Reading John Irving

Writing is hard work and bad for the health.
E. B. White

Half my life is an act of revision.
John Irving


My wife absolutely loves John Irving’s work. No question about it. I have to admit to being a bit jealous, and sometimes I think I should start writing like him.

I’ve only read two of Irving’s novels: A Prayer for Owen Meany and A Widow for a Year. (And I've read his non-fiction: Saving Piggy Snead and My Movie Business.) I’m a slow reader to begin with, and John Irving’s novels seem to take me longer than those of other contemporary authors.

I’ve concluded that the elaborateness of his fiction is responsible for my sluggish reading pace. John Irving, a professed disciple of Charles Dickens, is every bit as painstaking as his master when it comes to Victorian attention to detail. What’s more, like Dickens’s novels, Irving’s are full of coincidences that most writers wouldn’t dare to include in their manuscripts, let alone dream of pulling off. (I seriously considered leaving A Widow for a Year unfinished when, with only fifty pages left, the happy twists of fate started to strain my willingness to believe the story.) Moreover, I confess that I’m amazed—and certainly envious—at his lavishly long expository passages (this in an age when readers demand that authors get to the point quickly).

Indeed, Irving’s talent for describing a setting—down to its minutest elements—is astounding. I remember, in particular, spending several pages locked in an attic as Owen Meany and his friend, John, took turns rummaging around while they play “find the stuffed armadillo.” Irving describes the enclosure so vividly that, for a moment, I was overcome by an attack of claustrophobia and had to take a walk around the block. And, most recently, in A Widow for a Year, Irving almost did it again by making me stand—again for several pages—in the closet of an Amsterdam prostitute. (What’s his deal with closets and attics?)

But it’s precisely Irving’s fascination with minutiae that makes me, as a reader who also writes novels, anxious. When I delve into his fiction, I’m constantly aware at how hard he works at writing (his frequent use of italics also unnerves me). His novels, although masterful, come across as arduously labored. In interviews and essays, Irving states that he plans his books meticulously, leaving nothing to inspiration or surprise.

I admit to being a thorough planner as well, but I like to leave room for surprises to emerge during the first draft—and I love inserting spontaneous flights of fancy during revision, when I’m gaining confidence and control over the narrative.

Upon reading Irving’s novels I can tell that he’s a person of astounding willpower. Otherwise, how else can one explain that a person who's dyslexic—which John Irving is—can become a remarkably successful writer? But Irving’s extraordinary personal determination also makes his novels feel as if they were willed into existence, rather than brought forth with the help of large dosages of that elusive elixir called inspiration.

Almost every author will assure his or her readers that inspiration plays only a small role in writing; that worthy fiction is the product of hard work, and little else. But the object of good writing, I think, is to make the reader believe that the muses were constantly sitting on the writer’s shoulder, making the task effortless.

Still, in spite of my misgivings of John Irving’s approach to the craft of writing, the fact remains that he has produced superb novels and that he possesses the ability to create a setting so verisimilar, so truthful, that readers are able to fully grasp that the environment affects a character's behavior. And in this respect, Irving has no equal.

Looking Up Heroes of Old

God, I’m just a fat bald guy, sixty years old, singing the blues, you know?
Joe Cocker


I was fifteen when Woodstock—the greatest rock concert ever—took place. Although I was living in Nicaragua then, thanks to the movie—which I saw several times in the company of my friends—I was there.

Spellbound, our eyes never left the screen as Jimi Hendrix, the Who, Ten Years After, Santana, and other outstanding acts took their turn on stage, every one of them larger than life. Still, in spite of the colossal amount of talent parading before us, there was one act that, my friends and I agreed, stood above all others in this milestone of music history: Joe Cocker.

With his stringy hair (‘When was the last time he washed it?’ we wondered), unshaved face, slept-in clothes, gravelly voice, and a paroxysmal delivery that made singing seem painful, Joe Cocker gave an staggering rendition of “With a Little Help from my Friends” that turned the Nicaraguan audience’s initial gasps and giggles into a hushed, reverent silence and, finally, into applause.

After seeing the film the first time I bought a copy of “With a Little Help from my Friends,” Cocker’s debut album. To this day—I now own it on compact disc—it is one of my favorite recordings. A classic, indeed.

Joe was never known as a composer. Instead, with a gritty vocal style that was heavily indebted to Ray Charles, this Englishman had the rare gift of appropriating the songs of others and making them his own. (Occasionally, though, Joe proved that he was capable of penning a noteworthy song—listen to Blood, Sweat and Tears’ excellent cover of Cocker’s “Go Down Gamblin’.”)

Over the years I tried to keep up with Cocker’s career. I caught his appearance on Saturday Night Live and gaped in amazement as John Belushi, made up to look like him, walked on stage as Joe was partway through “Feeling Alright.” They performed a fabulous duet and Belushi’s imitation of Joe was so remarkable that, for a moment, I honestly thought I was seeing and hearing double.

And throughout the 70s and 80s, Joe demonstrated that he still could conjure up his bluesy genius on several top-selling singles. But his albums were uneven and, in my view, his overall output never quite lived up to the promise of his stunning debut.

I also remember reading reports—in the 70s and 80s as well—about his struggles with alcohol and drugs. And as media coverage regarding Joe Cocker became scarce, I concluded that he was another talented yet tormented soul who had faded into oblivion because of the excesses commonly associated with the recording artists of his generation.

Happily, I’ve discovered that I was wrong.

The internet—that technological miracle of our day and age—has made it easy to catch up with of our heroes of old. And recently, when I had a few moments to spare, I googled Joe Cocker. My search led me to an elegant website—one of the most stylish I’ve seen. (Check it out at http://www.cocker.com)

I was pleased to learn that Joe is alive and well in Crawford, Colorado, where he owns the Mad Dog Ranch (remember “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” the supremely talented band with which he toured after Woodstock?): a 160 acre working ranch. On the premises he built an English Tudor Manor, where he resides. With Pam, his wife of twenty-two years, Joe now raises Ankole Watusi cattle (African longhorns) and operates a country store. But, more importantly, he has conquered his demons (the biographical section of his website refers to the 70s and 80s as his “dark years”) and, clean and sober, he continues to record and perform.

What I find most admirable about today’s Joe is that he started a foundation, “Cocker’s Kids,” which has raised over $200,000.00 for Delta County’s school district. (Delta County, where the Mad Dog Ranch is located, has the lowest per capita income in Colorado.) Joe’s website contains several photographs in which, standing next to his wife, he’s surrounded by students who have benefited from his generosity. In the pictures, the star of Woodstock looks like a venerable grandfather—satisfied with life as he moves into his sixth decade.

It’s been a pleasant experience to become reacquainted with Joe, and redeeming to see a hero of old recycled into a hero of new. It's been the difference between "Say it ain't so" and "Way to go, Joe."

Bernardo—Another Review

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


This review appears in the latest edition of The Scruffy Dog Review. I encourage everyone to visit this publication at http://www.thescruffydogreview.com

Scruffy Dog is a bold, sincere, and exciting effort at spreading the joys of literature. I invariably find the content of this new journal fascinating.

Also, once again, I’m delighted with another reviewer’s positive comments about Bernardo.


Bernardo and the Virgin

Reviewed by Brenda Birch

In the book, Bernardo and the Virgin, Silvio Sirias tells Bernardo Martinez’s story in a unique and refreshing way – through the eyes of those who knew and loved him, because one could not know Bernardo Martinez and not love him. The author brilliantly mixes English with just a dash of Spanish tossed in at just the right moment for added authenticity. The prose is fluid and allows the reader to have fun with the pages.

This is fiction based upon a true man of God. Bernardo Martinez lived in the small Nicaraguan village of Cuapa. He made his living as a tailor and volunteered to be the caretaker (sacristán) of the local church, with a lifelong dream of becoming a Priest. A man of simple means, his innocent outlook on life and his seemingly divine patience is both hilarious and heartbreaking.

Bernardo’s life changes when, for a mere three hundred cordobas (about forty dollars), he purchases a statue of la Virgencita (The Virgin Mary) from another parish. La Virgencita comes to him in both visions and dreams, reveals her fears for the Nicaraguan people and gives him instructions for the people in order to save them.

Despite ridicule by some unbelieving villagers and imprisonment and suspected torture by the new Sandinista Government, Bernardo’s faith never waivers and he holds true to the message of la Virgencita, determined to keep her message in the hearts of all believers. His honesty and integrity is unquestioned by the faithful and soon, the small village of Cuapa becomes a pilgrimage site for those seeking healing and salvation from God through la Virgencita.

The story is not only about Bernardo, but explores the faith and passion of the Nicaraguan people themselves – from their entertaining superstitions and rituals, their passion for la Virgencita and the Catholic faith, their desire for a better life and the romantic yet unfulfilled notions of the Sandinista Revolution and what it would bring to a people too long silenced and repressed by a cruel dictatorship.

Bernardo and the Virgin is ultimately about goodness – goodness that in the end will triumph over evil. Bravo Silvio!

The First Draft

Writing the last page of the first draft is the most enjoyable moment in writing. It’s one of the most enjoyable moments in life, period.
Nicholas Sparks

I generally write a first draft that’s lean. Just get the story down.
Nora Roberts

I am an obsessive rewriter, doing one draft and then another and another, usually five. In a way, I have nothing to say, but a great deal to add.
Gore Vidal


Finally, after nine months of planning, outlining, and writing, the first draft of The Saint of Santa Fe is finished. Soon the stacks of research materials and notebooks will be gone. Today I’m taking time out for a small celebration—including a couple days of rest—before embarking on the next stage: rewriting.

People are usually stunned when I tell them that revising takes as much time as producing the first draft—sometimes more. Based on previous experience, I expect to spend another nine months rewriting the novel.

Revision may seem like an exceedingly tedious chore, but I find it the most enjoyable phase of writing a book. This wasn’t always the case, though. Early on, when I first started writing fiction, I hated revising. That was because I didn’t have a clue as to what I was supposed to be doing. Years ago, whenever I finished a draft I’d sit before a manuscript in agony, dreading the seemingly impossible task before me.

Thankfully, my attitude changed after I read an interview in which Toni Morrison expressed that, at the onset of her career, she too hated to rewrite. But once she acknowledged that it was essential to learn how to revise, she played a trick on herself, repeating, over and over, that she loved rewriting. Morrison told the interviewer that she soon started to believe the mantra, and from that time on revising became the stage of the writing process she most enjoys.

I followed Toni Morrison’s example and, amazingly, her trick worked. I now look forward to rewriting—the challenge of polishing a text has become, at least for me, an intricate and wondrous puzzle.

As I revise, I strive to make every facet of the novel—structure, characterization, setting, language, and so forth—flow seamlessly. I want the reader to have the illusion that writing the book was simple. Nevertheless, in order to produce something that reads easily I must sweat every word, every sentence, every paragraph, and every chapter until I have a whole that is smooth, coherent and, hopefully, interesting.

My recreation of the life and times of Father Héctor Gallego is now stored on the hard drive of my computer (and a couple of disks as well). But the novel is far from ready. Throughout the years I’ve grown increasingly embarrassed about showing a first draft to anyone—even my wife. But after eight, nine, or perhaps ten drafts, I’ll be ready to share the heartrending story of The Saint of Santa Fe.

Monumental Questions

After I’m dead I’d rather have people ask why I have no monument than why I have one.
Cato


Should a nation honor an assassin? What if the target was a bloody tyrant? Is a desperate act—which the assassin claimed he performed out of patriotism—worthy of a monument?

Nicaraguans are currently facing these questions.

Managua’s city council, led by Mayor Dionisio Marenco, of the Sandinista Party, recently approved funding for the construction of a monument honoring Rigoberto López Pérez who, on September 21, 1956, shot Anastasio Somoza García. (It’s worthy to note that the only council member who voted against the resolution was Pedro Joaquín Chamorro Barrios: the son of Violeta Chamorro, Nicaragua’s former president, and Pedro Joaquín Chamorro, the newspaper publisher allegedly murdered, in 1978, by Anastasio Somoza Debayle’s henchmen.)

On that fateful evening, Rigoberto López Pérez emptied his revolver into Anastasio Somoza García, the founder of the Somoza dynasty, while the Nicaraguan strongman attended a campaign reception in the city of León. The dictator’s bodyguards killed López Pérez on the spot, and Somoza García died eight days later in the William C. Gorgas Hospital—in the former Canal Zone—where he had been flown at the behest of President Dwight Eisenhower, who also sent his personal physician to try to save the life of his Cold War ally.

In a letter López Pérez left behind for his mother, he said that he hoped his sacrifice would bring an end to the Somoza regime. Sadly, the assassination had the opposite effect: both of Somoza García’s sons moved quickly—and ruthlessly—to secure the family’s reign. And in the ensuing months, dozens of members of the opposition were imprisoned, tortured, and killed; and the Somoza clan remained in power for another twenty-three years.

Considering these circumstances, the assassination underscores the widely held belief that violence begets violence, thus making such acts difficult to justify—even when the intent is to eliminate a despot.

And this is what troubles me about the current Sandinista leadership: their preferred political tactic is to intimidate the opposition—including dissidents within their party—through the specter of violence.

It is also why I’m opposed to the monument: to so honor Rigoberto López Pérez is to pay tribute to violence. I admit to feeling pity for the assassin’s misguided sacrifice; particularly because, had he survived, he might have left a literary legacy—his dream was to become a well-known poet.

And in this regard Rigoberto López Pérez already has what amounts to an honor that’s far more respectable than the projected monument. In the novel Margarita, está linda la mar, winner of the 1998 Alfaguara Prize, Sergio Ramírez—the Nicaraguan writer and former vice-president during the Sandinista era—immortalizes the young poet. I believe that if given a choice, Rigoberto López Pérez, a shy, quiet man with the soul of an artist, would have preferred the literary tribute.

In Margarita, está linda la mar, Ramírez masterfully interpolates two historical incidents that are separated by a forty year gap: Somoza García’s assassination and the return of Rubén Darío, Nicaragua’s greatest poet, to his hometown of León, where he has come to die. What is poignant about the novel is that the author never idealizes López Pérez’s act. As a result, the reader ultimately feels deep compassion for the assassin because she or he experiences the pointlessness of the lesser poet’s sacrifice. Instead of bringing an end to a dictatorial regime, Rigoberto López Pérez unwittingly unleashes a tidal wave of blood, suffering, and repression. What’s worse, his act helps to perpetuate precisely what he sought to stop—the creation of a family dynasty. Thus, his martyrdom was in vain.

There is no doubt in my mind that Rigoberto López Pérez would’ve been thrilled to be commemorated by way of a remarkable novel that links him to Rubén Darío—his hero and one of the greatest Spanish-language poets of all time. In this way, he would surely realize, his misdeed, rather than being honored with a dull, grey monument set in concrete, is guaranteed to live on, poetically, in the imagination, in a timeless tribute destined to touch the hearts of readers everywhere.