A Muse and a Maze: Writing as Puzzle, Mystery, and Magic Read online

  3. No student’s work could be discussed in workshop twice by the same faculty member during that student’s tenure in the program.

  4. No student would have his or her work discussed on the first day of workshop or the last day of workshop twice during their five residencies.

  5. All faculty would lead the same number of workshops. (This had various caveats related to other faculty responsibilities.)

  Those rules were not arbitrary; the puzzle had a serious purpose. It seemed unfair for a student to have his or her work discussed on the first day more than once, because on the first day the groups were often just getting up to speed, and on the last day they were sometimes running out of energy. It seemed ideal for a student to have his or her work discussed by as many different faculty as possible, so the writer could hear many different perspectives. And so on. Still, most people wouldn’t have bothered, in part because not everyone steps back to see the pattern in a particular problem, in part because the puzzle could be difficult to solve. Underlying the puzzle was a critical component of my colleague’s pedagogical beliefs: while, as administrators, we couldn’t control everything, the things we could control would be designed to treat everyone equally. Her attention to fairness in the organization of the groups helped keep the focus on the work being discussed, rather than on whether someone was being favored or disadvantaged by the arrangement of the workshops. Rule-bound logic governed the structure of the discussions, and the clarity of that structure was particularly important because what was being discussed—drafts of poems and stories—was unquantifiable, immeasurable. Those discussions deserved everyone’s full attention, so we made it our goal to eliminate distractions regarding the organization of the groups.

  Is it too much to say that my colleague’s habitual contemplation of solitaire (and, I later learned, a variety of puzzles in newspapers and magazines) encouraged her to see administrative challenges as puzzles to be solved? Is it so far-fetched to think that a poet who would write a book-length series of sonnets might be inclined to see how other kinds of forms might contain and productively shape less poetic material?

  I’m not filling a deep emotional hole here. I’m playing a very difficult game, and if you’d like to see someone who’s very good at a difficult game, that’s what I do.

  — JERRY SEINFELD, on writing comedy

  The scheduling puzzle that confronted us every six months reminded me of a particular Saturday morning in a particular college lecture hall. That day, I had dutifully penciled in bubbles for the verbal section of the GREs, then for the quantitative section. But when I got to the analytical problems,1 I was a happy young man. According to the test, suddenly I was traveling down a country lane, trying to get to town; where the road forked, I found a pair of identical twins, one of whom always lied, one of whom always told the truth.2 I was in my element. “Four men enter an elevator on the first floor. On each even floor they pass as they rise, one woman and one man get on; on each odd floor they pass, two men get off. When will the elevator hold the same number of women as men?” Even now, it’s hard to express the giddy pleasure I felt entering that absurd world where people get on and off elevators by gender, where foxes on rafts crossing rivers can always be counted on to eat chickens but not boys,3 where five pilots have five different colored planes and fly to five different cities on five different days of the week, where identical twins stand around forks in country lanes for no apparent reason other than to annoy out-of-towners (why a country lane? why twins?). The world had been turned into a narrative Wonderland—and into puzzles. Ridiculous as the premises seemed, some anonymous authority—the Test Master, say—was promising that it all made sense, and that in some strange, alternative universe, life’s problems had answers. It was my colleague’s gift to see the puzzles in our own universe.

  Detail of the Rhind Mathematical Papyrus

  SUDOKU IN PARTICULAR

  Sudoku as most of us know them were created (under the name “Number Place”) by an Indianapolis architect named Howard Garns in the 1960s. They were refined and became popular in Japan in the 1980s and around the world after a New Zealand judge persuaded the Times of London to begin publishing the puzzles in 2004. While the sudoku craze is relatively recent, Garns either consciously adapted or unknowingly re-created a type of puzzle that appeared in France in the nineteenth century, which was itself based on Latin Squares, which date back at least to the early eighteenth century.

  Latin Squares are in turn related to Magic Squares, which were discovered by multiple cultures, independently, between two thousand and five thousand years ago. One of the earliest surviving manuscripts, known as the Rhind Mathematical Papyrus, named for the Scotsman who bought it in Egypt in the mid-nineteenth century, and as the Ahmes Papyrus, for the scribe who copied it, is a collection of mathematical problems and puzzles enchantingly titled Directions for Attaining Knowledge of All Dark Things. The document dates to approximately 1650 B.C.E., but Ahmes writes that he is copying an “ancient text”; the content is assumed to be a few hundred years older. In addition to a study of fractions, it includes a variety of problems, or puzzles, with practical applications. While those of us who solve puzzles might feel compelled to hide our book and pencil under the sofa when company comes, or to laugh nervously and say something about “wasting time,” Magic Squares were once considered to have powerful mystical qualities, and were carried as talismans to ward off evil. No less a writer, statesman, and scientist than Benjamin Franklin amused himself with puzzles very similar to what we call sudoku.

  Edna, Walt, Elizabeth, Louise, and Alexander are all poets who happen to write in forms. When Walt is shortlisted for the National Book Award, the old friends get together for a drink before the ceremony. Match each of the five poets with his or her chosen form, first book, and drink.

  Their preferred forms are haiku, sonnet, limerick, villanelle, and sestina. Their first books are Two Cheeks (1985), One Moon (1987), My Thoughts (1990), Surging Tides (1996), and Mist Shifts in Fits (2001). Their favorite drinks are gin, an apple martini, malbec, scotch, and bottled water.

  Elizabeth writes haiku.

  The author of One Moon is not Alexander.

  The first book by the poet who drinks bottled water was published earlier than the first book by the writer of haiku.

  The sestina writer drinks scotch.

  The poet who drinks gin does not write limericks or villanelles.

  We might refer to these five poets as the one who drinks apple martinis, Edna, the author of My Thoughts, the limerick writer, and the bottled-water drinker.

  Walt’s first book was published earlier than the poet’s who drinks apple martinis.

  Of Edna and Walt, one drinks scotch and the other wrote Surging Tides.

  Louise’s first book is more recent than the limerick writer’s.

  Either the author of Surging Tides or the author of Mist Shifts in Fits drinks bottled water.

  What’s the appeal? We can imagine why an architect might have been interested in the seemingly infinite arrangement of virtually identical boxes.4 But what about others? A surprising number of people say they find the puzzles relaxing, and refreshing, because they don’t have to think. They call sudoku mindless. But nearly everyone also admits that they have run into at least a few sudoku they can’t do. If you’re in a room with someone working a sudoku, it isn’t unusual to hear an occasional vulgar exclamation; and if you check the in-flight magazine in the seat pocket in front of you, there’s a good chance it contains a sudoku half-finished, scratched out or simply abandoned. No puzzles are truly “mindless”—we have to think to do them. But in standard sudoku we have to think about only one thing—the organization of nine distinct indicators, the digits 1 through 9—and whether their arrangement satisfies a few simple rules. We know we will have rendered void the world of our diversion if we fill a box on a standard sudoku grid with the number 15, or a picture of a duck.

  A Latin square is a square divided into rows and
columns, the resulting boxes filled with symbols (numbers, letters, pictures) so that each symbol appears once and only once in each row and column.

  Puzzles focus our attention on a select body of knowledge and a single task. To that extent—and to the extent that each puzzle has one or more correct answers—they represent closed systems and, in the case of sudoku, a kind of pure knowledge, a miniature world in which some decisions are right, others are wrong, and ultimately there can be no question about which are which. (If we make an error, we can either start over or go on to another puzzle, one that is different yet essentially identical.) It can be refreshing to mentally inhabit, even for a few minutes, a world in which a goal and the means of reaching it are perfectly clear, and where our reward is complete comprehension of the whole. Of course, us being us, as soon as we attain that comprehension, we lose interest. We turn the page.

  LABORIOUS TRIFLES?

  Mr. Logan . . . showed me a folio French book filled with magic squares . . . in which, he said, the author had discovered great ingenuity and dexterity in the management of numbers; and, though several other foreigners had distinguished themselves in the same way, he did not recollect that any one Englishman had done anything of the kind remarkable. I said it was perhaps a mark of the good sense of our English mathematicians that they would not spend their time in things that were merely “difficiles nugae” [laborious trifles], incapable of any useful application.

  — BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

  The rows and columns of a magic square are filled with distinct numbers so that all of the rows, columns, and main diagonals add up to the same total, or Magic Constant. A 3x3 square is typically filled with the numbers 1–9, a 4x4 square the numbers 1–16, etc. In the square above, which is depicted in a tenth-century Indian temple, the sum of each row, column, and main diagonal is 34.

  A popular diversion in England during the mid-nineteenth century was word squares, in which each word appears both horizontally and vertically. At left is an order-6 word square. Smaller squares are easier. It probably wouldn’t take you long to create an order-4 word square beginning with the word “cube.”

  Sudoku are not for everyone. Puzzle solvers have their biases. An avid fan of the New York Times weekend crosswords might speak scornfully of those who attempt only the easier Monday through Thursday puzzles; Monday through Thursday crossword fans might belittle those who go no further than jumbled words and their cartoon punch lines; jumbled-word solvers can be heard to speak disdainfully of sudoku fans; and any of the above might heap abuse on those calm, methodical people content to circle “hidden” words. But then, diagramless crossword fans don’t think much of the puzzles with black squares, avid followers of composers like Thomas Snyder (“Dr. Sudoku”) have no time for the computer-generated sudoku that fill the airport and grocery store shelves, and people who prefer chess problems know better than to bother with any of them. Peering down on all of this are the aficionados who collect Oskar van Deventer’s mechanical puzzles or who have dog-eared copies of Martin Gardner’s books. This attitude translates as My puzzles offer intellectual stimulation; your puzzles are childish. But there are also people who think, My puzzles are fun; your puzzles are work; those who think, While I’m too intimidated to say so, I don’t even know how to start those puzzles you do; and those who feel confident that All of you people are wasting your time.

  * * *

  Elizabeth Kingsley is credited with having created the first acrostic, published in the Saturday Review in 1934. While the puzzles are published under various related names (crostics, anacrostics, double-crostics, e-crostics, etc.), they typically work like the one below, created by Michael Ashley. The solver answers as many of the clues as possible, one letter per numbered blank. Next, these letters are transferred to the correspondingly numbered squares in the diagram. This begins the spelling out of a quotation reading from left to right, with the black squares separating the words. The solver can work back and forth between the diagram and the answer words to complete the puzzle. The first letters of the answer words spell out the author and title of the work the quotation is taken from.

  * * *

  That last group includes those who claim to be completely immune to puzzles. But any investment manager, political campaign strategist, teacher creating a test, lawyer framing a case, carpenter framing a house, baseball manager making out a lineup, chef planning a menu, designer laying out a magazine or website, or busy parent trying to coordinate children’s school and soccer schedules is actively involved in puzzle solving. Each task has a goal, elements to put to use (lumber, players, vegetables), and rules or constraints (time, money, left- and right-handed batters who also need to field), and success or failure is usually fairly clear (either all the children are clothed when they get on the bus, or not). So that last attitude actually translates as something like, I don’t have time for those frivolous puzzles of yours; I’m busy solving real ones. The truth is, we all practice for life by solving puzzles of one kind or another nearly from birth. (Who comes when I cry? How soon? To help, or to scold?) We could even say that each of us represents one solution to a puzzle, a unique combination of twenty-three pairs of chromosomes.

  Readers, too, have biases. There are awkward moments around the globe every day when two strangers meet, claim to enjoy reading fiction, but discover that one is thinking Follett while the other is thinking Beckett. The fan of The Great Gatsby, Sometimes a Great Notion, and Great Expectations might fancy herself “better read” than the fan of The Good Mother and Good in Bed, but then Mark Twain referred to “the Sir Walter Scott disease,” Henry James said Mark Twain’s work appealed only to “rudimentary minds,” Faulkner called Twain “a hack,” Nabokov referred to Faulkner’s novels as “corncobby chronicles,” Nietzsche called Dante Alighieri “a hyena that wrote poetry on tombs,” Gertrude Stein called Ezra Pound “a village explainer,” Joseph Conrad called D. H. Lawrence’s novels “filth,” Lord Byron called Keats’s poetry “driveling idiotism,” Virginia Wolff said James Joyce’s Ulysses was “the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples,” and Tolstoy told Chekhov, “Shakespeare’s plays are bad enough; yours are even worse.” Fans of whatever they consider “experimental” fiction might feel obliged to belittle “conventional” fiction, readers of “literary fiction” might feel obliged to distance themselves from “best-sellers,” and on and on. But the factions setting up camp and lobbing impotent grenades fail to acknowledge that one individual reader might appreciate Samuel Beckett, Edith Wharton, and Henning Mankell, and might have read both David Foster Wallace and Irving Wallace. (David Foster Wallace was himself a fan of Stephen King’s work, an awkward complication for those who seem to think each of us is just one kind of reader.)

  Rather than attacking books we don’t feel are worth our time, worrying about whether we appreciate the “right” books, or being embarrassed by books we enjoy, all we need to consider, as writers, are which books interest and engage us, and what aspects or elements of that work—however diverse it may be—might inform our own. Even the books we don’t choose to spend time with tell us something about what we value.

  THE PUZZLE OF THE ART

  Semiotician Marcel Danesi tells us that puzzles are more than tests of knowledge or adeptness; to solve them, we rely most of all on “insight thinking,” which he defines as “the ability to see with the mind’s eye the inner nature of some specific thing.” He continues,

  The psychologist Robert Sternberg argues . . . that insight thinking is anchored in three forms of reflective memory: (1) selective encoding, or the use of information that may have originally seemed irrelevant but that may become crucial in due course, (2) selective comparison, or the discovery, often through analogical and metaphorical thinking, of a nonobvious relationship between new information and information already in memory; and (3) selective combination, or the discovery of nonobvious pieces of information that can be combined to form novel information and ideas.

  Insight thin
king, then, involves storing information that, for one reason or another, we believe could be useful; recognizing relationships between that stored information and what is currently in front of us; and realizing combinations of information that aren’t explicit. Sternberg’s use of “nonobvious” distinguishes insight thinking from the more common remembering and recognizing we do every day (“I’ve gotten food in restaurants; this looks like a restaurant; I think I can get food here”). Mathematician Charles Sanders Peirce called insight an “informed hunch” resulting from abductive thinking—a sort of educated guess based on knowledge and experience. Another way to put it, Danesi suggests, is that insight thinking is a combination of memory and imagination: “The very process of reasoning in mathematics and science relies upon the ability of the human imagination to [as Jacob Bronowski said] ‘make images and to move them about inside one’s head in new arrangements.’”

  This is a type of puzzle solving familiar to every writer. Every well-told story is a strategic arrangement, one that withholds or conceals certain information while providing or revealing other information, and which is intended to guide the reader clearly in some ways while also, simultaneously, creating uncertainty, curiosity, tension, and suspense. The nature of that uncertainty is key. Sadly—because it discourages some people from reading—literature is sometimes taught as an annoying game that could be called “Guess What the Writer Meant.” As Flannery O’Connor said, “People talk about the theme of a story as if the theme were like the string that a sack of chicken feed is tied with. They think that if you can pick out the theme, the way you pick out the right thread in the chicken feed sack, you can rip the story open and feed the chickens. But this is not the way meaning works in fiction.”