Home Page
Articles and Publications
The Art of Creative Writing
Robert Weston
Part
One ~Writing as a Lifestyle
The Four Keys
The One Per Cent of Inspiration
Excruciating Excuses
Moment-Mosting
Cultivating a Receptive Spirit
Tuning Up and Tuning in
Part
Two ~ Starting Scenarios:
The Big Bang
In Medias Res
Scene-Setting
Inside the Protagonist’s Mind
Information-Sharing
Endings that do Justice to the Beginning
Part
Three ~ The Art that conceals Artistry
Select-a-Style
Read in order to Write
Tell me a Story!
Purposeful Plots
Convincing Characters
Distinguished Description
Dynamic Dialogue
Humorous Happenings
Part
Four ~ In search of the right Viewpoint
A Robust Viewpoint
A Focused Viewpoint
A Roving Viewpoint
A Propagandist’s
Viewpoint
Passionate Prose
Part
Five ~ The Writer’s Two Hats
Animus and Anima
The Art of Rewriting
Script Sequencing
Recurrent Themes
Ragged Writing
Stilted Stuff
Sharing with Others
Motivated Mentors
Part
Six: ~The Tools of the Trade
The Paras are coming
Verbalise your Longings
Drop the Adjective?
Adverbs: Brilliant Metaphors or P45 Candidates?
The Dashing Colons
Watch the Screamer!
Miscellaneous Muddles
A Which Hunt
Male or Female?
Red your Roofs (and Read your Proofs)
Summary of Parts Five and Six
Part
Seven ~The Still Small Voice
Affirming and Protecting our Calling
Carping Critics
The Mind Field Maze
The Condemnation Trap
A far from passive Perseverance
Green-Eyes the Envious
Writer’s Block
Dealing with Disappointments
The Still Small Voice
A Book of Gratitudes
Preparing for Tomorrow
Books that will take you further
PART ONE ~ WRITING AS A LIFESTYLE
The
Four Keys
At some
stage in our life, almost all of us experience the urge to transcribe our
thoughts and experiences on paper. Hard on the heels of this desire come a
flood of doubts. ‘Do I really have the talent to write anything worth reading?
Am I good enough’? A better question to ask ourselves might be: ‘Do I have
sufficient passion to express my thoughts on paper?’ Every one of us has things
to say that will be of benefit and interest to others. There is no reason why
the great majority of us can not hone and sharpen the talents we already have
and learn to write well, provided only that our desire and determination are
strong enough.
My
intention in this publication is not primarily to point the way for developing
niche markets and lucrative contracts, but rather to explore how we can develop
our creativity and come in touch with the source of inspiration. After that we
are in a better position to explore in parts Two and Three the ‘nuts and bolts‘
that are integral to the craft of writing.
The
sequence is logical. Without genuine inspiration, no amount of technique will
ever be quite enough. But even if we possess great ability there will still be
battles to face. Part Seven is completely different in the subject matter that
it covers, but equally as important for writers at any stage of their development.
This is where we examine the emotional pressures that stall and stunt our
creativity.
Four
central themes weave their way in and out of almost every section of this book.
These are not sequential steps but rather that, at any given moment, one of
them will prove the most appropriate response. The secret lies in having the
wisdom and the experience to know which one to apply.
1)
Cultivate the Still Small Voice
All
artists possess some form of a ‘sixth sense'. It taps into our subconscious
store of experiences and supplies us with fresh insights, as well as warning us
when something needs amending or sharpening. So far from merely being something
that we are either blessed with or not (and many of us might instinctively feel
that we are not) we shall explore some of the many things we can do to
cultivate this all important source of inspiration.
2)
Maintain Friends and Activities away from the Word-Bank
As we
shall be seeing, priceless insights often come our way during seemingly
‘fallow’ periods. Certain types of wordless recreation are as important as hard
graft for releasing our creative potential.
3) Hold
up Banners of Truth
Discouraging
thoughts bombard the writer’s mind. To help us refute their persistent
suggestions, we have suggested mentally unfurling specific "banners"
for each theme that we address. Repeating and insisting on these slogans will
highlight the key principles we are eager to communicate. Best of all, we can
apply these principles to any size or shape of writing project.
4)
Resolve to Pursue your Vocation.
How can we
refocus our gaze in the face of pressing worries and distractions? By making
the pursuit of our vocation our first and last resort. By doing this, we will
rapidly increase the size and scale of our output and increasingly master the
tools of our trade.
The One
Per Cent of Inspiration
‘Tis
God gives skill,
But
not without men’s hands:
He
could not make Antonio Stradivari’s violin
without
Antonio'. (George Eliot)
No
workshop rack stocks it, it cannot be bought and it can barely be taught, yet
it is utterly essential to the writer’s calling. What is this vital element
which enables us to share our insights effectively and creatively? In a word,
inspiration.
In a celebrated
newspaper interview, Thomas Edison claimed that ‘Genius is one per cent
inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration'. Most of us are familiar with
this quote and approve it readily. We may, however, merely end up
subconsciously glorifying the great work ethic and miss the vital point. Of
what value is the the ninety-nine percent hard graft if the all-important one
per cent ingredient of inspiration is missing? It would be as meaningless as
knitting metres and metres of wool without thought to pattern or design.
We can
balance our text according to rhyme, rhythm and reason at any stage of the
revision process. What we cannot do without is the still small voice of
inspiration, which provides us with our distinctive starting point and
particular way of expressing our central themes. This ‘still small voice’ is a
combination of flashes of genuine intuition and the fruit of sound judgement.
It enables us to embrace new thoughts, to see the potential in life’s many
different experiences, and to single out and follow promising leads.
The
ancient Greeks used to speak of ‘The Muse,’ and of the ‘chairos’ – the special
moment at which revelation is imparted and matters become clear. To a greater
or lesser extent, all successful writers know that they are dependent on it.
They also know how important it is to cultivate it by getting away from our
noise-driven world and to be in places where conducive to receiving
inspiration. Whether it takes the form of a hobby, walking, or doing the
housework, it will almost certainly come under a ‘non-academic’ heading and
involve something that might appear monotonous and repetitive to outsiders.
Herein
lies our first great paradox: to bring something distinctive to the word-face
requires spending time well away from it. Writers have perfectly legitimate
reasons why they adopt mildly eccentric and antisocial social habits!
A few days
ago I was dandling our two-year-old on my knee when I suddenly ‘knew’ how to
solve a thorny issue that had been stumping me for over a year. Being unsure of
which way to develop one of the central themes in a novel I was sketching out,
I reluctantly laid it to one side. Knowing there was nothing more I could do
until this problem was resolved, I ‘possessed my soul in patience,’ to use the
Biblical expression, and pressed on with other projects.
One single
unexpected moment of illumination imparted the direction and the impetus I so
badly needed. Now I can face the mountain of hard work that lies ahead because
I have received the one percent of inspiration.
Let me
give another illustration. I am currently writing a manual on Grief, to which I
gave profoundly original working title of ‘Grief'. I read extensively and by
the end of several weeks hard work I had produced – no surprise this – a manual
on the Grief process. We printed a limited number of copies and distributed
them at a retreat we held for those who were mourning. It served its
apprenticeship and fulfilled its purpose, but even though I had poured my heart
into the text, it still felt too impersonal, too cerebral. The worst thing was,
I could think of no way of making it less stiff and stilted. And then, a few
weeks ago, while having a bath, it became crystal clear to me that the book
could be rewritten much more creatively in the form of an extended meditation.
The longed
for ‘chairos’ had occurred. In an instant the project moved from head to heart.
The still small voice had spoken and a far more original title sprang to mind: ‘Veil
of Tears'. Most of the material I have prepared will doubtless end up being
incorporated in one form or another, but the theme and tonality will be
infinitely sharper.
We can not
always trace the coming of inspiration so precisely to one date and place.
Often, it emerges over a period of time, like dew drops accumulating on the
grass. But since we prize the Tool of Inspiration so highly, we must not be
deterred by its apparent intangibility. Although it may often seem
tantalizingly elusive, there is much we can learn about making ourselves more
receptive to it. If we can learn to coral and cultivate the insights and half
nudges that come our way, we can provide far richer light and shade to enhance
both the fore and back-grounds for our writing.
As the
second of our maxims suggests (Maintain Friends and Activities away from the
Word-Bank) our best ideas often come when we are farthest from the writing
desk. It is these precious steering touches which make it possible for us to
make sense of apparently disparate and random elements, and to integrate them into
our work.
We can
see, then, that the real process of writing begins long before we pick up a pen
or switch on the computer. It is already under way, as we subconsciously
process the stimuli and experiences of life. Most of us never do anything about
these half-formed ideas that flit through our mind, except perhaps to share
them as casual thoughts with close friends and intimates. But we, as writers,
cannot permit such promising material to escape so lightly. To limit the events
and happenings of life to casual conversation would be to lose forever the
possibility that they could one day be turned into something worth reading.
At all
costs, therefore, we must translate these thoughts and ideas onto paper.
Whatever form they finally assume, whether reflective meditation, white-hot
article of protest, or, at several stages removed as fictitious episodes, the
most important thing is to record the core experience: not only what happened,
but how did the people involved feel about what happened. The material itself
can be shaped and fashioned at leisure, but the original moment of inspiration
can never be fully recaptured. There is no second chance to record first
impressions.
Why
pretend that this process of transcribing seemingly random thoughts and
experiences onto paper is an effortless one? That would be as naive as to
suppose that top runners are merely blessed with a better than average pair of
legs. Writing well requires something of the same degree of commitment that it
takes to run a sub four minute mile.
Since this
one per cent of inspiration provides both the bedrock substratum of our work
and the final top soil too, we must be prepared to take whatever steps are
necessary in order to cultivate a lifestyle that is conducive to receiving such
revelation.
This
brings us to the first of the many key banners we shall be unfurling: ‘Be
open to receive inspiration at unlikely times and in improbable places'. Right
alongside it, however, we must place another: ‘Record these insights in an
easily retrievable form'.
Excruciating
Excuses
‘Hell is paved with good intentions
and roofed with lost opportunities'. (Anon)
I met a
new friend unexpectedly for lunch the other day in the hospital cafeteria.
‘Writers,’ he mused, pondering my profession. ‘They spend most of their time
making excuses for not doing it, don’t they?’ Unpalatable though it is to
admit, I have a sneaking feeling that he is probably right.
How
pertinently Browning put it when he asked, ‘Does he write? He fain would paint
a picture. Does he paint? He fain would write a poem'. Anything, in other
words, rather than get on with the hard work of writing. Jesus made it clear in
two of His parables that feeble excuses could cause people to miss out on His
heavenly kingdom. Laziness, likewise, can cause us to forfeit many achievements
we could achieve if we were prepared to stretch ourselves a bit more.
In the
story Jesus told about a banquet in Luke 14, people came up with a variety of
excuses for not accepting the invitations they had received. The least
convincing was the person who had just bought a field, and who felt an
overwhelming need to go and inspect it. After all, the field would still have
been there the following day. Another had just bought a tractor (well, five
yoke of oxen at any rate!) and was keen to put them through their paces.
I have
rather more sympathy for the person who had just got married, but when we take
these excuses together we find that they centre around property, possessions,
and priorities. All of these are perfectly good things in themselves, so long
as they serve rather than quench out calling to write.
When it
comes to overcoming our excuses, we have to move beyond the need to ‘feel’
inspired, and to write, pray, paint or whatever it is that we are called to do.
To keep proffering the pretext that we are too tired / unqualified / or lacking
in inspiration effectively dooms us to getting nowhere.
We shall
plumb the reasons for our emotional reluctance to write in Part Four. For the
moment, we need to come face to face with our proneness to making excuses. Our
primary need is to develop frameworks that will facilitate our creativity. Are
there simple practical steps we can take to make our writing environment more
conducive? Even something as simple as switching the answer phone on can spare
us time-consuming interruptions and free us to attend to the business in hand.
Where our
resolve is fixed, we can usually find solutions. Baby-sitters can be brought in
to give us time to write, and the care of elderly parent be swapped with others
in order to buy ourselves a few precious writing hours.
But
perhaps something even more radical may be called for: structural changes even
to the house in order to carve out the seclusion that we need. Staying up late,
or getting up way before dawn may well be the only way in which we will ever
bring a cherished project to completion. After all, if students are willing to
do this to complete their studies, then should we do less in pursuit of our
goal? Anything is better than failing to finish our work!
If at all
possible, keep the writing zone separate from the area where we attend to
administrative tasks. The reason for this is simple. The Craft of Writing can
seem at times so dauntingly demanding that we would cheerfully put anything
ahead of doing it – even to the point of attending to repairs we have
successfully been putting off for months.
It is the
willingness to overcome excuses that separates would-be writers from real ones.
When the talking horse, Bree, escapes from Archenland in CS Lewis’ Chronicles
of Narnia, he is under the illusion that he is pushing himself hard. In
reality, he has forgotten what it is like to have a rider who would have
spurred him on to considerably greater efforts. Can we recognise that our
proneness to making excuses has made us somewhat lazy?
It is here
that we face our first and most crucial obstacle. There are serious
psychological barriers to writing that need to be overcome. Like a bucking restless
horse, our inner reluctance to pick up our pen must be broken. How will we
advance beyond pointless reverie while we remain a-bed a-dreaming?
There is
nothing easy or automatic about defeating these deeply-ingrained excuses.
Competing and complicated circumstances are hard enough to deal with, but the
plaintive whines of our inmost being are still more inveigling. ‘I need another
hour in bed,’ we protest, vehemently or sluggishly, depending which mode we
think stands the most chance of prevailing against our better intentions.
‘Surely there’s no harm, in that?’ Wrong! Such attitudes may actually matter a
great deal. It is only by constantly overcoming our inertia that we will mature
as writers who have the unique capacity to inspire others.
Let me go
still farther. If we are not prepared to exercise this sort of discipline, our
writing will remain forever a chance affair; a ‘hit’ when times are good, but a
distant ‘miss’ when competing attractions or difficulties come our way.
By careful
observation and experience, we must learn to recognise which people, places and
situations stimulate and refresh our creativity, and which hinder the freedom
of our spirit. Our goal should be that when we return to our work we feel
refreshed by our chosen activity. If walking, cycling, swimming and watching or
playing ball games are our thing, then step out and enjoy them to the full –
but be aware that not all forms of recreation will prove equally conducive to
writing. While some plays or films may inspire us profoundly, others will drag
our emotions into dead-end alleys, and leave us feeling confused and
distracted. Why? Because we have shared too deeply in someone else’s vision
and, as a consequence, drifted too far from our own writing projects.
Maturity
as a writer consists of knowing when it is perfectly in order to rest and
relax, and when we need to dig deep and push through external obstacles and our
own inner reluctance. As surely as people following a diet must avoid certain
foods, so those who are serious about developing the Craft of Writing must take
care not to fill their minds with unhelpful material. ‘Do not be deceived,’
Our banner
reminds us of the maxim "Develop the Resolve to Pursue our Vocation"
and prods at our conscience: ‘Excuses are inexcusable'.
Pause
and Ponder.
What are
the excuses you most frequently use to avoid getting on with some writing
project? What underlying attitudes do these indicate? More to the point, what
are you going to do to overcome them?
Moment-Mosting
‘What shelter to grow ripe is ours?
What leisure to grow wise?
Too fast we live, too much are tried,
Too harass’d to attain
Wordsworth’s sweet clam,
or Goethe’s wide
And luminous view to gain.’ (Matthew Arnold, Obermann
Once More)
There is
only one thing in life that can never be redeemed, and that is wasted time.
Every day is a gift to treasure: a unique chance to love and cherish others and
to use the time we have been given to create something beautiful.
As always,
the big picture is best achieved by making the most of the small opportunities
that come our way. Rachel Simon describes how a former French Chancellor,
d’Aguesseau, used to write each evening for a quarter of an hour, while he
waited for his wife, who was regularly late for dinner. How much more creative
than calling her names while the soup got cold! One year later his book was
complete. It proved to be a best-seller!
Since most
of us lead pressurized lives, we are deluding ourselves if we hope to be able
to find enough time to write. We need to be more pro-active than that and make
it. This is a vital distinction.
If at all
possible, we should aim to complete the targets we set ourselves each day.
Rachel urges beginner writers to find seven hours a week in which to write. One
hour a day may not sound much, but most of us have to juggle competing
commitments to the point where this slot needs to be factored in carefully. Two
things will help us to achieve this:
i) The
ability to prioritise.
ii) The
flexibility to write wherever we are.
If we are
making pursuing the Craft of Writing our priority, we will find that far more
activities than we would ever have thought possible can be postponed or set
aside. The world will not come to end. to compensate for the things we no
longer have the time to attend to personally, then maybe we are opening a door
and giving that person the break they were looking for. Just as families
routinely make complicated child-care arrangements if both parents go out to
work, so we must look upon this writing hour as a priority engagement.
We are
writers, and we must give ourselves permission to escape for our hallowed hour
away from the television, the kids and everything else. Politely but firmly we
may sometimes have to insist on being ‘antisocial’ and turn down
attractive-sounding invitations. We know from much experience that we will
never complete our quiver of writings so long as we remain set on living a full
social life. We rush after so many things that are, in reality, peripheral to
our calling. We waste time and energy rehearsing endless ‘what if’ scenarios,
trying to fathom out hypothetical issues we are not actually required to face
at this moment. Why not just get on with the real work instead?
As for
trying to meet everyone else’s expectations for our lives, we are on a hiding
to nothing. Unless we set the boundaries carefully, placing ourselves on an
endless merry-go-round. Of course, one reason we may be trying so hard to take
care of other people’s needs and feelings is that we are subconsciously
deriving a large part of our own self-worth from trying to meet these needs.
Psychologists call it ‘co-dependency’ when we transfer our attention away from
ourselves and focus instead on the needs of others.
In
relational terms, our empathy with others is proof of our sensitivity and
generous spirit. In terms of pursuing the craft of writing it tends to make us
inefficient and prone to burn out. Worse, leaping to meet the needs of others
gives us the excuse we were subconsciously looking for to avoid putting in the
long hours of hard work that are needed to bring our projects to completion.
Moment-mosting
is all about putting the stray opportunities of life to good use and turning
wherever we happen to be a special writing place. Many are the times I have sat
on benches in shopping malls and leisure centres revising texts, while family
members complete their activities – just as I have scribbled countless ideas on
trains, planes and buses. I have even spent long hours in freezing cars
revising texts in the chill of the pre-dawn hours, afraid to turn the engine
back on once the motion has finally rocked my all too wide awake baby back to
sleep. For the record, I began this section in a leisure centre waiting for my
son to finish his kayak session, and revised it on a ferry boat, waiting to get
into a fog-bound
If we find
our home environment too constrictive for creative writing, then why not ring
the changes and use a friend’s house instead? It makes an excellent alternative
to a public library and may be a real haven of peace during the working day. If
we find other places conducive, then go there again.
As we
progress farther into the calling, the distractions become more sophisticated.
Because writing is such a solitary calling, it is only natural that we should
seek out like-minded people. Before we know where we are, however, we may find
our new interest leading us to attend (or teach) so many writing classes and
conferences that we end up mistaking our firsthand acquaintance with the
literary world with actually doing the nitty-gritty hard work of writing.
Pause
and Ponder
Make a
simple audit over a four-week period of how you spend your time. This will
quickly show you whether or not you are on track for finding the seven sacred
hours a week to write. For the professional, this figure should be more like
twenty five or thirty hours.
If you are
regularly failing to meet your quota, what activities are there that you can
legitimately shelve or jettison? Is there anyone who can be recruited to help
you with your non writing activities? Or, if they are competent on computers,
to type in your amendments?
No matter
what constricting circumstances we may have to contend with, there are always
ways to make the most of the time.Take a look at how you plan your holidays,
for example. Are you able to make them ‘combined affairs’ – necessary time-out
to recharge minds, bodies and family life but also a priceless opportunity to
see new sights and to record fresh thoughts and experiences?
Our banner
for this section is the nearest thing I know to a magic shortcut for achieving
a finished result. When leaving a piece of work, make a mental agreement
with yourself to return to it again soon. Respect this engagement as a firm
commitment, and treat it as a high priority. This will avoid leaving a project
so long on the back boiler that we lose touch with it. Such a firm arrangement
will increase our output, maintain the unity of thought and tone in the writing
– and prove to ourselves if to no one else that we are committed to becoming a
‘real’ writer.
‘Cultivating
a Receptive Spirit
The Muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himself he learned to wander,
Adown some trotting burn’s meander,
An’ no think lang'. (Robert Burns)
It may
come as a shock to westerners reared on the ethos of hard graft and long hours
to realise that it is at moments of apparent idleness that we are at our most
receptive to our sharpest insights and impressions. The more we appreciate this
paradox, the more willing we will be to allow ourselves to close down the busy
bustling of our brain for a season and to nurture a ‘slower’ pace of life. Not
so slow that we fall asleep and rust away; just relaxed enough to tap into the
endless resources of the still small voice.
The better
we understand this link between recreation and inspiration, the more willing we
will be to give ourselves permission and take time out. As our third key maxim
reminds us, it makes every sense for writers to escape for a season from the
word-bank and indulge in wordless recreation. Dorothea Brand’s masterly book ‘Becoming
a Writer’ focuses almost exclusively on the crucial role of the
subconscious in the writing process.
Deep
within our subconscious lies an almost inexhaustible stream of ideas and
experiences, along with the emotions that accompanied these episodes. We may
suppose most of these to be long since forgotten, yet they are not beyond
recall. If we can find ways to tap into this vast fund, we will rediscover a
pool of events and anecdotes and release a deeper degree of identification to
illustrate the points we are eager to convey. Even the most painful experiences
can be reworked on paper and used for the benefit of others.
We must
co-operate, too, with our body rhythms. We were designed to alternate between
active hours, when our senses are on full alert, and quiescent ones, when our
inner being has the chance to catch up with itself. It is because society’s
norms are so out of kilter that unbridled stress places such demands on people
and wreaks such havoc in our lives.
For many
years I was tempted to regard my propensity to feel sleepy in the afternoon as
an embarrassing weakness. Seen and used creatively, this quieter period often
proves to be a time of enlightenment as well as of much needed refreshment. A
semi-drowsy state can restore our soul to peace and reward us with solutions to
problems that had long been defeating our ‘conscious’ minds. Other experiences
and associations that come to mind can be ‘processed’ and turned into insights
that will come across as both fresh and interesting.
There are
times when artists must refrain from looking guiltily across at their
curriculum-driven hard-working peers and stop and stare into space. This is not
to be confused with the deadness induced by exhaustion. Neither is this
idleness. We are speaking rather of the essential preparation which frees the
subconscious to achieve its deeper work within our soul. Liberated from the
excessively rational critiques and limitations of our conscious minds, our
writing will soon show new signs of vigour and freshness.
Since the
subconscious is such a promising well of inspiration, it is unfortunate that
Freud has corrupted the way we view it – almost to the point where we are
tempted to look down on it, as though we are dealing with a lesser species.
Perhaps we should dispense with the term ‘subconscious’ altogether and speak rather
of developing the life of the spirit within us.
Rest and
‘play’ times are as important for grown-up writers as they are for children.
Did the Lord not create children with an instinct to play because He was
putting something of His own nature into them? Referring to children’s
willingness to play the same game over and again, G. K. Chesterton delightfully
declared, ‘Our Father is younger than us'.
We can
develop this life of the spirit in us by cultivating what I have rather
euphemistically termed ‘The Daily Review'. (I believe in the value of this
concept passionately, however intermittently I manage to perform it!) At the
end of the day I play back the key events as if watching them on a video,
recalling the emotions associated with them as well as what actually happened.
Sometimes I ‘pause the video frame’ and replay particular scenes to see if
there were pointers hidden within them: ‘nudges’ to nurture or which require
further action, or – more painfully – attitudes I have struck and comments I
have made that need to be put right. The Daily Review helps us recover lost
insights, and brings back to our consciousness insights that would otherwise
have been lost for ever.
And then
we must write them down. As we hinted earlier, inspiration arrives at the most
unlikely times and place, but because it is normally so fleeting we must train
ourselves to write these insights down in an easily retrievable form. We will
be grateful later that we took the trouble to do this.
In this
quest to move beyond a world dominated by words, there are deeper links to
explore between music and inspiration. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called music,
‘The universal language of mankind’. Martin Luther went so far as to describe
it as ‘The Art of the Prophets – the only Art that can calm the agitations of
the soul'.
Do you
know which styles of music regularly inspire creativity and which divert from
it? Try putting some music on while writing: music that moves, smooths or
inspires; that expresses our emotions and which helps us to identify with other
people’s hopes and griefs. Now try an entirely different style of music. How
does it affect the way we approach our subject material?
In all
this we are seeking to make it easier to hear the still small voice speak. To
be led by the spirit means having the eagerness of a child to learn and
discover new facets of life. Why settle for the safe and predictable? To
recognize that our preoccupations and mental horizons have shrunk may be the
first stirring towards an inner awakening. The more commitments we take on
board, the more quality time off we need to compensate against the increased
demands. It is in these seemingly fallow moments that our pool of experiences
and insights being is constantly renewed.
We can
look on the thoughts and ideas which come during these moments of quiet
inspiration as being like dormant seeds that await a latter-day flowering. What
we receive at such times distils like dew into our hearts, and from there
passes on in due time to water many other lives as well.
For many
of us, the waking moments are all-important. Before we find ourselves
overwhelmed by the thought of all we have to do today (and all we failed to do
yesterday); before the radio and television bring us tidings of the world’s
disasters, and the bills arrive to challenge our bank balance, and with it our
mental equilibrium, it is good to still the soul and to open ourselves to new
thoughts and possibilities.
Because
writing is such a lengthy and emotionally stretching process, we must be gentle
with ourselves. Berating ourselves is nearly always counterproductive – but
gentleness should not be confused with flabbiness. In the original Greek, I am
told, the word contains the notion of breaking in a wild stallion. Gentleness
is strength harnessed and put to its proper use.
Pause
and Put into Practice
When we
reach a place of stillness, beyond the clutter of words and troubling thoughts,
we may be close to the borderlands of inspiration. This requires regular
practice. Try going to quiet places and practising being still. What are the
sounds that fill the air and catch our attention? Are we hearing too many of
our own conflicting thoughts, or are we tuning into our surroundings? Don’t
start thinking about current writing projects unless they force themselves on
us. Just absorb the atmosphere and listen.
Practise
holding the mind still. If we can manage to do that (and we may not be able to
do so every single time we try) then now is the time to think our way into our
material. Focus intently and in turn on each character or detail of our latest
writing project. Let aspects of their personality and actions become real. The
more fully we can envisage them, the more passionate and convincing each scene
will be when we come to write them up. It is this inner conviction and
authenticity which draws readers to identify with the themes we are exploring
and the world we are creating.
Tuning
Up and Tuning In
Orchestral
musicians tune up carefully before the music begins, just as athletes warm up
thoroughly before a race. We too as creative artists must warm up and tune in.
We do this best by simply giving freer rein to whatever thoughts and ideas are
uppermost in our minds. Most writers find that they are at their most receptive
in the distraction-free early hours. But whether we gravitate towards predawn,
mid-noon or post nightfall will depend on our circumstances as well as on
whether we are larks or owls.
Much that
we write during this warmup period between being sleep and wakefulness may
stray and ramble, but that is of no consequence. For the moment, all that
matters is to be guided by the ideas and concerns that seem most pressing.
To pursue
the metaphor, we could liken these early morning jottings to musicians tuning
their instruments, and athletes warming up. The only difference is that whereas
athletes do not break records and musicians do not make recordings while they
are practising, it is entirely possible for us to record thoughts and
impressions we may later be able to shape into something of real value.
Many
people like to warm up by journalling first thing in the morning. The great
advantage of doing this is that we do not need to concern ourselves with how
some imaginary ‘outside reader’ might view our text; we are writing for our own
edification and nobody else’s. In this sense, it is akin to ‘stream of
consciousness’ writing. As we record the flow of interests, ideas and hurts we
may long have been storing up, the mere fact of setting them down on paper
helps us to find clarity and release.
The
crucial need here is not to allow pride and self-protectiveness a landing
strip. They invariably reduce the truth and honesty flow. Why make the effort
to portray ourselves in a good light? It is not as though anybody else need
ever read these scribblings.
The one
thing I would not recommend is starting the day with anything that demands too
much thought. If there is any room for manoeuvre, leave the heavy stuff till
later. We will find it much harder to switch back later into a more creative
mode.
For the
same reason, I prefer to leave writing letters and e-mails till later in the
day. Occasionally, however, I do start here. Taking time to address people’s
concerns can play its part in sharpening our literary craft, as well as keeping
us in touch with their real needs.
Rather then seeking to stoke our intellect to
fever pitch too early in the day, this is the time to be instinctive, to allow
our spirit to have its day. We can afford to let the rationalistic editor
within have a lie-in. When this fellow wakes us, nothing will stop him from
wielding his blue pen, and having a hey day – but for the moment we are
creators not critics. Our only concern is to capture our innermost thoughts and
ideas. Later, as we reflect on what we have written, we may be able to see
threads that connect and make sense of the jumble of thoughts, impressions,
memories and anecdotes that come to mind; for the moment, we can be content
just to write and record. Our banner for these times is a prescriptive one: ‘Don’t
analyse – just write’.
Part Two ~ Starting Scenarios
Lead on
Macduff
The time
has come for us to move beyond examining the sources of our creativity to
examine key stages of the writing process. We have chosen fiction writing as
our default template, but most of the principles we will be exploring can be
applied equally as effectively to any form of writing.
The first
principle to bear in mind is that there is no such thing as a second chance for
readers to obtain a first impression. If our openings fail to impress, people
may quickly lose any incentive to continue just as a poor opening in a game of
chess virtually dooms the novice to defeat. We have somewhere between a page
and a page and a half to set the scene and convince them to read on.
In our
favour is the fact that we can start our work in any way that we like. Most
readers will be inclined to give us the benefit of the doubt, at least for a
certain period of time. Whether they warm to our theme depends on whether we
succeed in establishing a powerful setting and a conducive tonality.
A novel is
more leisurely than a short story or a piece of tabloid journalism, but we
still need to insert effective ‘hooks’ to draw readers in. Otherwise, we merely
leave them facing a succession of facts or events.
We must be
prepared to make as many revisions as we need before we discover the best way
to couch our openings. Once we are reasonably satisfied that we have conveyed
what we set out to do, then we will be in a position to entertain less and to
inform more.
Given the
important role the opening has to play, this particular banner takes the form
of an all-important question which bids us cast a critical eye over the way we
begin any of our writing projects: Do our lead-ins lead in successfully?
The Big
Bang
‘It’s a terrible plan – you’ll be damn lucky to get
back alive'. Colin Forbes, (The
Thriller
writers frequently favour the fastest route possible into the action. Colin
Forbes’s dramatic start draws readers in and makes them desperately concerned
to know the outcome of this unknown plot. Anything that raises suspense –
‘reader worry’ as we call it in the trade – is promising. A punchy question or
a strongly phrased statement may be a perfect way to make readers want to join
the writer in search of answers.
To start
with a threat, and someone’s response to that threat usually makes for a strong
opening. Threats predispose the reader to expect a sudden and abrupt change of
circumstances. Change precipitates action, and because people are feeling
vulnerable they often act out of character ways, or, alternatively, reveal
characters strengths and weaknesses that would not normally be apparent. It is
change which precipitates action and which brings people to a completely new
stage of their lives. Our banner urges us boldly to ‘Start with the main
person or point'. This is, after all, what the reader expects.
Elizabeth
Goudge’s sensitive writing has nothing whatsoever in common with Colin Forbes’ more
upbeat style, but she too shows that she knows how to land a strong punch, if
the opening line of ‘The Scent of Water’ is anything to go by.
‘Mary, you
will regret this'.
Opening
thunder blasts make for compelling reading, but they give readers nothing to
measure the threat or challenge against. In both examples referred to above,
the ‘gunpowder’ tactic is effective, however, because it leaves the reader
eager to find out what is going on. Many lesser writers would find it difficult
to live up to such high expectations such after such hard-hitting openings. If
we land mighty punches or insert powerful hooks, we must make sure that the
rest of our text does not leave readers feeling anticlimactic. Although Colin
Forbes is more than able to maintain the level of tension throughout that
particular book, it is worth considering alternative opening gambits. It can
often be more strategic to place the hook not in the first line, but a few
lines further in to the story.
Take the
following example, which admirably conveys the ‘Zeitgeist’– the prevailing
sentiment of the period. The opening perfectly evokes the time, the place, the
social class, the bright hope, and the invincible confidence of youth that were
so prevalent at the outset of the First World War, but which were so shortly to
be dashed amid the horrors of the trenches. The skill lies in the effect being
achieved by what people say rather than by direct authorial comment.
I stood
with Maynard Greville on the stone terrace outside the School House studies at
Oundle in the spring of 1915.
"I vote we chuck all this at the end of term and
join up," said he.
"Wouldn’t it be fine! But they won’t let
us."
"Why not? We’re almost seventeen."
"But old King says you can’t get a commission in
anything until you’re eighteen."
"Rot! What about the Flying Corps? They’ll take
you at seventeen. They want young chaps."
"Shall we speak to Beans?"
"No, he might stop us. I vote we write to the War
Office and see what happens."
"All right! Oh, Maynard, wouldn’t it be ripping!
(Cecil Lewis: ‘Sagittarius Rising’)
The big
bang opening has a concomitant: a little sting in the tail. It is always a
sound ploy to leave readers at the end of each chapter with at least one
insight that makes them reflect, or some sort of a hook to lead them onto the
next section.
Pause
and Put into Practice
Study the
opening sentence of widely varying books and articles. Then do the same with
the start of different chapters. Why is it that certain styles and phrases
succeed in capturing our imagination whilst others do not?
ii) In medias
res
‘Seigneur La Grange’ . . .
‘What is it?’ . . .
‘What do you think about our visit? Were you
completely satisfied with it?’
‘Do you think we have any right to be?’
‘Not entirely'.
‘As far as I’m concerned, I must confess to being
completely scandalized by it!’
(Molière, ‘Les Precieuses Ridicules’).
If the aim
of fiction is to create something more vivid and more dramatic than everyday
life, then introducing readers right into the midst of a scenario that has
already been under way for some time can be an excellent way to open a story,
especially if a crisis is approaching! The great advantage of this is that it
gives us the opportunity to create a detailed context and to introduce
characters in ways that will make readers watch out for them when circumstances
change for them. Starting ‘in medias res’ affords readers a strong sense of
participating in the ongoing chain of events. Our banner hints at how rich this
vein can be. ‘Show real people facing real dilemmas, dangers or
disappointments. Then watch how they respond to these stimuli'.
Although
we may have to do some mental gymnastics to leap from Molière to D.H. Lawrence,
something of the same approach can be seen in the opening to ‘Lady
Chatterley’s Lover'. The pace of this book is leisurely, almost at times to
the point of being turgid, but the one thing we can be quite certain of is that
the family situation as it is depicted for us on the opening pages will not
remain static.
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we must refuse to
take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we
start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather
hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or
scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have
fallen.
This was more or less
Pause
and put into Practice
Practice
writing an opening that introduces readers to an on-going situations,
preferably where conflict looms and characters are about to be unsettled.
iii)
Scene-setting
Many
confident and important novels begin in a circumstantial, almost deceptively
mild tone. They tell us such prosaic things as what kind of weather it is, who
is walking along what road, the date, the time, and what is going on in the
nation. Jane Austen, for example, opens her classic novel ‘Persuasion’,
with something considerably more measured than a thunderclap or firework
display.
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire,
was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the
Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a
distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect by
contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome
sensations arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and
contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century;
and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history
with an interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite
volume always opened: ‘ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL: "Walter Elliot, born March
1st, 1760, married July 15."’ (Jane
Austen, Persuasion)
In just a
few words we see set out before us the shallowness, the snobbery, the
selfishness, the cacoon of self-satisfied stupidity. We instinctively pity the
family and tenants of such a man!
Another
strong way to open a book (or a chapter) is to put the emphasis more on the
place than the characters. If the locality is portrayed in a sufficiently
interesting, or mysterious way, then the ‘plot’ will develop out of the setting
– and the setting will aid the plot. The example below (actually the beginning
of the third chapter of an acclaimed novel by François Mauriac) shows how
effective this approach is for bringing readers right into the midst of an
ongoing situation. It may sound a leisurely approach to adopt by today’s
fast-moving standards, but a carefully selected setting still makes a highly
effective starting point.
Argelouse is, in reality, an extremity of the earth:
one of those places beyond which it is impossible to go. People in this region
call it a district: a handful of farms but no church, town hall or cemetery. It
is spread around a field of rye, six miles from the
To
Mauriac, the region of sandy heaths and moors that skirt the Atlantic Ocean to
the south of
The
technique works less well when a carefully crafted description revolves around
something less pivotal to the main thread of the tale. Thus, for example,
Sebastian Faulks opens his well-written novel, ‘The Girl at the Lion d’Or’ with
a beautiful description of a French railway station in the 1930’s. But since
the railway theme is by no means central to the way the storyline, it
tantalises rather than inspires and makes far less impact than it otherwise
would do.
As to
whether we choose real or imaginary places, this is clearly a matter for
careful thought. Many readers are delighted to recognise places that are dear to
them, and locals are usually glad to have their region immortalised. But
imaginary or ‘composite’ places have their advantages too, particularly if we
need to stretch geographical boundaries or over exaggerate certain features in
order to induce a certain mood.
One
important word of caution is in order here. Every time we write a description,
we are effectively slowing the pace of the story down. In extreme cases, to
open with a description might be somewhat akin to a referee blowing the whistle
to start a football match and the players then meeting in the middle of the
pitch to have a discussion.
Equally,
if we begin a narrative by filling the reader in on what has been going on in
the past, it might be likened to watching the players pass the ball back to the
goalkeeper. To use another metaphor: does it make sense to ask the reader to
stop for a cup of coffee on page one? Despite all these caveats, we may still
be guilty of serious underwriting if at some point in the action (not
necessarily the beginning) we ignore this banner: ‘An inspired setting
greatly aids a book’s development'. We will take this thought further in
the section ‘Distinguished Description'.
iv)
Flashback and Prediction
Certain
films and novels begin as it were upside down or back to front, either pointing
the way forward by showing us something that will only make sense at the end,
or drawing us backwards to something crucial that happened in the past. ‘Enigma’,
based on Robert Harris’ novel, opens with a woman striding imperiously through
the city streets. Who she is, and what her significance may be only becomes
clear later on.
Alfred
Hitchcock’s first
Last night, I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It
seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I
could not enter for the way was barred to me. There was a padlock and chain
upon the gate. I called in my dream to the lodge-keeper, and had no answer, and
peering closer through the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was
uninhabited. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden and passed
like a spirit through the barrier before me. And finally, there was Manderley.
Manderley, secretive and silent . . . I looked upon a desolate shell, with no
whisper of a past about its staring walls. We can never go back to Manderley
again. That much is certain. But sometimes, in my dreams, I do go back to the
strange days of my life which began for me in the south of
The
narrator begins in flashback to tell the story of her life. The film cuts to a
rocky coast, with waves crashing against the cliffs, the camera zooms in on a
smartly dressed man who is standing at the cliff’s edge, staring out to sea.
When he moves toward the edge, an attractive blond young woman walking nearby,
concerned that he may be contemplating suicide, shouts at him.
Woman: ‘No! Stop!’
Man: ‘What the devil are you shouting about? Who are
you? What are you staring at?’
Woman: ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, but I, I
only thought . . '.
Man: ‘Oh, you did, did you? Well, what are you doing
here?’
Woman: ‘I was only walking'.
Man: ‘Well, get on with your walking and don’t hang
about here screaming'.
Her story
gradually emerges. This painfully shy young woman becomes attracted, and gets
engaged to an introverted aristocrat who lives at Manderley, a large house in
Manderley
itself is an integral part of both book and film: it is precisely the sort of
mansion we would expect to find in a gothic novel, with rising turrets,
menacing woods, and a long winding drive. It is only at the end of the film, as
the Manderley estate goes up in flames, that we learn the real secrets of
Rebecca’s character and death.
The
‘predictive’ quality that comes from telling a story in the form of a flashback
is not always so successful. For example, in A.J. Cronin’s ‘Keys of the
Kingdom’ my awareness of the circumstances the priest (who is the central
character in the book) would be in at the end of the story makes me reluctant
to embark on the long account of how he reached that sorry point – no matter
how brilliant the writing in between, and the unexpected change of heart Sleeth
(the Bishop’s cold blooded envoy experiences on the very last page.
Another
drawback with making the end known from the beginning is that it effectively
removes a potential source of tension. Perhaps that is what made me reluctant
to watch the award winning film ‘Titanic’. I knew full well that the
film was a love story – but the thought of spending nearly three hours watching
the boat go down in freezing cold waters felt exceedingly unattractive. Perhaps
these examples merely highlight my preference for a happy ending!
Flashbacks
and predictive pointers are best used sparingly. As a general rule, we are on
safe ground if we unfurl the banner that reminds us to ‘Keep the action in
the present whenever we possibly can'.
In much
the same way, using remote tenses such as the pluperfect conditional tense (‘he
could have had’) takes the reader further away from any sense of immediacy. The
principle is a sound one. If we start proceedings a long time after the change
has happened, the story risks feeling too remote.
Exceptions
include brief references to events that happened a long time ago and which are,
as it were, the seed bed that explains things that are happening now. Frank
Peretti includes such an episode at the very beginning of ‘The Oath’. To
go back in time to deal with the events that led up to a present crisis is a
perfectly permissible technique. When I wrote an account on the reign of the
Jehoshaphat, one of the more interesting Hebrew kings, I did not start with an
account of how he came to power, but began at his hour of greatest peril, when
a coalition of enemy powers were advancing against his kingdom.
Pause
and put into practice.
Be on the
lookout for books and films that open with a flashback or prediction. Do these
effects ‘work?’ To put it another way, would the book or film be complete and
satisfying without it?
v)
Inside the Protagonist’s Mind
‘A prolonged bleating drifted up from the coombe,
partially muffled by a row of frozen bushes. The sheep had smelt the presence
of the man from afar. Despite being alone, Isaiah Vaudagne burst into laughter
and increased his pace, his head bent against the wind, his cheeks streaked by
the cold. His footprints left their mark on the thin layer of snow which
covered the ground. He was in a hurry to look his sheep over. (Henri Troyat, ‘La Neige en Deuil’)
Whilst
many books observe the central character from a distance, enabling us to pick
up various clues about their character and personal history, a perfectly valid
alternative is to begin a book inside the mind of the central character. Just
as the struggle between two protagonists locked in mortal conflict is the warp
and woof of most thrillers, so the sight of someone gripped with anxiety and
locked in a battle with himself makes for compulsive reading in the case of
‘psychological’ novels. The aim here is to show people struggling with real
dilemmas through complex thought processes. In fiction, ‘thoughts are actions,’
just as the mind is the centre of our own joys and struggles.
We can
transpose this struggle on paper by presenting certain information and insights
as coming from inside the head of at least one of the characters. When the
action begins in earnest, we are psychologically prepared to watch out for
them. As everyone knows, readers will do anything to follow a character they
have taken to.
To take an
example from a very different genre, and one which are not attempting to
explore in any detail in this publication, William Morris’s poem creates a
powerful impression because the doom is so personal and particular. It
describes ultimate loss in a nondescript setting. Not only is it raining, but
the countryside is flooded; the haystack itself is presumably in danger of rotting,
a reflection on the state of the country (as a result of the civil war).
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain
That her own eyes might see him slain
Beside the haystack in the floods? (William Morris, ‘The
Haystack in the Floods’)
Pause
and put into Practice
Readers
feel more affinity for characters whose inner workings they have discerned.
Create a character you can ‘get inside. How will you help others to do the
same?
vi)
Information-sharing
Continuing
our search for openings that combine insight, challenge, passion, facts and
fantasy in a cocktail that whets the appetite and draws readers in, few things
are more effective than a bold statement or piece of information.
Martha
Hailey Dubose begins ‘Women of Mystery,’ her substantial overview of the
lives and works of notable crime novelists, with the words,
‘In the 1800’s, murder was decidedly not a proper
topic for well-bred ladies and gentlemen'.
The effect
works. The central theme is introduced; the prim and proper attitudes of a
previous generation are clearly stated and the scene is set to show how public
attitude has changed. The noted historian H. Trevor-Roper began his essay on
Thomas Hobbes with a short sentence that summarises well the issues he goes on
to elucidate.
‘When Thomas Hobbes, at the age of eighty-four, looked
back on his life, he found the key to it in fear'.
Since ours
is undoubtedly the information age, there is no reason why we should avoid
presenting our readers with information. If music is a central theme in a book,
for example, then there is nothing wrong with presenting some information about
it. On the other hand, we do not want to be like the ‘children who are up in
dates, and floor you with ‘em flat'. (Such children were, of course, prime
candidates in Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘The Mikado’ for the Lord High
Executioner to behead).
Winston
Churchill’s first volume about the Second World War ‘The Gathering Storm’
likewise opens with his classic epigraph that embodies a stinging criticism of
national policies that ultimately led to the millions of lives being lost.
Alone among western leaders, Churchill knew that Hitler could, and should, have
been stopped in his tracks at a much earlier date: had anybody had the courage
to stand up to him.
After the
end of the World War of 1914 there was a deep conviction and almost universal
hope that peace would reign in the world. This heart’s desire of all the
peoples could easily have been gained by steadfastness in righteous
convictions, and by reasonable common sense and prudence. The phrase "the
war to end war" was on every lip, and President Wilson made the concept of
a
We have
cited below Churchill’s opening paragraph, with its measured diction springing
from the classics of English historiography. The tone is of serious irony and
gains immeasurably in authority from the author being who he is.
HOW
THE ENGLISH-SPEAKING PEOPLES
THROUGH
THEIR UNWISDOM
CARELESSNESS
AND GOOD NATURE
ALLOWED
THE WICKED TO REARM
A popular
gambit is to open with an attention-grabbing or even provocative statement that
says the very opposite of what might commonly be expected. In the extract
below, Philip Larkins adopts an attitude towards children in the first three
sentences that is sufficiently caustic to make one read on, even if the rest of
the material is not, perhaps, as satisfying as one might have hoped. (He does,
however, modify his opening polemic).
‘It was that verse about becoming again as a little
child that caused the first sharp waning of my Christian sympathies. If the
There is
always mileage in opening with something stimulating or controversial. Thus
Eiseley’s opening sentence in ‘The Snout’ is simply this:
‘I have long been an admirer of the octopus'.
Loren’s
interest (real or feigned) in this rather unlovable creature is sufficient to
make the uncommitted give him the benefit of the doubt and to examine whether
they have missed something that ought to make them, too, afficionados of the
octopus.
The
information we share does not need to be strictly accurate. It can be enlarged,
exaggerated, or reduced according to taste, humour and intention. Whichever
route we choose, it will pay to remember the banner for this section: ‘Whenever
possible, share facts from an interesting or unusual angle’.
Bearing in
mind the risks we considered earlier of slowing the action down too much in the
opening pages, let us suppose that I am writing up an account of Rosalind’s
trip to the west coast of
Mrs Weston began by saying, "I quite like
travelling, even to places like the west coast of
The commas
are less intrusive and a redundant phrase (‘even to places like’) has been
removed. What is still missing is the hint of a carrot, that anything special
happened on that last visit which will make us want to read on. Another change
of emphasis and both word order and phrasing become considerably more dynamic:
"Travelling!" Rosalind exclaimed. "I
love it – especially the west coast of
This third
attempt hooks into readers’ latent interest in the west coast of
Openings
that purport to instruct but which really set out to entertain also provide an
excellent platform. Near the beginning of ‘Ten Rules for a Happy Marriage,’
James Thurber writes,
I have
avoided the timeworn admonitions such as
‘Praise
her new hat,’ ‘Share his hobbies,’ ‘Be a sweet heart as well as a wife,’ and
‘Don’t keep a blonde in the guest room,’ not only because they are threadbare
from repetition but also because they don’t seem to have accomplished their
purpose. Maybe what we need is a brand-new set of rules'. And aren’t we, the
readers, eager to find out what these might be?
It should
also be possible for every writer to devise openings which draw on a
sufficiently broad experience-base to draw people in, even to something that
they themselves have not experienced. Thus Lewis Thomas starts his essay ‘To
Err is Human’ with the bold statement,
‘Everyone must have had at least one personal
experience with a computer error'.
On other
occasions, the focus is on someone who has done something distinctively
different from the majority of us. How about Henri Nouwen, who forsook his role
as a popular lecturer at
The move from Harvard to L’Arche proved to be but one
little step from bystander to participant, from judge to repentant sinner, from
teacher about love to being loved as the beloved. I really did not have an
inking of how difficult the journey would be. I did not realise how deeply
rooted my resistance was and how agonising it would be to ‘come to my senses'.
(Henri Nouwen, ‘The Return of the Prodigal Son’)
Few of us
are called to quite such a radical change of lifestyle as this great man, but do
we not all feel a desire, almost a compulsion, to see what happened when a
senior lecturer exchanged the stimulating life of an Ivy League University for
intimate communion with a group of people to whom rational academic arguments
and logical thought mean less than nothing? To these people Nouwen became a
true father— and in the process overcame much of the pride, jealousy, moaning,
anger, sullenness and subtle self-righteousness which he now realised he had
secretly harboured for so long.
Whichever
style of starting scenario we opt for (and there really is no limit to the
number of permutations possible) certain basic detail will always need to be
addressed. In one form or another we must convey – and at some early stage in
the proceedings – sufficient information concerning time and place, as well as
formulating the outline of the crisis or issue which will be at the heart of
the book.
All our
literary skill must be deployed to ‘earth’ our readers, and to retain their
interest. Everything must therefore contribute to a sense of leading somewhere.
We can no more afford to have loose ends floating around in the beginning than
we can in the conclusion. If details are included in the opening, they must
serve a purpose. Our final banner in this section reminds us to view our work
as a whole: ‘Whatever threads or threats we insert must be there for a
purpose and be properly outworked’.
Endings
that do Justice to the Beginning
‘Everything has an end, except a sausage which has
two'. (Danish Proverb)
‘A beginning, a muddle and an end'. (Philip Larkin)
‘Great is the art of beginning, but greater the art of
ending'. (Thomas Fuller)
It is time
now to consider how to draw our work to a close. One of John Major’s most
memorable put downs was when he said of his chief political opponent, that ‘he
has nothing to say and therefore goes on for so long because he doesn’t know he
hasn’t said it!’
Unkind
though his remark may have been, it is a poignant reminder that once we have
made the point we intended to make, we should be looking for the nearest exit.
As soon as we find ourselves thinking along these lines, ‘In conclusion, we can
learn, note, deduce, suggest, it is time to be looking for a suitably apt and
original ending. We cannot afford to allow the reader to lose interest at a
crucial moment simply because we have run out of fresh ideas.
A
satisfying conclusion leaves a pleasant aftertaste, and causes readers to
remember a book with favour long after they have finished the final page. The
ending is all important to the short story, because the whole account is geared
to lead up to the climax. The novel, being more spacious, may not require quite
such clear-cut resolutions.
Some
novelists, indeed, prefer an open-ended conclusion; not so much petering out
but deliberately finishing in medias res, leaving many things to be played out
by the characters. This may be less a case of the author being unable to pull
the threads together than a subliminal protest that since so many issues do not
resolve conveniently in real life, why contrive to establish such orderly
patterns on paper? Plausible though such arguments may sound in the cold light
of a writer’s workshop, the reality is that most readers are eager for all the
loose ends to be tied up neatly.
Just as
‘surprise’ episodes inject life into the main storyline, so some special twist
towards the end is always a sound idea. We are not speaking of some
jack-in-the-box concoction that would be entirely out of keeping with the rest
of the work, but something that will keep readers from feeling as though they
are merely being served up a rehash of things they had long since perceived.
Often, we
will want to develop themes we mentioned earlier on. As T.S. Eliot wrote in ‘Four
Seasons’: ‘In my beginning is my end'. As we unfurl this particular banner,
it will make us reflect more analytically about our concluding sections. ‘Have
we tied up all the loose ends and answered all the questions we have raised in
readers’ minds?’ If we have then we are indeed well on the way to
developing a profound art form; one that belies the hard work as well as the
artistry that has gone into the preparation.
Part Three ~ The Art that conceals Artistry
Select-a-Style
Successful
gardeners do not toss seeds randomly into the ground. They are conscious of the
type of soil they are dealing with, and they know which season to plant in. In
much the same way that ‘black’ fingers become ‘green’ ones through studying and
experimentation, so we, as we become more experienced as writers, learn to
sense instinctively which style will best express our material. As Ovid
poignantly put it, ‘The art is to conceal the artistry'.
Since most
non fiction writers set out with the subconscious desire to write the
definitive book on their chosen subject, we are usually better advised to seek
to cover less ground, but to bring out some specific emphasis and angle.
Half a
millennium after he wrote it, Erasmus’ maxim still holds true, no matter what
our subject matter: ‘Almost everyone knows this already, but it has not
occurred to everyone’s minds'. In other words, we are fulfilling a really
useful purpose if we are able first to present and then to interpret things
that people may be instinctively aware of but have never taken the trouble to
describe or define.
One
exception to this principle is when we are dealing with scientific or
specialist themes. Unless we are writing a text book for advanced students, the
best policy here is to assume that readers know next to nothing and steer them
firmly towards a sound grasp of the most important facts. Without these they
will remain forever incapable of making any sense of the subject. Just because
the theme is technical, however, there is no advantage in preferring obscure or
over-elaborate vocabulary. Anything is better than sounding pompous and
jargon-laden.
Many
people still instinctively associate writing with storytelling. We shall have
more to say about this shortly, but the vast majority of material that is
published today is better classified as non fiction. (Curiously, this
percentage has increased substantially since the Second World War). All sorts
of specialist subjects are being opened up to intelligent laymen by writers
skilled in choosing an appropriate style to make accessible to non specialists.
Much
depends on whether we are seeking to sound involved or detached, casual or
intense, ironic, censorious or downright humorous. This will profoundly alter
the way we phrase our dialogues, and develop both the plot and the characterisation.
If in doubt, experiment. Try writing a page in different styles. Then sit back
and invite a few close friends to assess the merits and drawbacks of each
approach. It will usually become clear at this point. Ponder this issue. ‘Which
style best conveys my theme?’
Writers
Read in order to Write Readably
‘Books give . . . New views to life, and teach us how
to live;
They soothe the grieved ,the stubborn, they chastise;
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.
Their advice they yield to all: they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;
Unlike the hard, the selfish and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the supplant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But show to subjects, what they show to kings'. (The Library)
Behind
apparently effortless pieces of writing lie much thought and craftsmanship. The
best way we can grasp the range of options and approaches open to us is to read
widely. As Rachel Simon described it, ‘Reading is the best way beginner writers
have to teach themselves, and advanced writers have to continue their
education'. No wonder that another writer called reading the ‘Siamese Twin of
Writing!’
We can
learn a great deal by studying the technique of successful authors and seeing
how they deal with scenes and concepts we know that we would have difficulty
expressing. It is by no means uncommon for writers to transcribe whole passages
from a well-crafted book in order to study the author’s technique at close
quarters. The idea of dissecting a book in this way might appear cold-blooded.
We fear we will never be able to enjoy a book again if we learn to read with so
critical an eye. In reality, we will actually enjoy books more for being able
to see how and why certain techniques and styles work – and why some do not.
Paradoxically,
reading an unsatisfactory author can sometimes be almost as enlightening as
studying how experienced writers achieve their effects. For few sound reasons
(other than the adrenaline kick I must derive from the experience) I regularly read
the novels of one particular best-seller whose story line is vigorous, but
whose powers of description are decidedly thin. He writes to a successful
formula, relying on the speed and intensity of the action to ensure
consistently high sales.
It is fascinating,
if frustrating, to reflect how much more satisfying his books would be if more
time and effort were directed towards word-smithing rather than to creating a
whirlpool of violent episodes. Characters we have had insufficient time to
become acquainted with are summarily disposed of – and the reader feels barely
a trace of sorrow for their demise. A death ought to matter, even in a work of
fiction. But all is subsumed to the feverish pace of the action and a vital
level of empathy and identification is missing as a result.
The best
way to handle these emotions is to ignore them altogether. Remember the fourth
maxim and get on with pursuing the Craft of Writing. And even if reading the
works of others in our chosen field is not wise whilst we are in our most
intensive phase of composing, it is a good habit to return to once things are
quieter again. As our title reminds us, ‘Writers Read in order to Write
Readably'.
Pause
and Put into Practice
It is
often easier the second time we read something to gauge how well written it
really is. Try picking up a favourite book and studying it from a technician’s
perspective. Since we already know the points the author is seeking to
communicate, and how the conclusion develops, we are free to study the means by
which the writer achieves this end. Further on, we shall be exploring in more
detail many of the points touched on in this section. For the moment it is
useful for us to become aware that these are issues we will need to focus on.
Linger
long over well constructed passages. How does the author evoke the feelings
that arise in us as we read them? Did the author intend us to feel that way, or
has the material hooked into something that has ‘resonated’ in our own lives?
Was that perhaps the author’s intention? Give the writer the credit for having
presented something in just such a way as to have brought us to this place of
self-awareness (or sympathy or revulsion). Pay attention to the range of words
used: for instance, the length of syllables – the weight and responsibility
that each adjective bears (or, more impressively, the inspired choice of nouns
and verbs that eliminate the need for spurious adverbs and adjectives). Notice,
too, the comparative rarity of those adverbs ending in ‘ly’ which so clutter
the text of inexperienced writers.
Consider
the vocabulary. Words used in real-life situations are generally more effective
than ones we have dredged-up from the bowels of a thesaurus in a mistaken bid
to be original. But study authors who get away with using a plethora of unusual
or exotic words.
Study the
flow and the rhythm of the sentences. How do they compare with our own efforts?
Are there redundant passages which do little to advance the action, or to
convince the reader that a character has a ‘life’ outside the immediate sphere
of action? Is the dialogue full of vital cut and thrust (preferably leading to
a particular outcome) or does it feel as though it is merely there in order to
fit in with the author’s personal preferences?
How about
the denouement? Does it come as a letdown or as a surprise? Ideally it should
be unexpected, but not out of keeping with the tenor of the book. Have clues
been skilfully woven in along the way? If so, were they too subtle or too
obvious? Does the finale do justice to the rest of the book, or does it take
away from all that has gone before?
Does the
viewpoint keep our interest? Or does it flit around too much from one character
to another? If the action is not ‘visible’ has the author slipped into a mere
recounting of events that happened in the past, or far offstage? If so, has
this lowered our perception of participating in the action?
How has
the author conveyed the difficult matter of time passing by, or any changes of
mood or circumstances which have taken place? It is easy to underestimate the
importance of signposting these transitions. All too commonly, novice authors
plunge readers into the thick of the action but leave the timescale and context
unclear.
The
simplest way to solve the problem of a gap between events may be to leave an
additional blank line or two in the text. It is usually best to insert some
reference point, too, preferably at the start of a chapter. Words such as
‘yesterday,’ ‘today,’ ‘tomorrow,’ ‘later,’ ‘during the last few weeks,’ — even
‘meanwhile’ can help to orientate readers. Remember, we are doing this for
their benefit, not for ours.
Consider
next a piece of writing that left you unimpressed. Taste is not entirely a
subjective matter. Our impressions and observations may well be those with
which others would concur wholeheartedly. Try and analyse the reasons why a
particular passage, or indeed a whole book has failed to grab our attention,
and left us feeling dissatisfied. Was it too skimpy a plot, too superficial (or
too prejudiced) a treatment of a serious subject, too much background detail
(or too little), too remote a viewpoint?
Turn next
to newspaper and magazine articles. What style of writing and range of subject
matter do specific publications favour? Read them with a view to understanding
the technique by which writers succeed in making their point – and brush up on
possible publishing opportunities at the same time!
"Tell
me a story!"
Here is
the heart-cry of children in every generation! For drawing readers and hearers
into realms of creative imagination, what can beat a story? When the Lord Jesus
came to earth, He did not set out to share the scientific formulae of how His
Father had created the night sky, but to demonstrate the reality of the heavenly
Kingdom. The beauty of the parables He told is that they work in their own
right as stories drawn from everyday life, but they also point to a truth
beyond themselves.
The ‘Art
of Creative Writing’ is all about finding fresh forms for expressing well
known truths, and simple ways to explain even the most complex issues. Often,
the most effective vehicle for describing real dilemmas and for expressing real
emotions is to tell a story.
When King
David forsook all bounds of decency and slept with the wife of one of the most
loyal officers in his army, he seems never to have contemplated that she might
become pregnant. When she did, he devised a seemingly foolproof strategy for
reuniting the beautiful Bathsheba with her husband, by having him recalled from
active service and offered an extended period of home-leave. The plan should
have worked – but he had reckoned without Uriah’s exemplary scruples. The man
simply refused to make love to his wife while his fellow officers were fighting
for their lives on the field of battle!
Now David
was really at his wit’s end. In a moment of reckless desperation, he shamefully
arranged to have the unfortunate man betrayed by his unit and sent to his
death. This left the upright men at his court facing an excruciating dilemma.
What David had done was profoundly wrong, but how could they challenge a king
who held the power of life and death in his hands?
Fortunately,
there was at the court a man of such profound wisdom that he was widely held to
be a prophet. His name was Nathan, and as he pondered the problem he found a
way to break the Gordian knot. His brilliant stratagem involved telling the
king a parable, a story with an application, confident that this would work its
way beneath the king’s first level of defences and prepare the way for a more
direct challenge.
"There were two men in a certain town,"
Nathan began, "one rich and the other poor. The rich man had a large
number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one little ewe
lamb whom he loved dearly. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his
children. It shared his food, drank from his cup and even slept in his arms. It
was like a daughter to him. One day a traveller came to the rich man, but the
rich man refrained from taking one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare a meal
for him. Instead, he took the ewe lamb that belonged to the poor man and
prepared it for the one who had come to him."
For all
his faults, David was a wise and sensitive man. When he heard of this flagrant
injustice, he burned with anger.
"As surely as the Lord lives," he declared,
"that rich man deserves to die! He must pay for that lamb four times over,
because he did such an outrageous thing and showed no pity on the poor
man."
Nathan had
set the stage brilliantly. First he had kindled the king’s empathy and now,
turning to face the king, he declared the real implications and consequences of
his tale.
"You are the man! You struck down Uriah the
Hittite with the sword and took his wife, his precious lamb. You killed him
with the sword of the Ammonites. From this day forth, the sword will never
depart from your own house!" (2 Samuel 12:1-7f)
Nathan’s
challenge had worked to perfection. To his credit, David acknowledged his guilt
and bewailed it deeply. Who knows? Had he tackled the king more directly, he
might have met with a wall of denial, and in the process have aroused the
monarch’s extreme displeasure. As it was, he helped the king to see his fault
for himself and to accept the consequences his actions entailed. At the same
time he went on to communicate some ray of hope and comfort to the crestfallen
king. Is this not a perfect example of how powerful storytelling can be?
Too many
of us have ‘trained’ stories out of us. We have allowed hardheaded pragmatists
to impose their prosaic reality on us. Surely now is the time to recapture
story telling as a means of presenting truth and wider realities to a
generation that has grown all too accustomed to seeing life through narrow-band
core curriculums. Hugh Luckton speaks of his longing to use poetry, anecdotes,
stories and song to ‘re-story’ the land, as well as drawing on the research of
historians and scholars to maintain a continuity between the present and the
past. For stories can deepen relationships within and between communities.
Many of
the local stories where I live in Shetland, have been collected and codified,
rather as Vaughan Williams and Percy Granger collected the folk songs of rural
England a hundred years ago. This has done much to foster pride in another
generation to keep the Shetland dialect alive. (Shetlandic is a fascinating
language, a mixture of English and Scots, based on a sub-stratum of Norn, the
predecessor language of modern Norwegian. An entire dictionary has been
consecrated to words that no southerner could hope to understand).
Some years
ago my wife, Rosalind, wrote a thesis entitled ‘The Influence of Birth
Stories on Primigravida Women from Friends and Family Members'. She set out
to discover what effect was made on first-time pregnant women by the stories
that mothers, sisters and friends told them, particularly concerning the
decisions they make concerning their place and manner of birth. She found that
such stories give people a sense of personal history and shared memories, and
in this way help to provide a focus not only for their private world but also
for the local community.
There is
no limit to the pool of potential stories. Part of a writer’s gifting is to
encourage people of all ages to tell their stories. Nobody can gainsay a personal
testimony, and our anecdotes and reminiscences add interest and colour to the
pool of those already in existence.
Storytelling itself is less about drama and performance than about letting a story live: in other words, being a channel for a story. The basis for our stories must be honest or it will not be convincing. We have to feel it,