Plath’s fig tree analogy applies to just about anybody’s life in some way, shape or form, the image of a starving woman sitting beanth an abudance of figs paralyzed by the sheer amount of options she could chose, but for me the figs manifest not as a choice between different kinds of lovers or careers, instead it materalizes as a split between the type of writer I want to be. One fig symbolizes the realm of nonfiction, the realm of writing I already know I’m capable of, essays, criticism, and intellectual meanderings. The other fig acts as that forbidden, almost mystical realm of fiction containing entire worlds and characters sprung from nothing, the emblem of the very thing I’ve only ever cared to write: A novel.
Let me preface by stating that I enjoy writing nonfiction and reading the works of many nonfiction writers. Nonfiction writing comes more easily to my brain, as it’s more formulaic, and therefore less daunting an endeavor. And I won’t lie, there’s admittedly a flair of intellectual-laden pride in successfully conjuring up a coherent and well-received piece of nonfiction, whether it be academic or along the lines of gonzo-journalism essays: I think of Joan Didion and Hunter S. Thompson. Now, they were cool, I want to write like them.
But I want even more to write like Edith Wharton, with her gift for shaping words into vivid worlds, summoning characters who come alive as your own humanity is reflected to you, a mirror between author and reader, an act of prestidigitation. There’s something seemingly collective unconsciousness-like / Jungian and spiritual about fiction writing. A level of consciousness I aspire to achieve—that state of stream of consciousness.
Instead of jumping into that stream and becoming the novelist I want to be, I default to consuming an endless stream of short-form content slop, sinking into scary rabbit holes on computer scientist and psychologist Herbert A. Simon’s theories of the attention economy and attention theft. Meanwhile, I am still sitting on my phone, having my attention harvested by tech companies—the very thing he warned against and predicted would happen—while doing absolutely nothing but attempting to write a novel.
Attention Theft- Content and advertisements designed to grab the attention of unconsenting consumers without compensation.
“A wealth of information creates a poverty of attention and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it.” - Herbert A. Simon
While the attention economy and my phone are probably the most damning culprits in my inability to write a novel, I wonder if this paralysis is made even stronger by the false hierarchy I’ve created in my mind: fiction is the pinnacle of literary achievement, while nonfiction is the consolation prize. But is this true? I know I’ve read nonfiction that comes to life just as much as fiction does: the work of James Baldwin comes to mind, hell, I’ve even read contemporary novels that read more as essays in disguise. This boundary between fiction and nonfiction I’ve conjured is imaginary. It's not the act of being a novelist that I'm chasing, I'm chasing a mode of writing that is not merely formulaic, but living and breathing —the kind of writing that you read and find yourself swept away into, without realizing hours have passed.
The Surrealists referred to this style of writing as "automatic writing," a practice introduced to mainstream culture by Surrealist movement leader Andre Breton in the book he co-authored with Philippe Soupault, titled The Magnetic Fields (Les Champs magnétiques). These two men, dealing with the aftermath of World War I and trying to make sense of all that had happened, decided they would write every day of the week, as fast as they could, whatever came to mind—with no “structure,” no stable voice, and absolutely no editing.
“Surrealist automatism is a method of art-making in which the artist suppresses conscious control over the making process, allowing the unconscious mind to have great sway.”
The Result? A book that feels like a dream, sometimes chaotic but still rooted in human emotion, as it immerses in a kind of magical realism. An average paragraph in that novel reads like this:
“What’s the good of these great fragile fits of enthusiasm, these jaded jumps of joys? We know nothing anymore, but the dead stars; we gaze at their faces; and we gasp with pleasure. Our mouths are dry as the lost beaches, and our eyes turn aimlessly and without hope. Now all that remain are these cafés where we meet to drink these cool drinks, these diluted spirits, and the tables are stickier than the pavements where our shadows of the day before have fallen.” - Andre Breton, Philippe Soupault.
The fascinating thing, however, is that although Breton and Soupault were the first to bring the idea of automatic writing to the mainstream, automatic writing has been practiced throughout the centuries across the world, originating in China, where it was initially believed to be a psychic ability and later developed into a spiritual practice.
This is the kind of writing I want to indulge in more.
This is the style of writing that appeals to me most.
I don't just want to write a novel; I also want to access this style of writing—the more “spiritual” and unconscious version. There’s a desire to let the words fall from my mind and hit the page, never threatened by an overly critical lens that seeks to edit and destroy the original vision for the sake of perfection.
I believe the best advice for any writer in today's world of constant distraction is to set aside the time to permit themselves to write messily, dreamily, and without editing. Allowing the inner voice to bleed onto the page incessantly paves the way for one’s unique voice to shine through with more strength when it comes time to write more formal pieces, whether that be fiction or nonfiction. To write at all is to resist the theft of attention, to reclaim my mind from the noise.
Perhaps what Plath was hinting at is that the figs aren't truly about the choice itself but about the fear of making the wrong one and losing self-legitimacy. The true challenge is to stop starving beneath the tree and to grasp something, be it an essay or a novel. Ultimately, it's about reaching out and putting pen to paper.
Interesting essay. ✨⚡
You’re a great writer, your ability to formulate an opinion and arrive at the conclusion is a skill many can’t achieve. Perhaps the writing you’re yearning for requires less intellectualism, but still needs structure. Overthinking will lead to paralysis of creativity. The process of what you’re trying to accomplish could be as simple as making a sandwich. Look at it as if it was a recipe, once you decide on the bread and the main ingredients, then you can figure out the other details and eventually the sauce, spicy, sweat, sour. The options may seem infinite, but they’re actually finite. The novel you’re trying to write, is already written. Perhaps just focus on the ingredients and the menu will develop from there. You’re already walking your path, now continue to put one foot in front of the other and don’t get too distracted with the great show in the sky. Also, the phone is not the enemy, with the apps, it’s a box of drugs, without them, it’s just a phone. I’ve read everything you’ve written, and I know you can execute the vision in your mind’s eye. To build your world and bring you characters to life, you have to decide on what to grow, plant the seed and water it, but don’t expect it to materialize over night. To achieve this, don’t give your self a deadline, time is an illusion, use the illusion of reality to sculpt your masterpiece. Don’t over edit as you go, but edit the parts and move around the pieces, eventually they’ll click into place and the novel will write itself, you just have to create the foundation. Without one, then it’s just sandcastles in the sky, that will continue to collapse and be swept away by the current of the wind. (ie attention economy / modern mind control) I look forward to reading your novel one day..