I met David Finch in a sketch comedy class I was teaching at the Second City Training Center. Back then he seemed hyper-intense about his writing results week to week. He loved comedy and worked hard on his sketches–especially the jokes. I realized that David was very serious about becoming a good writer. I invited him to visit the Lakeside Studio, which was enjoying it’s 11th year by then. I had no idea what a daunting challenge it was for David to show up that night, given his social issues, (re: Aspergers) But the workshop mitigated a lot of issues for us all and put process before personalities. The rest, as they say, is dumb luck.
Nancy Beckett:
First off, congratulations on writing and PUBLISHING your best-selling book “The Journal of Best Practices.” Do you feel like the book is what you set out to write?
David Finch: Thanks! This book captures the story of Kristen’s and my journey to reclaim our friendship and rebuild our marriage after we learned that I have Asperger syndrome.
NB: Aw I heard it’s rough when Asperger folk marry Neurotypicals!
DF: We were in trouble. But marriage is no picnic for a lot of reasons for a lot of people.
NB: Well, that’s why your story is such a good read. Plus it’s funny–and that makes everybody want to read it–because general audiences connect with painful honesty.
DF: Thank you. I’ve got awkward humor in my DNA.
NB: Okay, so you set out to write about making a better life with your wife; or at least getting your head out of your ass, trying.
DF: Yes, and so the book, “The Journal of Best Practices,” is exactly what I set out to write when I decided to “write a book”. However, the storytelling strategy is very different from what I had envisioned, for that matter, it’s different from what I had outlined in my book proposal for the book deal. When I began to work with my editor the narrative structure became a linear timeline with a clear trajectory.
NB: Let me interject–am I saying interject because you just said trajectory?
DF: Let’s not look at that too closely right now, I’ll go over it while I am shaving tomorrow.
NB: So when you decided to “write a book” you inspired a bunch of us (Lakeside Studio writers) to also want to write a book. I know that was beneficial to us but what, after you had your book deal in hand, did you gain from being in a writing group?
DF: From being a Lakesider for almost 3 years, I learned how to tell a story in a way that would compel people to keep reading it. Week after week, you (meaning you, Nancy) taught and reinforced lessons that I’m fortunate to have absorbed — lessons related to every aspect of writing, from framing to stakes to character portraits to time management to the importance of drafting.
NB: Aw shucks hon. You were “fortunate to learn” because you worked hard.
DF: Also, given the Lakeside Studio discussion format you rode shotgun on the other Lakesiders — call them denizens, minion, fellow writers, whatever — who, as my first readers, provided me feedback that wouldn’t let me off the hook and urged me on.
NB: Like what?
DF: Mary Scruggs, a fellow Lakesider, opened my eyes to what she called “connective tissue” — chunks of narrative that carry the story from one scene or expositional passage to the next, thereby rolling the story down the tracks. And Lakesider, Cathy Postilion, ruthlessly called me on my nasty tendency to shy away from the emotional pay dirt. She’d say, “Oh, fuck you, Asperger Guy. Don’t puss out on that shit.” It was brilliant! What’s not to love about being in a writing group.
NB: Nothing is not to love–I agree that my Lakeside Studio is an outstanding way to generate psychic material; but revising can be tough in a workshop.
DF: Revising is an entirely different proposition. I think until you’re really comfortable editing yourself, you’re better off working with an editor to help you achieve subsequent drafts. You can’t work in a vacuum. My editor, Samantha, happened to be brilliant and I trusted her instincts on how to modify and shape the narrative so that the reader would want to stay with me page after page. Generating is about getting everything that’s important to you out onto the page. Revising is about making that which is important to you somehow meaningful to the reader. Fine-tuning, then, is all about making the work as readable as can be.
NB: I believe that in the process of generating and revising you became a writer too. Do you agree with that?
DF: Yes, that’s true.
NB: And could you elaborate on the difference between writing and becoming a writer?
DF: My first night in the workshop, I looked around and thought, “Oh, no, I’m surrounded by intellectuals.” My plans were to write about bathroom mishaps and people with funny-sounding names, and that would be enough. Sensing, perhaps correctly, that I wouldn’t be allowed to get away with shallowness, I decided to hand myself over to your Lakeside method and be brave with my introspection.
NB: Obviously intellectuals can bullshit as well as the next person but I think Lakesiders have a serious stake in each others work.
DF: I learned in our weekly gatherings that readers know when you’re punting, when you’re avoiding the meat of the story. You might not be aware of it yourself as you’re generating the material, but the audience certainly knows. The willingness and skill to give up the goods is, perhaps, what makes a person a legitimate writer; creative writing comes from a deep and pure need to express.
As for the difference between writing and becoming a writer, you explained it to me this way: You become a writer when what you’re writing transforms you.
NB: I couldn’t PAY people to say this shit.
DF: No, I believe I paid you. People are hesitant to call themselves a writer until they publish their work, or until they find themselves supported, financially, by the writing. I get that, but I prefer your way of thinking. If you’re writing to achieve some transformation—be it a different point of view or new perspective, or just to flush out the shit that’s backing up on you—then you’re writing for very good reasons. If you act on a sincere desire to explore the content, then it’s almost impossible not to be transformed by what comes of it.
NB: “Journal of Best Practices” is a memoir about your relationship with your wife Kristen, who by the way, I think is a damn good writer—remember that funny story she wrote about piling in the VW with her girlfriends? Anyway, how has your relationship with Kristen changed as a result of writing about yourselves?
DF: Well, first of all, yes—Kristen is a damn good writer. She’s smart and funny, and she gets why things are funny. I love that piece about the car shenanigans, and you’ll be thrilled to know that she is now blogging on my website.
By writing about our situation honestly and with a sense of discovery, I was afforded these astounding new perspectives, which led to greater understandings of the circumstances underlying our relationship. I was finally able to concede, for instance, that she did, at one time, feel let down by our once-suffocating marriage. So I explored that, and I discovered who she thought I was, and why she felt so let down when she realized I wasn’t exactly that person.
NB: Ding, ding, ding, sounds like everybody’s marriage to me.
DF: Kristen and I talked A LOT about the things I wrote in my essays, as I simply tried to make sense of our relationship. Writing a situation down on paper helped me to make sense of it. It was suddenly impossible to resent each other over that horrible fight of 2007, for example, because we understood each other better as a result of the writing. That’s just one example, but thanks to the cumulative effect of doing this over the course of a few years, I am happy to say that we are closer now than ever before. Yes, a book came out of it, and that’s fabulous. But more important, I have my best friend back. I’m a better husband because I write. I’m a better dad because I write. That’s powerful.
