Ann Patchett on Writing Without Pretense

I first became aware of Ann Patchett’s work when I was assigned the novel, Bel Canto, while participating in a writing workshop at George Washington University. I was drawn in by her mastery of interchanging points of view within heavily populated scenes and her ability to move the story along with strong characters.

I later had the chance to hear Ann Patchett speak at a literary event in Towson. She doesn’t sugarcoat the writing process—writing, for her, is work. Here’s how she breaks it down:

• Treat Writing Like a 9-to-5 Gig:

Patchett doesn’t wait for inspiration to strike. She shows up every morning, knowing that’s when her mind is sharpest and her creativity flows best. Writing isn’t some mystical act—it’s a job, one she clocks into daily.

• Practice Makes Progress:

For Patchett, mastery comes from doing. She’s big on putting in the hours, churning out pages, and trusting that the more you write, the better you’ll get. “Stack up the pages,” she says. Regular output isn’t just helpful—it’s essential.

• Let Go of Perfection:

Early on, Patchett learned to shed the obsession with getting it right the first time. She recognizes the importance of hard work over preciousness. Cut what drags the story down, move forward, and don’t cling too tightly to any one line or idea.

Patchett’s career is proof that this disciplined approach pays off. To learn more about Ann Patchett and her books, check out her Wikipedia page: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ann_Patchett .

“Earnest Mistake” in the Maryland Literary Review

My poem, “Earnest Mistake,” was published in the Maryland Literary Review.

Combining a story once told to me about John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway with something we’ve likely all experienced, this poem makes light of honest mistakes. 

Many thanks to the editors of Maryland Literary Review for including my work in this issue. I’m always grateful to be part of Maryland’s vibrant literary scene.

You can read “Earnest Mistake” here:
https://www.marylandliteraryreview.com/poetry/earnest-mistake

Remembering 9/11

 

The 25th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks and reactions brings back memories of that surreal day.

Some of those experiences were captured in a short story I wrote a few years later, "Freedom," which was first serialized in a newsletter (Coloquio), later read on NPR (WYPR's The Signal), and then published in abridged form in Syndic Literary Journal. The story became one of the sections of my novel in stories, Tracks. 

The full story is about 30 pages, far too long for a blog post or social media share. But I'm inclined to share an exerpt today, because it captures how it felt to be at work on what started as an ordinary day and ended like everything had changed.

Here is an excerpt from "Freedom," a story featured in Tracks: A Novel in Stories.

For Joe, it took time for the devastation of that awful day to seep in. He sat at his computer, entering figures into a database at the office where he temped. Marge, the chatty woman in the cube next to his, had a habit of reading the hot Internet headlines out loud. She was the office herald, alleviating Joe of the need to read the news himself. On this particular morning, she stood up to bellow out a big one. “My Lord! An airplane’s just hit the World Trade Center in New York!”

Joe finished the set of figures he was keying in before pausing to let the news register. “Wow, that’s pretty bad.” It was bad news in the way that a lot of news was bad: an airplane has been hijacked or has crashed; young children have been taken hostage and are being killed; several teenagers in a rural town have been murdered in another school shooting; a weather disaster has taken countless lives; an ethnic cleansing campaign has been reported in Africa or some far off country no one pays any attention to. Joe sighed and went back to his work.

Before he’d filled his screen, Marge was shuffling up and down the cubicle aisles announcing that a second plane had collided with the other tower. Then he knew it was not just more bad news, not just another terrible accident. Hysteria broke out in the office when the Pentagon was struck. Eventually, everyone was sent home early because no one knew how this day would end.

On the car radio, as a fourth plane crashed in Pennsylvania, the devastation sounded even worse. But when he got home and saw his mom—stunned—on the floor in front of the television, he fixed his eyes on the screen’s images for the first time and saw the unimaginable for himself: people jumping from the high, flaming windows, the towers crumbling into rubbish heaps of flesh, stone and glass. The more he heard, the more he saw, the worse it seemed. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he was not ashamed of the tears that streamed down his face.

Wu called to offer his condolences. “Everyone here in China thinks this is terrible. Almost like it happened to us. Hard to believe. We are with you, my friend.”

Joe called Bi’nh in Baltimore.

“It’s terrible, Joe!” she cried. “I mean, I’m okay, don’t worry. But it’s terrible! It’s not far, you know, the Pentagon, only an hour away. Right in my backyard! And the towers! God, Joe, I wish you were here! What’s this world coming to? Where’s it going?”

Joe didn’t know where the world was headed, but he knew where he was going. His slightly-over-minimum-wage assignment through the temp service wasn’t important to him; Bi’nh was. He took a train the very next day from Chicago to Baltimore. He wasn’t about to fly if he didn’t have to. He spent a week with her, crying with her, holding her, his lips pressed against the part in her silky black hair as she nestled against his chest.

In the hours before his train was to take him back home to Chicago, Bi’nh held him in the privacy of her apartment. “Thanks so much for coming.” She was the first person to offer a genuinely happy smile in days, and it was a welcome sight. “I love you, Joe.”

He kissed her deeply, hugged her tightly, her golden cheek against his chest. For a long time they stood there, interlocked. Already he could taste the pain of missing her. “I love you too, Bi’nh.”

Joe’s original decision had been to quit college only temporarily after getting his two-year degree. Then he would work for a year or two, make a little money, and go back to finish up his bachelor’s degree. But that all seemed insignificant as he held Bi’nh in the wake of September 11.