She’s poised, hair tied back under a bright red headscarf, sharp eyes staring out through square black glasses, thin wrist wrapped in a red bracelet that glints as she flips to the first page of her address. Zadie Smith stands center stage, looking over the po- dium in a packed Sprague Hall. “My lecture today is called ‘Why Write? Creativity and Refusal.’” The title is borrowed from George Orwell’s essay “Why I Write,” but Smith wryly explains, “I’ve removed the personal pronoun and added the question mark, in keeping with the spirit of the times.” The row of writers seated behind her chuckle.
These writers are the recipients of the Windham Campbell Prize, and Zadie Smith is delivering the keynote speech at the prize’s second annual Festival. Held on Yale’s cam- pus from Sept. 15-18, the festival is a celebration of eight up-and-coming literary talents chosen from a group of 64 nominees from 16 countries.
The prize is named for and designed by twentieth-century artists Donald Windham and Sandy M. Campbell. The duo dreamed of creating a literary prize that would provide the resource they believed a writer needed most: time. The financial stability gained through the 150,000 dollar-award would give writers time to focus on creativity.
Smith is an accomplished writer and orator herself, author of four novels including White Teeth and NW, and the 2006 winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction. As she be- gins to outline her thoughts on literature and artistry, Smith proves that she talks as she writes—passionately.
“At the heart of creativity lies a refusal,” she says—a refusal to complacently accept existing realities or approved methods of discourse. Writers need to have a “willingness to risk displeasure.” Their craft exists to create friction, to inspire discomfort, distaste, confusion, and anger, along with delight.
Ultimately, though, “Writers aren’t prophets or priests. Writers are effective sentence makers,” Smith says. In a world where so many formerly human tasks are delegated to other entities, the pleasure of placing words in the right order or crafting a beautiful phrase is an act of refusal in itself. We delegate our consciousness to charities, our communication to computers, but our ability to mold, morph, and manipulate language is the one act of agency we hold onto.
The audience is rapt: uncomfortable, but delighting in the tension as Smith goes on to emphatically denounce the monetization of the entertainment industry, the age of passive consumerism, the co-opting of creativity.
“Why write?” she asks, addressing the room full of scholars, professors, aspiring writers and accomplished ones. “Because you desire to see things as they are.”
With that, the four-day festival begins.
***
“Literary speed dating—6PM,” reads the Windham Campbell Calendar in the dining hall. To me, that sounds horrifying. Who would want to combine arguably the most stressful part of adulthood (dating) and a terrifying child- hood memory (musical chairs), and then add the anxiety of having to intellectually impress hip literary prize-winners?
Joy Shan, CC ’15, and Eleanor Michotte, MC ’15, would, and did. When the Program Director of the Windham Campbell prizes, Michael Kelleher, approached them towards the end of last semester, he asked them to organize an event designed by and for undergraduates. “We thought, ‘How do we make a panel not stuffy?’” Shan says. “And then Eleanor had this awesome idea: speed dating.”
I politely express my concern that maybe “awesome” isn’t everyone’s choice adjective. “It’s pretty informal,” insists Shan.
The event places each of the eight Windham Campbell prizewinners at their own table in Beinecke Library. Groups of participants then rotate from writer to writer, having discus- sions with each. A group of Yale undergraduates were chosen to be moderators—English and Literature majors, actors working on Theater Studies senior projects, students who love the outdoors, and people who just really enjoy books.
Unlike the festival’s other Master’s Teas or organized talks, Literary Speed Dating brings vastly different genres together in an informal setting, uniting an array of writers as diverse as the moderators. “It’s really anti-niche,” Shan says.
In her keynote, Smith had sardonically recalled a question from a former student: “How did you choose your literary brand?” The audience burst into giggles as she rolled her eyes.
I make a mental note: don’t ask that tomorrow.
***
“Ladies and gentlemen, let the speed dating begin!” booms the announcer, and an actual gong rings. Time to meet my literary soul mate.
I begin sitting across from Jim Crace, esteemed English author of thirteen novels, including Harvest and Continent.
“In England, there’s an embarrassment about being serious for two minutes on end,” he explains. “Irony is the de- fault tone of British fiction: it’s just a means of being serious while seeming like you’re joking.” Crace, on the other hand, says his novels are almost always serious, and unashamedly so. “My writing voice doesn’t sound very English.”
His speaking voice, however, does. For more reasons than one, this is the most posh date I’ve ever been on.
The gong sounds again, and I’m led to the next table, where the rugged John Vaillant sits appropriately surrounded by boys wearing flannels. A non-fiction journalist who specializes in long-form pieces about environmental issues, Vaillant’s most recent book focuses on the dramatic true sto- ries of tiger hunters. He talks about how fully he immerses himself in the lives and homes of his subjects. “You have to prove you’re a safe place to put their most precious—or most painful—experiences,“ he says.
Next, I meet Nadeem Aslam. Born in Pakistan, he immigrated to England at fourteen and taught himself English by retracing the words of novels again and again. Now, he’s the author of four of his own. His Urdu-accented voice is like velvet, slipping into reverie as he describes his writing process. “When I arrive at my desk, all my insecurities, all my strengths, everyone else in the world is in that study with me. But as I begin to work, slowly these things and people begin to leave.” He pauses, brooding. “And I have to say that—without sounding mystical—eventually I, too, leave. Only the work remains. I am not the guy who writes the books. I can become him, I can bring him out, but I am not him.” His words are as velvety as his voice.
Other writers have a less spiritual writing process. Sam Holcroft relies on her scientific, data-driven mind to meticulously plan out her projects. A Biology major in college, she dreamed of being an actress but was “really, really bad.” She wrote a play, cast herself in the main role and was still “really, really bad,” but turned out to be really, really good at the writing part. Her new play, Rules for Living, is slated to premiere in 2015.
Every ten minutes on the dot, my group and I scurry back and forth to each table. Kia Corthron describes the singular, communal experience of theatre; Noëlle Janaczewska reveals her love for writing wild, “feral” narratives; Pankaj Mishra emphasizes the benefits of opting out of the rat race and finding fulfillment in new, creative places.
A final, resounding gong rings and I jump, surprised at how fast the time has gone. The speed round is over. I leave wanting a second date.