{"product_id":"the-kite-and-the-string-isbn-9780143111634","title":"The Kite and the String","description":"\u003cb\u003eA targeted and insightful guide to the stages of writing fiction and memoir without falling into common traps, while wisely navigating the writing life, from an award-winning author and longtime teacher\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A book-length master class.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWriting well does not result from following rules and instructions, but from a blend of spontaneity, judgment, and a wise attitude toward the work—neither despairing nor defensive, but clear-eyed, courageous, and discerning. Writers must learn to tolerate the early stages, the dreamlike and irrational states of mind, and then to move from jottings and ideas to a messy first draft, and onward  into the work of revision. Understanding these stages is key.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Kite and the String\u003c\/i\u003e urges writers to let playfulness and spontaneity breathe life into the work—letting the kite move with the winds of feeling—while still holding on to the string that will keep it from flying away. Alice Mattison attends also to the difficulties of protecting writing time, preserving solitude, finding trusted readers, and setting the right goals for publication. The only writing guide that takes up both the stages of creative work and developing effective attitudes while progressing through them, plus strategies for learning more about the craft, \u003ci\u003eThe Kite and the String\u003c\/i\u003e responds to a pressing need for writing guidance at all levels.“A book-length master class.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Kite and the String\u003c\/i\u003e does not purport to be either a DIY manual or memoiristic musing. Rather, it is a guide to the stages of writing, exploring an approach which is essentially practical, human, and hopeful. . . . Mattison’s close reading of various works of fiction is well worth every writer’s while. . . . She is a wonderfully wise and nurturing teacher.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Los Angeles Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Not a how-to so much as a reflection on how to be happy, or at least productive, as a writer . . . Mattison walks us through the writing process from idea to drafting to revision, offers possible forms for stories, carefully considers issues she’s noticed while teaching, then wraps up with proposals for how we might get our minds and expectations right. . . . A much-needed reminder to relax control, to commit the space and the time, then sit back and let the string unspool.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—The Rumpus\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Full of warm but pragmatic wisdom . . . Mattison cuts through a lot of the mystique around the writing process.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eFlavorwire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Alice Mattison’s \u003ci\u003eThe Kite and the String\u003c\/i\u003e is the best kind of ‘inside job.’ Though brimming with a practitioner’s reflective wisdom and immediately useful insight, it is never prescriptive—always acknowledging that ‘This worked for me. . .’ without ever presuming. But Mattison is so canny and experienced that her insights are hugely relevant for all of us who write. Indeed, this book goes right next to James Wood’s \u003ci\u003eHow Fiction Works \u003c\/i\u003eon the shelf by the desk.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Sven Birkerts, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gutenberg Elegies\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Art of Time in Memoir\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An indispensable writing guide by a master teacher, as tough-minded as it is encouraging. And Alice Mattison’s wit, erudition, and transcendent common sense make it a sheer pleasure to read and re-read.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—David Gates, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eJernigan\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eand \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Hand Reached Down to Guide Me\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The essays in \u003ci\u003eThe Kite and the String\u003c\/i\u003e are brilliant, funny, and wise—everything that readers of Alice Mattison’s fine work have come to expect—and they will send you running to your desk with new insight and inspiration. Every page is a keeper.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Jill McCorkle, author of\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003cb\u003eLife After Life\u003c\/b\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eand \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eGoing Away Shoes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wry and wise, the voice of master teacher and storyteller Alice Mattison carries us aloft in this useful, funny, and important book about writing and the writing life. Every student, writer, and teacher—of fiction, nonfiction, and, for that matter, poetry—will find new insights, old truths newly expressed, and aid and comfort as we pursue our difficult and glorious art. In this book, Mattison reveals what her colleagues and students have long known—that she is an indispensable writing friend.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—April Bernard, author of \u003ci\u003eMiss Fuller\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this superb book about writing and her own surprising beginnings as a writer, Alice Mattison shows us how to create the vivid dream of successful fiction. If you want to be a writer, read this book.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —Susan Cheever, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eDrinking in America\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mattison analyzes how to write compelling fiction in this essential guide . . . a gold mine for writers across a spectrum of experience levels. Her conspiratorial ‘we the writers’ tone is charming and lively, and her breadth of knowledge makes her an effective and instructive authority. Perfect for aspiring writers or those trying to make it over a bump in the road.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Unlike other guides on the topic, Mattison’s focuses on the process of becoming an author rather than the elements of a genre—finding story, not detailing its pieces. Anecdotes and examples from her career as a writer, mother, and MFA instructor make this a lively and provocative read. . . . The instruction is engaging and approachable, lending the feel of a writer’s workshop. A great choice for writers, particularly those with a day job.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mattison offers thoughtful, encouraging advice. . . . She doles out guidance on crafting story, conjuring character, and keeping readers engaged, all peppered with examples taken from her own classroom as well as from the works of literary giants. . . . Novice writers can do themselves (and us all) a favor by dipping into this practical primer.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A generous, empathetic writer’s companion.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eAlice Mattison is a widely acclaimed author and longtime writing teacher. She has published six novels—including \u003ci\u003eThe Book Borrower, Nothing Is Quite Forgotten in Brooklyn,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eWhen We Argued All Night,\u003c\/i\u003e a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e Editors' Choice—as well as four collections of short stories and a collection of poems. Twelve of her stories have appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e, and other work has been published in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times, Ploughshares,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eEcotone \u003c\/i\u003eand anthologized in \u003ci\u003eThe Pushcart Prize, PEN\/O. Henry Prize Stories,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBest American Short Stories\u003c\/i\u003e. A frequent panelist at AWP and other writing conferences, she has held residencies at Yaddo and the MacDowell Colony. She has taught at Brooklyn College, Yale University, and, for the last twenty-one years, in the Bennington Writing Seminars, the MFA program at Bennington College.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e Writing with Freedom and Common Sense\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Sound of Storytelling\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Plenty of people—most people—don't write stories and don't want      to. A few keep saying that one of these days they will write a      story, a novel, or a memoir, implying that this task will be      simple once they get around to it. That leaves those of us who      regularly fool around—or make ourselves miserable—with sentences      in which an imaginary person—or a real or sort of real person      whom, at present, we are imagining—does something, sentences like      \"I opened the door.\" Or maybe, we decide, \"The door, as I opened      it . . .\" or \"Opening-in a hurry-the door . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We may not remember how this odd practice began—putting human      beings on the page and making them suffer and fear, making them      love, discovering that they are about to do something we never      thought they might. Like sexual longing, the wish to write—to make      any art—starts in the body and precedes coherent thought about it.      We want to hold a pen, or to type. Our fingers tingle; they are      full of words. We have an itch, a yen, and the world tells us what      our desire is called and whether it's one of the allowable kinds      of wanting in our particular culture. Writing is closer to sex      than we sometimes think, and for the susceptible, making sentences      they like, at least for the moment (\"Trembling, I opened the door,      and just outside . . .\") may induce arousal. Making up—or      remembering—story is alluring and dangerous, even subversive:      although writing is legal, it's disturbing to people uncomfortable      with the ownership of an imagination, and some will do all they      can to keep us from it, even if we are people they love. Writers      of fiction and memoir, more than writers of fact, must      defend—sometimes fiercely—their art and the time they give it.      (And it's even worse for poets.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As shocking as narrative-writing that tells a story-may be,      however, this is a book about it, about those phrases and      sentences we fret over (\"Until I had opened the door . . .\").      Fiction—sheer invention—may be most unsettling to unimaginative      people: the lifelike nature of unreal people can be downright      alarming. But the process of writing memoir isn't so different.      When the memory comes, or the realization comes—\"Here I must write      down what Uncle Steve did!\"—it is almost as surprising to the      writer, as mysterious, as it would be if Uncle Steve weren't real.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even before we want to make up narrative, we may find we love the      sound and feel of story, its texture against our minds. As a      college freshman I read James Joyce’s story “A Painful Case.” The      main character, Mr. Duffy, is a Dublin bachelor who writes, adding      sentences now and then to a manuscript that we sense goes nowhere.      He is incurably lonely: when he makes a friend, he becomes so      frightened that he ends the connection, and the story is about his      belated understanding that his withdrawal was wrong and harmful.      He is not someone to emulate, except possibly for his moment of      insight at the end. But at the beginning of the story, we learn      that he “had an odd autobiographical habit which led him to      compose in his mind from time to time a short sentence about      himself containing a subject in the third person and a predicate      in the past tense,” and when I first read this story, I was more      struck by that sentence than by anything else. I too composed such      sentences, also in the third-person past tense. I secretly      narrated parts of my life to myself, as if I lived in the      unexciting parts of a novel, the transitions in which characters      get dressed or walk to the bus stop. Like a child realizing that      others have heard of masturbation and even named it, I was amazed      to learn that anyone else had this “odd autobiographical habit” or      knew about it, and I wondered if Joyce had it too—if it meant I      might be a writer. I’ve since discovered that when I mention my      own reaction to that sentence to other writers, many will smile,      flushing with pleasure and self-consciousness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe Mr. Duffy's sentences are \"short\" because he's ambivalent      about his imagination; perhaps Joyce meant that Mr. Duffy sticks      to simple facts when he narrates his life to himself, and the      sentences he thinks are something like \"He ate his dinner.\" He's a      rigid person who can't let himself live the freer life he is drawn      to. For better or worse, my inward sentences, when I was a child,      weren't short or truthful. \"She carried the plate from the      cupboard,\" I might begin, but then I'd go on, giving my life an      old-fashioned, literary flavor, \"and gently set the simple      earthenware dish with its chipped glaze on the scarred wooden      table\"—revising my mother's Danish Modern stoneware and      Formica-topped aluminum kitchen set.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whatever Mr. Duffy used his \"odd autobiographical habit\" for, I      told my life to myself to pretend I was not just writing or      reading a novel, but in one: I gave myself a narrated life. I      think I wanted my actual life to be describable in the way that      fictional lives may be described: I wanted it to suit the alert,      androgynous, slightly acid tone of a sympathetic but sharp-eyed      narrator, moral yet subtle, who observes and presents characters      who may be flawed and confused but are worthy of our attention.      It's a tone perfected in the British Isles, especially toward the      end of the nineteenth century and in the first decades of the      twentieth:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering      what to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running      out of the wood—(she considered him to be a footman because he was      in livery: otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have      called him a fish)—and rapped loudly at the door with his      knuckles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—from \u003ci\u003eAlice's Adventures in Wonderland\u003c\/i\u003e, by Lewis Carroll, 1865\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence, insisted on      talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but from babyhood something      drove him to do the unwelcome and the unexpected. Now he gave her      a long account of the day-school that he sometimes patronised. The      account was interesting, and she had often pressed him for it      before, but she could not attend now, for her mind was focussed on      the invisible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—from \u003ci\u003eHowards End\u003c\/i\u003e, by E. M. Forster, 1910\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Running below the beat and braying of the music was the steady      needle-scratch on the gramophone record. Each sound had another      underlying sound. She felt that if she could concentrate she would      unpeel the outer sounds from the inner one, the one now buried,      the last sound before complete silence—the tick of the blood in      her wrist, she thought, turning her hand on the chair; the voice      of her own mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—from \u003ci\u003eA Game of Hide and Seek\u003c\/i\u003e, by Elizabeth Taylor, 1951\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I began writing fiction I had no idea how to do it. I loved      fiction's capacity to depict subtle shifts in awareness and      scrupulous ethical distinctions; action without interior life had      no lure. However, all I had was my love of how narrative can      reveal the inner life. Even after writing poems, after studying      literature, after making up narrative sentences like Joyce's Mr.      Duffy, I was stuck. I had no subject matter, no ready tales to      tell. I hadn't lived much—hadn't been a bartender or a taxi driver      or a merchant marine. I'd been a student, a camp counselor, a      teacher, and a mother. One summer I'd been a salesclerk at Macy's.      It would take me years to have the nerve to fake what I hadn't      experienced.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My education wasn't bad for a writer. I had learned to think about      words, to hear their sounds. I wouldn't forget that writing is      composed of words, not feeling or experience. And I didn't make      the mistake some new writers make, imagining that if something      worth writing about happened at 2 p.m. on Monday, the words that      come to mind somehow are \"2 p.m. on Monday,\" that the event has      been reproduced, so if a reader says, \"This doesn't seem real,\"      the writer can say smugly, \"But it happened.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew about words, and a few other things. I knew that writing      must be ambitious if it is to be any good: it must concern itself      with what matters most. And I knew that often the sharply      observed, objective detail, presented with understatement and      maybe even irony, can convey feeling at least as effectively as      the effusive abstract outburst.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But though I'd read plenty of it, I had failed to notice what      narrative was. What I loved most—the inner life on the page—was      real, at least in stories that centered on character rather than      action, which would inevitably be the kind I'd prefer. But I      hadn't noticed that narrative is not just about interior life,      that even when the action in a story, novel, or memoir would not      interest a police officer or a military strategist, it is still      action. The genius of narrative is not just to describe interior      states but to embody them-to find an equivalent for them in the      visible world. A woman who, in real life, might simply think      envious thoughts about a friend's good fortune, in a story drops      the coveted valuable object down a storm drain, and the moment      when she pauses to flick her hair off her face, loosening her grip      on the borrowed antique silver bracelet, makes us know and feel      her rage. The novelist may invent the dropping of the bracelet;      the memoirist may recall something that happened, something that      will represent the emotion. All the inwardness that I loved      notwithstanding, narrative is first (not always, of course) about      the tangible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But for years my characters did little more than think and feel.      It had taken me decades to stop focusing on myself and be      interested enough in other people to invent characters at all.      Learning to play in the world, to use its capacities when I made      up story, came still more slowly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Also, I didn't know what a contemporary story might be like.      However much I loved James Joyce and Henry James, as a      late-twentieth-century Jewish woman from Brooklyn, I wouldn't      write stories that sounded like theirs. I'd read little      contemporary fiction and almost no stories or autobiographical      essays; I believed that short stories were intellectual exercises      with little surprises at the end that I wouldn't know how to come      up with. Now, decades later, I learn each time I read Joyce's,      James's, or any other good writer's stories, but then I needed      models I could connect to more directly. Nowadays I often suggest      that students read writers who have written about the places where      they grew up, or the ethnic group they belong to, or the kind of      life they've led-immigrant life, for example. It's important to      read widely and deeply, all kinds of books—but it's also important      to realize (it may come as a shock) that your own neighborhood and      history, the particular way your aunt cooked vegetables, could go      into your writing. Don't limit yourself to your own experience      (\"Write what you know\" is only sometimes good advice; \"Write what      you don't know\" is equally good)—but don't assume that your own      experience is too humble and boring for fiction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As for me, browsing in bookstores, I at last came upon the stories      of Tillie Olsen and Grace Paley. And in them ordinary people—urban      women, sometimes urban Jewish feminist women like me—managed their      lives despite the difficulties caused by ambivalence, divided      loyalties, moral quandaries, and inner contradiction, not to      mention poverty, prejudice, war, and the inevitable conflicts      between private life and life in society. Maybe things did happen,      after all, in lives like the ones I knew. Seeing that stories      could talk about what mattered to me—to a woman with kids, a woman      past first youth, an urban American woman—was the first step      toward finding tone and subject matter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Controlled Daydreaming\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Writing anything—even if it's rational and factual—involves      guesswork, intuition, and imagination. Something indefinable tells      the journalist to talk to the short soldier before approaching the      tall one; hunches guide the writer of science or history.      Memoirists must also make choices they can't always explain about      when to begin, what to emphasize, whom to leave out. The fiction      writer, in addition, has the freedom to create people and events      out of nothing, whether part of a story comes from life or not.      Even when fiction writers start from a real incident, we change      endings, compress people and events, and make up what we don't      remember. The imaginative possibilities when you haven't sworn to      tell the truth and nothing but the truth are dazzling. The essence      of fiction is not that it isn't true but that it might not be      true: it's a house with an open back door into which anything may      come (\"I opened the back door . . .\").\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The writer of fiction must be on particularly friendly terms with      the unpredictable, welcoming the illogical way ideas come, the      painful and embarrassing thoughts that pass through an unguarded      mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Setting out to write narrative, whether it's fiction or memoir, we      make an agreement with ourselves to live—in part—irrationally, to      honor impulse and hunches. We must follow whatever route leads us      to the unprotected part of the self, from which good writing      comes. And whatever we discover about the writing we do, we must      never let ourselves confuse it with something accessible to      directions and rules and methodologies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But if good writing is mysterious, illogical, and contradictory—if      it comes from what's most essential and un-sorted-out in our      minds—then how is it possible for us to learn how to produce it or      to help others learn? We don't want to kill it with methods and      rules, but the solution can't be to wait for inspiration, to      proceed haphazardly. We've all met writers who do that—\"I just      write from my heart,\" they say—and it leads to cliché and      formlessness. A few people write well without much effort, but I      am not one of them, and you may not be either.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303243403493,"sku":"NP9780143111634","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143111634.jpg?v=1767740066","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-kite-and-the-string-isbn-9780143111634","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}