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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, and to mean it. But
the same story may communicate diametrically opposing things to different
people. For every person who identified with Harold Abrahams in ‘Chariots of
Fire,’ another may have agonized passionately for Eric Liddell.
In other
words, it is too much to expect that our style or central protagonists will
appeal to everyone. In ‘Celtic Quest,’ a novel I set in seventh century
Other
personal factors were probably at work too. People who have long known me in
one particular capacity may well have had difficulty adjusting to ‘hearing’ me
through such a different persona. I was aware beforehand that all this would
probably happen, but I remain profoundly convinced that it was the route I
really wanted to take.
I was also
aware that I might be in danger of ‘using’ Elfleda to convey the essence of the
contemplative life. Fiction that sets out too explicitly to illustrate certain
points runs the risk of turning into a tract – but where we have created
convincing characters and an active storyline we can normally succeed in
drawing people right in. It is at this point, whether by osmosis or sound
technique, that we can properly convey valuable insights and information.
The key is
to include nothing that does not legitimately fit the story line. In the early draft
of another novel I was writing for young people, the "omniscient
narrator" appeared at the start of one chapter to give specific background
to a particular problem. It was the easiest thing in the world to amend this
later on by having the viewpoint character go to the library and find out the
same things for himself. He could equally as well have seen it on television or
heard it from a friend.
Storytelling
is precisely what its name suggests, and we must not cheat by cutting corners
and supplying all the questions and answers. If my leading character could not
have come across this information by some plausible route, then perhaps it did
not need to be included at all. Don’t be influenced by the fact that we put a
lot of effort into procuring the information in the first place – that is our
problem, not something to impose on the reader. This point is sufficiently
important to serve as our banner: ‘Does our material ‘fit’ – or does it slow
the story down?’
Purposeful
Plots
People
today speak of someone ‘losing the plot'. It is a common cliché – but no author
can afford to lose track of their plot. Sub-plots, facts and descriptions may
all have their place, but for our writing to be purposeful, never lose the
threads of our central thesis. Otherwise, to return to an earlier image, we
are in danger of merely knitting metres of wool without thought to pattern or
design.
This is
not the place for an in-depth examination of the range of plots we can develop,
it is only common sense to realize that our storyline can ‘emerge’ either from
convincing characters acting true to their nature or from the setting we have
chosen. Whilst many plots are formed purely out of the writer’s imagination,
others will have their basis in facts.
For
example, the great historical sea-novelists scour the archives of Royal Navy
journals for specific events from the wars against
Whatever
plot we opt for, we are sure to face technical challenges. For example, it
takes most of us a long time to master the balance between action that advances
the story and background details that make it convincing. Ideally, the
background should not be too prominent, nor the foreground too bare. Otherwise,
like Winnie the Pooh sitting astride the honey pot in the flood, neither we nor
the reader will ever be quite sure whether we are controlling the material, or
the material controlling us.
Our aim is
to keep the tension taut and the reader waiting with baited breath. Even if we
are not composing a genuine thriller, we can still achieve a certain degree of
suspense by starting scenes somewhere other than where the reader is expecting.
Why be in a hurry to resolve all the questions we have been at such pains to
raise?
Pause
and Put into Practice
You are
probably awash with ideas for books, articles and reports, but sometimes it is
worth constructing a plot just for practice. If you are short of an idea,
however, here’s a starting point to toy with. A certain Shaun Cotts disappeared
from
Bible
stories are another excellent starting point for developing stories. They have
all the twists and turns of a modern day ‘soap’, but with the added advantage
of describing real people and events. The following represents was my attempt
to pen a few of Moses’ thoughts. He has just received the call to lead more
than a million Israelites in am attempt to escape from
Which way
would you develop the story? Here’s my attempt.
Forty years ago it would have been a very different
matter. I would have leapt at the chance of fulfilling the role of
saviour-leader. But I had proved unfit for such high office by taking matters
into my own hands. Who wants to follow a murderer? When news got round that I
had killed the Egyptian who was mistreating the Hebrew, I knew I was in real
trouble. I panicked and fled into the desert.
This has been no short sojourn. Forty years later, I
have become almost indistinguishable from my surroundings. And I have to
confess, I have grown comfortable, in the way that people do in later life.
Life may be exceedingly monotonous in the desert, but at least it is
conflict-free. I’ve got my wife and sisters-in-law to attend to my needs; I’ve
enough sheep to make a living with and the last thing I want to do is to go
back and face the challenges I thought I’d left behind for ever.
Did God really mean what I think I’ve just heard Him say?
Doesn’t he know what that stubborn old Pharaoh is really like? I know perfectly
well what sort of answer He will give. I might as well ask for the hand of his
wife in marriage as to demand the release of a million of his best slave
labourers.
And then there’s Princess Dinah. Will she still be at
court? I’ve missed her so much, but how proud and scornful she will be when she
sees me as an old man in a shepherd’s costume." It’s been alright wearing
it in the desert – but it would look so out of place in the palace. She’ll mock
me until the tears are falling from her eyes. And then she’ll get me chucked
out like a vagrant. And how about . . ."
On and on
the Moses’ thoughts would have churned – and his worries were by no means
without some validity. So far as the Egyptian upper classes were concerned,
shepherds were the dregs at the bottom of the social pile. But all of that
gives special relevance to those well-known words in Psalm 23 that ‘The Lord is
my shepherd'. It is almost like saying ‘The Lord is my dustbin man; He takes
all my garbage away'. It says something too about the Almighty’s unorthodox
choice of workmen for His most important tasks. He seems to look for people who
know they cannot do it, and then proceeds to enable them to do far more than
they or anyone else would have believed possible.
The rest,
as they say is history. Perhaps we might dare to say ‘His Story’. Moses’
courage and perseverance dovetailed perfectly with the Almighty’s determination
to bring the Israelites out of
Another
powerful alternative would be to construct a plot around the powerful but
paranoid king Saul, who became so pathologically jealous of his unbearably
successful young captain. The trouble was, young David was not only winning all
his battles for him, he was also the only musician in his court who could play
the music that soothed his temper. Surely David cannot for ever dodge spears
and leave stuffed bales of straw under his bedding as a decoy dummy while he
makes a quick getaway? Desperate Dave – the desperate Dan of three thousand
years ago. His story would have been on everyone’s lips as he dashed from cave
to cave, often only hours ahead of the king’s elite troops. It is an ongoing
soap of the highest calibre – and it is right there in the Bible for everyone
to interpret and explore for themselves.
You might
like to start this short ‘patchwork’ story by retelling the story as Moses
experienced it, using the first words of the ‘Song of Moses’ in Exodus 15.
"I
will sing to the LORD,
for he is
highly exalted.
The horse
and its rider
he has
hurled into the sea’.
Or take
the opening verses of 2 Samuel 22 as a starting point for retelling some of the
ways by which the Almighty enabled David to triumph over his foes. How did
David feel during his years on the run? Where is the fulcrum between his trust
in God and his ‘normal’ fear of his opponents? Try continuing the poem as a
reflection on his life, as best you understand it, either as a short ‘psalm’
summary or in more graphic detail. (The book of 1 Samuel will fill in your
historical gaps).
David sang
to the Lord the words of this song when the Lord delivered him from the hand of
all his enemies and from the hand of Saul. He said:
‘The Lord
is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer;
my God is
my rock, in whom I take refuge.’
Convincing
Characters
‘Readers value and remember extraordinary characters
long after tricky plots are forgotten'. (Sol Stein)
In
creating our characters, ‘personal’ touches make all the difference to the
reader’s appreciation. Our plot may be skimpy, and our descriptive abilities
minimal, but our writing can still sparkle provided that our characters are
convincing. Bearing in mind what we shared earlier about fiction being more
everything than ordinary life, most readers do not buy paperbacks to go in
search of the people sitting opposite them on the train. They want characters
they can identify with, whose reactions as well as their actions stir their
emotions and ‘resonate’ with their own experience. They want to be entertained
and to be informed; to have the boundaries of their mind expanded.
In almost
every story, one person will be at the centre of the action. For better or
worse, this person thereby establishes themselves at the centre of the reader’s
heart and mind. This is the person who has the most to gain (or lose) by the
events that transpire. Effectively, this becomes the viewpoint character,
through whose eyes the action is narrated. If we choose this character
carefully, we are well placed to write an excellent story. Choose a poor model,
and nothing will succeed in holding the reader’s interest.
For
example, what would be the point in making a weakling our central character?
Although Daphne du Maurier gets away with basing most of her books around
dejected individuals, Jack Bickham takes a more robust line when he pleads for
authors to steer well clear of creating ‘wimps and windbags'.
Wimps are
unattractive because they lack the courage and the initiative to do the things
that make for an exciting story. Never mind real terror, even the simplest
setbacks cause them to lose what little courage they had. Would you want to
call your hero ‘Walter’ or ‘Wally?’ That is why it is strong and stirring
characters who stand out in our mind’s eye. They are initiators rather than
victims, overcomers rather than the overcome.
As our
characters struggle to resolve the horny dilemmas we have placed before them,
we provide them with the opportunity to display great initiative as well as
courage. All our reader sympathy goes out to those who do not give up but who
persist through their trials and sufferings. As our characters wrestle with
their trials, we must ensure that it is their own skill and courage more than a
series of coincidences which enable them to escape from their dilemma.
Coincidences
are best used sparingly. If a person works hard to achieve the desired outcome,
then it isn’t a coincidence, even if unexpected events intervene to make the
outcome easier. Desmond Bagley could have rescued his stranded victims in ‘High
Citadel’ by the arrival of some providential rescue party. Instead, the
crisis causes all sorts of tensions and strong characteristics to emerge
amongst this ill-assorted group, and we are into a cracking story, made the
more enjoyable by the ingenuity displayed by a medieval historian who first
designs and then uses in action an intriguing assortment of old-fashioned but
entirely serviceable weapons.
Just
because our characters are that much more ‘larger than life’ – indeed more
everything ’ than the rest of us – does not mean that need to be paragons of
virtues. Most readers find characters more interesting if they are given
complex and even contradictory characteristics. Even the antiheroes we create
(and who cause our other protagonists so much trouble) must be endowed with
some good points if we are to avoid descending into the world of melodrama,
where Sir Jasper’s every appearance is greeted with a boo. Who knows, some
aspects of their behaviour may even cause readers to reassess the way they
treat other people themselves!
The secret
of good character sketching is to leave room for the reader’s imagination. But
not too much, in case they fail to spot the key characteristics we are seeking
to convey. If it is important for us to show that Mr Bloggs is rude, or that he
stammers, then we need to demonstrate him doing this repeatedly. The beauty of
fiction is that we can show people’s motives for doing things much more
precisely than can ever be the case in real life.
In all
this, we should bear in mind the emphasis we placed in the first part of this
book on taking time to reflect. All successful writers develop some method of
meditation to progress beyond the superficial and to get into the heart of
whatever it is that they are trying to share.
If we are
working on a work of fiction, how else can we become ‘acquainted’ with our
characters? We will want to feel ‘at home’ with their whole way of life: not
just their physical appearance and their principal exploits, but where their
interests lie and how they would react in different circumstances. Many of
these details may never see the light of day in any published story, but it is
important for us to ‘know’ these people inside out, so that we, ahead of our
readers, can anticipate how they will react in any given context.
It is the
sign of a well-written book if its characters continue to ‘live on’ long after
we have reached the end of the book, even if we have not been given much
physical description to aid our imagination. Lovers of Arthur Ransome’s ‘Swallows
and Amazons,’ for example, are given the barest handful of clues concerning
the physical appearance of the children in many hundreds of pages of narrative,
yet because each responds in such a well-defined manner, we feel as though we
know these children through and through.
We should
make it our aim to ‘gift’ each character we create with at least one special
‘feature’ or distinguishing trait. It may be something physical, like a limp,
or something that the person wears, carries, hides in their pockets, admires,
reads or watches. The way they keep their house, for example, may reveal a
great deal about their personality.
In order
to keep track of all these details, we need either an outstanding memory – or,
more realistically, some sort of card index for our characters, describing any
particular characteristics that might prove relevant: their social class, their
likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears, dialect,
intelligence, body language, health and wealth, taste in food, friends or
dress, relation to parents, attitude to self and so on.
Our banner
will help us create convincing characters. It is an adaption of a quote from
Ernest Hemingway: ‘A writer should create living people'. Why did
Hemingway emphasize people? Because he believed that characters are caricatures
and that we, as gifted writers, should aim for our characters to be remembered
as ‘real’ people in their own right.
Tip
In a play,
the size of the cast determines how many characters we bring to life. In a
novel there are no such considerations, but we still need to avoiding
overloading and confusing the reader. If we have created a plethora of minor
parts, might we not do better to reduce the number, and see if it is not
possible to redistribute their roles amongst the surviving cast?
Distinguished
Description
Let observation with extensive view,
Survey mankind, from
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
And watch the busy scenes of crowded life'. (Samuel
Johnson)
Most of us
have often found ourselves skipping long descriptive passages in order to rush
on to where we think the action starts again. So why not cut our losses, spare
ourselves a great deal of hard work and just dispense with writing them
altogether? After all, there is no way we can possibly hope to match the
stunning landscapes (and effects) of the cinematic media.
Nice try,
but no go. There is nothing that makes a text more convincing than striking and
accurate details. And certain effects can actually be more successful on paper
than on film.
Just as
painters develop their craft by practising portrait or still life painting, so
we must take time out to practise the art of describing things: objects,
events, landscapes . . . Take, for example,
There
again, we could try following in the footsteps of those who have made travel
writing an art in its own right. Consider H.V. Morton’s description of the
mountain:
I hear the most horrible sound on earth – the sough of
wind coming up over the crest of
And on my way down a great hole is suddenly blown in
the cloud, and I see, it seems at my feet, an amazing, brilliant panorama of
mountains with the sun on them, of blue locks, a steamer no bigger than a fly
moving up Loch Ness beneath the arch of a rainbow. All around me are the
Highlands, magnificent among the clouds, the evening blueness spreading over
them; peak calling to peak, the
What does
it take to create such powerful descriptions? Careful observation and hard
work! Arthur Rubinstein, the pianist, used to practice for up to eight hours
every day. He claimed that if he went more than a couple of days without
practising he could sense the difference, and that if he went any longer than
that, then others could tell too.
How should
we practise? By making routine writing observations, just like an artist with
his sketchbook. Those people we have just met – or that event we have recently
attended – how can we express it on paper in ways that will be of interest to
others? Such considerations must become a lifelong habit – and a far more
interesting one than most.
We must
resist the temptation to look for shortcuts. Merely piling up adjectives that
describe every shade of colour, temperament and texture is rarely as effective
a means of evoking an atmosphere or a character as highlighting some telling
detail and then leaving the reader’s imagination to do the rest. Our banner
bids us bear in mind that we should show whatever can be shown rather
than tell it all.
Though
this is far easier said than done, we can start with some symptomatic detail: a
look on a person’s face, or their body language, or something that reveals a
person’s inner or outer behaviour. One striking characteristic may be all that
is needed to stigmatise the person and create the effect we were seeking.
The aim of
our description is not simply to convey an accurate picture but to draw out
implications and conclusions. Consider these two contrasting passages. The
first is the conclusion of a short essay by Rebecca West, written in 1913.
Today it reads prophetically; at the time it must merely have appeared
provocative.
‘Good God enlighten us! Which of these two belongs to
the sterner sex – the man who sits in Whitehall all his life on a comfortable
salary, or the woman who has to keep her teeth bared lest she has her meatless
bone of seventeen shillings a week snatched away from her and who has to
produce the next generation on her off-days? . . . I had a vision of the world
fifty years hence, when we have simply had to take over the dangerous
adventures on the earth. I saw some bronzed and travel-scarred pioneer
returning from the Wild West with hard-earned treasure, buying a fresh and
unspoiled bridegroom who had never stirred from the office of, let us say, the
Director of Public Prosecutions. I saw a world of women struggling, as the
American capitalist men of today struggle, to maintain a parasitic sex that is
at once its tyrant and its delight . . . We must keep men up to the mark'.
(Rebecca West: ‘The Sterner Sex’)
The second
is from an article by A. W. Tozer entitled ‘Wanted: Courage with
Moderation'. Warren Wiersbe described Tozer as having the gift of being
able to take a spiritual truth and hold it up to the light in such a way that,
like a diamond, every faced can be seen and admired. Tozer makes you reflect on
themes and issues people thought they already knew as much as they needed to
know. This is a typical sample of his writing.
The Bible gives no record of a coward ever being cured
of his malady . . . How desperately the Church at this moment needs men of
courage is too well known to need repetition. Fears broods over the Church like
some ancient curse. Fear for our living, fear of our jobs, fear of losing
popularity, fear of each other: these are the ghosts that haunt the men who
stand today in places of church leadership. Many of them, however, win a
reputation for courage by repeating safe and expected things with comical
daring.
Yet self-conscious courage is not the cure. To
cultivate the habit of ‘calling a spade a spade’ may merely result in our
making a nuisance of ourselves and doing a lot of damage in the process. The
ideal seems to be a quiet courage that is not aware of its own presence. It
draws its strength each moment from the indwelling Spirit and is hardly aware
of self at all. Such a courage will be patient and well-balanced and safe from
extremes. May God send a baptism of such courage upon us.
By
remaining alert and observant, and taking the trouble to record our insights on
paper, we will gradually build up a library of insights and ‘sketches’ in our
notebooks from which we can later craft meaningful writings. Even the stray
remarks we read or hear can one day find an interesting and appropriate home.
I heard
the other day that a lobster’s nervous system is ten times more sensitive than
a human being’s. When it is boiled in water in a restaurant for the delight of
the pampered rich, its sufferings are so acute that dogs, with their heightened
spectrum of hearing, are said to be intensely aware of their distress for up to
a mile in the vicinity. The effect this stray morsel of information had on me
was to make me identify profoundly with a sensitive person who is going through
a time of extreme emotional turmoil, and whose sufferings could, with some
justification, be compared to that of the unfortunate lobster.
To
conclude this section, we shall turn to Ewan Clarkson’s ‘The Running of the
Deer'. (Arrow) Although the writer includes a number of
character-revealing, tension-inducing episodes and dialogue duels, the long
descriptions provide the main source of action. The opening provides both the
setting and tonality for the book:
‘His name was Rhus, and he came with the dawn, to lie
sprawled and shivering on the short, dew-drenched turf of the combe'.
The growth
of the young deer is set against the actions of the local people. Poachers and
deer stalkers are represented, but above all, there is tension between the Hunt,
symbolised by its aptly named leader, Colonel Baskerville, and those who are
opposed to all that he and the hunt stand for. Human cruelty and selfishness
are much in evidence as the story leads inexorably to the tension of the final
chase, in which Colonel Baskerville plunges to his death in the late twilight
as he seeks to head off the stag. The build up is long and measured; his fate
commensurate to the way he has oppressed the people in his charge.
Many years ago, on a stormy night in November, as the moon
hid behind racing clouds, a vole had scampered over the cliff face, an ash seed
in its tiny jaws. For a long second, the treacherous moon revealed the presence
of the vole to a hunting owl, and the vole died, the seed falling from its
grasping jaws. The seed lodged behinds a rock, a massive sandstone slab, and
from the seed sprouted a shoot. For a while the tree flourished, until a gale
tore it up by the roots, and tumbled it down into the tide, leaving a gaping
hole in the cliff. Then the slow and inexorable forces of erosion got to work,
and as the years ticked by, second by second, the wind and the rain, the hot
sun and the stinging frost on the cliff face. Then came the wettest summer in
living memory.
Thus from small events, the death of a vole, the loss
of a seed, the destinies of men are shaped . . . Baskerville did not, could
not, know that only the previous evening the cliff face had crumbled and fallen
away.
The
nearest thing we find in the book to a wise elder statesmen is the imposing
figure of the solitary Isaac, a man with a hidden act of violence in his past,
but who has long since vowed to subdue that side of his nature and to put it to
better uses. He it is who talks the persecuted Duncan Turner out of taking his
own life and who points the way to his starting over in a fresh environment. It
is fitting that it is through his eyes that the last scene in the book is
played out: Colonel Baskerville being laid to rest in the ground. Isaac’s
ultimately idealistic hopes and dreams are highlighted, and Rhus himself makes
a brief symbolic appearance, the colour of his hide contrasting with the
darkness the rest of the passage exudes.
As his gaze swept the crest of the hill he thought for
a moment he saw a lone stag, his antlers arched like the spreading branches of
a great oak, his hide red in the sun. When he looked again the stag had gone,
and only the sombre oaks stood dark against the sky.
Yet Isaac
was certain his eyes had not deceived him, and the appearance of the stag had
seemed to him at once a reassurance and a warning. After the funeral he walked
alone, up through the leafy trees and out onto the bare shoulder of the hill,
where the grasses trembled in the breeze from the sea, and the ghosts of the
bronze men whispered to the sky. Sitting there, it came to him that greed and
avarice, power and self-interest, were no more than names men gave to a
built-in urge for self-destruction. It seemed to him that if man could not
destroy himself in any other way, he would succeed by destroying his own world.
Yet even if the holocaust came, and whole
civilisations crumbled and decayed, it might still be possible that some would
remain, those who remained in harmony with their surroundings and in sympathy
with the rest of the living world. Maybe the meek would inherit the earth. He
would not see it, but it was a good thought to carry with him, wherever he
might go.
Pause
and Put into Practice
Creating
powerful moods and impressions requires time and effort. The aim of these
starter exercises is to produce pen pictures that highlight whether something
(or someone) is grim, joyful, negative, positive, hopeless or hopeful. Let who
the people were (or are) shine through the description. If we can regularly
achieve such effects, then most readers will have no difficulty discerning the
authority that is present in our writing.
i) As a first exercise, close your eyes and cast your
mind back to the first teacher(s) you can remember. In all probability you will
not be able to recall more than a handful of the thousands of words they must
have spoken in your hearing every day. You probably remember what they were
like rather than what they said. Words have power, but character ultimately
speaks louder than words. Describe these people and the effect they had on you,
for good or bad. Try switching the viewpoint between ‘I felt . . . ’
subjective) and ‘She was . . . ’ (objective). The details and descriptions you
include effectively control how close readers can come to your material – and
how close you want them to come.
ii) Describe the first date you can recall. What angle
will you choose to present this from: the worldly-wise person who is writing
now, or the clumsy and naïve person you were then? In other words, are you
writing this as a vivid first-hand account, or as a mature recollection? Why
not try writing it from both points of view? What do the differences point to?
iii) Describe a meeting in which something
far-reaching (for good or bad) was decided concerning your fate. Don’t alter
any of the facts, but take time to explore the emotions that you felt and the
consequences involved. It is entirely possible that in the course of this
strong emotions may surface as you revisit this scene. With the advantage of
hindsight, however, you may find whole new dimensions and perspectives
emerging, which help you to see the matter in a new light.
Dynamic
Dialogue
‘What counts in dialogue is not what is said but what
is meant'. (Sol Stein)
On the
face of it, writing dialogue involves nothing more complex than capturing
conversation and turning it into tightly written prose. In practice, to
reproduce lifelike and yet purposeful dialogue calls for considerable skill.
For dialogue to work smoothly, we first need to make sure that we get the
‘right’ people on-stage together, and remove everyone else from the scene.
The next
thing is to provide the dialogue with a focal point, a reason for it to take
place. Someone is bursting with news, or trying to pry out a piece of
information, or is beginning to show signs of falling in love, or going mad.
The more we hold the purpose of this dialogue in the forefront of our mind, the
more likely we are to succeed in keeping it from drifting off course.
Dialogue
is at its most effective when it raises questions, heightens suspense and
introduces a confrontational note into the proceedings. It is less effective
when authors use it as an excuse for downloading all the fruit of their hours
of research. If this really does merit inclusion, most of it can be
unobtrusively woven into the characterisation or descriptions.
Dialogue
imparts a sense of immediacy to the text. It helps readers to feel involved and
to draw conclusions for themselves. What a character says shows us at least as
much about them as if the author told us more directly.
Good
dialogue is never merely there to punctuate the gaps between events: in many
ways it is the action. That is why the most important thing is to write the
first draft of our dialogues down at top speed. Almost certainly we will write
too much, but that is neither here nor there. We can edit and portion what we
have written out between the appropriate characters later on.
This is
the stage when we must ensure that everything in our dialogue justifies its
inclusion, even those occasions when the characters are plainly speaking out of
character or are twisting reality. There is no time or space for padding. All
the ‘ums’ and ‘ers’ of ordinary life must be left out, too, unless we are
deliberately setting out to reveal a hesitant character. The golden rule is to
keep exchanges short. Three or four sentences at a time are quite enough for
any one character to speak before someone else should respond, or an external
event break in.
Pause
and Put into Practice
Study how
different authors achieve these effects. Does their dialogue draw the reader
into the heart of the action and lend variety to the story? Or is it merely
being used in order to disguise the author’s lack of descriptive ability?
Now
consider your own writing. Are there ways you could make it more succinct or
more confrontational? Have you taken the trouble to give each of your
characters their own distinctive voice? Is the language and tonality in keeping
with their rank and disposition? All of these things are embraced in our
banner: Let the characters reveal themselves by saying too much or too
little.
Try
putting together various ‘what if’ scenarios. For example, what would happen if
the two people you least wanted to meet each other suddenly arrived at your
house at the same time? Can you find ways to bring out how you feel in the
ensuing dialogue, especially how afraid you are that they may find out certain
things you desperately want to keep hidden from them?
If this
starting point does not appeal to you, think of some real-life equivalent. Will
you put your emphasis on the humour of the situation or on the deeper emotions
involved?
Humorous
Happenings
Many
consider the account of the cricket match in ‘England their England’ by
Archibald Macdonell between a literary team led by Mr Hodges and the villagers
of Fordenden to be one of the most sustained piece of humorous writing in the
English language. No single passage stands out from the others and that is why
I am referring to it here. It is neither slapstick nor vulgar. The reader is
unlikely to split his sides in the opening descriptions, but the humour builds
up and grows out of the context. I will quote from part of the lead up to the
match and leave you to track down a copy of the story in its entirety.
All round the cricket pitch small parties of villagers
were patiently waiting for the great match to begin. A match against gentleman
from
Blue-and-green dragonflies played at hide-and-seek
among the thistle-down and a pair of swans flew overhead. An ancient man leaned
upon a scythe, his sharpening-stone sticking out of a picket in his velveteen
waistcoat. The parson shook hands with the squire. Doves cooed. The haze flickered.
The world stood still.
Treating
immensely serious historical matters as the stuff of humour has long had its
following, none more so than the pioneering humour Sellar and Yeatman developed
in ‘1066 and All That’. The more familiar we are with the actual events
they are taking off, the more we will appreciate their material. Typical of
their style is this account of the ill-fated Mary.
The
Queen of Hearts
A great nuisance in this reign was the memorable
Scottish queen, known as Mary Queen of Hearts on account of the large number of
husbands which she obtained, eg Cardinale Ritzio, Boswell and the King of
France: most of these she easily blew up in Holywood.
Unfortunately for
As Mary had already been Queen of France and Queen of
Scotland many people thought it would be unfair if she was not made Queen of
England as well. Various plots such as the Paddington Plot, the Thredneedle
Conspiracy and the Adelfi Plot were therefore hatched to bring this about.
Peter
Spence’s delightful ‘To the Manor Born’ details Audrey
fforbes-Hamilton’s plight following the death of her husband and her move from
her ancestral manor at Grantleigh to the small lodge on her former estate. She
is traumatised by the realisation that she is no longer receiving all the
social invitations she craves for.
‘The mantlepiece at the manor positively bristled with
stiffies,’ she recalled indignantly to Marjory, who was always round at the old
lodge helping her to settle in. Dinner parties, balls, coming-outs, society
weddings, Henley, Ascot, Goodwood, Glyndebourne,’ she listed nostalgically, to
think that I won’t be going to Glyndbourne this year, and I used to so enjoy it
– apart from having to sit through all those interminable operas. Fair weather
friends all of them – suddenly I’m a social pariah. No invitations – not so
much as a Tupperware party in the village . . . We really were in demand till
Marton died - now look what I’ve got to look forward to,’ She consulted the
diary. ‘The Muslim New Year and High Tide in Aberystwyth. And nothing to wear
for either'.
The drama
focuses around Audrey’s pride and her bitter-sweet relationship with Richard de
Vere, the new owner of the house. Her veneer of politeness is stretched to the
limit before finally mellowing into something much more romantic.
Along
rather different lines, we might sample Heath Robinson’s decidedly chauvinistic
article on ‘Early Married Life'.
As every lion-tamer knows, the King of Beast cannot be
expected to jump through paper hoops without a little preliminary tuition; and
what applies to lions applies equally to wives. It is during the early days of
his married life – when the honeymoon is but a fragrant memory and every
pawnable wedding present has gone to its new home –that the wise husband will
train his wife in the way that she should go – not with blows and curses as by
the power of suggestion and example. Once a woman gets set in her ways, it is
practically impossible to pry her loose without the help of gun-cotton; and it
is therefore up to her husband to see that she steps off, so to speak, on the
right foot . . .
More than one marriage has gone up in smoke owing to
the wife’s inability to understand that an occasional night out with the boys
is what every husband needs to preserve his reason and keep him from brooding
on his care-free past. In the life of every man above the rank of moron there
are times when the urge to go mildly gay [NB: not used in the modern sense of
that word] becomes too strong to be withstood; and it is by her behaviour at
such moments that the young wife proves herself.
If, when her husband timidly applies for the necessary
leave, she at once assumes that his love is dead and scampers weeping to her
mother, she may be held to have failed at her job. If, on the to other hand,
she acquiesces smilingly and allows him an extra shilling from his wages for
buns, lemonade etc., she can be accounted not only a good wife, but a highly
unusual one.
All
considerations of political correctness and sheer decorum apart, I am grateful
to be married to an exceedingly understanding wife! By the way, these four last
examples can be found in ‘Humorous Stories with Ronnie Barker’ (Octopus
Books Ltd).
We may not
instinctively associate CS Lewis’ ‘Chronicles of Narnia’ with humor, but I
particularly enjoy this episode in ‘The Magician’s Nephew'. The animals
have just been given the gift of speech. and the jackdaw has just said
something that makes him hide his head under its wings with embarrassment. All
the other animals began making various queer noises, which was their way of
laughing. They tried at first to repress it, but Aslan intervenes:
‘Laugh and fear not creatures. Now that you are no
longer dumb and witless, you need not always be grave. For jokes as well as
justice come in with speech'. So they all let themselves go. And there was such
merriment that the Jackdaw himself plucked up courage again and perched on the
cab-horse’s head, between its ears, clapping its wings, and said, ‘Aslan!
Aslan! Have I made the first joke?’
‘No little friends,’ said the Lion. ‘You have not made
the first joke; you have only been the first joke'. Then everyone
laughed more than ever.
Part Four ~ In Search of the Right Viewpoint
A
Robust Viewpoint ~ Writing in the First Person
Viewpoint; i) A vantage point from which something can
be viewed.
ii) The angle from which a story or article is
written, or an issue is presented.
In the early nineteenth century,
when the first tourists ventured courageously north to the
We may be
freer today in our viewing habits, but from a literary point of view,
everything that we write ultimately depends not only on the style in
which we couch it but also on the viewpoint. Pitch it right and readers
will barely give it a second thought; pitch it wrong and readers will notice
almost nothing else.
We gain
our first experience in writing in the first person form at infant school as we
write our accounts of how we spend our days. Despite this valuable ‘formation,’
it is commonly considered unwise to attempt to write a first novel in this
form. To me the advice appears unnecessarily restricting. In today’s
experience-orientated society, what other style can draw us so intimately into
the heart of a story or message? Such a close-up viewpoint has a great deal to
recommend it, provided that we do not make the mistake of confusing the
protagonist with ourselves.
Elements
of autobiography may find their way into the text (and from the point of view
of inspiration and authenticity, it would be a shame if such a ready-made source
of inspiration were not put to good use) we must take the greatest care
to sift original events through several layers of filters in order to avoid a
possibly hurtful identification with real people and places.
Few of us
lead such exhilarating lives, however, to escape the principle that fiction
demands larger than life characters and episodes. More will need to be made of
even promising material if they are to be sufficiently illuminating or
dramatic.
Writing in
the first person works is particularly popular in historical novels. The usual
technique in these cases is not to make the protagonists the famous people
themselves, but an associate who sees those people at ‘close up'. I
adopted this strategy in Celtic Quest, where Elfleda has the opportunity
to learn at close quarters from the example of St Cuthbert.
I love
dwelling on those passages of Scripture in which the Lord speaks in the first
person. After the gospels, I find the writings of the prophets the most
inspirational in this respect. There is so much we can learn here about the
heart and character of a God who is so entirely different from us, and yet so
intimately involved in the affairs of mankind.
Perhaps I
have subconsciously absorbed this standpoint so deeply that it has served to
heighten my expectations that I will share the narrator’s standpoint when I
pick up others publications too. I am predisposed to identify with them, whilst
at the same time expecting them to be endowed with a great deal more virility,
stamina and foresight than I could ever hope to achieve. I am not in any way
put out, however, if I find their viewpoint to be a flawed one. As we mentioned
earlier, this can be an asset – although we as writers may find it strange to
set out with the express intention of creating an ‘unreliable’ protagonist.
What
readers do expect is that the central character (because he is narrating the
story) has a better than average chance of surviving to the end of the story.
This greatly reduces, one possible source of suspense.
Where
writing in the first person form does require great skill is in overcoming the
potential limitations of the viewpoint from which we can present events. For
example, we may find ourselves obliged to resort to indirect speech to report
events that happen when we are ‘off-stage'. And how can we legitimately provide
certain descriptions except by the narrator going out of their way to mention
them. Suppose we want to draw attention to the hairstyle of the woman our
protagonist is speaking to. In order to supply the reader with the merest
intimation as to what the woman may actually look like, the narrator needs to
say something like, ‘I love the way the hair falls over your eyes'. This calls
for a degree of ingenuity and almost lateral thinking — but it should by no
means be beyond our ability.
All this
is summed up in our banner, which highlights the fact that first hand accounts,
if skillfully constructed, are always absorbable and often spunky to the point
of being unputdownable. ‘I was there so I can describe it!’
Pause
and Put into Practice
Try
writing a short account (in the style of an impersonal news report) about some
bizarre incident that has recently taken place. If you are struggling to find a
starting point for inspiration, here is a real-life example from our home town
you might like to flesh out. An unattended 4x4 self-started its engine, and
promptly caught fire. It then proceeded to lurch its way across the supermarket
car park before colliding with another vehicle. Both were engulfed in the
flames.
Now write
the account again, but this time in the first person form, highlighting your
own role (bystander, participant, perpetrator or victim). Notice how the two
accounts bring contrasting emphases. Some of you will have written deliberately
dull descriptions, but have come into your own when your own part in the story
is allowed to come through in the first person form. Others of you may have
written a brilliantly witty or concise third person account in which case the
introduction of a first person character may actually take away more than it
adds. For others again, both accounts will have will have been equally as good.
This is a particularly interesting exercise for discovering where your
strengths and interest lie.
A
Focused Viewpoint
Given that
most authors ultimately opt for a third person viewpoint, the question we must
ask ourselves is: to what extent are readers to be made privy to the thoughts
of our central characters? Josip Novakovich claims that we will be able to
answer that question best if we can decide ‘where the camera is filming from’.
Is it from inside the character’s head - in which case we ought to be
able to read their thoughts explicitly? Or is it from outside - in which
case the narrator is more like an unseen cam cord operator, filming the
episodes but remaining largely unaware of what is going on inside the
character’s hearts and minds.
This last
technique has the great advantage of permitting the reader to deduce the inner
workings of the characters for themselves. Most authors ‘cheat’ slightly, of
course, by prompting readers to the desired effect by the use of certain
‘intensifying’ words that make the matter plain.
The
following sentences illustrate these two primary ‘camera angles'.
‘Thomas
looked straight at Susan, his mind reeling as he reflected on what his hands
had done to her the night before'.
‘Thomas
looked straight at Susan, his fingers clenched together and his face wracked
with guilt and grief'.
Because
the first example comes from inside the character’s head, the stage is
set for Thomas to go into detail both about the terrible things he did to Susan
the night before, and how he is feeling about it now. In the second example, it
is obvious that something terrible has happened, but the reader is given no
clue as to what it might be. It is impossible to tell whether Thomas might not
be feeling upset because of something he has done to someone entirely
different.
We can
either continue to show Thomas’ agony, as in the second example, until
enough details emerge for the reader to deduce the full picture, or we
can take a faster route and recount it in full. The choice is ours.
But so too
is the responsibility effectively to ‘become’ the person around whom the story
is being told. We have already stressed that our personal thoughts and actions
need in no way mirror those of our protagonist, but we must take care to ensure
that we present nothing except through that person’s consciousness. For
example, we could continue the first sentence above, ‘Thomas sensed’, (or
‘knew’) that he had wounded Susan to the depths of her being'. Verbs
such as these orientate the reader and leave them in no doubt as to where the
viewpoint is coming from.
If we are
take care to present the viewpoint as clearly as this, we will have little need
to superimpose our additional comments into the story. At the same time,
readers will develop a lasting sympathy for the viewpoint characters – which in
turn makes it easy for them to be concerned for their fate.
Lack of
attention in this respect leads to confusion. Suppose, for example, we have
been following the storyline above exclusively from Thomas’s perspective, and
then come across some such line as ‘Susan found Thomas’s sudden solicitude
profoundly hypocritical'.
This begs
an important question. How do we know that Susan felt this way? Have we
suddenly switched from Thomas to being ‘inside’ her viewpoint? The simplest way
round this sudden change would be to keep the same viewpoint and to say
instead, ‘Thomas sensed that Susan was having difficulty coping with his
new found solicitude. He wondered if she thought he was being hypocritical'.
By
contrast, François Mauriac, a leading Catholic writer of the mid twentieth
century, and a man blessed with profound insight into human nature, and a
superlative ability, to evoke the stifling atmosphere of bourgeois life in
south-west
It
succeeds because Mauriac creates a person he became fascinated by. Unable to
leave Thérèse alone, he follows her fortunes through several other novels and
short stories. Her history is a tragic one – inevitably, one is tempted to say,
because Mauriac, likes Thomas Hardy, veers towards a doom-laden fatalism in
which character flaws lead inexorably to a disaster that seems almost
preordained. From the outset it appears that Mauriac feels compelled to judge
and denounce Thérèse’s deviant life and thought processes, perhaps because he
feared that his conservative clientele might be shocked by her moral stance,
and assume that he was showing too much partisanship for the ‘deviant’ person
he had created? How mild her rebellion appears by modern day standards!
Mauriac’s
viewpoint, traditionally known as the omniscient narrator, is less common these
days. Nevertheless, authors must always know their characters that little bit
better than they know themselves, and retain the right to share in their
thought processes. What they should not seek to do is to ‘use’ protagonists to
download all their own points of view.
Pause and Put into
Practice
Our banner
here takes the form of an exercise. Examine a few chapters or articles that you
have written. Underline every time the viewpoint shifts to anyone other than
the primary character. Are these alternative viewpoints really necessary?
If they are not, revise the text to make it say what you want it to within the
confines of what the principal character could legitimately experience.
A Roving Viewpoint
Presenting
material from alternating viewpoints cannot modify the basic realities of what
happened, but it can certainly affect how the reader sees it. For
example, ask any three witnesses for an account of what happened at a seemingly
straightforward road accident. One, the driver who is at fault, might want to
distance himself from his part in the episode and colour his account to such an
extent that it is almost impossible to recognise that we are describing the
same incident as the other driver (who is determined to prove that the other
was driving ‘like a bat out of hell’). If something so simple can prove so
contentious, think what happens when we are dealing with multiple events and
complex motives. (Marital breakdowns are notorious examples).
In the
course of a novel, we would expect one viewpoint naturally to dominate, but
there are times when the story benefits from a complete change of viewpoint.
Here are some suggestions to try for creating unusual effects.
The first
person plural form makes an intriguing alternative if a sort of
"collective narrator" is required.
"We [the friends who had come to watch the match]
ached for him as he missed chance after chance in the first half. How we
rejoiced when he rediscovered his scoring touch with the last kick of the
game."
Flaubert
uses this form at the beginning of Madame Bovary, before modulating to a
more conventional third person viewpoint. With consummate skill, Flaubert
continues to swap between a traditional third party viewpoint, and third person
‘omniscient’. (Josip Novakovich describes this as ‘authorial interpretation’
rather than ‘intervention’ because, unlike Mauriac’s decidedly more flat-footed
interjections, they neither grate nor slow the pace of the story down).
Another
alternative is the second person form. This is particularly useful if the aim
is to make people feel ‘wanted’ and included. I came across an example of this
the other day in a glossy magazine that happened to be describing a sea cruise
to
‘You walk the teeming streets of x delighting
in the y and then rejoin your ship at z o’clock where dinner is
waiting for you, before adjourning to the cinema…’
There
undoubtedly is a flattery in being so directly addressed. The downside is that
it can all feel somewhat prescriptive. ‘You will return to the cruise
ship in time for dinner and attend the cinema, whether you happen to like the
film or not!’ It may suit the crew to have everyone under their eye at all
times, but what if we would prefer to skip the meal and stay ashore an hour or
two longer? Nevertheless, this is such an unusual viewpoint that it is worth
exploring from time to time. And why restrict it to travel writing?
‘You feel
claustrophobic when you enter this church. It is not the surroundings which
produce this effect; they are light and airy. No, it is the fact that you are
expected to perform. You have to sing loudly and look cheerful or you stand out
like an unregenerate mannequin. You want to sit down because your legs are
aching, and you can’t stand the ear-blasting music, but you don’t want to look
out of place, so you remain on your feet, opening and shutting your mouth like
a goldfish and wondering how long it will be before you can decently make your
escape'.
This
particular viewpoint is most effective when used sparingly. It would be tiring
on the reader if we persevered with it for too long. Why not continue the
passage above by switching to the equally unconventional first personal plural
narrator form in order to highlight the change of emphasis?
‘And then we went to the Orthodox church. It was like
a breath of heaven. The reverence and simplicity, the heartfelt depth of faith
that shone on everyone’s faces, but which in no way intruded on our space . . .
We sensed a stillness that was born of something more profound than peaceful
surroundings, as though the One these honest folk had come to honour was
Himself in some mysterious way present and responding to their outpoured
devotion. We felt, at last, as though we had come home'.
Although
we will probably not often choose to write in these particular forms, it is
always useful to have one particular ‘target’ person in mind. It is
mind-numbing to focus on some unknown and impersonal audience ‘out there,’ but
relatively easy to concentrate on someone we know and care for. The banner for
this section reflects the effect this personalising influence can have: ‘If
my friends are interested, others will be too'.
A Propagandist’s
Viewpoint
There is
one other point to be aware of in this context. This is the viewpoint which
William Empson was hinting at in
"The
central function of imaginative literature is to make you realise that other
people act on moral convictions very different from your own."
Oh that
people who are comfortably ensconced in their right-wing views would expose
their narrow view of the world to thoughtful proponents of the left — and that
those on the left would humble themselves similarly. We would soon find within
ourselves a longing for justice that renders all facile terminology of ‘left’
and ‘right’ hopelessly inadequate.
There is a
sinister side to Empson’s words. Propaganda is an enormously powerful weapon,
and every cult and tyrant knows how to exploit it, just as every ram, stag or
bull knows how to make good use of its horns. Corrupt regimes fear the power of
the pen, rearing intuitively that it can achieve far more against their cause
than any mere sword.
To some
extent, we are all the victims of propaganda. In the face of a continual
barrage from relentless consumerism and competing ideologies, our paramount
need is for discernment. Consider, for example the following statement of
intention – and the heartbreaking ways its author later put these thoughts into
practice.
‘I understood the infamous spiritual terror which this
movement exerts, [he was speaking of the Social Democrats in
I achieved
an equal understanding of the importance of physical terror toward the
individual and the masses . . . For while in the ranks of their supporters the
victory achieved seems a triumph of the justice of their own cause, the
defeated adversary in most cases despairs of the success of any further resistance'.
The
author, of course, was Adolph Hitler, who used the dreary ramblings of his
infamous biography, ‘Mein Kampf’ to signpost so many of his subsequent
atrocities. The same man declared later before launching his unfounded assault
on
Propaganda
rarely succeeds, of course, in completely convincing friends or in fooling
everyone else, and yet it remains a terrifyingly potent weapon. Constantly
repeated lies and exaggerations in time become accepted in the public
consciousness as gospel truth — and the way is prepared for a reign
characterised by distortions and deceptions. Are we discerning enough to spot
where such things may be lurking in our own hearts and society?
We must
allow no trace of the propagandist to defile our own writing. The moment we
become tarred as partisan propagandists, the less credibility we will enjoy.
How much better to make our goal to convey accurate information and incisive
truths.
There is a
fine line between writing enthusiastically about a cause that is precious to
you, and the twisted perspective of the propagandist. Scrupulous honesty about
one’s motives and intentions is our first line of defence against falling prey
to this pitfall. So too is a willingness to share our viewpoint with people of
integrity who would not normally share our outlook and perspective.
Pause and Put into
Ponder: A Case of mistaken Identity
A friend rang me just now, assuming I was someone else
I know.
It focused my thoughts on the person that I wasn’t.
It made me wonder how I would have felt about the
information that I heard.
They would have reacted to it in a different way to
It usually takes some apparent accident or setback to
jolt us out of our own little world.
Just suppose for a moment that you were
Your wife or husband, or pastor, friend or boss.
Walk for a while as if you were in their shoes, and
write a passage as if you were them.
It will help you to appreciate these people a whole
lot more!
Passionate
Prose
‘Nothing great is achieved without enthusiasm'. (Ralph
Waldo Emerson)
Whichever
viewpoint we elect to adopt, the one thing we can never dispense with is a
simple passion for our subject in hand. If all our efforts to communicate on
paper fail to make much impression in people’s lives because our writing is
sloppy, then we can correct these faults by applying ourselves with diligence
to the ‘Art of Creative Writing’. But techniques and principles alone
will not suffice if we are lacking in passion.
Think what
it is that first draws us to a piece of writing. More than any trick of style
or technique, is it not the writer’s love of their subject that speaks
to us? ‘Only connect the prose and the passion,’ E.M. Forster urged in ‘Howard’s
End’, ‘and both will be exalted'. As we have seen, skillful communicators
can draw us into subjects we would otherwise have had no interest in.
Listen to
what Ian Clark has to say about Shetland in his forward to Island Challenge
(the biography of one of the island’s leading councillors). The style can by no
means be described as top drawer - but perhaps it will help to make readers who
know next to nothing about the
‘Taking London as the centre of a circle, the
circumference of which passes through Unst [the most northerly isle], you find
that Norway, Sweden, Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria Italy and Spain are as
near to – and Denmark, Germany, Holland, Belgium, France and Switzerland are
nearer the political capital of the United Kingdom than is Shetland. Over and
above this, a hundred miles of ocean separates it from the mainland of
The wonder is not that Shetland is different; it is
that intelligent Mainlanders find this difficult to accept . . . Isolated but
not insular, Shetland treasures the ethereal while remaining practical . . .
What dwarfs everything else is that Shetland is a community and it is people that
matter'.
I asked a fourteen year old
friend who has just moved up here to write a few words about what they Shetland
means to her. This is what she wrote.
To
most people, they are cold, windswept islands, with nothing but sheep and sea.
But to me they are oysters, concealing their treasure from passers by. The
harsh exterior is just an act, rather like a lonely man who pushes you away but
is inwardly crying out for someone to discover his inner being. The weather is
just a test . . . Are you passionate enough to endure the unpleasantries for
the promise of greater beauty, never before experienced by man?
Another friend, on her
first visit to the islands, came up with something similar.
Let
me tell you about Shetland.
A
great distance away. I don’t mean I miles, although it is that too . . .
I
mean that it is further from the place where man rules,
And
closer to where God imparts and impacts.
Out
go the manicured gardens.
Out
go the steaming queues of traffic.
Out
go my decisions and my determinings—
And
in their place?
Long
fingers of land, stretched out into the sea . . .
Skies
that dance and sing and streak . . ..
And
people speaking with softened consonants,
Looking
directly at you, and beckoning —
How
can they have guessed what’s happening in my heart?
If your
interest is beginning to kindle – then the reason is simple. We love Shetland,
and we are succeeding in communicating our passion to you. Any subject becomes
more interesting when someone perceives some fresh beauty or potential in it.
That is why so many of us write best about the subjects that are closest to our
hearts. To the enthusiastic writer, there are no inherently dull situations –
there are only uninspiring authors. We can therefore fly this banner high: ‘Let
your love and passion shine through'.
One final
point. We may be writing passionately but are still making scant impression..
Quite possibly, our material may simply not getting into the right people’s
hands. No one person’s style or subject material can possibly appeal to
everyone. People who love the buzz of city life probably aren’t ready to
consider living in Shetland. It is surprising how indifferent most all-in
wrestlers are to fly-fishing!
Part Five ~ The Writer’s Two Hats
Animus
and Anima
Let us
suppose that we are clear about the general thrust of what it is we want to
write about. We have set down our initial draft in a white-hot blaze of
enthusiasm. But then, unless our deadline is extremely pressing, we will do
well to lay it down again. We will find consistent benefit in allowing a ‘fire’
gap and sleeping on a passage rather than attempting to work on it again too
quickly. Writings, like timber, requires seasoning. Receiving an idea is the
all-important first step, but knowing what to do with it may be an entirely
separate matter. We need time to reflect on the original idea and to find the
sharpest way to present it to others.
When the
time comes to read it again – and this may sometimes be months or years later –
we must swap hats. Now we are no longer a free ranging creator but rather an
impartial critic. All creativity needs and honing, and long before anyone else
sets eyes on our material we must each assume the role of editor for ourselves.
This is where we must humble ourselves and overcome any foolish sense that what
we wrote in the course of our first outpouring was so inspired that not a word
should be altered.
In all
probability we will find that what we wrote is both better and worse than we
had originally thought. Better in that certain descriptions and character
traits are sharper than we could reproduce now at this greater distance our
original moment of inspiration. But worse because the text is littered with
clichés and non sequiturs and the material comes across as being too simplistic
(or complicated). Now is the time to reshape it according to our taste and
intention. First drafts are all about untramelled creative flow; revisions
about the cold light of day. To some extent they match Karl Jung’s categories
that define the different ‘polarities’ of our personality: the ‘animus’ and the
‘anima’. Without tying ourselves to narrow gender-distinction, the terms are
broad indications of masculine and feminine characteristics, the ‘anima’
representing our intuitive and emotional side, whilst the ‘animus’ thrives on
logic, fact and order.
Left to
itself, the animus would frown on creative flights of fancy, just as the anima
secretly squirms at the thought of being rigidly constrained. Our banner for
this section envisions a powerful and proper fusion of these characteristics: The
secret of good writing is to develop both strands in the right proportions.
A
well-developed ‘animus’ that is working in tandem (rather than in competition)
with the ‘anima’ will usually be able to find effective ways to rework and
incorporate this initial stream of ideas. This is where the ‘anima’ must step
aside and permit for the ‘animus’ to make whatever sweeping changes are needed
to sharpen the flow and presentation.
‘Off with his head’ is the
regimental bugle call of animus-driven editors as they wield their pens. It is
a slogan we should not be afraid of. When we have tinkered around with a
phrase, but are still left with the uncomfortable feeling that the overall
effect is less sharp than we would have liked, then the most effective way to
deal with it may well be to adopt the Red Queen’s policy and delete it
altogether. The reason we may have been having so much trouble with it is that
it was never really worth bothering with.
One of the
problems with word processors is that it is so easy to play around with text
that we may end up endlessly tinkering around with passages that really ought
to be omitted or completely rewritten. We must be prepared to apply the same
principle to whole scenes and even chapters as well as to individual phrases.
Pause
and Consider
Most of us
lean instinctively more to the animus or the anima. Review various pieces that
you have written in this light. Can you discern where your own emphasis lies?
Is this routinely the case, or only true for some of your writings? Would your
work benefit by being less anima-flowery and more tightly focused? Or are you
so straight down-the-line ‘animus’ that you have never permitted your ‘anima’
the freedom to spread its wings and soar? What (or who) might help you ‘broaden
out’ in this respect?
For
example, you might not think that the ‘anima’ would have much place in writing
a report of, something so prosaic as, say, a football match. Yet everything we
write will be infinitely the richer to read if we allow the anima its say.
Fuller descriptions and more incisive metaphors will express concepts that will
make the article a pleasure for even non footballing aficionados to read, as
well as delighting true fans with richer insights into their beloved sport.
The Art
of Rewriting
‘Then, rising with
The Muse invoked, sit down
to write;
Blot out, correct, insert, refine,
Enlarge, diminish, interline'. (Jonathan Swift, c.1790)
‘If people knew how hard I
had worked to get my mastery, it would not seem so wonderful after all'.
(Michelangelo)
With all
my heart I value the ‘stream of consciousness’ approach I advocated earlier.
But we need to establish a proper balance between the spontaneous and the
carefully planned. Improvisation is beautiful in music, but nobody expects a
fully fashioned symphony to emerge every time we dispense with printed sheets.
There is usually much editing to do when we revisit the texts we wrote in the
white-hot heat of the moment. It is the long process of revision that
distinguishes a top class author from a fiery first-drafter.
When we go
to the dentist for a checkup, what we are hoping for is expert reassurance that
nothing is wrong. Sometimes, however, the dentist is obliged to tell us the
worst: a tooth will have to come out.
Many of us
revision-seasoned writers would wryly acknowledge the comparison between
visiting the dentist and the need to revise our drafts. At worst, the flaws in
our work may run so deep that nothing but a complete rewrite will suffice to
put them right. We writhe at the loss of time involved, and at the humiliation
of not having been able to get it right first, second, or even third time
round.
To change the metaphor,
however, what sense is there in continuing to patch up an old car if the
mechanic is quite clear that it should be scrapped? Whenever we postpone making
painful revisions, we are merely treading water – and that, effectively means
losing headway. I am convinced that many songs and publications are presented
too hastily to a wider audience. Revision and the courage to take tough
decisions are another set of Siamese twins.
If you are one of the many
who turn to writing as a means of getting something off their chest, it can
serve as powerful therapy for helping you to relive or move on beyond painful
traumas, and hopefully to move on beyond them..
The therapy value is high,
and the writer may even be skilful (or fortunate) enough to find readers who
will identify with their experiences. In commercial terms, however, this is
rather like a passerby who is armed with an air rifle taking a pot shot and
hitting the bullseye at a specialized shooting event. We do not expect anyone
to create a masterpiece the first time they switch on the electric plane or
lathe. We are speaking of a craft.
Cutting out second rate
material may call for considerable courage, but it will ultimately leave us
with much the same satisfying feeling that gardeners have after pruning their
roses. We have prepared the way for a far richer display later on. Ponder the
message the following pearls of wisdom are sending us:
‘In the mind, as in the body, there is the necessity
of getting rid of waste. A man of active literary habits will write for the
fire as well as for the press'.
(Jerome Cardan, 16th century)
‘Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet
with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out!’ (Samuel
Johnson)
Purple
passages do not always impress. Do remember that it is possible to achieve
subtlety and stylistic success by a judicious use of irony and understatement
rather than by waxing lyrical. As Henry Thoreau suggested, ‘the story need not
be long, but it will take a long while to make it short'. Some of our initial
drafts could probably be reduced by up to a third without losing the salient
points.
From time
to time we need to remind ourselves that we are writing for our readers and not
for ourselves. But who is this elusive person we cannot see? Storytellers can
tell at a glance whether people are tracking with them or falling asleep, but
writers have to think their way into their reader’s emotions. Kingsley Amis put
it this way. ‘I always bear (the reader) in mind, and try to visualize him, and
watch for any signs of boredom or impatience flitting across the face of this
rather shadowy being'. Once again it is the still small voice which combines
instinct with experience and helps us to sense that this approach will
work, and that will not.
The time
to consider the reader is during the pre first draft thinking process. Once the
writing process is under way, creativity tends to flow too fast and furiously
for us to be overly concerned with how others might view the text. There will
be time later on to consider this matter again, when the editor in us wakes up
and takes our sheaf of scribblings and begins to edit the text dispassionately,
and almost as though it were written by a complete stranger. This is the time
to ask some fundamental questions:
• What style and viewpoint have we plumped
for? Would another approach be better?
• Have we made the characters sufficiently
rounded and convincing? Are they in the right relation and tension to each
other? Are their hopes and dreams adequately signposted, and are the hurdles
they face challenging enough? In what ways do they alter in the course of the
story? Are these changes sufficiently prepared for and satisfactorily
portrayed?
• How about the plot? Does it progress
logically? Are we clear about that we were trying to achieve in each episode?
Would other readers see this too?
• Is there enough tension, or too many
side-shows and digressions which draw the reader’s attention away from the
principal theme?
• Have we allowed suitable alternations
between dramatic high points and quieter periods in which the characters ‘catch
up’ with events and emotions and plan what they are going to do next?
Over
familiarity with our material can cause us to take too much for granted and to
skip asking these questions. But we must take as long as we need to examine
these issues, along with the ones we raised in the section ‘Writers read in
order to write readably'. There can be no excuse for not doing so.
What we
are primarily doing at this stage is checking the flow and tenor of our text
rather than becoming bogged down in search of precise words or phrases. The key
thoughts to bear in mind at this stage of editing are: ‘What am I trying to
say?’ and ‘Would someone reading this for the first time realise what my
intentions were?’
Once these
basic tenets are in place, we can progress to the second stage of text editing:
‘Have we presented the material in the best order as well as in the most
compelling words?’ This is where, we must overcome our subconscious desire to
avoid the hard labour involved in making sure that our sequencing works. That
third paragraph might just flow better if it were placed earlier on . . . and
that sentence that reads rather awkwardly where it is might read better if it
were inserted in the midst of another paragraph. It can always be moved
somewhere else if it doesn’t fit there either. Several such rounds of
‘shuffling’ may be necessary before we finally reach that wonderful moment when
we sense that the text says just what we want it to.
Since
virtually none of us think so concisely that we do not need to sift, sort,
polish and hone our material, it is better to view these multiple revisions as
a godsend rather than a wasted chore. How on earth did Shakespeare and Dickens
cope without word processors?
Another
way to ensure a smooth flow is to practise reading your text aloud. Stories are
meant to be read, and our writing will benefit from this exposure. The great
advantage of listening to our material is that it permits us to hear the words
in a way that highlights stylistic inconsistencies as well as actual mistakes.
Inexpensive software can even save us from having to do the physical reading
ourselves. This is not being ‘hi-tech for the sake of it’: it is using machines
to help express what is really on our heart.
There is
one drawback to this approach. A flamboyant ‘live’ reading can make a poor text
sound better than it really is. By the same token, a perfectly acceptable piece
of writing can sound dreary when we hear it relayed through an artificial
computerized voice.
To vary
the revision process, try printing out the whole text from time to time. We
will see things on paper that escape us on the screen, especially when it comes
to the best order to present ideas in. I normally edit with double-spaced
lines, but there are also advantages in printing our material in varying page
formats, for example, as a formatted page of a book. Anything that helps us to
see our material from a fresh perspective is worth considering.
As we
plough on with the rewriting process, we must let Samuel Johnson’s incisive
words be our guide: ‘What is written without effort is in general read
without pleasure'. And when we have sifted and sorted the text to the best
of our ability, we must know when to stop. Any more and the tinkering becomes
counterproductive.
Scripting
the Synopsis
‘Plan,
Write, then Fix’ (Anon.).
Most
writers need to compose to a plan or synopsis has stood the test of time. It is
not without its potential drawbacks, however. C.S. Lewis declared that he was
‘pregnant with book'. To pursue the metaphor, which of us know what sort of
children we are going to bring into the world (let alone what they will be
doing in ten or twenty years time). In much the same way, we will likewise
often be taken by surprise by the changes of direction which occur in the
course of writing a book. Once our characters begin to operate as ‘free
agents’, they develop a life of their own.
But surely
the argument runs, all that really matters is that readers can follow where the
story leads them. So long as we end up with something worthwhile, it does not
matter much how we got there. And yet we may never get there simply by writing.
The great
advantage of writing to a synopsis is that it keeps us on course, and allows
time for the story to come together. Tempted though we undoubtedly will be to
plunge in and get on with the actual writing, we may need to take almost as
long preparing the synopsis (the characterisations as well as the plot) as we
do actually writing the book.
The second
problem is restricting what we put into our synopsis. Because I am always so
eager to write, my first attempts to prepare a synopsis for a children’s novel
grew longer and longer, rather like Topsy’s house. When I became lost under the
welter of events and descriptions, I had to compose a reduced synopsis to help
me navigate my way around my synopsis.
Sol Stein
adopts an approach that makes synopses work for rather than against our
creative urges. He suggests we limit ourselves to describing scenes rather than
chapters: the bare bones of what happens and where. If we write these down on
small cards (or on computer outline programmes) we can then shuffle these
scenes until we find the best sequence in which to present them.
Later we
can add the merest hint of the information we are eager to communicate. Some of
these details may be better off portioned out in more than one scene. If we get
the basic scene-sequencing right, we will almost always be able to find a way
to incorporate specific details and character development. Our banner sums up
this section, Plan, write, then rewrite. Check the sequencing and give every
scene its own specific goal.
Tips to
avoid Heartache
In the
context of preparing a synopsis, may we also recommend file-numbering. If we
get into the habit of renaming our drafts on a daily basis (synopsis 1,
synopsis 2, and so on) we will be much less likely to confuse versions. This
simple strategy can save us great heartache. So too can asking a friend to
store occasional copies of our material to guard against those twin authorial
disasters: a hard disk crash or a burglary.
This is not a purely
defensive gesture. We may find it useful later on, to dial up an earlier
version of our text and compare it with our current one, not only to measure
the improvements we have made but also to see if we have lost anything valuable
during the redrafting process.
If we can face the thought,
we will also benefit from rewriting particular scenes or chapters from the same
starting point but without referring to our earlier draft. Our banner
highlights the value of this radical approach. Comparing two versions will
often lead to a sharper finished result than merely tinkering about with the
existing text.
Recurrent
Themes
‘He who resolves never to ransack any mind but his
own, will soon be reduced, from mere barrenness, to the poorest of all
imitations; he will be obliged to imitate himself, and to repeat what he has before
so often repeated'. (Sir
Joshua Reynolds, 1774)
Many
authors return again and again for inspiration to some comfortingly familiar
theme drawn from the world of their childhood, when their sensory receptions
were stronger and life was an adventure to be lived rather than an obstacle
course to circumnavigate. Rosalind and I love Ellis Peters’ ‘Cadfael’
novels. We marvel at her ability to paint a pen picture in a few matchlessly
chosen words that brings her world so vividly to life.
Some time
after reading her fifth or sixth book, however, it begins to dawn on the reader
that similar themes are recurring in almost every story. A young man is accused
of some terrible crime, and the rest of the book consists of putting this
injustice to rights. Given this writer’s amazing descriptive abilities, and her
profound knowledge of human nature, could somebody not have helped her to come
up with more varied plots?
Reading
widely and receiving input from widely varying sources, inspires our creative
spark and keeps us from becoming stuck in a rut. Like an endless loop we may
end up repeating descriptions, settings and outcomes, and not even realise we
are doing so. It is wise to ponder this particular banner from time to time as
we prepare our work: Have I been down this road before? Otherwise we may
end up in that category of people whom Samuel Johnson dismissed so witheringly:
‘Sir, you have but two topics, yourself and me. I am sick of both'.
Ragged
Writing
‘Right or wrong, make it strong'.
There are
so many alternatives in life to reading, many of which simply did not exist
twenty or thirty years ago. It is up to us to write clearly and incisively, so
that we give our readers no opportunity of getting either bored or confused. We
should not be afraid of revealing who we are and what we believe. There are so
many depersonalizing influences in our increasingly political correct society
that it is a blessing to hear someone speaking out clearly.
We live in
an age in which most people are working overtime to avoid having to take
responsibility. Watch the politicians worming their way round giving answers to
straightforward questions! But people do not buy books in order to hear authors
covering themselves with disclaimers. It may sound humble, but a welter of
‘mights,’ ‘maybes,’ and qualifying phrases (‘it appears that’ merely makes our
text less convincing.
Readers do
not want to have to do any mental editing as they go along. They want to be
assured that we are competent writers. Every time they come across words or
phrases that sound hesitant, it raises a question mark in their mind.
Take this
truly hopeless sentence as an extreme example. ‘I am sort of embarrassed to
admit that I am a bit of a timid person, but I am very much hoping that I will
one day be lots (or at least somewhat) less fearful than I currently appear to
be at this present moment in time'.
The
material could perfectly well be summarized thus. ‘I am embarrassed to admit
that I am a timid person, but I hope that one day I will be less fearful'. (It
would make for much more interesting reading if some explanation for the
person’s fear was also put forward, along with some positive suggestions for
overcoming it).
There are
many issues over which we cannot afford to be too dogmatic or definite of
course. Proper caveats may be in order, but if we are in any way concerned with
contemporary issues, we dare not wait too long before venturing to express our
opinion lest people move on and lose interest in the subject to hand. We must relay
the insights and the wisdom we have gleaned, even if final certitude and
objectivity is beyond our grasp. Our banner is a powerful incentive not to sit
on the fence: ‘Be humble, but commit yourself!’
Pause
and Put into Practice
You may
never have realised just how hesitant much of your writing really is. Take a
piece that you wrote some time ago and read it through with a view to weeding
out anything that smacks of hesitant writing.
Stilted
Stuff
‘Give a civil servant a good case and he’ll wreck it
with clichés, bad punctuation, double negatives and convoluted apology!’ (Alan
Clarke, Diary)
‘One of our defects as a nation is a tendency to use
‘weasel words'. When a weasel sucks eggs the meat is sucked out of the egg. If
you use one ‘weasel word’ after another, there is nothing left of the other'.
(Theodore Roosevelt)
In these
days when the disabled are deemed ‘physically challenged,’ and those with no
aptitude for languages ‘linguistically challenged,’ the trend to find ever
softer ways to express unpalatable realities can reach farcical proportions.
One Town Council brazenly declared that someone who had died was ‘terminally
challenged!’
Few things make a text more
top-heavy than cluttering it with the jargon of Newspeak and Political Correctness.
The media loves terms such as ‘collateral damage’ instead of admitting that
‘civilian casualties’ have taken place; companies are ‘downsized’ or ‘put into
administration’ to avoid us having to ponder the fate of real people (with
families and mortgages) losing their livelihood.
Newspeak
is temptingly slick and glib, but all too often sinister developments lie
concealed behind fine-sounding phraseology.
In these days of faddish
political correctness, it was perhaps inevitable that a dustbin man should
become a sanitary officer, and that ‘humankind’ would eventually replace
‘mankind'. But does a manhole really need to be designated a person hole? It is
better to make clarity and good taste our aim than to fear offending the new
puritanical guardians of our words. It is only tactful, however, to avoid words
such as ‘actors’ if we can find safer substitutes such as ‘performers'.
Stereotypical phrases such as ‘Vicars have little time left for their wives’
can likewise be better rendered ‘. . . for their families'.
Why risk losing our
reader’s trust by cluttering our text with redundant words and phrases? If
readers sense we are exaggerating, they may be inclined to take everything we
say with a pinch of salt.
English-speaking people
have long made fun of the German habit of stringing lengthy groups of nouns
together in what is technically known as ‘wortbildung'. Fashioning compound
words together in ways that nobody has thought of before would make for an
interesting and humorous challenge at a dinner party. The trouble is that such
things are ‘in our face’ in more and more official communications. Zinsser
quotes the following gem of a verbless sentence as a prime exmple:
‘Communication facilitation skills development intervention'. He thinks it has
something to do with teaching students to express themselves in plainer
English!
The process becomes not
merely stilted but even sinister when the real meaning is deliberately
obfuscated (sorry, hidden) behind an impenetrable morass of jargonese.
Such reports typically string together a collection of abstract concept nouns
which combine to deprive it of any trace of warmth or humanness. In the woeful
absence of any active working verbs, all we are left with are verbs such as
‘is’ and ‘are’ – or, more probably, ‘isn’t’ or ‘aren’t’!
We hear ad nauseam of
‘controlled learning environments’ and ‘bench marking benefits being made at
the point of care'. Not only is it impossible to imagine anyone actually
engaging in these complex sounding activities, they have about them all the
attraction of those answer phone loops on which we waste so much of our working
day. Oh for contact with real human beings, and for thoughtful verbs that guide
us to the task in hand! That is the only way to rescue our rich and precious
language from the quicksand of deadweight phraseology.
Most people have become
accustomed to encountering phrases once confined to the world of social
sciences that they barely notice how jargon-laden these communiqués have
become. A simple statement such as, ‘The Trust are delighted to announce that
they have been able to appoint more nurses,’ would gladden the longsuffering
public’s heart far more than interminable waffle about ‘improved health
benefits at the point of care'.
The following banner aims
to steer us well clear of these reefs of jargonese. Because it contains an
implicit reminder not to overdo the use of clichés, it will also help us to
write much livelier reports. ‘Whenever possible, use simple and personal
expressions'.
Sharing
with Others
‘The
function of an editor is to help a writer achieve the writer’s intentions’.
(Sol Stein)
‘Approbation helps a writer, and lessens his labour,
and the work as it grows glows in his mind’. (Ovid)
When the
German armed forces identified the location of French or Norwegian Resistance
radio transmissions during the Second World War, by taking bearings from
several different directions and then comparing them. There comes a time when
we must ‘check our bearings’ and share our work with others. Some of us may prefer
to do this we are still at the ‘ideas’ stage. Others may prefer to wait until
we are satisfied that we have exhausted our initial burst of creativity, and
have made some effort to edit the material ourselves. But who should we show it
to?
Some
people insist it is best not show it to friends (because they will tell
us what we want to hear), and that only a (critical) teacher can help us. I
would be wary of adopting such a hard and fast principle. My own experience is
that alert and intelligent friends can do wonders to tell whether or not our
draft is viable, as well as presenting perspectives we would not have thought
of by ourselves.
That input
and support does not mean that we should dispense with professional help
however. All of us require wise and experienced outsiders to cast a stringent
eye over what we have written, not only to pick up on our stylistic
deficiencies, but also to point out things that we have omitted to include.
True, the most experienced editor may not pick up on the full implications of
what we are trying to convey, but that may be more through some deficiency in
our technique than any lack of sensitivity on their part.
Rather
than resenting editors, and removing them from our Christmas Card list if they
puncture some of our cherished illusions, it is better to humble ourselves and
welcome the challenge. If they succeed in bursting our bubble, it means that it
was burstable – in which case it is surely better for all concerned that this
should happen at a relatively early stage of proceedings, while there is still
time to make course corrections.
The fact
that we may have received our original idea with particular clarity, and that
we have worked hard to research the subject and to find the best way to word it
is no proof of ultimate inspiration. Pride will tell us to fight our corner,
but humility will remind us there may be even better ways to express the same
truths. Few of us will graduate as writer with our pride intact. It is the
humble and the persistent who will find this sharper way.
As we
hinted earlier, many of us are too possessive about our work; so jealous for
its integrity that we will not allow anyone close enough to suggest any
changes. Whilst we should not allow our main themes and emphasis to be whittled
away, editors must be allowed their say about which material to change or omit.
If we find
ourselves shying away from seeking this level of help and advice, it would be
good to ask why this is. Do we subconsciously hear in even the most beneficial
of criticism, echos of the way our parents or teachers put us down in the past?
It is important to identify and isolate these original memories, lest they
harden into defensive and defeatist tendencies that imprison us. If the person
who is trying to help is coming alongside us in an altogether more a
constructive spirit, we will be forever grateful if we allow them fuller
access.
But what
if our would-be helpers really are hyper critical? Well, the fact that we do
not like these critics, or the way they make their points, does not mean that
they have nothing to teach us. We can still take on board whatever grains of
truth are wrapped up in their criticisms, whilst at the same time strenuously
siphoning off the prejudices that would do us harm.
There is
another advantage of being on the receiving end of such criticism. Should we
ourselves ever serve in an editorial capacity, may we never forget that the
writer’s greatest need is for encouragement. We shall have more to say about
this in the section ‘Carping Critics'.
The
wording of this particular banner can hardly be said to be dynamic, but it
bridges the gap between the role that editor plays and the special place that
mentors can have in our lives. It may therefore be one of the most important
issues for us to consider. ‘Am I sharing my material with the right person?’
Pause and Ponder
In all our
writing endeavours, friends have a special part to play. Nothing encourages us
more than their support and encouragement. Certain other ‘friendships,’
however, can seriously blunt and drain our creative energies. If the reason for
this is that our paths and interests have diverged, or because an unhealthy
degree of over co-dependency has set in, then it may be the best for all
concerned to acknowledge the fact and to reduce the amount of contract we have
with these people. There may be others, however, whose wisdom we would find it
exceedingly helpful to cultivate.
What can
you do to ‘develop’ these friendships from a literary point of view? Have you
thought of asking them to read and comment on your material at various stages
of its development?
Motivated
Mentors
‘As iron sharpens iron so one man sharpens another’.
(Proverbs 27:17)
In this
profoundly insightful proverb, the Jewish Talmud envisages two students studying
the Scriptures and offering each other constructive care and criticism,
doubtless under the watchful eye of an older rabbi. We too will benefit from
mentors who fulfil the role of this older rabbi. Such people are friends first
and editors second, and, as such, they are uniquely placed to hone and sharpen
our writing skills.
What is it
that we are seeking in a ‘mentor?’ Someone whose vision is broad enough to
embrace our own but mature enough not to stifle or control it. Someone who
combines literary sensitivity with real-life skills. Who share the treasures of
their experience with us, sharpen our existing gifts and draw out entirely new
ones. Mentors can tell us honestly when something we have written falls below
the mark – but they will do so in such a way as to encourage us that we will be
able to produce something much more readable next draft round.
If
persistence ranks at the very top of the qualities we need as writers, then
doubly blessed are those who encourage creative people to keep going. Mentors
are worth their weight in gold! Sometimes, sensing a better way of proceeding,
they point us in directions we would never have thought of looking in for
ourselves. We are wise if we take their advice seriously.
One word
of warning is in order here. There is only so much that they can do for us. If
we start looking to them to meet needs that are properly ours to fulfil, the
relationship can become draining and demanding instead of creative and
releasing. In all true mentoring there comes a time when the intensity of the
relationship needs to slacken as we move away from our mentor, lest we remain
forever locked in their orbit.
Do you
remember those almost unbearably tense moments in the early Apollo space
exploration missions, when the lunar module had to part company from the main
rocket? It was a vulnerable but vital moment. Please do not misunderstand me. I
am not for one moment suggesting any callous or abrupt parting of the ways –
just a simple and mutual recognition that mentors are given to us for a season.
The time will come when we (and they) will be called to branch out further
afield.
All of us
will reach our destination more fully and more quickly if we have such a person
to guide and inspire us. Our banner is a deliberate piece of alliterative
whimsy – but the point behind it is a real one. Motivated Mentors Mature
Muddle-headed Writers. There is a great deal to be gained by seeking out such a
mentor – or by making yourself available to serve others in this capacity.
Part Six ~ The Tools of the Trade
In Part
One we considered how we can access the springs of creativity. In Parts Two to
Five, we examined the essentials of style and technique. Before turning to
examine the psycho-emotional issues which play their own part in determining how
successful we are as writers, it is time to turn our attention to more prosaic
matters. This is the most nitty-gritty section, because it aims to provide us
with some brief instruction on the bare-bones of the writer’s craft.
The
Paras are Coming
Ever felt
deterred by the sight of a solid a block of text? If we keep paragraphs to a
sensible length our texts (and with them our readers) will breathe more freely.
Starting sections with a series of short sentences is another useful technique
for keeping the pace moving and the reader alert. If we are presenting any
strange facts or unusual angles, highlight them clearly and milk them for all
they are worth.
Ideally,
each paragraph should amplify the one that preceded it, or at least flow on
from it in a logical sequence. It should make its point, reach its own mini
conclusion, and then serve as a springboard for the next one. In much the same
way that each scene should conclude with some sort of a hook to make the reader
eager to press on to the next scene, it pays to put extra effort into the last
sentence of every paragraph.
Verbalise
your Longings
What do
verbs, dogs and authors have in common? If a dog is a man’s best friend, then a
well-chosen verb falls into the same category for the writer. Verbs bring
incidents and episodes to life and enable us to get inside the hearts and minds
of our characters. More than any other part of speech, verbs create the
impression that we are part of the action. As our banner puts it, Verbs
enable us to see, hear, taste, touch and feel along with our viewpoint
character.
Verbs
achieve their best results when they are carefully selected to produce certain
effects. Their impact is usually blunted when we make too much use of the
passive voice. Why? Because it makes it feel as though we are reporting
an event rather than participating in it. Which sounds more dynamic?
‘Rosalind
caught the baby’ sounds so much more dynamic than
‘The baby
was caught by Rosalind’.
The second
example conveys the same information, but it has a static flavour that makes us
feel one stage further removed from the action.
Active
verbs express the ‘who, how and when’ of an episode. Passive ones lose verve
and momentum. Even an unexceptional phrase such as ‘Friday dawned fair and
bright’ holds out more promise than,
‘The
weather was fair and bright on Friday morning’.
Aptly
chosen verbs energize a sentence and delight the heart. We are blessed that
English is a language rich in verbs that conjure up specific nuances and
sensations. To be on the lookout for unusual words that provide background
colour without inhibiting the forward action. I can snarl, snap, grumble,
grouch, gripe, swagger, strut, flaunt or leave the room in a huff as well as
‘find something hard to accept’.
An on-line
thesaurus is a useful addition to our reading experience to help us. There is
no need to go to absurd lengths though, unless we want to try our hand at
describing an action by following the American habit of making verbs out of
nouns. Once we overcome our trans-Atlantic prejudices, the effects can be
surprisingly effective if used sparingly. There are no limits, except common
sense. ‘I DTP’d this page to take a closer look at it, then I trained to
Harpenden to see what Guy thought of it!’
Pause
and Ponder
Review
your use of verbs. Are too many of them in the passive voice? How about their
emotional impact? Do they convey a sufficient breadth of emotions? Have you
made it easy for readers to feel rather than just know about the
subject you are writing about?
Drop
the Adjective
‘As
to the Adjective: when it doubt, strike it out'. (Mark Twain)
William
Zinsser writes of the need to avoid ‘adjectives-by-habit'. We must resist the
temptation to display our adjectival prowess to the full in order to prove that
we are ‘proper’ authors. Whilst most people would be content to say that a
performance was ‘enjoyable,’ we feel we have to add that it was ‘entrancing’,
‘tasteful’, ‘sterling’, ‘superlative’, ‘first-class’, ‘top-notch’ or even
(heaven help us) ‘heaven-sent!’ Adjectives must earn their keep. Bland
adjectives, like commonplace clichés, do little to surprise or excite and are
usually best left out. Those that are included must serve to enhance the
reader’s pleasure or awareness by injecting some fresh or surprising
perspective. Does every old man really needs to have a wrinkled face or
every cowboy a trusty steed?
We debase
the language when we insert a host of adjectives that qualify everything but
clarify nothing. To speak about someone wearing ‘black funeral clothes’ or
‘white wedding gowns’ is mere tautology.
If we
choose the right noun in the first place, we will succeed in conveying most of
the impressions and nuances we are seeking without having recourse to any
adjective.
Pause
and Ponder
No prizes
for guessing the homework here. Review a few pages of your text and see whether
the adjectives you have used are paying their way. Remember Mark Twain’s
advice!
Adverbs
and Metaphors
Few things
can do more to evoke an impression that a well-chosen chosen adverb. Suppose we
create a character called Miles, and find him ‘sniffing proprietorially, oggling
the local women leeringly even as he stretches out his hands expansively'.
In a minimum of words, we have succeeded in creating the base outline for a
character sketch we can expand at leisure.
Since the
thoughtful use of metaphors and similes is one of the principle characteristics
things that distinguishes a good from an outstanding writer, there is often
much to be said for reducing the amount of space a metaphor takes up by
compressing it into an adverb or adjective. To say that ‘The women thought that
Or, to
create a rather different impression, the equally prosaic observation that
‘Women thought Warren was as tough as an ox’ could be revamped along some such
lines as this: ‘Ox-like, Warren never wasted a moment’s thought
wondering why women never bothered to pay him the time of day'.
Expressing
a full-blown metaphor in one succinct verb, adverb or adjectival clause offers
great scope for evoking the reader’s sympathy or imagination – or for conveying
a sense of humour or irony. How about this for instance? ‘Leathery-faced, Priscilla
glared at him rowdily'. It is hard to imagine less likely words to
associate with the name Priscilla! If she had glared at him ‘waspishly’, or
even ‘balefully’ we would have been on more familiar ground. But rowdily?
And leathery-faced?
The more
attentive we are to the world around us, the more we will find a ready supply
of material from which to fashion striking statements or metaphors. The secret
is to juxtapose and present them to their best effect. Succinct phrases can
condense wisdom and help us to see the significance of things we might have
been inclined to take for granted. ‘The Youth of a Nation are the Trustees of
Prosperity,’ Disraeli declared, and, like it or not, he was right. ‘Truth sits
upon the lips of dying men’ wrote Matthew Arnold in Sohrab and Rustum. Certain
aphorisms can likewise point up the hopelessness of fulfilling impossible
longings. ‘There is no unhappier creature on earth,’ Karl Kraus declared, ‘than
a fetishist who longs to embrace a woman’s shoe and has to embrace the whole
woman'.
Likewise,
the very things that far too many people would give their eyeteeth to obtain
often turn out to have a sting in their tail. ‘Power?’ declared Harold
Macmillan dismissively (a former British Prime Minister). ‘It’s like a Dead Sea
Fruit. When you achieve it, there is nothing there'.
Pause
and put into practice
If
adjectives should only be used with discretion, unnecessary adverbs should be
shown the back door. So many of them serve only to clutter sentences and hinder
the flow of the text. Why tell people that prices are rocketing fast? Or
that someone is completely exhausted? Surely it is self-evident that
‘the water trickled slowly through his fingers?’ And why labour the fact
that someone is a bit, or partly, or slightly astonished?
If we find ourselves piling
up adjectives and adverbs like a child playing with toy bricks, then it is time
to set to work and dismantle the edifice.
The
Dashing Colons
There is a
school of thought which tends to look down on the dash, as though it were
vulgar – the sort of punctuation people might resort to if they are unable to
handle the other parts of speech properly. I am no subscriber to this line of
thought. For me, the dash fully deserves its place as a paid-up card-carrying
member of the Punctuation Club. So long as we do not abuse it through overuse,
it provides a thoroughly sensible and ready-made alternative to inserting a
constant stream of brackets.
A dash also avoids us
having to use a subordinate clause or start a separate sentence.
‘Ronald
went to
The other main use of the
dash is to amplify something that was is mentioned in the first part of the
sentence.
‘Ronald
went to
As for those double dotted
full stops, the colons: some people love them, and some despise them. I am
rather too fond of using the semicolon myself, but it is largely out of fashion
these days on account of its tendency to slow a sentence down. Its most useful
function is to prepare us for the development of a thought that has already
been expressed in the first half of the sentence. This a technique commonly
used in the Psalms and Proverbs, where it is regularly used to expand or
qualify an opening statement.
‘Like the coolness of snow at harvest time is a
trustworthy messenger to those who send him; he refreshes the spirit of his
masters'. (Proverbs 25:13)
‘Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the
man who takes refuge in Him'. (Psalm34:8)
‘I sought the Lord, and he answered me; He delivered me from all my fears'.
(Psalm 34:4)
If our aim
is to keep the text moving briskly, however, we will probably do better to
choose the full stop — or the dash -- rather than the semi colon. The colon,
too is in danger of being considered somewhat old-fashioned nowadays, but it
comes into its own when a collection of items need listing.
‘He asked Jane to buy the following items: some
toasted tea cakes, an origami stuffed teddy bear and an electric fence to keep
the wallabies out'.
In some
usages, the colon functions in much the same way as a pause sign does over a
note in a piece of music. It is used to show readers that they have not yet
reached the end of a line of music, but that the music is being brought to a
temporary stop in order to achieve a desired effect.
Watch
The Screamer!
The
Screamer! In one of my favourite cartoons, the lubberly Captain Pugwash is
suddenly ambushed by his arch enemy, the pirate Black Jake. The surprise he
feels is conveyed by a large exclamation mark that appears over our hero
pirates’s head. With considerable astuteness Captain Pugwash reaches up and
grabs hold of it. Using it as a belaying pin, he promptly hits his opponent on
the head with it!
Not all exclamation marks
are so felicitous. Too many of them make readers feel as though they too are
being hit on the head. I find that I tend to insert far too many of them into
my first drafts almost the moment anything strikes me as being in any way out
of the ordinary. Later, when I revisit the text, I surreptitiously remove most
of them.
If we shape and craft our
sentences to convey our meaning properly, we will not need to resort
excessively to the ‘Screamer’. Let’s face it: if people cannot see when we are
trying to be funny, adding an exclamation mark by itself may not be enough to
make them laugh(!)
Miscellaneous
Muddles: Hang the Participle and Mind Your Butt
‘You will have written exceptionally well if, by
skilful arrangement of your words, you can make an ordinary one seem original’.
(Horace)
Once
again, authors are under no obligation to try too hard to be clever. Why use
words such as ‘donate’ if ‘give’ will do just as well? A simple
test is to ask what we would use in real life. There is no virtue in dredging
up obscure words from the thesaurus if simple ones will do. Professional
writers are perfectly content to use straightforward words, but to do so in
appropriate and attractive ways. Relax. Be more intimate and less pompous.
Three are
several simple stylistic stumbling stones it is good to be aware of, however.
Purists remind us that best English usage avoids beginning sentences with
hanging participles. ‘Having picked up the cat’s mess, he turned his attention
to trapping the python,’ could perfectly well be rendered ‘When he had picked
up the cat’s mess he turned his attention to the python’ . . . Or ‘As soon as
he had picked up the cat’s mess, he turned his attention to catching the
python'. Either way, I hope he knew what he was doing!’
There are occasions when it
pays to disregard the blanket advice that sentences should never begin with a
‘but'. Who can deny that it can sometimes be the most effective way to begin a
sentence? An apologetic ‘however’ somewhere further on in a phrase can feel
limp and unconvincing. Each case must be weighed on its merits. But only use an
‘and’ to start a sentence if you are setting out to create a particular effect.
It is also worth checking
every occasion we allow an and or a but to remain in the middle
of a sentence. Might our text not flow more convincingly if we took a break and
started a new sentence? Short sentences impart vitality.
Deleting redundant ‘thats’
in the middle of sentences can likewise help our text to zip along with more
pace and sparkle. As to the convention that it is wrong to split infinitives,
the principle still stands – but as the waiter said to his manager, ‘breakages
are increasing'. Raymond Chandler is quite belligerent on the point. ‘When I
split an infinitive . . . I split it so it will stay split'. It reminds me of
an intriguing comment David Wray once made: ‘When I write a man, he stays
written(!)’
A Which
Hunt
Which
hunts were horrible things in medieval days, but they have their uses today. As
a general rule, hunt down the ‘whiches’ and replace them with the more
versatile ‘that'. The guidelines for determining when to choose between
the two are quite involved, but at their simplest, if you need to use a comma
to clarify a sentence, then the chances are that ‘which’ is preferable.
At all other times, ‘that’ is the safer option. If that still feels
opaque, lets try putting it another way. ‘Which’ is generally the right
word to use if you are looking to expand the piece of information that
precedes the comma. ‘I went to visit the school, which had just passed its
OFSTED'. Compare these
examples.
‘The
school, which had such a bad reputation, deserved to lose its best teachers’
and a rather different
meaning than
‘The
school that has a bad reputation deserves to lose its best teachers to its
rivals'.
The first example is
specific whereas the second is more generalised.
In other instances, ‘which’
locates or identifies something for us. ‘
Neither
Male not Female
Suppose we
are writing a text book on how to care for a new born baby, and are faced with
the perennial problem of knowing whether to refer to it as a male or a female.
I find it clumsy to write ‘he or she’, or the equally widely used convention
‘s/he’. It slows the text down. Some publications compromise by using ‘him’ in
one chapter and ‘her’ in the next. Though immaculately evenhanded in today’s
politically correct world, I find this alternating viewpoint somewhat restless.
The
simplest way round the problem is to convert the sentence into the plural. This
has the enormous advantage of encompassing both genders. I would much rather
read that ‘Babies need their nappies changing regularly,’ than ‘he/she needs
his or her nappy changing regularly'.
Plurals do have one
disadvantage, however, and that is that they take the reader one step further
away from personal involvement – and anything which fosters the cult of the
impersonal is a potential weakness.
Red
your Roofs (and Read your Proofs!)
Glance at
the well known phrase below.
the
Spring
Write the
phrase out on a card, preferably framed in a triangle, and show it to some
unsuspecting friends. I can almost guarantee that more eight year olds will
read it correctly than adults, who tend to see what they expect to see.
Proofreading is essential.
An unchecked hastily written article can reflect on us poorly, or even
misrepresent our intentions altogether. People may well feel inclined to assume
that mistake-laden text is substandard in more ways than just the spelling.
Since we rapidly reach the stage where we can no longer see the wood for the
trees, it is good to ask people who are seeing the text for the first time to
proofread for us. A crafted e mail, card or letter can be a friendly and
powerful means of brightening someone’s day,
Proofreading is
particularly important for people who do most of their writing by Dictaphone or
on computerised software packages. We need to be specially watchful for
spellings that the dictionary would pass, but common sense will not. It surely
won’t be long before that inconsistency is ironed out! My spell checker would
happily accept, ‘Whey duds her tape the poke in thee shudder Luke hats?’ but
most people would have difficulty deciphering the fact that I was, for reasons
best known to myself, trying to ask, ‘Why did he tap the moke on the shoulder
like that?’ As Winston Churchill once famously said, ‘This is the sort of
English up with which I will not put'.
More emotively, a Bible was
printed in the seventeenth century that enjoined readers on the highest
authority to commit adultery! Not only were the Bibles recalled, but the
unfortunate printer was fined heavily for the proofreader’s failure to spot the
missing ‘not'.
Bearing in mind that our
aim is to do nothing that will cause our reader’s attention to drift, it pays
to run at least one final check through Grammatik, that excellent aid which
highlights various stylistic faults as well as inconsistent punctuation and
unintentional spaces.
Artificial aids can never
be a hundred percent context-accurate of course. Grammatik throws up numerous
extraneous suggestions, but we should not allow the duff ones to deter you from
heeding its advice when it does highlight a genuine error. Even if we cannot accept
the suggestions it is offering, the mere fact that it has highlighted the
sentence at all may lead us to look for better ways to express it. Grammatik is
a valuable tool, but it does not do away with the need to read our text through
for ourselves.
To take the paragraph above
as a typical illustration. I originally wrote, ‘It is impossible for artificial
aids to be 100% context accurate’. In the interests of brevity, I decided that
the phrase ‘It is impossible for,’ made the sentence long–winded and pedantic,
so I shortened it accordingly. 100% is best written out in full, as numbers
usually are. ‘Context–accurate’ is just about acceptable as a deliberate piece
of jargonese, although very little would have been lost by omitting the word
‘context’. As for the phrase beginning ‘but we should not allow’ – why not have
a go at reworking it to find a less clumsy way of conveying the same meaning.
By the way, did anyone notice that I wrote, ‘we should not allow the
duff ones to deter you?’ It is the easiest thing in the world to confuse
the pronoun form we are using and to toggle inadvertently between ‘we’ and
‘you’ via ‘him’ ‘his’ and ‘their'. All of these suggestions, when taken in
conjunction with the following summary, make for a dull but utterly necessary
banner: ‘Check, check and check again'.
SUMMARY OF PARTS TWO TO SIX
‘Trust Your Material’ (William Zinsser)
‘It is no kindness to do for others what they ought to
be doing for themselves'. (Abraham Lincoln).
Wouldn’t
it be simple if adding bundles of qualifying words automatically succeeded in
describing something more successfully? The reality is that to over
explain things actually deprives readers of the opportunity to discover things
for themselves. Much that we have shared so far can be summed up in William
Zinsser’s exhortation to ‘trust our material'.
If we find ourselves using
too many words like, ‘inevitably,’ ‘of course,’ ‘surprisingly,’ and
‘predictably,’ we are effectively imposing our own value judgement on something
before readers have had the chance to draw their own conclusions – and that is
the precise opposite of Zinsser’s counsel. Learning to trust our material is
the product of hard-won experience, and a growing confidence in our literary
skills.
Just as it is wise to
double check our pronoun-sequencing for consistency, so there are many other
aspects of our work that merit a review. We have touched on most of the
following points before, but, most of us will benefit from considering them
again.
• Draw readers into the heart of your subject material at
the earliest possible opportunity.
• Make every word count.
• Check the length of your sentences.
Shorter ones impart vitality.
• Limit the amount spoken by any one
person at a time to just a few sentences. Remember that a degree of confrontation
in the dialogue increases tension and holds the reader’s attention. Develop
obstacles (preferably human ones) that threaten the path of your leading
characters. Nothing can beat the suspense of human conflict.
• Check that the
right viewpoint dominates in each scene. If you have switched within it, does
the effect work?
• Give each scene and character its own
distinctive features. Don’t let too much of the action take place ‘off–stage,’
or be described in some remote past tense.
• Know your characters inside
out – especially those who are least like you.
If you have introduced minor characters (or specific objects) have they been
given a proper part to play in proceedings, or could their role be incorporated
by someone or something else?
• If you are writing animal
stories, have you adhered to the rules of the game? At the very least, the
animal’s level of understanding (and speech) ought to remain consistent
throughout the book.
• Double check your data to make sure that
it is as accurate as possible. I have come unstuck on more than one occasion by
trusting information from supposedly ‘reliable’ sources who turned out, on
these particular issues, to be entirely unreliable. We lose a portion of our
reader’s confidence every time we assert something to be true when we have not
taken the trouble to check the facts for ourselves. P.G. Woodhouse repeatedly
used to research train timetables to make sure that his characters could
legitimately return from
• If you are writing of past times, scour the text for
historical anachronisms. Michael Legat speaks of the "‘Gee!’ said Leonardo
da Vinci" syndrome. It is rarely wise to attempt to write entirely in
archaic language. Not only, is it difficult to do consistently, it is also hard
for readers to understand. The same applies to dialect too. A small amount
evokes a strong impression and adds local colour, but pagefuls of the stuff
make the reader work too hard.
• Make liberal use of surprise
elements – they breathe life into a text.
• Find alternatives for the ‘twee’ words:
good, nice, bad, pretty, big or little. ‘Said’ can become monotonous, but
replacing it with fancy words can be over elaborate. If you write ‘he added’ do
make sure that the character really does add something worthwhile. ate.
Candidates
for the chop include ‘certain,’ ‘clearly’ and ‘obvious(ly)’ Aim to be sparing,
too, in the use of the word ‘very'. Check each time that it earns its keep. .
‘Upon’ is likewise usually best rendered ‘on'.
Part Seven ~ The Still Small Voice
Time and
circumstantial pressures are by no means the only obstacles that we face. It is
time to face the fact now that many of our greatest hindrances do not relate to
any technical deficiencies at all. It is in this final part that we will
explore a whole raft of psycho-emotional hurdles. More perhaps than anything
else, it is overcoming these foes that will equip us to pursue the Art of
Creative Writing.
Many of
these sections are concerned with unblocking various aspects of what may
generically be termed ‘Writer’s Block'. I am adopting a twin-themed approach:
cultivating the still small voice of inspiration on the one hand, and facing
down particular bugbears on the other. Like John Bunyan’s pilgrim Christian,
most of us will have repeated brushes with Giant Despair and other dread
adversaries. How we fare in facing these emotional blockages will d, to a large
extent, determine how successful we are in fulfilling our potential.
It is not
only writers who experience extended periods during which they are assailed by
the thought that theirs is the most excruciating profession on earth (and that
they are its most useless practitioners). This sense of revulsion afflicts a
high percentage of gifted people. This is a salutary reminder that extreme
creativity is hard to handle. Many highly talented musicians find themselves
beset by strong and seemingly inexplicable urges never to pick up their
instrument again. By contrast, other pastimes suddenly appear overwhelmingly
desirable.
Such
feelings assail our heart with mind-numbing plausibility during these ‘blocked’
periods. If I had devoted the whole of this publication to exploring nothing
more than the gamut of fears and emotions the writer must overcome, it would
scarcely have made the work unbalanced. Fear stunts our willingness to risk and
experiment – but overcoming these energy–depleting emotions increases our
output and broadens our effectiveness as writers.
Do you
remember how Elijah, concerned for the extreme drought that was ravaging the
nation, took heart when he gazed out across the sea and declared, ‘I see a
cloud no bigger than a man's hand’. (1 Kings 18.44) The longed-for rains were
on their way and the land would become green once again.
Several of
the topics in this section overlap and run into each other. I make no apology
for that: it is an intentional strategy. Many of the problems that we face are
too deep to be solved at one fell swoop, and it is right that we should chip
away at them piece by piece, and insist repeatedly on adopting certain courses
of action. Moreover, readers will quite possibly want to approach these intense
issues in manageable quantities, working them through section by section rather
than attempting to read them all at one go.
More than
ever, these are the times when we must remember the four-step solutions:
1) Cultivate the Still Small Voice
2) Maintain Friends and Activities away from the Word-Bank
3) Hold up Banners of Truth
4) Resolve to Pursue your Vocation
The
Still Small Voice
‘After the fire, a sound of gentle stillness and a
still small voice’. (1 Kings 19:12)
At an
exceedingly vulnerable point in his life, the prophet Elijah found himself in
an exposed cave high on a mountainside, surrounded by the tumult of raw
elements raging wild. For hours the howling wind had been battering his senses
to the point where he could hardly think straight anymore. There was worse to
come. Jagged lightning set fire to the trees and triggered a great blaze: not
the gentle domestic kind that belongs in the hearth, but a dreadful forest
fire. The most agnostic of us discover a renewed interest in prayer when we see
such terrors sweeping down towards us. As if all that wasn’t enough, the ground
suddenly began to tremble. What can be more frightening than when the earth,
the symbol of our stability, begins to quake?
Elijah had
but lately survived the most intense experience of his life, a contest to the
death with the bloodthirsty prophets of Baal. Victorious in the conflict, his
nerve that had held so well in the hour of trial collapsed in the aftermath.
When the vengeful queen sent Elijah a message to tell him that his days were
numbered, she achieved what the prophets of Baal had been unable to do. Elijah
‘lost the plot’ and ran for his life.
For days
he fled, until he found himself in the most remote part of the southern desert.
From being the centre of the nation’s attention he was suddenly again a nobody,
an inconsequential nomad. Desperate to know if there was still a role for him
to play in the nation’s life, he strained to discern any sign or message in
these manifestations of Nature’s might. But when the storm had passed, the fire
had died down and the earth had finally stopped shaking, Elijah had learned
nothing that he did not know before. It was all too reminiscent of the storms
and shakings he had been through in his own life.
Something
profound had happened, however: his own strength had been reduced to the point
where he was ready to listen when the still small voice did come. This was the
moment he had been waiting for, when peace again touched his soul. At the same
time, he was given a fresh set of instructions. He was to return to the fray he
had so abruptly departed and appoint a successor for his ministry. His name was
Elisha, and he was destined to fulfil a yet more astonishing ministry than he
himself had done. The real fruit of Elijah’s life lay not only in what he had
accomplished, but in the legacy he bequeathed to the nation.
I have
written at greater length about this in ‘Ravens and the Prophet,’ an extended
meditation on the life of Elijah. The relevance for us as writers is that we
too need to learn to heed this ‘sound of silence’ as one translation puts it,
deep within our heart.
When the
still small voice speaks, we find fresh and original ways to impart insights
and information. If Elizabeth Browning had merely told her readers that they
ought to spend more time in prayer, the chances are that her less spiritually
receptive readers would have switched off immediately. But what honest soul can
fail to re-evaluate their life priorities when she writes,
‘Here’s
God down on us! What are you about?
How all those workers start amid
their work,
Look round, look up, and feel, a
moment’s space,
That carpet-dusting, though a
pretty trade,
Is not the imperative labour
after all’. (Aurora Leigh, bk. )
Can any of
us pretend that attending to ‘carpet-dusting’ domestic chores has never been a
more pressing concern than seeking creative or eternal insights?
The still
small voice enables us not only to acquire invaluable moments of inspiration
but also to rise above the surging tides of life’s conflicting moods and
experiences. After all, many of us usually find the external pressures of
deadlines and demands less difficult to handle than the fears and longings that
so wrack our inmost being. We may choose to suppress and ignore these things,
but to do so reveals a lack of emotional honesty which is likely to manifest
itself in flat uninteresting prose. The more willing we face our turbulent
emotions – our impatience, frustration, resentment, guilt and so on – the
better we will be able to understand and write about them.
Cultivating
the still small voice means involves developing the time to reflect on the
topics we are writing about. Effectively, we have come full circle, back to our
starting point of needing to go in search of that vital one percent of
inspiration. Except that this time we are more aware of the turbulence we will
encounter along the way. Our banner encourages us to go through all it takes to
bring us to this place of enhanced creativity. ‘One genuine insight is worth
pages of uninspired writing.
Affirming
and Protecting our Calling
‘A good work talked about is a good work spoilt’. (Vincent de Paul)
Inspiration
and morale are closely linked. The more we know what it is that we are called
to be, and to do, the more likely we are to succeed as writers. It is so much
easier – and safer – to say that we are a ‘this’ or a ‘that,’ who
happens to do a spot of writing than to acknowledge just how important the
Craft of Writing has now become to us. With the best will in the world, people
want proof of the statement. They want to know which books we have published,
and when our next one will be ready. They are not being rude, they are simply
expressing their interest and curiosity by the most obvious route open to them.
What they do not know is how easily jarred and jangled we can be by such
questions!
Our pride wants to leap to
our defence and to parade details of our latest project. But wisdom may lie in
not attempting to provide much by way of an answer. In the episode I referred
to earlier, when my friend asked me in the hospital cafeteria the other day
what I was working on, I simply handed him the Contents Page of this book and
left it at that. I knew from experience that any attempt to do more than that
would reduce my motivation to get on with the hard work when I got back home.
Another reason for keeping
at least some of our cards close to our chest is that we are often in no
position to be able to give any satisfactory answers. How on earth do we know
when the thing’s going to be finished, let alone whether anyone will ever want
to publish it?
I liken the emotions these
questions engender in us to the ignominy many pregnant women experience when
they go overdue. As well-meaning friends ply them with gently chiding questions
as to ‘why they are still at home,’ it can make them feel as though it is
somehow their fault that the baby has not yet been born. But women only have to
endure such comments for a few weeks at the most. For a writer, it can stretch
into what feels like near-infinity, as the months go by and certain projects
remain unfinished.
Perhaps we ought rather to
praise ourselves that these publications are still under wraps and under
construction. We should not be ashamed of that. It means we have the courage
and the wisdom not to attempt to release them until they are ready.
Other problems we may
encounter when we first set out our stall as a writer stem from the fact that
our friends and acquaintances know us so well in our former capacity that they
are finding it hard to conceive of us in a new role. To them we are still the
same old son or daughter, friend, adviser, boss, skivvy or what-have-you.
Unless we are very sure of our calling (which is most unlikely if we are only
just starting out) we may find their liberally laced-with-doubt perceptions
hooking into our own uncertainties and seriously undermining our confidence.
The banner phrase I suggest
to help us cope with this testing ordeal is a rather truculent one: ‘This
isn’t just a phase that I am going through!’ If our calling is a genuine
one, it deserves recognition – from ourselves if from no one else at this
stage. If Elijah had not known deep down that he had been chosen as a prophet
of the Lord, he would never have endured those desperate days in the desert. As
it was, the time time came when he recovered both his stability and his sense
of purpose. A time may come for us too when others will see us in our true
light. We may have left them with no alternative!
Carping
Critics
‘A man
must serve his time to every trade
Save censure –
Critics all are ready made . .
With
just enough of learning to misquote . . .
Seek roses in December –
Ice in June,
Hope constancy in wind,
Or corn in chaff . . .
Or any
other thing that’s false
Before you trust in critics,
Who themselves are sore’. (Lord Byron)
Elijah’s
adversary, Queen Jezebel, must surely rank as the most carping critics of all
time. To all who dared oppose her tyranny she had but one solution: the
oft-repeated cry of the Red Queen in
Zeuxis was
right. ‘Criticism comes easier than craftsmanship'. There are few callings that
leave one more vulnerable than being a writer – but there are equally few that
can lead to such rich self-awareness. When I drafted my first full-length book,
I was eager to show my work to several people whom I assumed would serve as my
mentors. It turned out to be a profoundly discouraging experience. Their
approach was far more objective than mine; they favoured ‘all teaching and no
anecdote,’ and more or less forced me to edit out all personal references from
my writing. To me, the stories I had wanted to include provided welcome relief
from the intensity of the teaching, whilst at the same time illustrating and
grounding the material real people’s experience.
The
dilemma was excruciating. I was insufficiently convinced of my literary
abilities in those days, and nowhere near courageous enough to reject the
advice my friends were pressing on me. Because I had sought their
advice, I felt impelled to accept it.
Considering
the painful outcome this caused, it is hardly surprising that writers think
twice before sharing their work with others. The very act of expressing
ourselves so intimately on paper makes us acutely vulnerable. What if people’s
kind remarks are just a patronising attempt to pat us on the head and gee us
up? And how will we cope if they make snide remarks or, worse, rubbish the
whole project? (Most preachers would sympathise with this too. They know from
painful experience what it is like to have over-conscientious people leaping to
fulfil their self-appointed duty to correct the one thing they got wrong in
their sermon).
People say
that writers need to develop a strong hide to cope with the criticism that will
inevitably come our way. There is truth in that statement. We do. Even more
than that, however, we need to develop discernment. By all means we should
listen to every piece of advice and criticism. There is bound to be a measure
of truth in almost all of it – but is there a sufficient amount of it to
justify making any serious change?
This where
the still small voice comes into its own as it processes the comments and
examines the criticisms. The most important thing is not to allow the extensive
criticism to crush this voice and make us doubt our judgement.
As we saw
in the section on ‘Sharing with Others’, it is important not to flare up in our
self-defence, upset because somebody has dared to challenge our grandiose work.
If we can humble ourselves sufficiently, and accept the challenge, this may
actually prove an excellent test of whether our work is up to scratch, and
whether we are prepared to stand up and fight for things we know need to be
included in our text.
These are
the times when we must set our faces like flint and shun all contact with
negative voices that would snap the fragile thread of our creativity.
Experience teaches us not to share our first outline ideas at too early a stage
with highly critical people. Their inability to see beyond our preliminary
sketches is likely to discourage us to the point where we lose heart and never
complete the project at all.
Think of
two people walking round a building plot. One picks his way delicately around,
seeing only mud and half-completed foundations. The other dons his wellington
boots and sees the beautiful house that will one day stand in that place.
Likewise,
to quote Byron’s memorable words, we must beware critics who are sore: the
flattering and the bitter, the show offs and the know-it-alls. Although such
people may have some viable observations to make, there is no reason why we
should follow their advice implicitly.
This is
the banner we must raise to keep us from running to carping critics for help: ‘Only
share your work with people who will inject positive feedback and fresh
perspectives’.
The
Mind Field Maze
You think that you are Ann’s suitor; that you are the
pursuer and she the pursued. Fool: it is you who are the pursued . . . Marry
Ann, and at the end of a week you’ll find no more inspiration in her than in
plate of muffins. (George Bernard Shaw)
When we
have taken the all-important step of publicly declaring that we are a writer,
and are resolutely setting time aside to pursue our calling, our battles are
far from over. The confidence-sapping emotions we mentioned earlier still have
plenty of life in them. The battle is joined, and it is primarily in the mind
that it will be played out.
Just as
insecurities lessen our creativity by causing us to wage unnecessary battles
with ourselves, so distractions in one form or another are a constant plague.
Although not all distractions take the form of quite such explicit temptations
as the one indicated in the quote above, most writers experience strong
inclinations to divert their emotional energies into pursuing secondary
objectives that will lead them almost anywhere except to producing much
finished work.
That same
sensitivity which enables us to feel so passionately and to write so eloquently
also renders us vulnerable to extremes of hope and discouragement. One day we
are convinced that we are writing a masterpiece; the next that we are a
hopelessly deluded basket case. Whatever gave us the mad idea that we could
ever write a book?
From
there, the inner process goes something like this: ‘This piece of writing is no
good’ – a supposedly objective though entirely self-destructive comment.
‘Nobody would want to read it – an overt expectation of rejection. ‘Therefore
I’m no use at all!’ – a final devastating curse upon ourselves.
If we
settle the matter in our mind beforehand, we will suffer less and be deflected
less often from our central purpose. We should pay no attention whatsoever to
these faith-deadening messages our subconscious plagues us with. They are
mournful fear-inducing refrains and should be given as wide a berth as we would
give to an unexplored bomb.
When these
almost overwhelmingly strong emotions assail us (grand delusions one day and
pits of despair the next) be assured that both extremes are quite normal – but
that both represent a faulty perspective. Being convinced we are an inspired
genius will only give us a serious bout of ‘Writer’s Swollen Head’. As for the
negaholic tendencies, the less said about them the better – they can be
devastating! How right Kipling was when he taught us to treat both success and
failure as impostors.
When we
are in the creative writing stage, we may legitimately dally with a few
delusions; they spur us on, and keep us on our toes. But we need to declare war
on all tendencies towards negative expectations. Ruthlessly. Grasp this banner
during seasons of discouragement and declare out loud, ‘I am not useless – I am
simply under construction!’ This is such an important battle that we will make
it the subject of the next section too.
Pause
and Consider
To return
to our starting quotation: is there an ‘Ann’ in your life that is distracting
you from your call to write? Are you secretly flirting with other
possibilities, enticed by the buzz that they give, and all but insensible to
the fact that they are drawing you away from your true direction?
Faith
and Humility to escape the Condemnation Trap
‘The most self-sufficient
form of spanking ever devised by humankind'. (Rachel Simon)
When
unspecified fears and a great sense of worthlessness come over us, we have two
main defences to raise against these energy–depleting emotions. Firstly, as we
have been insisting throughout, we must raise our declaratory banners to offset
the flow of falsities that we are continually being depth-charged with.
Typically
these thoughts weigh in just when we ought to be reaching for our pen,
reminding us that we didn’t achieve much last time we tried doing it, so why
not go and do something useful like mowing the lawn, or something kind like
visiting a friend in need? These distracting thoughts come in a seemingly
endless sequence of plausible variations. It is only the determined and the
passionate who will have the strength and resolution to shrug them aside. It is
not that these other things do not need attending to: it is just that they should
not be done now. Writing is a serious priority and it requires the best of our
time and energies.
Our second
line of defence is equally as vigorous. At its simplest, it consists of
assuming that vices are virtues that have taken a wrong direction, and that
there must therefore be a way of ‘catching’ these strong emotions and turning
them into something positive. Think of a jujitsu fighter who uses the force of
his opponent’s charge to flip him over on his back and the idea begins to make
sense.
For example,
the more our feelings of fear or inferiority tell us that we will never be able
to do this or that, the more we need to humble ourselves and respond in the
opposite spirit – not ‘I can’t,’ but ‘I can’. This is not pride and neither is
it a blind presumptive faith; it is a faith that is tempered by realism, and a
humility that has nothing whatsoever to do with perpetual self-denigration.
Each
difficulty that we face, and every setback that we experience thus becomes an
opportunity in disguise: a challenge to negotiate rather than the death knell
to our desire to write. Why allow past disappointments to make us give up?
Provided that we have properly mourned hurts given and received, and sought to
learn necessary lessons from them, then they too can play their part in
maturing our character.
If we can
accept in advance that we are bound to make mistakes, and that not everyone
will find our contributions of much help or interest, then we can be free to
find both peace and enjoyment in our calling. We will escape the pitfalls of
perfectionism on the one hand, and the pusillanimity of the unadventurous on
the other.
We are
afraid of making mistakes? Then let’s step out and attempt the very thing we
are afraid of. When we hear ourselves wondering, ‘Who on earth would want to
read this load of codswallop?’ pause and remember how helpful people have found
other things that we have written. After that, declare out loud: ‘Why should
it be any different this time round?’
What
happens if we fail to respond in faith and take some such affirmative action?
The chances are that we will remain forever at the mercy of these destructive
feelings. They are, after all, more than strong enough to cause us to retreat
into ourselves and to lose all sense of purpose. From there it is but a short
step before anger and paranoia set in and we end up lashing out blindly at
anything and anyone who, as we perceive it, is daring to add to our burden of
rejection.
Such
reactions are the very opposite of faith and humility in action. Nobody wants
to hear embittered people whingeing endlessly that nobody understands them –
but there are plenty of people who will respond to someone who has pushed
through the mind field and kept their faith and vision alive until they finally
succeed in creating something of real value.
The best
of us are a mass of internal contradictions, but it is the single-minded who
ultimately prosper. They are the ones who are prepared to take whatever steps
are needed to keep their hearts free from distractions, and who are quickest to
make the most of the opportunities that come their way.
In the
face of life’s many distractions, take courage! We do not need to allow them to
squash our creativity. It is as we yield ourselves and embrace the particular
yoke that our calling has placed on us that we can write or paint or play our
musical instruments or sing or pray or do whatever it is that we are called to
do, as it were to order. In such ways, we not only stay close to our calling,
but keep ourselves one step removed from the tyranny of our moods.
That is
why this particular banner is one of the most important put into practise
because it is calling Condemnation’s Bluff. ‘Believe the opposite whenever
your heart tells you it is all a waste of time'.
A Far From
Passive Perseverance
‘Le genie n’est qu’une grande
aptitude à la patience’. (Genius
is nothing but a great aptitude for patience -- De Buffon)
‘La patience est amère, mais le
fruit en est doux'. (Patience
is bitter, but its fruit is sweet -- Rousseau)
‘Recall your courage and
lay aside this gloomy fearfulness’’ (Virgil, The Aeneid)
There are
seasons in the writer’s life: times when inspiration flows freely, and other
occasions when we need to crank-start our reluctant motors. A break to go for a
walk, or to take a day right away from the computer and to learn afresh to play
– that is all it may take to release our blockage and to get us writing again.
If the desire
to write is still there, then no matter what difficulties or distractions
may be preventing us from exercising it, all that has happened is that, like
certain types of streams, the waters of inspiration have briefly gone
underground. We can be confident that the waters will return, and that we will
once again experience the joy that comes from being in a writing flow.
This is
where the second of our step principles is especially important. Spending time
with friends and in recreational activities rescues us from too much mental
preoccupation. We need these non writing projects to compensate against the
colossal amount of thought power we expend every day. We will live longer and
write better if we husband our mental and physical energies.
In the
meantime there is a cardinal principle to reiterate. If we are serious about
our calling, then sooner, rather than later, we must come to the point where we
can function as writers no matter what is going on in our lives. This is where
we make the altogether delightful discovery that we can still operate with some
considerable degree of fluency, even during these times when inspiration
appears to have all but deserted us.
Discipline
and dedication (supported as they must always be by a strong desire) to a large
extent supersede our need to ‘feel’ inspired. Without in any way being
unsympathetic to those who are caught in the vice of Writer’s Block, we must
insist on this banner: ‘We can write to order any time and any place, if we
will but set ourselves to do so'. But if we turn right away and find
fulfilment in other pursuits, then perhaps our call to write never meant that
much to us.
When an
almost frenzied impatience takes hold of us, and we berate ourselves for taking
so long to produce a finished copy, this is the time to raise another banner: ‘Good
Writing takes longer than we would like it to’. It will certainly take a
great deal longer than other people think it should do!
Repeating
and affirming this particular slogan will help to calm our restlessness as the
days and months of hard toil pass by. It will comfort us, too, during those
occasions when, for whatever reason, we cannot ‘get’ to our work at all.
Samuel
Johnson would have approved of this banner. He once famously declared, ‘I have
protracted my work till most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into
the grave!’
Remember
Brahms? He was forty before he wrote his first symphony. As for Flaubert, he
had already discarded two previous novels before he even began to write Madame
Bovary. Obsessed with finding ‘le mot juste,’ it is no surprise that it took
Flaubert five full years to complete a book which, perhaps above all others
charts the rise and fall of impossible delusions. There is still hope for us!
Escaping
the Clutches of Green-Eyes the Envious
‘Envy and wrath shorten life’. (The Book of Sirach
30:24)
Ever stood
before a rack of publications racked by doubts whether your puny efforts will
ever match up to the inspired penmanship of those who have made it into print?
The feelings are entirely understandable, but they become crippling when envy
rides in on the back of them.
Long ago,
wise king Solomon showed how alert he was to the green-eyed monster when he
declared, ‘Anger is cruel and fury overwhelming – but who can stand before
envy?’ (Proverbs 27:4)
There is
no more damaging emotion than envy. It resents the success of others, eats us
up from the inside and eventually makes us twisted and bitter. Jealousy is bad
enough; but envy is worse. What is the difference between the two? I am jealous
when I want what you have. But I am envious when I resent anyone having that
thing which I cannot have. If it is allowed to run unchecked in our hearts it
spreads like untreated cancer.
In ‘The
Artist’s Way,’ Julia Cameron likens bouts of jealousy to snake bites that
need an immediate antidote. In ‘The Writer’s Survival Guide’ Rachel
Simon is equally as insistent about our need to take action the moment we
discern its onset .Rachel suggests an eminently sensible solution. For her, the
best way to combat envy is to focus less on the source of our envy and get on
with our own work. Closer contact with our own calling will spare us many pangs
of jealous longing and pointless animosity towards those who appear to have
‘made it’.
It is
worth reminding ourselves how important it is that we win this particular
battle. Envy has strength enough to tighten our chest and eventually, to
consume us from deep within.
Envy is
like a deep-frozen grudge. It freezes our trust, dents our courage, stifles our
creativity and impairs our ability to judge accurately and to act efficiently.
Envy makes us mean-minded rather than generous-spirited. How did we reach this
sorry state?
Perhaps,
like a horse wearing blinkers, we allowed jealousy to focus our gaze too
narrowly. Our mistake was to assume that our ultimate happiness depended on one
person, incident or aspiration and when that failed to materialise according to
our aspirations, we allowed a foothold to bitterness, and spite called to envy.
Life has more to offer us – wider perspectives, fresh contacts and new
experiences.
Rather
than resenting someone else’s success (which is often a reflection of our
hidden fear of being left on the shelf) the best way to overcome these feelings
is to refuse to look on writing as a contest. There is room for everyone, and
that includes us. So far from permitting the success or indifference of others
to paralyse us into inactivity, we must use these feelings as a goad to pursue
our own calling ever more diligently. Only then will we succeed in fulfilling
our potential.
Pause
and Put into Practice
Do you
really want to escape the jealousy trap? Then here are some practical steps to
take. Julia Cameron recommends drawing three columns on a page. In the first
column, write down the names of the people we feel jealous of.
In the
second column, list the reasons why we are jealous of them. This will take a
great deal of honesty because most of us are highly skilled at disguising these
hidden jealousies from ourselves, let alone from other people.
In the
third column, begin to sketch antidotes: specific actions we can take that will
direct our heart away from the jealousy that is harming both us and them.
Try this
exercise. Be imaginative, kind and creative – and gradually the green-eyed
monster who used to trample the paths of our hearts with such storming
regularity will find the ground being taken from under its feet. Our banner
antidote is both a prophetic declaration and a call to action: ‘When love and
charity are flowing in our hearts, Green-Eyes will find himself squeezed out'.
Dealing
with Disappointments and Repelling Rejection
‘I
am in that temper that if I were under water, I would scarcely kick to come to
the top'. (John Keats)
‘Hope
deferred makes the heart sick'. (Proverbs 13.12)
‘He
who has never hoped can never despair'. (George Bernard Shaw)
When
Winston Churchill returned to
This is a
message we will often need to return to. Hope springs eternal, but the writer’s
path is full of moments that cut to the quick. Our spirits can reach a perilously
low ebb when a clutch of rejection notes land through our letter box. Not only
do they sting in themselves, they, can so easily hook into our low self-esteem,
especially if no explanation is provided for them. I remember how gutted I felt
when one of my books was accepted by a major American publishing company, only
to have them withdraw the offer at the last moment because "I was not well
enough known on the American lecture circuit". It took many months to
overcome the disappointment of being outmanoeuvred by blatantly commercial
rather than literary considerations.
When it
comes to handling the inevitable matter of rejection slips the first and most
important thing is to avoid taking the rejection personally. It is our work
that does not fit somebody’s commercial needs, not our life and character that
are being rejected.
There may,
however, be hints in the way the rejection slip is couched that will inspire us
to rewrite the rejected piece review some aspect of our style or technique. The
most important thing is not to stop writing. Anything is better than wringing
our hands and bemoaning how unfair it all is. The very act of putting pen to
paper reassures us that we are back on track, no matter what may (or may not)
be happening outwardly to our material. As we have been stressing all along,
real writers cannot find true fulfilment unless they do write.
Writing
is, after all, a labour of love which we undertake ultimately not only for
ourselves but for the benefit of others. For that reason it will eventually
bring us into contact with Love itself. When I am in a writing flow, treating a
subject that is dear to my heart, I feel clean inside. Friends, associates and
situations stand before me as I am working. I can love them, pray for them, and
even remember their circumstances without in any way losing focus on the work
in hand. I am where I really belong.
Keats was
right when he looked beyond his immediate turmoil and declared, ‘There is a
budding morrow in midnight'. For all the setbacks and the pain, there is also
unparalleled joy. There is nowhere else I would rather be, and nothing I would
rather be doing. This alone goes a long way to compensate for the hurts and
rejections, and which spurs me on to go on making the immense personal
sacrifice to closet myself away and continue my work at the word-face. This is
the determination we need to help us overcome the temptation to self-pity and
which will develop in us a broader sympathy and charity for others. That is why
this particular banner is so dear to my heart: it is full of promise and
adventure as well as doggedness. ‘We never know what can happen until we try
again'.
Pause
and Put into Practice
Following
some disappointment, try using the following starter phrases as a framework
Doing this exercise can help us to regroup our hopes and emotions and write our
way out of our emotional turmoil.
Why can’t I . . .
I remember when . . .
I dream of the day when I can . . .
I am grateful for . . .
I am confident that . . .
How did
you get on? I wonder if you realised that you have just sketched the outline of
a modern day Psalm! King David, who experienced such colossal highs and lows in
his chequered life, began many of his psalms by pouring out his hurting heart
before stirring his faith remembering what his God had done for him. This in
turn brought him to a point where he could thank and praise his Lord for what
He was going to do next to resolve the crisis that he faced. His memorable
songs and poems have inspired millions through the ages to achieve a sense of
perspective. Our present disappointment is not going to last for ever. It can
even open up into gloriously creative and liberating appointments.
It is
courage that helps us to move on beyond our discouragements and faith which
helps us to believe that our disappointments will one day be turned into
worthwhile appointments.
Unblocking
Writer’s Block
He
who wants to enjoy the glory of the sunrise must live through the night. (Anon)
Writing
is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. (Georges Simenon)
I love my
calling – but I can sympathise entirely with Simenon’s sentiments! ‘Writer’s
Block’ takes many different forms, but in essence it is much the same: a series
of pressures (internal usually rather than external) that make us disinclined
to pursue our calling.
There are
some, perhaps, who have never experienced Writers’ Block, but I am not sure I
would want to spend too much time in their company. Those who have never
experienced a day’s illness in their life rarely make the most compassionate
sick visitors. Neither do the unrealistically triumphant have much in common
with the majority of us who are obliged to try many routes before we finally
find the path we are meant to travel down.
My own
struggle has never been to find something worthwhile to write about – the
‘blank page in the morning’ syndrome – but rather with finding a suitable angle
from which to present material that constantly threatens to run to seed.
No matter
what guise it may come in, Writers’ Block can lead to an almost overwhelming
sense of alienation. A great pall of grey settles over us and we cry out, ‘What
have I got to say that’s worth reading?’ The sheer amount of time we are
obliged to spend on our own – such a blessing when inspiration is flowing – feels
now like all-imprisoning loneliness. Solitude is precious, but when the well of
inspiration – or the morale to drip the bucket into the well – has all but
dried up, is it any wonder that authors actually end up welcoming excuses and
distractions?
Much of
the writer’s time is spent thinking. (‘Brooding’ may sometimes be a more
accurate description). Writers need to dream. The mind – like a bicyclist –
benefits from periods of free-wheeling. Wisdom lies in knowing how to avoid
such reverie becoming dead-end introspection and to convert it into creative
writing. Like wind turbines that convert the forces of nature into productive
electricity, we must learn to sense when the moment has come to move beyond
thinking and to get on with the task in hand.
During
times of Writer’s Block we will not feel like doing this. Almost every minute
we may find ourselves assailed by dark thoughts, moodiness and temptations to
give up. We are afraid we will never make it into print, or, if we have
experienced some measure of success, we fear that our latest work will fail to
come up to the mark. There is nothing unusual about such feelings. From our
frequently jaundiced position, every other writer appears infinitely more
accomplished and better established than we could possibly be.
It is at
these testing junctures that we can make some serious mistakes. Fear can make
us change too much, or too little in our text. Better to stick with the theme
we were working on, and only make any serious changes if we are convinced that
they are demonstrably better. It can also lead to an inner withdrawing (and to
sulks and tantrums) and to a seething resentment against our perceived critics.
Another route it can take is to torment us with a desperate desire to please
people who, in all probability, we can never hope to satisfy. #Fly Fishing.
The one
thing we must not do is to give up trying. All that happens then is that fear
wins the contest unopposed. The prophets of Baal triumph and Elijah runs away
distraught at the thought that it has all been in vain. We can no more afford
to allow Fortress Fear to win in our own lives than we would in the lives of
our central characters. Courage has nothing to do with the absence of fear, but
everything to do with keeping going despite it. If we will allow it to, the
still small voice will always tell us that there is still a way forward! Better
to grit our teeth, acknowledge our fears and at all costs refuse to give in.
There will be a way forward!
The vast
majority of our fears prove to be delusions when confronted head on. This is
why faith is the perfect antidote to fear. We had faith in our inspiration when
we embarked on the project, and now, in the doldrums, it is being being put to
the test. We may have to endure months, or even years at a time, when ideas dry
up and other commitments make a nonsense of our professed desire to write. But
the flame simply will not go out. Like one of those magic birthday candles, it
will always spring up again Let us therefore return for our banner to the quote
we referred to earlier from the gloriously dogged Winston Churchill: ‘Never
give up. Never, never give up'.
Pause
and Ponder
Faith and
fear lie at opposite ends of the bridge. Where would you place yourself along
that bridge? The answer probably lies in whether you are feeding your faith or
your fears more.
A Book
of Gratitudes
New
every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove.
If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of
countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.
(John Keble)
Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything
beautiful. Welcome beauty in every fair face, every fair sky, every fair flower, and thank Him for it is He who is the
fountain of all loveliness
(Charles
Kingsley).
There is
another antidote to envy, fear or frustration that costs us nothing yet which
contains within it almost limitless power. What is this wonderful quality?
Gratitude. It is virtually impossible to be grateful and resentful at the same
time. We can turn these thoughts into a declaratory banner: ‘I cannot be
anxious, impatient or fretful if I am truly grateful’.
This is no
light matter. To a large extent, our happiness depends on the extent to which
we are grateful. Gratitude and celebration keep the well of happiness flowing
within us, and help us to appreciate the fact that our glass is half full
rather than half empty.
Opportunities
to express our gratitude are almost endless, but our willingness to do so may
have been seriously stunted by past woundings. We cannot alter the past, but we
can waste a perfectly good present by worrying too much about the future.
Cultivating a grateful spirit can do us nothing but good. Because the writer’s
calling is a long-distance haul rather than a short sprint, it will hurt rather
than help us live in perpetual anticipation of that mythical moment ‘when it
all happens’. Better to take each day as it comes and to make time to celebrate
the minor successes, that come our way, and to reward ourselves in little ways.
Social trips, a meal out – simple things that we can eagerly anticipate, savour
to the full, and then look back on with gratitude.
There is
currently no regular cinema where we live on Shetland, so when we hear that a
particular film is coming to the island, we look forward to it eagerly. The
anticipation is rarely misplaced and its memory is treasured. Back on the
mainland we would have taken such events for granted, and no doubt have
sandwiched them in between numerous other activities and engagements. Their
comparative rarity up here helps us to appreciate them more, and to reflect
more profoundly on what we have watched – and that is surely honouring to the
spirit in which they were created. We are blessed on these islands too, with an
extraordinary wealth of talented singers and musicians. To participate in such
‘live’ entertainment is not only immensely pleasurable; it also fosters a
strong community spirit.
Pause
and Put into Practice
The stanza
of the hymn I quoted at the start of this section reminds us that gratitude is
sacrificial as well as joyful. Most of us find it infinitely easier to moan and
to grumble than to express our thanks and gratitude. But these two paths lead
to entirely opposite outcomes. They are as far apart as faith and fear. This is
not just a matter of temperament. Instinctively optimistic people have an
easier ride than dour doomsters, but there is much all of us can do to improve
our mental outlook. Since every day brings its own share of precious insights
and recollections, try writing a list each night of things that have happened
in the course of the day for which we can be grateful. We will be pleasantly
surprised by how much there is to be grateful for. A baby smiles, we are
surrounded by beautiful views, people share kind words with us, we gain a fresh
insight through something we have read . . . As you can see, we are not talking
about major events such as a new job or promotion, but the visit we had from a
friend; the fact that the car started faithfully again this morning, the fact
that there was food on the table; that we found a particular programme
enjoyable; a letter or e mail that reminded us that someone loves us – yes,
even the criticisms that have come our way show that people care enough to make
their point. I call this ‘A Book of Gratitudes'.
Try to
record a dozen or more good points every day. Little by little, we will come to
look for the good things, and to see value in everyday occurrences we might
once have passed by without noticing. This is the fruit of reflection – and it
will prove a promising well for inspiration. Since the Americans have so much
to teach the rest of us about maintaining a positive outlook on life, we will
go transatlantic for this banner: ‘It’s time to cultivate the Gratitude-Attitude!’
Preparing
for Tomorrow
When once the itch of literature comes over a man,
nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. (Samuel Lover, 1842)
‘A losing trade, I assure you, sir; literature is a
drug'. (George Borrow)
‘He never leaves off . . . he always has two packages
of manuscript in his desk, besides the one he’s working on'. (Rose Trollope)
Most
writers are familiar with the emotional slump which often accompanies the
completion of a project. There is a simple way to guard against this emotional
downer - start planning immediately for the next piece of writing. Many authors
like to have more than one project on the go, awaiting assessment and
submission. Perhaps we should make this our final banner: As soon as we
finish one project, get on with a new one straight away. This maintains our
impetus and is a useful shield against rejection slips. But if we feel in
urgent need of a break from the word processor, then we should not hesitate to
take one. As we considered earlier, the fallow times often prove pivotal for
refreshing our inspiration, and for helping us cope with the inevitable peaks
and troughs.
The high
points come when we hear that our material has been of real value and service
to others. The low points include making the disheartening discovery that
Calvin Trillin poignantly described in the Sunday Times a decade or so ago:
‘The shelf life of the modern hardback writer is somewhere between the milk and
the yogurt'.
This
rather sobering appraisal ought, of itself, to be enough to deter the
‘wannabees’. It won’t, of course, because hope dawns eternal and we are
optimistic (or foolish) enough to believe that we will be the ones who buck the
trend. And we know from much experience that we will never be fulfilled unless
we write down the ideas that are bubbling up within. Like the prophet Jeremiah,
there is a fire burning in our hearts; a burden that simply has to be
discharged.
As to who
it is that we are writing for (our target audience) it is only common sense to
research the potential market, but even here we should not limit ourselves
unduly. Editors themselves are not always aware of what they are looking for.
We write because we know that something vital would be left unfulfilled in our
lives if we did not set the whole thing down on paper. And who knows who knows?
Our interest and knowledge may just be enough to open up make a new market.
Only a
small percentage of those who take up the pen will ever derive more than a
small portion of their income from their creative writing, but there are a
multitude of opportunities and professions which service and run parallel to
it, in much the same way that eight or nine people have to be employed behind
the scenes in order to keep one modern soldier in the front line. Where would
writers be without editors, proofreaders and teachers of literature?
There is
much we have not touched on in this book. Poetry, science–fiction, the arts of
crime writing and journalism are just some of the more obvious omissions, along
with any practical suggestions on how to explore areas of research. These are
all specific genres that must be studied separately. Our aim has been to share
principles that can be applied to any form of creative writing.
It was
Ovid who wrote, ‘Love has bidden me write’. That is why I want to urge you to
press on with all your heart. You have talent enough to turn your ideas and
experiences into something worth reading. There are doors waiting for you to
walk though, and an audience that is waiting to benefit from your particular contribution.
But don’t
be unrealistic. It will all take a great deal longer than you would like, and
you cannot hope to avoid at least some of all the highs and the lows of the
emotional roller coaster. Faith and courage will always give you the strength
to overcome the disappointments and to pursue your calling.
The most
important thing is to remain attentive to the Still Small Voice. For me, this
is intricately bound up with my relationship with the God of Love, the God of
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, who has sent His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, into the
World so that we can know Him intimately in this life and the next.
Not
everyone who reads these words will have experienced this level of friendship –
nor indeed have the slightest interest in doing so, though the offer remains
open to everyone. But just as the sun shines on people of all faiths and none,
so the principles of creativity we have shared in this publication hold true
for all who will humble themselves and apply themselves to something that will
bring both you and your readers great joy and insight: namely, The Art of
Creative Writing.
To end
where we started . . .
Every one
must start somewhere. Set yourself the goal of ‘free writing’ for at least a
few minutes every day for the next ten days. Gradually increase this period as
time and opportunities permit – half an hour, an hour and so on. As a first
fruit, this will more than double your output – and there can be no better way
for discovering where your real heart interests lie – and this will be
reflected in the conviction with which you write. Then you will be ready to
benefit from all the advice and suggestions we have made in the course of this
book. To quote another
Latin author, Martial, ‘Scribe aliquid magnum’ – ‘Write something great!’
Books that will take you further
Part One: Writing as a
Lifestyle
Dorothea Brand, ‘Becoming a
Writer’ (Papermac)
Rachel Simon, ‘The Writer’s
Survival Guide’ (Story Press,
Part Two: The Art that
Conceals Art
John Brain, ‘Writing a
Novel’ (Eyre)
Michael Legat, ‘How to
Write Historical Novels’ (Allison and Busby)
Josip Novakovich, ‘Fiction
Writer’s Workshop’ (Story Press,
Sol Stein, ‘Solutions for
Novelists. Secrets of A Master Editor’ (Souvenir Press)
Parts Three to Seven:
More General Books
Jack Bickham, ‘The 38 most
Common Fiction Writing Mistakes (and how to avoid them)’ Writer’s Digest Books
William Zinsser, ‘On
Writing Well’ (Harper Perennial).
Carole Blake, ‘From Pitch to
Publication’ (Everything you need to know to get your novel published)
(Macmillan)
Ruth Sawyer, ‘The Way of
the Storyteller’ (Bodley Head)
Christopher Stevens, ‘Get
into Print’ – A Guide to Self–publishing (New Caxton Press)
Ellin Greene, Storytelling:
Art and Technique (Bowker)
‘The Writer’s Handbook’
2002 (MacMillan)