“Why write? Where does writing come from? These are questions to ask yourself. They are like: Where does dust come from? Or: Why is there war? Or: If there’s a God, why is my brother now a cripple?” (Moore 122)
That every writer had in more ways than one been daunted by their choice of foraying into becoming “just” a writer before they finally became one has always been the subject of many anecdotes. In our midst, abound with all sorts of career one could possibly think of, the society has now prejudiced itself against writing, typifying it as nothing more than a ludicrous option, the dead end for those who have ever since fantasized becoming a storyteller. Compounded by this premise are an aspiring writer’s qualms of whether or not (s)he is really cut out for writing, of whether or not (s)he has the flesh and bone of a writer—anxieties that are shrouded in self-doubts and lack of self-esteem. In her 1985 short story “How to Become a Writer”, Lorrie Moore tackles these issues not just with a notably biting humor, but also with the inventive pen of an astute writer who knows only too well how to manipulate the language and play with it in an astonishingly nonstandard fashion.
Perhaps the first noteworthy quality of this short story is how it doesn’t seem like one. Commensurate with its title, Moore’s work generally follows a style that which is similar with an instructional manual, using a second-person point of view (i.e., utilizing the pronoun “you”)—just like a commanding voice-over—and writing in a series of episodic imperatives all throughout. Nevertheless, at some point halfway the story, we are at last introduced to a particular name of a character—Francie, the “you” in the story—and the conflict that she confronts has finally become more distinct and alive. As with the primary tone of the story, irony is at its best; in fact, Moore began her story by insinuating that to become a writer starts with not being one: “to be something, anything else.” True to this, Francie settled on taking a child psychology degree in which she could effortlessly apply her babysitting skills, which people around her find satisfactory, coupled with the one thing her heart desires—that is, to tell stories. Yet in her first day, she found herself sitting in a creative writing class, an accident that roused in her an “urge, a delusion” to be a writer. This is now where the conflict comes in, all the more intensified by our character’s past experiences: sooner did Francie feel alienation as others continuously reject, if not scoff at, her works, which they find as having images rich, and writing smooth and energetic, yet lacking a sound sense of a plot. As hilariously noted in the text, Francie tends to have all her characters blown up even in the very beginning, a more telling of how her works are not so much focused on plot as on conflict—the same thing evident in the manner Moore constructed her story. With this, the intent of Moore can be interpreted as that of warning writers not to box the craft of writing with its ingrained conventions; she encourages us not to be afraid to defy rules, and just write without so much being encumbered by the criticism of others. In the end, readers witness what we might have initially deemed as the fragility of Francie, but which is actually her strength: her ability to tap into her own uniqueness.
Reading Moore’s story, one can’t help but remember these words from poet Rainer Maria Rilke: “This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple ‘I must,’ then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.”
Works Cited
Moore, Lorrie. “How to Become a Writer.” Moore, Lorrie. Self-Help: Stories. New York: Plume, 1985. 119-26. Print.
Rilke, Rainer Maria. Letters to a Young Poet. Trans. Stephen Mitchell. n.d.
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