Becoming the World's Strongest Writer

“To write, you must read.” - Kurt Vonnegut

“She needs to read more poetry if she ever wants to become a better writer,” insisted my colleague when talking about one of our weaker creative writing students. I agreed heartily, having browbeat a screenwriter friend with this idea for years. “But I need more time for writing,” he would counter. “I don’t have time for reading with a job and family.” “True enough,” I grudgingly admitted. This creates an apparent paradox for authors. We need quality input to generate quality output, but unless we have nothing else to do all day, reading books takes away from production. Nevertheless, this is a little like saying that eating protein takes away from weight-lifting. These activities are inter-related in such a way that one cannot exist meaningfully without the other. If that creative writing student does not ingest volumes of poetry, her own work will remain weak and frail, unable to lift the most generous reader’s heart.



Of course, we often need to research a subject before writing about it, and this is the most basic sort of necessary input, the sort no one can disagree with. To write a mystery novella that involved cryonics and cloning, I needed to research these disciplines, at least enough to use them without making factual errors. However, it’s not just ideas and data that we mine this input for, but style, words, images, and stories. While writing a book about hiking in Connecticut, I read dozens of long-distance walking and adventure stories. This input increased the quality of my final product in a way that would never have happened if I had not been reading. The rhythms of our language and the word choices we make do not appear from thin air. As a newborn baby learns its language from its parents, writers learn from their own literary lineage. The idea of “originality” may trouble some writers, but even divine inspiration comes from somewhere, by definition. We must take the language of others deep into our blood, combine it and transform it, and finally make it our own.

What if you just don’t have time for all this? Then, I’m sorry to say, it’s time to lose the popcorn and sugar snacks and get to the hard-core protein. What constitutes protein? Well, that depends on what you are writing. “Stop watching sports,” some teachers might say. Absolutely…if you’re not writing something that would benefit from it. If you’re composing a short story about a decaying baseball player or a screenplay about a crazy fan, then watching sports is the protein. If soap operas give you ideas for poems, then by all means watch them. Still, though it probably doesn’t need to be said, if you are working in the medium of writing, then reading other texts will usually be far more productive. Only you know what input is a guilty pleasure and what is both fruitful and soul-stirring.

Of course, it is hard to know exactly what will help us until we read, but we can guess. Recently, I visited a used bookstore and found an entire shelf of outdoor adventure stories that I longed to devour. A few years back I had gulped down many hearty meals of this genre while writing the hiking book I mentioned earlier. But now I was writing a memoir of college life that required a different approach and a different kind of input. So I passed those adventure stories by, searching for memoirs and college novels.



And that is the point. If someone wants to write the best she can, while holding down a job, a family, and an active lifestyle, then this critical attention to input is absolutely necessary. Critical attention does not mean you won’t enjoy the books. Read what you like, but push the boundaries, and read consistently and vigorously. In the long run, laziness in this regard is just as detrimental as sloth in the writing itself.

To increase the daily input, try alternate methods like books on tape. After listening to forty-eight lectuers on Ancient Egypt over a month of driving to work, I have more ideas than I can possibly produce. Maybe I overdid it, but what would I have done instead? Listen to the news or music? These are both worthy activities, but were not helping my writing, so I had to cut them. I try to read on breaks at work, on trains, in traffic jams, and at every boring event I am forced to attend. At all times I have a book as well as a notebook, ready to use at any spare moment. Waiting for a late student to show for a meeting becomes ten minutes of solid input. The more I read, the faster I get, devouring books like a champion bodybuilder. My reading comprehension skyrockets, and those snatches of reading during television commercials become actually productive.

As an author, your number one job is to start writing. We can get drawn in by the lure of input, as it is generally easier than the writing itself. It can become an “excuse” to put off our great masterpiece. Nevertheless, input and output build on each other, like lifting weights and eating protein. Writing, like weight-lifting, will make you hungrier, and eating protein-rich books will help those muscles grow. The more you do of both, the easier both become. If you want to be the World’s Strongest Writer, you have a lot of reading and writing to do.


First published in T-Zero: The Writer's Ezine.

Afoot in Connecticut Paused



You may have noticed that my Afoot in Connecticut videos have taken a short hiatus. This is due to my video program (Corel) having some sort of bug. I have to reinstall it, but the discs are packed away (I am moving to a house in the woods). So, look for more around the holidays. I have posted 30 videos this year, which seems to be a nice number. Expect another 30 in 2011.

Renaissance Faire



I thoroughly enjoyed our trip to King Richard's Faire in Massachusetts last weekend. I hadn't attended one in 10 years, and Amy had never seen one. It was refreshing to see people, especially young people, expressing themselves in healthy ways that our culture tends to marginalize or even demonize.



I'm going to write an essay about that, right after the wine book, and the next novel, and the 40 essays and stories that are in my "working" file.



In the meantime, check out these excellent photos we got of the pageantry and wonder of fantasy anachronism in action.



Necessary Voices Video



Enjoy my lecture on the history of Hamden, and the importance of local history, “Storytelling as Method for History: Telling Tales of the Sleeping Giant.”

How does a writer make history come alive? Author and University of Bridgeport Creative Writing Professor Eric D. Lehman explained historical storytelling, using his latest book, Hamden: Tales from the Sleeping Giant as the primary example.

Mount Carmel Congregational Church



I had a great time talking to the members (and guests) of the Mount Carmel Congregational Church last Sunday evening. We chatted about Hamden, and I met one of the little boys on the front of the Hamden book. Of course, he is not a little boy any more! 75 years have passed since that photo of the Sleeping Giant Park Association "victory party" was taken. It was a privilege and an honor. Thanks especially to Reverend Doug House, my colleague at the University of Bridgeport, who invited me to speak.

Great Turnout at the Jonathan Dickerman House



Thanks to the Hamden Historical Society and everyone who showed up and joined the wine and cheese party at the historic Jonathan Dickerman House. Look at all those cars in the parking lot!



We even had a photographer from the local paper there, and the photo made the front page. Of course, they called me "Eric B. Lehman" in the article. But I'll live.

Afoot in Connecticut Episode 26 - The Old Riverton Inn



My girlfriend Amy and I spent a sunny March day sightseeing in northern Connecticut. We had taken numerous photographs of remarkable trees, such as the famous Pinchot sycamore, and visited Ender’s Falls in the pine forests of the Tunxis hills. Then, after a day of exploring, we were ready to relax. Amy had put up all day with my stubborn refusal to mark our destination. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” “Guess.” She rattled through a list and hit the jackpot: an inn. Earlier, she had guessed a bed and breakfast, which I denied. They are different planets as far as I’m concerned. A bed and breakfast is simply someone’s open house, but an inn is a lodging tradition, a living museum, a gathering of people and their history.

This was Amy’s first inn. I had lodged at inns in Europe, but never in America. They were rare here, like otters or elm trees. Even bed and breakfasts were not common, and those that were scattered across the expansive American landscape cost three times what they did in England, a haven for only the nostalgic wealthy. The rest of us can always drive farther now, staying to the superhighways and convenient hundred-room hotels. And what really makes the inn different than a “hotel?” If you have to ask, you’ve never been to an inn. You could adopt an inn, staying on as a permanent resident, and it would feel like home. “Inns are scarcely public places in the sense that railway stations, town halls, and museums are public places. They are semi-private. We know that they are commercial undertakings; yet in a good inn we have, and should have, the feeling of making one at the home of a family who are keeping open house in the manner of the old squire on feast days,” Thomas Burke tells us in The English Inn. No hotel can claim this distinction, cramped by the same dependence on time that we ourselves feel.

At an old crossroads on the scenic Route 20, a bridge led to the front door of the Old Riverton Inn, proclaimed by a sign secured to the roof of the three-story building. In the times before automobiles, stage drivers would stop at their favorite inns, bringing travelers and business. There were several rival stage companies that operated between New Hartford and Riverton in Connecticut, part of a larger network of the Hartford to Albany post route. The gray-sided Riverton Inn, built in 1796, is the only survivor of this lodging-path. A bay window in the tavern downstairs occupied the place where a front door would have stood in former times. Huge pines shaded the colonial inn and thickened up the river valley’s flanks. A friendly sign hung from a branch of one of these old trees above the innyard carpark, telling us “Hospitality for the hungry, thirsty, and sleepy.”

Inside, the thick-beamed dining room spread out past the grandfather clock foyer. The muraled Hobby Horse Bar, with floors of Vermont flagstone, extended to the back of the inn. Saddles balanced on kegs, which remained from an earlier age to serve as bar stools. To the north an enclosed grindstone terrace appeared closed for the season. Each room brimmed with antiques and tasteful novelties, which in another setting might be considered tacky. As The English Inn tells us: “Old fireplaces, beautiful windows, carven doorways, staircases, king-posts, moulded ceilings – indeed, all those interests that you can only otherwise indulge at a museum can be indulged at the old inn. The stuff is there in situ.”

Our room perched above the restaurant, directly above the table we would dine at later. The liberal windows granted views of the west branch of the Farmington River and the old Hitchcock chair factory. The centerpiece was a generous king-sized Hitchcock bed with antique headboard. A long green chaise lounge angled in the corner for daybed lollygagging. Floral wallpaper, an antique spinning wheel turned into a planter, and an old fireplace completed the nostalgic tableau. A step up into the bathroom led to white towels on mahogany racks and the exposed pipes of an ancient sink. And as a surprise I had prepared for Amy, on the chest of drawers near the door a bottle of champagne rested on ice next to a wrapped box of fine chocolates. The living, timeless romance of the inn leant itself greatly to this more common form, solidifying and enhancing an act that might in other places be considered trite and over-sentimental.

A candlelight dinner for two was also on my romantic menu that night. At a corner table by the roaring fire, we sipped a fine cabernet. For an appetizer we shared mushrooms with gorgonzola. For the main course, Amy chose the porkloin and I had the duck. Desserts, wine, everything was perfect and ordered, linking us to the long history of satisfied patrons. Time drew out and lingered, burning as slowly as the great fire that warmed the March rooms. We stumbled back upstairs to a full night’s rest, feeling the complete effects of hospitality.

A place outside of time, a gathering of people and history, stability and permanence in our time-scattered lives…the inn was all this and more. Restored by its love, Amy and I enjoyed a country breakfast in the morning before heading off to hike the snowy People’s State Forest. As we left the innyard, another car pulled in, another story ready to happen, leaving no break in the romance of continuity.


First published in Hackwriters: The International Writer's Journal.