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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 cannot 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 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 cannot 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 on property, possessions, and priorities. All of these are
perfectly good things in themselves, as 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 first hand 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 journaling
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 than 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 heyday – 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 cocoon 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 inkling 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 let-down
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 fool proof 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 hard-headed 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 an 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 London is an event in village,
and some of them looked as if they had been waiting a good long time. But they
were not impatient. Village folk are very seldom impatient. Those whose lives are
occupied in combatting the eccentricities of God regard as very small beer the
eccentricities of
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 mantelpiece
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
Glyndebourne 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 humour, 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 skilfully 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 re-join 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 heart-breaking 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, skilful 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 untrammelled
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 check-up,
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 passer-by 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 verb less sentence as a prime example: ‘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, echoes 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, ogling 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’ 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 ‘that’s’ 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 ‘which’s’ 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, let’s 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’
has a rather different meaning from
‘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 even-handed 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. 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 proof-reader’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, but even
when we cannot accept the recommendation grammar checkers suggest, the mere fact
that they have highlighted a sentence may lead us to go in search of better
ways to express it. Grammar checkers are valuable tools, but they by no means
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 you notice that I
deliberately wrote, ‘we should not allow the duff ones to deter you?’
It is so easy to confuse which pronoun form we are using, and to toggle
inadvertently between ‘we’ and ‘you’ via ‘him,’ ‘his’ and ‘their'. It may sound
dull, but let's fly high this 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.
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 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 soon be
restored
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 to
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, by Elizabeth Browning
p.34)
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 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-all’s. 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 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, proof-readers
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 . . .
Everyone 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)