Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
Best known as the author of the Turner Award-winning classic _Ishmael_, 
Daniel Quinn has staked out a thematic territory uniquely his own, pushing 
its boundaries outward with each new book.

In Daniel's latest, the graphic novel _The Man Who Grew Young_, the 
universe, like a cosmic yo-yo, has reached the end of its string and is 
now climbing back UP the string toward the Big Bang. But it's not a 
DIFFERENT universe, it's OUR universe--running in reverse, with each of 
our lives in place, lived not from womb to tomb but from tomb to womb. The 
problem for the book's hero, Adam Taylor, is that his mother (and 
therefore the end of his life) is inexplicably missing. To find her, he 
must travel back in time into the very heart of the human mystery.

Leading the discussion is Jay Kinney, a member of the first generation of 
underground cartoonists, whose comics first appeared in Bijou Funnies. He 
edited several comix, including Occult Laff-Parade, Young Lust, and 
Anarchy Comics. He was editor of CoEvolution Quarterly during 1983-84, and 
publisher and editor in chief of Gnosis Magazine from 1985-1999. He 
co-authored "Hidden Wisdom: A Guide to the Western Inner Traditions" 
(Penguin/Arkana, 1999) and is presently editing "The Inner West," an 
anthology for J.P. Tarcher, to appear in late 2002.


Please join me in welcoming Daniel and Jay to inkwell.vue!
  

    
"The Man Who Grew Young" is an engrossing graphic novel. I recently read 
it and recommend it to anyone checking in to this discussion. Daniel Quinn 
managed to bridge the gap between the novels and graphic novels, which is 
not an easy transition to make. 

The intriguing premise of "The Man Who Grew Young" is that time is now 
running backwards and we follow Adam, the protaganist, as he searches for 
his mother, who the backwards logic dictates, he must return to. 

As a long-time fan of the science fiction writer,  Philip K. Dick, I can't 
help but be reminded of Dick's novel, "Counter-clock World," which 
proceeds from a similar premise: time starts running backwards and people 
start growing younger, the digestive process reverses, and the dead begin 
to come alive in their graves.

Daniel, were you aware of Dick's novel at any point during your writing of 
"The Man Who Grew Young"?
  

    
No, Jay, I wasn't aware of "Counter-clock World," (though I've read
several of Dick's novels). As I noted in my introduction to TMWGY, I
first tried writing the story as a straight novel but found I couldn't
make living-backwards-in-time work to my satisfaction in prose.
Irrelevant details (like the digestive process) took over the
foreground; when the story is told graphically, however, these details
recede into the background. One detail brought to the foreground in
TMWGY is the fact that people living-backwards-in-time have no
experience of death; they don't die, they're simply reunited with their
mothers.
  

    
One of the things that struck me about the graphic novel was the vast 
sweep of time. The reader retraces human history....backwards. In a 
compact form, of course. Did you agonize over what parts of the world and 
history to have Adam Taylor witness and what parts to leave out?  At one 
point you have Adam think of turning towards India and China on his 
journey, but he decides not to.
  

    
The "vast sweep of time" is almost a signature feature of my work,
which attempts to place "us" in the whole context of human history,
extending back three million years. In TMWGY I couldn't carry Adam
Taylor back THAT far, of course. I don't remember doing any agonizing
about what parts of the world and history to have him witness and what
parts to leave out. Basically, I went to the spots and periods that I
find most intriguing and am most comfortable in (and that would produce
as many different sorts of adventures for Adam as possible). Though he
considers journeying to China or India, there was never any chance of
that happening; I had to bring the book to its conclusion before the
concept wore out its welcome.
  

    
Okay. Well let's back up a minute before we discuss the book any further. 
For anyone reading this who isn't familiar with your books and hasn't been 
to your website, how about filling us in on what makes Daniel Quinn tick. 
As a writer, why do you write?
  

    
Wow, that's a large, interesting question. The simple answer is that I
write for the same reason that Michael Jordan plays basketball --
because there's nothing in the world I do better. I wanted to be a
writer from my middle teens, but not one sixteen-year-old in a million
knows what this really means -- certainly I didn't. When the time came,
I applied to the Writers Institute of St. Louis University, part of
the honors program there at the time, sent some samples, and was
awarded a full scholarship. Naturally I thought this was pretty
terrific. 

But in those days (nearly half a century ago), folks didn't realize
that writers know something about writing that English teachers don't
-- and there wasn't a single writer on the staff of the Writers
Institute. The result was that, instead of learning anything about
writing, I learned about literature. I didn't complain. What did I
know? I figured they knew what they were doing. Later, having learned
absolutely nothing I didn't already know about writing, I transferred
to Loyola University of Chicago, where I got my degree in English and
graduated cum laude, still having learned absolutely nothing I didn't
already know about writing (which was basically nothing). Oh, I
routinely got glowing praise for whatever I did happen to write, but I
was no closer to my goal than when I was sixteen. Luckily, however, I
got an entry-level job writing for an encyclopedia, and there I began
my real education. There I learned more about writing in six months
than I had in the previous six years.

After working for a dozen years as a writer and editor in Chicago-area
publishing, I knew I'd penetrated the "secret" and could write
anything I wanted to -- fiction, nonfiction, for children, for young
readers, for adults -- and I proceeded to do so for another dozen years
as a freelancer and materials-developer. But eventually I realized I
couldn't reach my goals in that setting and abandoned that career.
Within a couple of years I was working on the book that would
ultimately (after twelve years of struggle) become Ishmael. Since 1992
(when Ishmael came out) I've published four more novels and three works
of nonfiction, and currently have another novel and a children's book
in the publishing pipeline. I love to write, and when I don't have
something to write I go nuts. 

The French novelist Flaubert called writing "a dog's life, but the
only life worth living." That's what it is for me -- the only life
worth living (and you're not washed up when you turn forty!).
  

    
It sounds like you don't suffer from Writer's Block! What's your secret? 
Adair Lara (columnist in the SF Chronicle) remarked the other day that the 
biggest struggle for a writer was just forcing yourself to sit down. Since 
the Internet, I've found it to be the world's most fascinating 
distraction. It is *always* easier to web surf and check one's email every 
half hour than concentrate on writing! <g>
  

    
I once got into a debate with a woman, who, when she heard I was a
writer, said, "That must take a lot of discipline." I said, "No, not
really. If you really love doing something, why should it take
discipline to do it?" She was very indignant to have one of her settled
beliefs challenged and insisted it MUST take discipline! Actually,
when I'm really going, it's harder to force myself to get up than it is
to sit down. I will literally write myself stupid and have to be led
around by the hand until I get my senses back. I can believe that it's
very different for a columnist, however, who knows she has to come up
with SOMETHING no matter what.

I once wrote a little fable about writer's block. Two guys go into a
department store and look around. One of them doesn't see anything he
wants, the other sees lots of things he wants but is dead broke. As
they're leaving the store, the manager asks them why they didn't buy
anything. They say, "We're both suffering from buyer's block." 

I'm convinced that when people say they've got writer's block, they
really mean they've got nothing to say, no story to tell. Some writers
are never in that condition (like Stephen King, I'd guess). Some
writers are often in that condition (like Joseph Heller, according to
him). It happens to me, too, whenever I finish a book. But it's not a
medical condition--nothing is "blocking" me. I just haven't come up
with my next idea . . . yet. 
  

    
"I'm convinced that when people say they've got writer's block, they
 really mean they've got nothing to say, no story to tell."

Maybe. Then again, I'm one of those writers who *discovers* what he really 
thinks about something *in the process of writing.* I rarely have a 
perspective or story all worked out in advance. So, writing for me is an 
exertion of will of sit down and concentrate long enough to start the 
discovery process.  But enough about writer's block. 

I'm curious about your working relationship with Tim Eldred, the artist 
for "The Man Who Grew Young."  Did you fully script the book with scenes 
described and all dialog solidified or was there more of an interactive 
approach?
  

    
I know when I have something to say or a story to tell, but this
doesn't mean I have it all worked out. Hardly. I can't get going till I
know I've got somewhere to go -- but having somewhere to go and
getting there are two different matters. (I knew I had somewhere to go
with the book that ultimately became Ishmael -- but getting there took
me eight different versions and twelve years!) 

After trying and failing to write TMWGY as a straight prose novel, I
wrote it as a screenplay, and that's what Tim Eldred worked with. He
was basically storyboarding it as if it were a movie. His contribution
was enormous; to put it in movie terms, he was location scout,
prop-master, casting agent, and director of photography all rolled up
into one. The script was mine, but its graphic realization was all his.
  

    
On a lighter note, I noticed one of the entries in TMWGY's dedication page 
was to someone who made you see "that, except with evening wear, black 
shoes must be shunned."  Okay, I'll bite. Why must they be shunned?
  

    
Damned if I know. According the RVP (Richard V. Perry), black shoes,
except with evening wear, are not "shoe," this being, I assume, an
archaic eastern preppy term, roughly equivalent to "hip" or "cool." He
would know, bless him. (I put this dedication in to tease a very dear
old friend, now unfortunately severely disabled.)
  

    
Ah. Perhaps his concept of "shoe" is older still than Frank Zappa's song, 
"Brown Shoes Don't Make It," which I took as the final word on footwear.
  

    
Hi all.  I haven't read the book, but now I'm interested.  

>The script was mine, but its graphic realization was all his.

It strikes me that this collaboration may be the key to "bridging the
gap" between novel and graphic novel.  The other day I saw a bit of a
biography about Elton John, in which it was mentioned that Bernie
Taupin wrote ALL the words, Elton John ALL the music, and each
recognized they possessed half the skills they needed to create what
they wanted to create.  So would that be a good analogy for you,
Daniel?
  

    
It certainly would be a good analogy, Rip. No way in the world could I
have created the gorgeous graphics that Tim did. On the other hand,
Tim has illustrated comic books of his own writing, and I've
illustrated a children's book of my own writing (though it won't be out
for a year or so).
  

    

I, too, was quite intrigued by the dedication (which is quite long, for 
those of you without the book), but I can't quote from it now because I've 
put it upstairs in the living room for the WELLers who arrive for the Sing 
Thing to see...
  

    
The "dedication" page came about by a happy accident. When the book
was laid out, the publisher had a blank page that he asked me to fill,
so I took the opportunity to mention all the folks who played a part in
my education as a person and a writer. I think of dedicating a book to
someone as a rare sort of gift--one that costs absolutely nothing and
never wears out!
  

    
Daniel, you seem to be a "message" writer, in that your books have a 
message beyond just entertaining the reader. Do you conceive of a message 
first and then a story to portray that? Or do you conceive of the stories 
first and then see what message emerges?
  

    
Roland Barthes wrote in S/Z: "A classic narrative always gives this
impression: the author first conceives the signified (or the
generality) and then finds for it, according to the chance of his
imagination, 'good' signifiers, probative examples; the classic author
is like an artisan bent over the workbench of meaning and selecting the
best expressions for the concept he has already formed." Of course the
key phrase in this statement is "gives this impression."  

I don't start with a message and then go looking for a story to convey
it, and any writer who does that is probably going to end up with a
very bad book. I'm sure, for example, that Chuck Palahniuk didn't start
with a message and then cobble together Fight Club to convey it.
Palahniuk has a distinctive vision, and anything he writes will
incorporate it--can't HELP but incorporate it--and the same is true of
me. I recently finished a children's book called Work, Work, Work; my
only thought was to create something that would delight kids; all the
same, if you look beneath the surface, you'll find a very Quinnian sort
of message, which got there just because it's impossible for me to
write a story that doesn't somehow reflect my vision of the world. I
suspect it's impossible for ANYONE to write a story that doesn't
somehow reflect his or her vision of the world.
  

    
Was it different writing for kids?  Did you test-drive the story with live
kids first, for example?
  

    

After you address Gail's question, I'm wondering if you could talk about
your work with the Stateville Penitentiary Writers' Workshop. What got you
interested in working with convicts? Were you at all nervous about it? Did
you find any talented writers among the inmates? Is the program still
ongoing?
  

    
When you ask if it was "different writing for kids," I assume you're
referring to Work, Work, Work rather than The Man Who Grew Young (which
isn't written for kids). It was certainly different from the books for
which I'm best known, but it wasn't different for me as a writer,
since I spent most of the sixties and seventies writing for kids. A
reader recent found on eBay a copy of one of my favorites from this
period called The Boy Who Ate the Bus (which is scheduled to be
reissued in expanded form). 

I doubt that any experienced children's writer "test-drives" his/her
stories to see if they work; either you know what turns kids on or you
don't (and if you're not sure whether you know it or not, then chances
are you don't). It's really no different from other kinds of writing in
this respect. For example, I have no idea what turns on modern science
fiction readers, so it would be silly for me to write a SF novel and
then test-drive it with SF readers to see if it works; the likelihood
of its working would be vanishingly small. 
  

    
Ah, I missed that you had prior experience writing for kids.  I was thinking
reading aloud might be part of that process, but it woudl not help if you
already know what you're doing.

The Man Who Grew Young is gorgeous, but it doesn't look like a work for
children.  Well, maybe the cave painting pictures.  Any kid or adult would
find those engrossing.
  

    
Jay, this is really a continuation of the account I was giving in #6,
where I said that "After working for a dozen years as a writer and
editor in Chicago-area publishing, I knew I'd penetrated the 'secret'
and could write anything I wanted to -- fiction, nonfiction, for
children, for young readers, for adults." 

I was curious to know if what I'd learned could be TAUGHT, and I began
to think of where I could try teaching it. Of course I couldn't teach
it at a university. The mere fact that you KNOW something hardly
qualifies you to teach it at a university. So I went for a captive
audience -- literally. I wrote to the warden of the state's most famous
maximum security prison and offered to establish a writers workshop
there. My letter must have caught him in a distracted moment, because
he wrote back and said, "Well, sure, I guess so, why not?"

So began the Stateville Penitentiary Writers Workshop, which met for
two or three hours a week over the next two years. The members of the
group were assorted murderers, thieves, armed robbers, drug dealers,
con men, street hustlers, and racketeers. Was I nervous? Initially, I
suppose, but it soon became clear that the men were more nervous than I
was--nervous about being taken in by yet another white man's scam (the
class was 80% black). For something like six weeks they mainly just
sat there giving me a steely glare while they tried to figure out what
the scam was. (One theory was that I was there to steal their ideas for
my own use.) Somehow I eventually persuaded them that I was as
innocent as I must have looked to them.

As the men discussed their ideas about writing, it became clear that
they figured that writing itself is a scam, and they wanted the secret
of how it's worked. They wanted the "formula" you could follow to
effortlessly churn out bestsellers. After I'd spent about a year
assuring them that there really is no such formula, one of the men
said, "Mr. Quinn, are you trying to tell us that writing is just
WORK???" When I said, "That's it! You've got it!" the entire class
groaned (because "just work" is the last thing they wanted to hear --
all except the guy who asked the question. He said, "Hell, if it's just
work, then I can DO it -- and it beats armed robbery!" In fact, he
COULD do it. Even though he'd never written anything in his life but
school papers, he wrote and (when he was out of prison) published two
novels. He was offered a contract for something like eight more by
Doubleday, but (to my amazement) he turned it down, preferring to go
into publishing as an editor.

After about two years prison officials began to imagine (on no basis
whatever) that I was taking politically "dangerous" manuscripts out
with me. They didn't ask or lock me out or tell me it was over, of
course; they just made things so difficult for me that I finally had to
quit. The men themselves advised me to quit, explaining quite calmly
some of the things that the masters of the system could arrange to
happen to me if I proved stubborn. (Drugs planted in my apartment, for
example--something that seemed incredible thirty years ago but now
would seem very obvious.) The workshop ended (and I'm sure the prison
officials will never want to make THAT mistake again).

Out of a class of twenty men with, on the average, a tenth-grade
education  (and little genuine interest in writing), I had helped one
to a writing career that he almost certainly would not have found on
his own. I considered this a resounding affirmation -- not of my
ability as a teacher but of the value of what I'd learned in the dozen
years I'd spend in publishing since leaving college. 
  

    
>"Mr. Quinn, are you trying to tell us that writing is just WORK???" 

Daniel, that is the most fabulous story.  And it's not just cons who
go around figuring that there's some sort of secret to life that no one
has clued them in to, and that's why they are (or aren't) (fill in the
blank).