Odd Type Writers

by Celia Blue Johnson

  Schiller’s neighbors may have been surprised to hear that he had trouble staying awake at night. In 1797, he purchased a house on the western outskirts of Jena, Germany. During the summer months, he worked in a two-story tower in the garden of this home. His study was on the second floor of the square building. Late at night, neighbors would hear Schiller exclaiming loudly, as he paced back and forth, pondering his next line. This animated writing process lasted until some point between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m.

  Schiller didn’t always work at night. When he did pick up his pen during the day, it was in a darkened room. The red curtains in his study would remain closed. Sunlight illuminated the room through the lens of the fabric, providing a low-lit setting in which to work. Schiller was a master at molding his surroundings to fit his creative needs. The curtains, the apples, and the cups of coffee were props for the playwright’s workday. And, as the red curtains rose and fell in his study, a variety of productions unfolded on the page.

  In his youth, rather than mold his surroundings, Schiller had escaped them, all in the name of his grand literary ambition. His first play, The Robbers, opened when he was just twenty-two years old. Schiller had recently graduated from university and landed a job as an army medic in Stuttgart. At this stage in his life, for Schiller, the play trumped his military responsibilities. It was an exciting achievement for a young writer. Fully aware that he was breaking the rules, Schiller snuck away to attend the first performance in Mannheim. If he’d simply returned to his duties, Schiller might have avoided trouble. However, he went to see another showing of the play, this time without any secrecy. Duke Karl Eugen doled out two punishments to the young rebel upon his return to Stuttgart. Schiller was locked up for fourteen days and, far worse, forbidden to publish anything other than medical papers.

  Schiller was understandably reluctant to follow the duke’s restrictive order. In order to ensure his literary freedom, he fled to Mannheim with a friend and coconspirator, Andreas Streicher. But even during these urgent proceedings, Schiller’s creative whims took precedence over everything else. On the day they were to leave, Schiller was inspired to draft an ode. So he sat down and composed a new poem, despite Streicher’s concern about increasing danger during the delay. Schiller’s poetic detour set them back several hours. Though they’d planned to leave in the morning, the pair didn’t set off in a wagon until late at night. Luckily they made it safely to Mannheim.

  Schiller’s escape was ultimately more difficult than he’d anticipated. He had trouble selling new work and was plagued by financial difficulties for many years. However, despite hardships, he did not deviate from the literary profession. Over the course of his career, he wrote major plays, including William Tell; poems, including “Ode to Joy”; and historical and philosophical papers. Schiller developed a methodology with the same verve and dedication that helped him produce these great works. The tall, skinny writer thus basked beneath dimmed light, sipped his caffeinated beverage, inhaled the smell of rotten fruit, and wrote.

  The Nightlife

  Like Friedrich Schiller, other great writers chose to write at night, but for a variety of reasons. For some, the wheels of creativity spun fastest after the sun set. “Night-time awakens a more alert chemistry in me,” observed Tom Wolfe. He wrote his debut novel, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, late at night. Every afternoon, he’d start his workday, writing as many pages as he could before pausing for dinner. After dinner, Wolfe continued to write until he reached his daily quota of ten pages. Rather than drifting off to sleep as soon as he was done, Wolfe would round off his evening doing sit-ups in front of the television.

  Robert Frost was also driven by creative forces to write at night, despite a deep-rooted fear of the dark. This phobia haunted Frost throughout his life. It drove him to sleep in his mother’s room as a teen. Years later, in adulthood, Frost was not above asking someone to turn on the lights before he set foot inside his home. And yet, despite his trepidation, he chose to write at night. He found the nocturnal hours enchanting. Once, during an interview, he noted, “I always wished we had two moons. To see ’em weaving in the sky, it’d be quite a sky.” As a novice farmer in Derry, New Hampshire, Frost established a radical work schedule. He composed his poetry in the evening, while the stars twinkled above the farmhouse. Then, rather than jumping out of bed to tend to the livestock at dawn, he slept until late morning. The cows did their part, adjusting to milking sessions at noon and midnight.

  Other writers worked late because day jobs or school demanded their attention while the sun was up. Fyodor Dostoyevsky found time to write at night while he attended engineering school. He’d sit at his desk, huddled beneath a blanket, writing page after page of prose, while other students slumbered in their rooms. Even after he became a full-time writer, Dostoyevsky continued to write at night. The late hours provided a necessary calm, particularly as his fame grew. Just months before his death in 1881, Dostoyevsky mentioned his nocturnal habits in a letter. During the daytime, Dostoyevsky was distracted by numerous requests. He wrote, “Why do I write at night? But here I’ll wake up now at one in the afternoon; then visitor after visitor will arrive.”

  As a teen in military school, J. D. Salinger was determined to find time to write. New Yorker editor William Maxwell described the young author’s efforts: “At night in bed, under the covers, with the aid of a flashlight, he began writing stories.” Later, when Salinger had as much time as he wanted to write, his work hours spilled into the day. He would spend up to sixteen hours straight writing and revising in the concrete bunker behind his home in Cornish, New Hampshire. Salinger’s friend Bertrand Yeaton was one of the few people admitted into the reclusive author’s study. Yeaton noted, “On the wall of the studio, Jerry has a series of cup hooks to which he clips sheaves of notes.” Other essential tools in the room were a typewriter and a ledger, which contained manuscript pages and notes.

  At night, Franz Kafka wrote for long stretches. In September 1912, he composed his short story “The Judgment” in one great gust, from 10 p.m. until 6 a.m. The next day, he wrote in his diary: “Only in this way can writing be done, only with such coherence, with such a complete opening of the body and the soul.” A job at the Worker’s Accident Insurance Institute prevented Kafka from writing during the day. He would sleepily report to the institute at 8 a.m., after writing for hours at night. Though Kafka finished work in the early afternoon, the remainder of his day filled up with lunch, a long nap, exercises (done while nude), a walk, and dinner. It wasn’t until around 10 p.m. that he finally had a chance to write. Then, while the moon was high in the sky, his pen flew.

  Joan Didion juggled a job at Vogue with her debut novel, Run River. When she got home from the magazine’s office, Didion would look at her walls. They were covered in scenes from the book. She’d select a scene that hadn’t been worked on for months and take another stab at it. This ritual continued for years, until she sold the half-finished book to a publisher. At that point, she spent a couple of months away from the office, racing to the end both day and night.

  In rare cases, an author might land a job that enables him or her to write and earn a living at the same time. Working all night in a boiler room may not sound very appealing. But for William Faulkner, the job of night supervisor at a power plant was a perfect fit. Rather than nodding off during his overnight stretches, he wrote. In just six weeks, he finished As I Lay Dying. All of his hours on the job paid off twofold, with a steady paycheck and an entire novel.

  By the Cup

  HONORÉ DE BALZAC

  1799–1850

  Coffee is a great power in my life; I have observed its effects on an epic scale.

  —Honoré de Balzac, from “The Pleasures and Pains of Coffee”

  Sixteen-year-old Honoré de Balzac placed another order with his concierge. He wanted more coffee, a substance that was forbidden at Pension Lepître. But rules were often broken at the all-boys’ boarding school, particularly when a savvy worker was eager to earn
extra money. Balzac bought the smuggled goods on credit, and his debt would eventually force him to confess the illegal activity to his furious parents. The rebellious student must have felt that it was worth the trouble. Coffee was not a passing interest. It would serve as his constant writing companion, propelling him forward during a work regimen that lasted from night to day, with little rest in between.

  Balzac was twenty when he first attempted to become a professional writer. To his father’s disappointment, he chose this unconventional path over a career in law. After a few years as a junior law clerk, Balzac had decided that the legal process was depressing. Furthermore, he did not want to be trapped in a dull routine. Despite their criticism, Balzac’s parents were willing to support the aspiring writer. With a steady allowance, he was able to move into an attic apartment near Place de la Bastille. In this new space, without the demands of a day job, Balzac devoted his days entirely to writing. And, during this time, he continued to develop an appreciation for coffee. In fact, coffee was one of the few comforts he could offer a visitor. In October 1819, he wrote to his sister, Laure Surville, asking, “When will you come see me, warm yourself at my fire, drink my coffee, eat my scrambled eggs, for which you will have to bring a dish?”

  Meanwhile, Balzac sprang into his new vocation with tremendous zeal. When he did put down his pen, he roamed the neighborhood in search of inspiration. In an autobiographical tale, he recalled, “Being as poorly dressed as the workers and paying no heed to decorum, I aroused no suspicions.” In the story, he even followed pedestrians so that he could eavesdrop on their conversations. During these expeditions, the narrator Balzac felt like he was, albeit briefly, part of a different class. He described the experiences as “the dreams of a waking man.”

  Toward the end of his two-year spell (the time period his parents allotted for the endeavor), Balzac raced to meet a deadline. There were only a few months left for him to finish Cromwell, a tragedy composed in verse, and his reputation, at least on a small scale, depended on it. Balzac planned to read the work to his family and friends, finally proving his ability as a writer. So he wrote for long durations, well into the night. In September 1820, he wrote to Surville about these herculean efforts. The aspiring author explained his feelings about Cromwell in terms of a substance he knew intimately. He wrote, “I treat my poor tragedy like coffee-grounds. I calculate what I shall distill from it, to make myself independent.” He clearly felt that Cromwell could launch him to success. Balzac did complete the work, but he received unanimously poor reviews from his listeners. Still, he did not allow one failure to discourage him. The determined author picked up his pen and, with a coffeepot nearby, continued to write.

  Balzac’s late-night work stints may have been borne out of the practical necessity of hitting a deadline. However, he decided to adopt this practice on a regular basis. Over the years, he developed a habit of going to bed in the evening and waking just a few hours later. His workday began while the stars were still twinkling. While others slept, his imagination sparked and his pen flew.

  In the 1830s, Balzac often retreated from Paris to the small town of Saché. In this quiet environment, out of the hubbub of the big city, he could concentrate on his writing. He would stay in the château of Jean de Margonne (a friend who was also his mother’s lover). During his visits, Balzac stuck to a strict routine, waking to an alarm at 2 a.m. after settling down to sleep at 10 p.m. He’d write until late in the afternoon, consuming only toast and coffee all day long. Then he would break from work for a few hours to eat dinner with his host and other guests at the château. Writing was always a priority for Balzac. It was far more important than social interaction and sleep. The hardworking author believed that “too much sleep dogs the mind and makes it sluggish.” And to keep his mind active, he relied on his favorite beverage.

  Balzac consumed up to fifty cups of coffee a day, and he wouldn’t settle for a subpar brew. While in Saché, he would make a half-day journey just to purchase quality coffee beans. He preferred strong Turkish blends. Balzac even developed his own method of preparing a pot of coffee to ensure it had a powerful effect. He deduced that less water and a finer grind translated into a supremely strong beverage. When he felt that the effect of coffee was waning, Balzac upped his dose. And when he needed a quick fix, he chewed on raw beans. The consumption of coffee had negative side effects. Balzac admitted that it could make him “brusque, ill-tempered about nothing.” Despite his moodiness, Balzac chose to stick with coffee. He relied on it to maintain his long work hours. He observed, “[Coffee] gives us the capacity to engage a little longer in the exercise of our intellects.”

  Cup by cup, Balzac drafted The Human Comedy, his epic collection of interlinked stories and novels. While he wrote, the stocky author donned an unusual costume: a monk’s robe. The long white fabric was lined with silk and held in place with a matching cord. A black silk skullcap completed the outfit. According to Surville, he started wearing this type of hat in the apartment near Place de la Bastille. She added, “It was my mother who always made these caps for him.”

  An obsessive reviser, Balzac never ceased to tinker with his work. While in the midst of composing his novel The Country Doctor, Balzac sent a letter to Eveline Ha´nska, a longtime pen friend, who would eventually become his bride. The thirty-three-year-old author wrote, “I am in the paroxysm of composition and can only speak well of it. When it is done you will receive the despairs of a man who sees only its faults.” Balzac did not treat proofs as near-finished products. Instead, they were preliminary drafts, subject to numerous revisions. Balzac’s short story “Pierrette” underwent seventeen rounds of proofs.

  After Balzac turned a handwritten first draft over to a printer, the prose was typeset on large pages with wide margins so that he could input copious changes. His manuscripts tended to grow rather than shrink with each round, with additions far outweighing deletions. Balzac’s changes would sprawl across each page. The marked-up proofs frustrated and confused his typesetters. In these days, when revisions meant resetting type, the task of inputting Balzac’s changes was remarkably painstaking and laborious. In fact, there was a standing rule at Balzac’s printer that workers spend no more than an hour on his proofs.

  Balzac devoted his life almost completely to writing. He spent more time than most authors at his desk, with his pen soaring across the page. The result of his endless commitment was a large body of work. As he wrote to Surville in June 1833, “One can put a great deal of black upon white in twelve hours.” And there was always a restorative cup of coffee nearby to help fire Balzac’s synapses. The elixir was essential for Balzac to maintain his relentless schedule. Even his writing tools struggled to keep up with such ferocious dedication. In the same letter to Surville, he declared, “The poor pen! it ought to be made of diamond, not to wear out at this rate!”

  Drinks with Inks

  Whether they chose to fill their cups with tea or coffee, many famous authors have found that a nice hot brew is an ideal complement to the writing process. For Honoré de Balzac, coffee was a mental stimulant. However, he didn’t reserve his coffee intake to the study. Balzac enjoyed sipping cups of fine coffee at Paris’s historic café Le Procope. Voltaire, who died just over twenty years before Balzac was born, also frequented the café.

  Voltaire’s coffee consumption rivals Balzac’s high intake. He was known to drink up to forty cups of coffee in a day. Le Procope was an ideal spot for the coffee enthusiast. Voltaire began frequenting the establishment in his early eighties. At the time, he was directing his play Irène in a theater across the street. After rehearsal, Voltaire would walk over to the café, sit down at his favorite table, and drink cup after cup of a special coffee-chocolate blend.

  Benjamin Franklin was another famous literary patron of Le Procope. He arrived in France in 1776, around the same time Voltaire had become a fixture in the café. Le Procope was one of Franklin’s favorite spots to sit, drink, and converse. When Franklin died, Parisians mourned
. As a signal of the widespread grief, the café was covered in black material for three days.

  Jonathan Swift also enjoyed sipping delicious coffee. It seems that Swift liked to keep a healthy stock of his favorite beverage at home. His account ledgers show that he paid 1.2 shillings for seven pounds of coffee beans. In a letter to Hester Vanhomrigh, whom he nicknamed Vanessa, Swift advised, “The best maxim I know in life is to drink your coffee when you can, and when you cannot, to be easy without it.” Though it is widely accepted that Swift was an avid coffee drinker, many scholars believe that he was using the caffeinated beverage as a code for sexual encounters in his letters to Vanessa.

  Alexander Pope had a completely different use for coffee. He’d call upon a servant to whip up a pot of coffee in the middle of the night. Pope’s late-night demand was for medicinal purposes. He found that the wafting steam from a fresh cup of coffee worked wonders for his recurring headaches. In addition to coffee, Pope was known to ring for ink and paper when a nocturnal muse struck. Pope’s off-hour requests didn’t go over well with servants. He developed a reputation for being a difficult visitor.

  Other writers opted for tea over coffee. Simone de Beauvoir eased into her day with a cup of tea. In an interview for the Paris Review, de Beauvoir acknowledged that she wasn’t much of a morning person. She observed, “In general I dislike starting the day.” A dose of tea helped her make the transition from her bed to her desk. After consuming a cup of the hot beverage, she was ready to get to work (usually at around 10 a.m.).

  C. S. Lewis once said to his friend Walter Hooper, “You can’t get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.” For Lewis, tea was a perfect literary companion. He preferred to drink tea alone, while he read or wrote. After working for a few hours in the morning, Lewis looked forward to a cup of tea landing on his desk. In his autobiography, he wrote, “If a good cup of tea or coffee could be brought to me around eleven, so much the better.”