by Alice Mattison
My most absorbing work during the last few months has been, first, revising a book, and, secondly, teaching our dog, Harold—a large, black, cheerful, energetic, pit bull mix—not to yank on the leash and bark when we see or hear another dog while walking. It wasn’t until recently that I noticed how much Harold resembles the book, though not in all ways, of course.
Neither the dog nor the book understands general instructions, though both grasp English words and even sentences if they are used specifically. You’d better not say to a dog, “Let’s reconsider your policy concerning other dogs” or even “If you pass that dog across the street without going bananas, I’ll let you carry your squeaky toy in your mouth for a block,” and you can’t say to a book, “My theme here is the futility of the American dream” or, more modestly, “I’d like each of the next three chapters to become progressively more exciting.” But the dog understands “Cookie!” or “Look at your squeaky toy!” (a small plastic blue football with magical properties) and the book knows “cut,” “paste,” and “delete”—or Word does—and, even more usefully, the alphabet and punctuation marks. Anything I want the book to do, I must express in letters of the alphabet. Anything I want the dog to do, I must express in words about what’s right here, right now.
At first, on our daily walks, my husband Edward and I just suffered when we passed another dog and dog walker: anxiety, embarrassment, pulled arm muscles. Then our trainer, Katie, showed us high-value treats—cookies you buy at Petco that look like Oreos and smell disgusting, but distract Harold from almost anything. We started by giving him bite after bite. Katie suggested we try fewer bites, and I learned—I am more obsessed than Edward so I hold the leash—that if I count slowly to fifteen or twenty before giving Harold the bite, he is even more intent on the cookie. Then we discovered that squeaky toys work even better. At times. But why sometimes and not other times?
Thinking hard and in generalities—there are times in working with books or dogs when one must think hard and generally, even if neither the dog nor the book can think that way—I realized that on walks, we meet what I might describe as several different sorts of dog. Corner Dogs appear at the next corner. They come down the cross street, pass in front of us before or after crossing the street we’re walking on, and disappear up the cross street again. Across Dogs are across the street, walking in our direction or in the opposite direction. Going Dogs are ahead of us on our side, going our way—so we never meet, but they are in view for a long time. Coming Dogs are on our side of the street coming toward us. They are difficult—we pass nearest them—but we have time to react as they approach. Hardest are Surprise Dogs, which pop up in a yard or get out of a car.
Once I understood the categories, I saw what was going on. Harold’s squeaky toy renders Across Dogs, Corner Dogs, and Going Dogs innocuous. Sometimes talking about the toy is enough; sometimes I show it to him. At worst I wiggle it or squeak it. After the dog is gone Harold carries the toy in his mouth for a block or so, meditatively squeaking.
Coming Dogs require that I count to fifteen or twenty, then proclaim “Cookie cookie cookie starts with C!” while waving a bit of cookie, which he then eats. For Surprise Dogs I use whatever’s handiest, but so far, nothing truly works. But surprise dogs are rare. Mostly, now, we walk down Dog Alley (a five-block stretch in our neighborhood that is especially doggy) without hysteria.
However, what I’m writing about here is not dogs—about whom I have no expertise—but books. There may be a better way to teach a dog, but I know no better method than mine for working on a book: thinking generally, carrying out one’s thoughts specifically. A book, to start with, is a blob floating up from some dark place in your psyche. New writers, faced with its strangeness and propensity for chaos, often write it in one of two ways: they give in to the chaos, claiming that the book is valid because it comes about honestly and intuitively, or they rationally devise themes and plots without regard to what’s coming out of their imaginations, and impose them on the poor uncomprehending thing. The results are either a chaotic, unreadable book, or one that’s so thoroughly thought through that the reader can figure it out from the first page, and the book itself is superfluous. I think it’s wiser to treat a book like a dog. Work on it one word or sentence at a time, but also turn away from it so as to figure out its true nature and what you’ll need to do to the words to reveal that truth. It’s not a matter of copying a theme you already know about into a resisting book, it’s a matter of thinking about what’s in your book already and where it’s going on its own, noticing what theme or large point or action your unconscious mind seems to be coming up with, and altering the words—lengthening and shortening sections, building up intensity or diminishing it, and so on—in a way that will make a reader able to see clearly what your haphazard outpouring indicates only vaguely.
Give your book cookies when that works, wave the squeaky toy when that works. And good luck with Surprise Dogs.