Remedial geography

Seriously. I need one of those U.S. map puzzles. Or maybe some ginkgo biloba. "I'm driving to Minnesota on my next trip," says my spouse.

"What," I say, "Up through North Dakota?"

And there is an abrupt pause on the other end of the line before he tells me which state is actually between our house and Minnesota. And I hate it, because he's the person I most want to sound smart in front of.

I used to be concerned with sounding intelligent to readers. That's not so much the case now. Now I'm more concerned with sounding out something in readers - hitting whatever inside you is perceptive and raw. It's so much more satisfying to feel that echo come up from myself as a reader, to generate it and participate with the writer. I hope that happens with this fiction.

That's the concern. My fear, on the other hand, is that I'll be boring. Because these days I am pouring out exposition, reams of it, with faith that I'll be able eventually to compress it and create tiny pieces of text that plummet right to the reader's depths. But right now it's a mess. It feels sort of like I'm growing all the agave in Mexico to distill one glass of tequila.

Nobody knows whether it's even going to be good tequila. Right now it's a lot like this post - unable to find its way back from an alcohol metaphor to the bad-at-geography metaphor.

I could use a tutor.

So recommend one for me: What novelist or poet for you seems to know the way from here to there, without unproductive detours?