“Never give up trying to write perfect sentences”: Interview with award-winning author Peter Behrens (Part 2)

I hope you enjoyed Part 1.

Below is the second part of this interview my students conducted with guest author Peter Behrens during a recent session of the online creative writing course Memories into Story (University of Toronto, SCS).

Some essays referred to in the interview appear on Peter’s website under “Reading Room.”

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Does a strong opening to a story usually come to your mind early in the creative process, or as the writing evolves?

I think most of the stories I started with a single scene that I wanted to reach, to understand, to deliver the reader into. Sometimes that scene was at the beginning, but usually not. What comes at the beginning for me as I said earlier is just the Voice [see Part 1]. The point of view, the way the story is being told, where it is being told from. That is always how it begins for me. The voice. Sometimes a good reader or editor has helped me by pointing out that the actual beginning of the piece is on p. 3 and those first two and a half pages were warm-up, throat-clearing, and then it’s a joy to just cut those pages, cut to the chase. No room for warm-ups in an essay.

What advice would you offer on writing openings?

Write beautiful stunning sentences. Work your syntax. Polish it until it sings. Then polish it some more. Make it flawless — even if it never is. Grammar, syntax, and the beauty of sentences — that will draw me in. That gives me confidence in the writer. Nothing kills my interest quicker than a clumsy sentence near the start. Your work as a writer is all about laying down beautiful, perfect (they never are) sentences, one after another after another. This is who we are, as writers.

In “Love Cars” you go on to link significant moments from your past. How did you discover what the story was really about?

Discover through the writing, always. It is why I write. I don’t know what I know until I write. I don’t know what I think until I write. Writing is how I think. In memoir it is how I put things together, see how things are linked, begin to get a sense of the meaning of certain events, experiences, things that people said. If I knew everything at the start I wouldn’t bother writing. That kind of writing seems dead to me.

Do you feel that one has to be “older” — or let a significant amount of time go by — to have the perspective needed to write a memoir? Why or why not?

No. No rules. No “has to” for good writing. Memoir doesn’t have to be reflective and wise. It can be raw and ill-informed and immature and angry, but if it is beautifully written, chances are I’ll want to read it.

Are you aware, as you write, that you may be exposing deep aspects of yourself? If so, how do you deal with this?

Well, maybe there is an exhibitionistic streak in me that comes out in some of the writing I have done. I hate to think so, but probably there is. HEY, LOOK AT ME. Oh, that is creepy. Mostly I have to say I don’t think about it. I feel personally very separate from writing I have done, once it is finished. It’s a book. It’s a story. It has nothing to do with me. I know this: the moment I start thinking that Peter Behrens is my subject, my career as a real writer is over. Get that guy off the stage, please.

How do you deal with writing about, and revealing the flaws of, loved ones? Do you ever worry about being seen as unkind when you’re just trying to write honestly?

Well, sometimes I wait until they are dead. That helps. With “Father’s Son,” yes. “Ice Story,” no. I don’t know that I could write about characters based on people if I felt what I wrote would expose them or harm them. I think writers can’t duck responsibility . . . if you are going to write about someone and it’s going to hurt them, well, just be sure you know what you are doing, and why. Interrogate yourself. Be honest with yourself. Sometimes it must be done. It’s unavoidable. Okay. But don’t pretend it is not a serious ethical issue. Don’t pretend that it doesn’t matter.

You were raised in Montreal and live now in Maine and Texas. How does where you’re living at the time — your sense of place — influence your writing?

All the places I have lived have been strong influences but usually what I’m writing is not connected to the place I’m in at the time of writing, but a place that’s far away, or way-back-when — it’s the distance in time and space from a place I know well or once knew well that inspires me. It’s the distance and the lostness of places that has a power over me, that has a zing . . . One of the reasons I live in downeast Maine and not Montreal is that I want to write about Montreal and I feel I can do that better when I am across the border, not in the city. Part of what I write about always is that outsider-ness . . . the city of Montreal seems radiant seen from a distance, distance in time, distance in miles (kilometres!) . . . Up close, I don’t know that I could see what I need to see. Or if it would have the same power for me.

But I can’t write fiction set in places I don’t know . . . it’s why I had to spend time in Frankfurt this winter. My father’s sort-of-hometown. When it was cold, and dreary, and lonely. Had to be there. Had to take it in.

What is your writing routine?

I focus on the mornings. If I can get in a good morning at work I am happy. For me, having a place to work that is about work is essential. A room of one’s own. People seem to do their best creative work either late at night or early in the morning. I haven’t met anyone who’s a genius at 2 p.m. Find out whether you’re a morning person or a night person and honour that. What counts for me is a feeling of solitude, however I can achieve that. That, and writing at least a little bit every day. When a work is in progress you have to stay in touch with it and that means every day, even if it’s only an hour.

How do you know when a story is “finished” . . . when to stop revising?

Hard to know. And there are always at least a couple of false finishes. Rule 1: there are no rules. Rule 2: It is never done the first time it is “done.” Or the second or the third. Maybe the fourth or fifth time, but more likely the twentieth. And even then, reread a month later and you’ll want to make changes. It’s never done, but there comes a time when you have to let it go. This is when it is useful to have a wise reader who can be dispassionate and whom you trust. Never send anything out in the first glorious flame of “finishing” it. Don’t trust that glow. Go away. Come back. Read it cold. Make it better. Then make it better again. Then get a trusted reader to look at it.

Have you ever had to debate with an editor over something she/he wanted you to remove from a story?

My debates were usually about things that weren’t there that editors thought needed to be. I’m happier leaving things hanging; sometimes resolutions are difficult for me and I dodge them. I think maybe because I first wrote short stories, sometimes I am too compressed; my minimalism becomes not-there-ism. I go back to scenes and find they need to be “unpacked,” sorted out, figured out, “resolved.”

Re editorial cuts, I usually have a little inner voice that knows what needs to be cut so if someone trusted points to those parts I usually already know . . . Remember, if an editor/reader feels a bit unsure of their own skills, their own role, the easiest thing for them to do is point out “obvious” cuts, but sometimes they are dead wrong. Listen carefully, and then make your own decision.

What’s the worst writing advice you ever received?

The worst advice: “Don’t start something until you know how it ends.” Totally wrong, at least for me. If I knew how something ended, knew all its meanings, had explored it fully, was just writing what I already “knew”—well, how boring is that?

Looking back, is there one thing you wish you’d known earlier in your writing career?

No. I certainly was ignorant but I don’t regret any part of the long journey of learning that I am still on. Even if it took me so long to find my subject (my family) and my form (novels and memoir essays). I had to stumble toward it my own way. I always knew that sentences, beautiful perfect sentences, were the minimum of what was going to be required.

What three tips would you offer to beginning memoirists?

Write about what you don’t understand but can’t forget. Start the process by invoking a scene you can’t get out of your head, then interrogating, investigating, and exploring it. Don’t be afraid to let your writer brain or maybe subconscious see/realize the strangest, most unlikely connections between unlike things (like antelope and children). Never give up trying to write perfect sentences.

Read also Part 1 of Peter’s interview. And visit him online at www.peterbehrens.org.

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My life writing courses, Memories into Story and Memories into Story II, are offered through University of Toronto, School of Continuing Studies, and may be taken as credits toward a Certificate in Creative Writing. Upcoming guest authors include Helen Humphreys and Gabrielle Hamilton.