Have You considered chemistry?
Hayley Brown How to Start Writing (and when to stop): Advice for Writers by Wislawa Szymborska, edited & translated by Clare Cavanagh New Directions Books, 2021.
Before the Nobel Prize, even before she began publishing her poetry, essays, and translations, Wiszawa Szymborka worked at Życie Literackie (Literary Life) from 1953 to 1981, where she wrote anonymous “book reviews’’ for aspiring young writers. The feedback she provided in the journal’s weekly column—Literary Mailbox—accrued as a collection of letters expressing how not to write, how not to address an editor or publisher, and how not to keep writing if your work is “cliched, immature, shapeless,” or simply no more than monotonous chaos. A compilation of these letters was originally published in Polish at the turn of the twenty-first century, and is now translated into English by Clare Cavanagh, twenty-one years after its initial publication. What sets the content of the Literary Mailbox apart from other anonymous columns in the literary sphere is its sheer brutality. Szymborska is witty, honest, concise, and most notably, unconcerned with the feelings of her readers. In an interview from October 2000, when asked quite directly about her “heartlessness,” she scoffs at the idea, and responds by saying that her first poems and stories were bad, too, that she knew “firsthand the curative powers of cold water over one’s head.” She then follows up with a moment of reflection: “I was brutal,
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though, when anyone claimed to be a teacher used ‘comparisen’ in a letter.” Five pages into this collection is a response to a writer named IL. C., whose work we learn is unworthy of continued reading for its “sloppy, mistake-ridden scrawlings on worn scraps of paper.” To which the “staff ” at Literary Mailbox continue, “It bears witness to the author’s stunted aesthetic proclivities and slipshod relationship to the work.” By this point in the collection, a reader might begin to wonder if there are other chapters in the book— perhaps a section dedicated to praise that might lessen the impact of such deafening blows? Alas, there are no other chapters. The collection is, however, broken up every so often with artwork crafted mainly of collage. The Dada-esque art is subtle in form, sparsely-placed, and emblematic of what might be considered the book’s theme: cold water over one’s head. The very first image is precisely that—a woman looking up at a sink faucet the size of a minivan, water at the precipice of its rim. Another image is of a man sporting 1920’s attire and a petit handlebar mustache. He appears distraught and is unwilling to face an infant wailing at his feet. A prevalent theme in this book addresses the notion that, while many people want to become great writers, they just don’t have that certain je ne sais quoi. Throughout the collection, Szymborska frequently encourages writers to consider different careers. She notes the fine skills of plumbing, carpentry, and maildelivery, and questions why we seek out a false sense of pride in titles like “postal carrier” or “correspondence distributors,” as if mailman is a dirty word. She believes “the greatest honor and glory lies in doing whatever you’re best equipped to do beautifully.” She tells one writer that their poems should remain in their desk drawer. To another she writes, “So Eva, have you considered chemistry?”
H AY L E Y BROW N
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How to Start Writing (and when to stop): Advice for Writers is at times merciless to the psyche of novice writers—but no one is immune to Szymborska’s criticism, and for this reason, the editorial critiques appear all the more credible. The advice is succinct and as lacking in empathy as if written by Nikola Tesla, and the reviews are firmly grounded in the thinking of Szymborska’s time. It’s worth remembering that this collection stems back fifty years, when Poland was still subject to scrutinous censorship and nothing was sugar-coated. Szymborska herself was just a teenager at the onset of World War II, and this chasm in time is evident in her self-assured worldview, which weaves in and out of these brief letters. How to Write’s 2021 renaissance encourages writers to grow thick skin, to ask themselves why they write, and perhaps most importantly, it reminds those pursuing authorship to always keep a trashcan nearby. Szymborska’s meticulous dedication to her craft will not be overlooked in this collection, and her desire to promote beauty may inspire those who aren’t faint of heart. With time, the person who acknowledges the crying child at their feet, or withstands the indignity of being caught under a sudden downpour, is the person who, with a decent amount of talent, might just learn how to write.