches in your rhythm and cadence. A writer who led a critique group I belonged to years ago said if you read a passage aloud and subconsciously change the order of words or a word itself as you're reading, you should rewrite the sentence to read the way you spoke it. Because if you, the writer, stumble, so will your reader. That advice has stuck with me.

I could say something about each of the 7 points in Athol's article, but I've gone on long enough. I close by saying we hope you enjoyed this guest post as much as we did. It's one I'll print out and refer back to on a regular basis.

What one thing stood out to you in the article?