Reviewed by Jonah Wardell
How to Write a Novel:
An Anthology of 20 Craft Essays About Writing, None of Which Ever Mention Writing
ed. Aaron Burch
Autofocus Books
Aug 2023, 170 pages, ISBN-13: 978-1957392257
In a recent poll on social media, I asked my audience about their relationship with reading and writing. Of the 2,900+ respondents, 56% said they loved to read and write. Those are the people who would likely enjoy the average craft book. However, 25% of people said they loved to read but didn’t love writing, with 14% saying the opposite. That left 5% of people who said they didn’t love reading or writing (which makes me wonder why they follow me at all, seeing as I run a YouTube channel about literature, but that’s beside the point). The fact is, craft books are a hard sell, even among writers. But since How to Write a Novel: An Anthology of 20 Craft Essays About Writing, None of Which Ever Mention Writing is about writing while not being about writing, it would appeal to readers, too, and likely even writers who are usually non-readers—everyone. Well, everyone except that lone 5%. Bummer. Ah well, their loss.
The beauty of How to Write a Novel is two-fold. First, all of its readers will walk away having learned something about writing, even if they don’t mean to. Second, its readers will walk away wanting to write and revise something, which is the mark of a good teacher, good workshop, good craft book. Editor Aaron Burch and his friends challenge readers to consider their own hobbies and how the principles behind them relate to writing. After closing the book, I wondered, what does writing have in common with volleyball? Or Pokémon? Or singing? Or video editing? I knew I had to write in order to find out.
Burch explains in the introduction how the book of essays came to be:
This anthology—like a lot of my best ideas, many of which are dumb ideas and/or tossed off jokes turned into real things that, in retrospect, get reclassified as best ideas—started as a tweet:
I would like to edit a “how to write a novel” craft book anthology with essays about skateboarding & houseplants & making art & 70s paranoid thrillers & going to the driving range & petting zoos & road trips & naps & tattoos &…, and it never mentions writing. (8, italics original)
In almost no time at all, Burch’s dream became a reality. When solicited for a short CNF piece, Burch wrote a craft essay about how he developed a talent for drawing human skulls (one of which graces the anthology’s cover). Burch’s editor friend described the piece as “a craft essay that isn’t an awful craft essay, but is actually really beautiful and authentic” (9). Over time, Burch managed to rope 20 more authors into his little game, creating a craft book that isn’t an awful craft book, but is actually really beautiful and authentic.
How to Read a Novel is conveniently divided into six overarching topics: finding your voice, training your instincts, trusting the process, noticing, perseverance, and living a writing life. The organization is helpful in getting to the underlying message behind each piece. What’s funny is that, while every essay most certainly has something to do with writing, after a certain point, I found myself simply getting lost in how each writer steered their prose. The collection began to read more like a series of personal essays on humanity, rather than a bunch of metaphors about process. But, ironically, since humanity is the underlying thrust in all literature, each essay wrapped around to being about writing again.
A good example would be Ashleigh Catibog-Abraham’s personal essay on trusting the process, “Heart, Soul & Drops of Blood” (71). This essay is only one paragraph long, 20 brief sentences (the longest is only 17 words), unbroken by any indentations. Catibog-Abraham’s essay aptly begins, “It starts with a heartbeat. A tiny flicker on the ultrasound screen.” With brevity and precision, the author then takes us swiftly through pregnancy into birth, and closes with, “Finally, you get to hold your creation in your arms.” My major thought when I finished Catibog-Abraham’s piece was how it read just like a poem, which got me thinking about what her essay had to say about being a poet.
Then, there’s Kevin Maloney’s “Alleyman”, a personal essay on noticing. Maloney tells us about his escapades through the alleys around his apartment complex and the worlds that open up to him as he takes a walk outside each day. When his son, Fennel, comes to visit for the summer, Maloney is all too eager to introduce these worlds to him as well, especially a certain stray cat who has just given birth. Unfortunately, things take a dark turn when Fennel meets the kittens:
“What’s wrong with that one?” asked Fennel, pointing at the small gray kitten sleeping
off to the side.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why’s it covered in flies?”
[…] The kitten was alive, but barely. Its eyes were oozing some creamy yellow substance. It was smaller than its siblings. When I approached it, it barely acknowledged me. It held on with a fluttering heart and small breaths. (100)
Fennel asks to take the kitten home, but Maloney knows that wouldn’t be a good idea, with the cat likely infected. Maloney reflects, writing, “Fennel started crying. I was a bad father. I took my son by the hand and dragged him back to our apartment. He kicked and screamed the whole way, begging for the life of the dead kitten. We ate cereal covered in blackberries. Fennel sipped hot chocolate from his thermos, glaring at me” (101).
When I first read Maloney’s essay, all I could think was how difficult it would have been for me to include this anecdote in a personal essay. But that self-examination ultimately reminded me of the vulnerability required to be a writer. To quote another excellent anthology, The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction, author Pia Z. Ehrhardt explains:
In my own stories, the load-bearing sentence is usually a line that feels like a mistake, a
change in direction—oops! How’d that get in there? The better question is: Why’d that
get in there? Often it’s a line that embarrasses me, like flashing open your bathrobe and
then, too late, covering up again, because once someone sees you naked, you can’t take it
back. The line presents itself. I wrote it and now it’s on the page, holding up the story.
What do I want you to know about my characters that shames and frightens—or
exhilarates—me? And how did my story go from something I wanted to tell you to
something I’m afraid for you to know, but that I must now talk about?
In my opinion, “I was a bad father” is Maloney’s load-bearing sentence. It is the moment where he flashes—makes himself bare to—the audience. He reveals something about himself that even he didn’t want to know. And Maloney’s essay is just one of twenty that lets the reader revel in revelations. Speaking of flash, Maloney’s essay is one of the longest at about nine and a half pages. Even so, it doesn’t overstay its welcome, which is the case for every piece in the work overall.
Katie Darby Mullins’ essay on perseverance, “Not to Mention the Parking”, recounts one of her creative writing workshops where she ranted about the university’s parking, then let her students rant about whatever they liked. On its face, the topic sounds utterly mundane, but as you read, you start to feel like you know Mullins and her students—you feel like you’re gossiping with them—and it’s shockingly beguiling. Mullins tells her students: “‘We’ve been reading vulnerable stories and poems and discussing our thoughts on them, but we haven’t really been vulnerable ourselves. And we are all pushed so far beyond what we feel capable of, I can’t imagine any of us can sleep at night. […] I didn’t sleep last night’” (123). Mullins confesses in the essay that she feared her students would find the class a waste of time—an hour spent venting instead of reading or writing or workshopping. Instead, “Most people stayed at least a half hour late. Six or seven stayed over an hour late. […] I got so many emails and very genuine comments assuring me that it had been a very useful class period” (126-127).
Mullins’ words to her students reemphasize Maloney’s lesson on vulnerability. In Mullins’ case, “‘I didn’t sleep last night’” is her load-bearing sentence. It is the moment she reveals something, to her students and to her readers, that perhaps even she didn’t want to know—that she didn’t even know she knew. But, interestingly, neither Mullins nor Maloney wrote an essay about load-bearing sentences, or moments in our writing that frighten, shame, or exhilarate us. Maloney’s essay is categorized under “On Noticing”, while Mullins’ falls under “On Perseverance”. And yet, these two essays converge, as every piece in the collection does. This is one way that How to Write a Novel creates meaning. Each time the reader sees a convergence, they appreciate one of the book’s lessons, however unintentional.
“The Slog Itself” by Tasha Coryell, an essay on living a writing life, and the anthology’s final essay, treats the topic of running, which may indeed sound like a slog for some readers (me, specifically). And yet, its ending is so cathartic—so earned—much like finishing a run. The final sentence is a perfect cap, not only on the essay itself, but on the entire book.
In all fairness, there are a few things that may turn a reader off to this anthology. For one, the collection’s first three pieces, when including the introduction, all employ a chatty, self-aware, half-snarky-half-serious, run-on sentence kind of tone (wouldn’t know what that’s like). Audiences who can’t stand such a narrative attitude may be wary of reading on. If they were to stop reading at just the third author in the collection, they would be sorely missing out on some of the most beautiful and creative essays I’ve ever read.
If there were one more thing to complain about, it would be the fact that Burch’s skull essay isn’t even part of the anthology. Come on man, just where is the piece that started it all? That kicked off everything? What a disservice—a tease, really—to even mention it and leave it out of the collection.
And on the subject of teases, I know what you must be thinking. What does Catibog-Abraham’s essay say about being a poet? So many things, many of which went over my head, I’m sure. But, in my limited knowledge, “Heart, Soul & Drops of Blood” emphasizes one of the most important lessons I’ve had to learn as a writer. To quote an email from Bret Lott after he read one of my short stories:
I guess this is about humility. About your being the servant of the story, and not its boss,
as it were. You’re too good a writer to be the star of the show, because the star of the show is the character in your story, who is never and will never and has never been a “character,” but a real person. […] That is, paradoxically, you’re not in charge here. It’s the character, and you’re just following.
I’ll put it this way: when you write a poem or a story, you are not the piece itself, and you are not its boss; you are simply the vehicle to bring it to life. Your works are living entities, separate from you, and you let them live in you and flow through you onto the page. As Catibog-Abraham writes, “Life forms so slowly and so quickly simultaneously. At halfway, you feel the smallest flutters. Which turn into distinct kicks. Suddenly there is no more room to grow. The plug is pulled, the water begins to drain. […] A wave comes. And you meet the person you have been living with for almost a year” (71). Much like your readers, you have the opportunity to meet your writing. You let it introduce itself to you. You let it grow. You guide it, but you let it make its own decisions. And when you do, “Finally, you get to hold your creation in your arms.”
Works Cited
Burch, Aaron. How to Write a Novel: An Anthology of 20 Craft Essays about Writing, None of
Which Ever Mention Writing. Autofocus Books, 2023.
Ehrhardt, Pia Z. The Rose Metal Press Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction: Tips from Editors,
Teachers, and Writers in the Field. Edited by Tara L. Masih, Rose Metal Press, 2009, p. 130.
Lott, Bret. “Packet the first, finally–” Received by Jonah Wardell, 15 Sep. 2024. Email
Correspondence.
About the reviewer: Jonah Wardell is an author from Salt Lake City, Utah. He graduated from the University of Utah in December 2022 with a BA in English Teaching. He will graduate from The Vermont College of Fine Arts with an MFA in Fiction and Poetry in January 2027. When he isn’t writing, he enjoys making YouTube videos on his channel, Roughest Drafts.