A NOVEL IS ANOTHER KIND OF WRITING [by Peter Fortunato]

So I wrote a novel, and it’s just been published: Carnevale. The name means “carnival” and it refers to a gala masquerade party held at the family run, Italian American restaurant of the protagonist’s childhood. Sure, this part is based on my own youth, but no, the book isn’t truly autobiographical. I have mined some of the same material from my Italian heritage before in my poetry, but a novel is different—let me explain.

 

While a lyric or narrative poem written in the first person voice isn’t to be assumed autobiographical—we refer to its speaker as “the speaker” or “the persona”—a novel is by definition a work of fiction. Its great appeal to readers is that we know it’s going to take us places we haven’t been to in the same way before, neither in actuality nor in our imaginations, and the novel proposes to do that on its long river of words. If we’re lucky, we’ll find that we enjoy living in that book, on that craft, for some time. A collection of poems can also do that, of course, and an entire collection might be narrated in the voice of a character its author has adopted, a persona or “mask” she is speaking through for her purposes. But a novel goes further—at least that’s what I found. For starters it had to do with loosening my language beyond the constraints of the metrics that the music of poetry requires. Oh, I’ve read aloud to myself every line of Carnevale many times, and I trust my ear, and the narrating voice of the main character, but still, it’s another kind of writing.

When I’ve told people of a new collection of my poems has just been published, the responses tend to range from whole hearted “Congratulations!” to the polite, “That’s nice,” to “Well—I don’t really understand poetry.” Usually, it’s only fellow poets who will ask, “Where can I get it?” These reactions indicate something about the paradoxical position of poetry in the collective American psyche: It’s fascinating to the general public that people continue to write it and that some enjoy reading it, but to grasp its essence requires a certain sensibility. I agree with what Stanley Kunitz once said, that people are glad to know poets still exist, even if as readers they don’t care to spend much time with their words. But almost everybody has read a novel or two, and a lot of people have dreamt of writing one (usually based on what they imagine as their own adventurous lives!), and to be told by an actual writer that his actual novel is now on sale generally elicits enthused reactions.

Here are some: “Congratulations! What’s it about?” “Is it on Amazon?” “Who published it?” “How long did it take you to write it?” “Is it available for e-readers?” “Is it an audiobook?” What I’ve concluded is that the fact of the novel’s existence, whether in print, electronic or audio format, seems to people to be inclusive, in contrast to the way that poetry, alas, is often regarded as exclusive; that is, only for some readers.   (Footnote: Carnevale is in print and electronic formats, but not yet an audio book; I plan to record it as soon as possible.)

It’s the question, “What’s it about?” that lately gives me pause before I reply. The book has meant so much to me over so many years, and it’s such a relief not to be hawking it to literary agents, that I just don’t feel like giving a packaged reply anymore. People do sometimes sincerely ask of a poet, “What is your poetry about?” and while that question makes some poets squirm to the point of almost blurting out “Read it and find out for yourself!” I think it’s understandable that before they invest their time and attention, prospective readers expect that a novel, a big book, will have a plot and interesting characters and readily identifiable subject matter. Once the book is in their hands and before their eyes, they will have their own relationships with it. I’m not in control of that. Most people don’t know how to respond to poems, even if they’ve read and liked a collection. But, as I’ve said, with a novel things are different. There are characters and drama and comedy depicted, the stuff of ordinary life painted by the author’s hidden hand. There’s a lot for people to relate to.

Over the many years I was writing Carnevale—about 19, including final revisions right before publication—I condensed my “elevator pitch” to these 48 words: “Carnevale begins as coming of age story set in the Hudson Valley at an Italian American resort in the 1960s. The painter Guido Diamante’s memory is jarred when he returns to teach at the Hudson River College in 2008 shortly after the suspicious death of his rascal mentor.” But that isn’t what I said recently when a friend at my gym asked me, “What’s it about?”

We’d each just showered after our workouts and were in the process of getting dressed, and I really didn’t feel like giving one of my practiced synopses, but also, this guy is a friend around ten years older than I who’s from Poughkeepsie, where some of the novel is set, and so for a moment I hesitated. I really wanted him to read it and like it.

Then I replied: “It’s about an artist. He’s Italian. He lives in the Hudson Valley. I made up most of what happens.” The next time I saw him, about a week later, he said, “I’ve read the first three chapters. I’m glad they’re short. They bring back a lot of memories.”

Comments

[John A. Blackard]

Having just finished Peter’s 2017 collection of poems Entering the Mountain, I’m looking forward to reading this novel. I met some interesting characters in some of the poems. Will I find out more about them in Carnevale? I hope so.

[William Davis]

It must be a great novel, I like the author, and will read it with great pleasure.