From Publishers Weekly
Although there's some original material, most of Mailer's reflections on the writer's craft have been assembled from decades of interviews, essays, lectures and other sources. As such, despite an effective integration in the earliest sections, most of the book has a scattershot feel. Mailer doesn't exactly offer advice, apart from the occasional warning: "writing as a daily physical activity is not agreeable." Instead, in the first half, he teaches by example, providing a self-portrait emphasizing the process of writing some of his earliest novels, including The Naked and the Dead and The Deer Park. Unfortunately, the closer he gets to the present, the less he has to say; later efforts like Tough Guys Don't Dance get little more than a page. Some people will find Mailer's self-assessment grandiose-he compares himself to Picasso repeatedly-but his confidence should hardly surprise anybody at this point. Not even his forceful personality can hold the second half together, though: Tantalizing bits such as a description of his relationship with Kurt Vonnegut as "friendly... but wary," or his insightful reflections on the ways writers might absorb the emotional impact of September 11 without writing about it directly, get buried under meandering ruminations. What he has to say about contemporary literature, like his observation that Jonathan Franzen "writes superbly well sentence for sentence, but yet one is not happy with the achievement," leaves the reader wanting more about books and less, much less, about Last Tango in Paris.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
Mailer celebrates his 80th birthday by talking about the craft of writing.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Booklist
Mailer, a major figure in the pantheon of American letters, now approaches his eightieth birthday, a milestone that prompts him to proffer not another one of his provocative, immensely imaginative novels but, instead, a "collection of literary gleanings, apercus, fulminations, pensees, gripes, insights, regrets and affirmations, a few excuses, [and] several insults." His intended audience is not novel readers per se but novel writers--and not beginners looking for a basic, how-to manual but young novelists "who have already found some vocation to write" and "who wish to improve their skills and their commitment to the subtle difficulties and uncharted mysteries of serious novel-writing itself." These pieces, numbering nearly 40, lead readers on luxurious explorations of such specific and universal topics as writing courses; the problems Mailer encountered in publishing his third novel, The Deer Park; finding one's own writing style; journalism vs. fiction; and the pleasures of reading and rereading Huckleberry Finn. This book is a goldmine--nothing less than marvelous erudition easily couched in stimulating prose. It is underscored, of course, by Mailer's own persistence at his craft--since, as he recalls, from the age of 17, he had no "larger desire in life than to be a writer." Chances are that all Mailer fans will be interested in perusing these pages, whether or not they are writers, as will anyone who is convinced a lifelong commitment to writing is for them. Brad Hooper
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved
Review
Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art
On the writer?s ambition:
People don?t become authors solely to benefit humanity. They?re in the same position as priests. Part of them wants to be good to others; the other side wants, one way or the other, to have some sort of acquaintance with power.
On crafting characters:
It is not easy to write in the first person about a man who?s stronger or braver than yourself. It?s too close to self-serving. All the same, you have to be able to do it. Because if every one of your characters is kept down to your level, you do not take on large subjects. You need people more heroic than yourself, more enterprising, less timid, sexier, more romantic, more tragic.
On experience:
A very young writer sits on a park bench with his girl. He kisses her. He?s seventeen. He?s never had such a kiss before.
Later that night, he tries to capture the event. He writes:
I love you, he said.
I love you, she said.
He stops, throws down his pen, and says, ?I?m a great writer!?
Sometimes, you have to wait.
On stamina:
Over the years, I?ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.
On the writer?s ambition:
People don?t become authors solely to benefit humanity. They?re in the same position as priests. Part of them wants to be good to others; the other side wants, one way or the other, to have some sort of acquaintance with power.
On crafting characters:
It is not easy to write in the first person about a man who?s stronger or braver than yourself. It?s too close to self-serving. All the same, you have to be able to do it. Because if every one of your characters is kept down to your level, you do not take on large subjects. You need people more heroic than yourself, more enterprising, less timid, sexier, more romantic, more tragic.
On experience:
A very young writer sits on a park bench with his girl. He kisses her. He?s seventeen. He?s never had such a kiss before.
Later that night, he tries to capture the event. He writes:
I love you, he said.
I love you, she said.
He stops, throws down his pen, and says, ?I?m a great writer!?
Sometimes, you have to wait.
On stamina:
Over the years, I?ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.
Book Description
“Writing is spooky. There is no routine of an office to keep you going, only the blank page each
morning, and you never know where your words are coming from, those divine words.”
In The Spooky Art, Norman Mailer discusses with signature candor the rewards and trials of the writing life, and recommends the tools to navigate it. Addressing the reader in a conversational tone, he draws on the best of more than fifty years of his own criticism, advice, and detailed observations about the writer’s craft. Mailer explores, among other topics, the use of first person versus third person, the pressing need for discipline, the pitfalls of early success, and the dire matter of coping with bad reviews. While The Spooky Art offers a fascinating preview of what can lie in wait for the student and fledgling writer, the book also has a great deal to say to more advanced writers on the contrary demands of plot and character, the demon writer’s block, and the curious ins-and-outs of publishing. Throughout, Mailer ties in examples from his own career, and reflects on the works of his fellow writers, living and dead—Twain, Melville, Faulkner, Hemingway, Updike, Didion, Bellow, Styron, Beckett, and a host of others. In The Spooky Art, Mailer captures the unique untold suffering and exhilaration of the novelist’s daily life and, while plotting a clear path for other writers to follow, maintains reverence for the underlying mystery and power of the art.
morning, and you never know where your words are coming from, those divine words.”
In The Spooky Art, Norman Mailer discusses with signature candor the rewards and trials of the writing life, and recommends the tools to navigate it. Addressing the reader in a conversational tone, he draws on the best of more than fifty years of his own criticism, advice, and detailed observations about the writer’s craft. Mailer explores, among other topics, the use of first person versus third person, the pressing need for discipline, the pitfalls of early success, and the dire matter of coping with bad reviews. While The Spooky Art offers a fascinating preview of what can lie in wait for the student and fledgling writer, the book also has a great deal to say to more advanced writers on the contrary demands of plot and character, the demon writer’s block, and the curious ins-and-outs of publishing. Throughout, Mailer ties in examples from his own career, and reflects on the works of his fellow writers, living and dead—Twain, Melville, Faulkner, Hemingway, Updike, Didion, Bellow, Styron, Beckett, and a host of others. In The Spooky Art, Mailer captures the unique untold suffering and exhilaration of the novelist’s daily life and, while plotting a clear path for other writers to follow, maintains reverence for the underlying mystery and power of the art.
Back Cover copy
Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art
On the writer’s ambition:
People don’t become authors solely to benefit humanity. They’re in the same position as priests. Part of them wants to be good to others; the other side wants, one way or the other, to have some sort of acquaintance with power.
On crafting characters:
It is not easy to write in the first person about a man who’s stronger or braver than yourself. It’s too close to self-serving. All the same, you have to be able to do it. Because if every one of your characters is kept down to your level, you do not take on large subjects. You need people more heroic than yourself, more enterprising, less timid, sexier, more romantic, more tragic.
On experience:
A very young writer sits on a park bench with his girl. He kisses her. He’s seventeen. He’s never had such a kiss before.
Later that night, he tries to capture the event. He writes:
I love you, he said.
I love you, she said.
He stops, throws down his pen, and says, “I’m a great writer!”
Sometimes, you have to wait.
On stamina:
Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.
On the writer’s ambition:
People don’t become authors solely to benefit humanity. They’re in the same position as priests. Part of them wants to be good to others; the other side wants, one way or the other, to have some sort of acquaintance with power.
On crafting characters:
It is not easy to write in the first person about a man who’s stronger or braver than yourself. It’s too close to self-serving. All the same, you have to be able to do it. Because if every one of your characters is kept down to your level, you do not take on large subjects. You need people more heroic than yourself, more enterprising, less timid, sexier, more romantic, more tragic.
On experience:
A very young writer sits on a park bench with his girl. He kisses her. He’s seventeen. He’s never had such a kiss before.
Later that night, he tries to capture the event. He writes:
I love you, he said.
I love you, she said.
He stops, throws down his pen, and says, “I’m a great writer!”
Sometimes, you have to wait.
On stamina:
Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.
About the author
Norman Mailer was born in 1923 and published his first book, The Naked and the Dead, in 1948. The Armies of the Night won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1969; Mailer received another Pulitzer in 1980 for The Executioner’s Song. He lives in Provincetown, Massachusetts, and Brooklyn, New York.
