A Matter of Life and Death or Something/ Richard Ford

Oct. 5 A Matter of Life and Death or Something: I cut out this National Post book review “A quest inspired by a found notebook…or whatever” by Raymond Beauchemin.  He reviews the book A Matter of Life and Death or Something by Ben Stephenson.  Here’s the article: 

While walking in the woods near his home one day, a 10-year-old boy named Arthur finds a notebook, which he reads through to the end. The notebook was written by someone named Phil, a lost soul hopelessly in love with a woman named E, who likes him but doesn’t want to Be With Him. After reading the notebook — which is only 43 pages long, but they do go on — it’s understandable. It’s hard to empathize with the guy.
But Arthur does.

The majority of A Matter of Life and Death or Something, a debut novel by a New Brunswick-born artist and writer, is told from the perspective of Arthur, a homeschooled child whose wide-ranging, though peculiar, vocabulary and interests suggest scattershot teaching. Scattershot parenting, too: Having a 10-year-old boy discover the notebook in the woods serves the purpose of the narrative; in the real world, it would suggest irresponsible parenting — “Come back before dark,” his father, Simon, tells him. (Arthur insists Simon is not his father and makes up occupations and adventures for his “real” parents. By the end, there’s a hint of the truth.)

The book also includes excerpts from the mournful Phil’s notebook. Something “really bad” happens in the diary, which I can’t reveal, though it’s likely the reader will surmise what it is within pages, if not paragraphs, of its discovery. It’s sad that a 10-year-old should have to read about the things that happen on page 43, sadder still that there’s something in him that propels him to try to remedy the irremediable. But try he does. The narrative push of the novel is Arthur’s attempt to find out who Phil is. To do so, he does the rounds of the neighbourhood, tape recorder in hand, asking residents if they know Phil.

For an author’s literary device to work — and how many times have we read about someone finding a diary, a notebook, a ring or a key and then embarking on a quest of some sort? Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close comes to mind — the reader has to be as emotionally engaged by its contents as the character who finds it. Arthur may care about Phil’s notebook and fate, but I didn’t. The ambivalence, I’m afraid, starts with the title; the “something” feels like Stephenson can’t commit to the life and death underpinnings of his novel. He may as well have titled it A Matter of Life and Death or Whatever.

The notebook is but one device in Stephenson’s utility chest. There are references to The New Yorker’s “20 Under 40” crowd, of which Foer is a member. There are also nods to J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee, who Stephenson counts among his influences. To Kill a Mockingbird is mentioned by a character named Finch, Arthur’s down-the-street playmate, and a Boo Radley-like hermit who plays a didactic role in the denouement. But these references don’t go anywhere or deepen any understanding of the book. The book includes pencil and ink drawings, too (Stephenson studied at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design). And trees. I don’t want to forget the trees, who narrate their own chapters. These not very Ent-like creatures speak in poeticisms bordering on the floral, which I suppose is appropriate, but the chapters they narrate — watching Phil, Arthur and the notebook in the woods — feel tacked on, as if Stephenson doesn’t trust the reader will make the leap between chapters. I wanted to cut the trees.

The novel, sadly, feels “written,” a long exercise in multiple voices and alternative storytelling, which is a shame because the storyline is compelling: Arthur is a smart, sensitive boy on the cusp of adolescence, with all its physical, mental and emotional changes, facing a new life situation and full of deep questions about himself and that self’s place in the world. He deserved better.

http://arts.nationalpost.com/2012/04/13/book-review-a-matter-of-life-and-death-or-something-by-ben-stephenson/

My opinion: What stood out to me was about the story device about finding a notebook and going on a quest.  Another part that stood out was that the book feels “written.”

Richard Ford: I cut out this essay “Rich Writer, Poor Writer” by Pulitzer Prize- winner Richard Ford in the Globe and Mail on Oct. 22, 2011.  He talks about being published and being a paid writer.  Here’s the whole essay:

Money is an odd and complex subject to a writer. In America, at least, probably few people get into the writing racket because of the money – I'll bet not even John Grisham,  And for the guys I've always hung around with, we got into it because we wanted to write a really good book that people would read and be changed by for the better. If that occurred possibly money would follow along – although how that would happen wasn't very clear, and probably it wouldn't happen no matter what we did. The old adage of Samuel Johnson’s that says anybody who writes for any reason other than money is a nitwit, was a status I had to hope would become true of me, before which time I had to try not minding being a nitwit.

The first book I ever wrote sold to its New York publisher for the sum of $3,500 – which didn't seem like a lot of money, even in 1975. It mattered a great deal more to me that my novel would be published and possibly read than that somebody paid me for it. My wife and I felt like the money was more of a one-time windfall than anything resembling real "earnings". We certainly had no thought that it portended more money would ever come our way. Although, we knew what to do with it. We drove to Mexico and lived off of it as long as we could (which wasn't long), and tried to feel as much as possible like Hemingway and Hadley in Pamplona or wherever they'd been – eating and drinking cheap, having a good time, picking up cheques at the American Express office – while I factored up the fantasy of myself being a "working writer", which wasn't very persuasive. The money felt like what we Americans call "funny money": cash you find in a shoe box inside the closet of a house you rented, and promptly blew on drugs or a vintage Porsche or a new sound system – knowing you'd never get it again so why save it? It was real money, okay. But it wasn't "serious money". That, you got from a job. And writing wasn't really a job. It was more of a lark. It was art for art's sake. Not art for money's sake.

This idyll of my youth still affects me as being sweet and true. And during the 35 years of my writing life it has lain at the origin of how I feel about money, and specifically about money I've made writing novels and short stories and essays. In my estimation, I've made quite a lot of money being a writer. (I don't want to total it up; I might be wrong.) And that's over a writing career that's never been meteoric – although I'm happy with all of it, since I've gotten to do what I've wanted, unimpeded. I'm fairly sure I've made more money from my books than all my publishers – which doesn't seem right, or even explicable.

 I've made enough to keep from having to work at other jobs, or from becoming a college-professor-who-also-writes, or a slave to cruelly pointless magazine assignments. (It should be said that my wife has always had a "real career", and has brought home money fairly regularly – although never a king's ransom. And it should also be said that we didn't have children, those non-essential creatures who make money disappear in a way that can only be described as "viral".)
 
Professional athletes are sometimes quoted in interviews as saying, "I can't believe someone's paying me to do this. I'd do it for nothing." I've never quite believed that. But I've occasionally felt vaguely that way about writing. It isn't very hard to do, and it can sometimes feel pleasurable. This was a feeling I had when I was younger, of course. At 67, I'm not sure I'd do it now if somebody wasn't paying me (although no one's paying me very much for writing this – which is probably reasonable). But with less time lying out in front of me these days, other activities have begun to seem more attractive.

In truth, I don't know what I'd do differently if I had a lot more money. My house is paid for and so is my car. I don't owe anybody anything. I don't even want a vintage Porsche anymore. As a son of depression-era parents, I don't mind saying that these prosaic facts of life make me uncommonly happy – as happy as writing makes me. My wife, who's a great beauty and a former model, likes nice clothes; but we have money enough for that. I have a really wonderful motorcycle, but it's 23 years old. And my car that's paid for, I bought "used".

Oh, when I read about writers being picked by Oprah or winning an Oscar when they've tried their hand at screenwriting – and I find out that a big truck has backed into their driveway and unloaded millions – I admit I'd like to know what that feels like. (It probably feels like going sky-diving knowing god's promised you're going to land safely.) I'm happy for those writers – my good colleagues. I'm happy if they're happy, and I hope they are, and that all that money doesn't ruin their lives and cause them to get divorced and be miserable. Of course, the thing about writing is that you can't ever count yourself out. And I don't. That big truck may be looking for my address right now – which would be wonderful. I'll leave the light on. I'm sure it wouldn't ruin me.

So, as I said, it's an odd and complicated old business – money. I've always liked the adage that Samuel Johnson apparently didn't say (Louis B Mayer, that old scamp, probably said it): "If anybody ever says it's not the money, it's the money." Which means nobody much tells the truth about money – not the whole truth, anyway. Which is why it's both the source of so much giddy fun and also the root of all evil. We both love and hate it enough to lie about it. What could be more human? More … well … writerly?

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2011/oct/07/author-author-richard-ford-money