This pondering opinion piece, addresses ‘what is writing’ from an individual perspective, with reference to reading around the subject and my own thoughts. It will be structured thus: Telepathy; Gravy; Crafting the correct approach (for me); In practice; Mug slogan
Telepathy
In Stephen King’s memoir-cum-writing-handbook, On Writing (2000), he describes writing as “Telepathy” (p117). He likens the process to taking thoughts and images from one’s own head and placing them, over time and space, into the head of the reader. He speaks of this leading to a closeness, “a meeting of the minds” (p117). This highlights the connection between writer and reader, a relationship which incorporates a most intimate form of communication.
This leads to consideration of two issues:
- What is so special about what is in my mind that I think it should be put into another’s?
- Should I do it?
Issue 1 revolves around consideration of confidence and worthiness; am I confident that what I have to share is worthy? Diligently we ask of ourselves, am I good enough?
Clifton Fadiman, American writer and editor, is quoted as saying, “There are two kinds of writers – the great ones who can give you truths, and the lesser ones, who can only give you themselves” (Fitzhenry, 1986, p322). In order to declare my thoughts worthy to occupy space in the head of another, do I assume myself to be amongst the ‘great ones’? What truths do I have to share and do I possess the artistry to share these truths well?
The second issue highlighted above is that of responsibility; what are the potential consequences of my dabbling with the contents of other people’s heads?
Dr. Darek Dawda states in their study, The Literary Hypothesis and Cognitive Development (2006), that, “writing codifies speaking, thus turning words into objects of conscious reflection” (p2). Following this approach, writing solidifies ideas, allowing them to be internalised and understood. Whether the consequences of this process are a change in understanding, perception, morality, political views, or which sugary fizzy drink to buy is the cornerstone of communication, propaganda and advertising. Therefore, there is the possibility that my words, transferred into the head of another, could affect their thinking, or even their behaviour.
In answering the questions raised by these two issues, I have come to the conclusion that both have very little to do with me. To assert that what you write will automatically seep into the minds of the unwitting and unprepared populace at large is to engage in an arrogance of presumed success. I largely side-step all issues of responsibility thusly: just because I wrote it, doesn’t mean you have to read it, and if you did, well that’s your own damn fault.
As for the second issue, I argue that we cannot be held responsible for the meaning, or lack of it, gleaned from our writing by others. As Lex Luthor states in Richard Donner’s Superman (1978):
Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it’s a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe (np).
This quote highlights how subjective the perception of meaning within a work can be and how far removed it may be from the intentions of the author. Therefore, to chase the goal of controlling and expressing that meaning is to engage in a frivolity akin to trying to control the wind with a spoon.
Of course, we should not just take the word of follicularly challenged supervillains. In Roland Barthes’ essay The Death of the Author (1977) consideration of author intent is challenged as the core approach to literary criticism, arguing a moving away from consideration of “ultimate meaning” of a text as being governed by author intention, moving instead towards a consideration of meaning as extrapolated by the reader.
After declaring writing as telepathy, King forewarns that, “you must not come lightly to the blank page” (2000, p118) (dramatic italics from the original text). I say, to hell with that; jump in with your boots on, splash around in the fountain of creativity and if onlookers do not want to get wet they can stand back or walk away – go look at someone else’s fountain, this one is mine.
Gravy
This is something that first came to mind – at least overtly – whilst being taught scriptwriting. These are those ‘pass the gravy’ moments where truth, emotion, reconciliation, love, and all the other BIG emotions, are shown through the observation of the very SMALL.
The example I always give is the estranged father and son. The son returns home after years away and the father resents him. All through our story they don’t talk, unless to argue. Finally, by some eloquently conceived and articulated narrative web, the father forgives the son and expresses his love; not through melodramatic speeches on the veranda, but through the simple gesture of asking him to pass the gravy at the dinner table (whereas before, he had steadfastly refused to talk to the son at such times and would stand and walk around the table to get it). Thus, we have displayed the very BIG emotion/concept of fatherly love/forgiveness through the very SMALL act of passing the gravy.
We see this, in a similarly culinary setting, in Phil Robinson’s novel, Charlie Big Potatoes (2002). Throughout the novel we see Charlie’s mother not-so-subtly having an affair with the lodger, as Charlie’s father sits weakly by, not doing anything. Once our beleaguered protagonist, Charlie, resolves his own personal issues towards the end of the novel, he finds the strength to stand up for his father and declares that this has gone on long enough. Again, this is not done not through speeches that set out all the whys and wherefores but in the stabbing of the elusive ‘extra pork chop’ at the Sunday dinner, taking it from the lodger’s plate and putting on his father’s, where it would traditionally have resided before the lodger came into the picture.
Every time I see an example of this in any form of writing I rejoice at the subtle expression of truth, of how life really works. Whether the willing emotional surrender to a loved one by a previously closed-off ‘strong’ man (Daredevil, episode, Shadows in the Glass, Netflix, 2015) or the expression of enduring love in the long-term relationship of bickering couple (Miracle Max and his wife Valerie, The Princess Bride, Reiner, 1987), these are the moments that I strive towards in my own writing.
Crafting the correct approach (for me)
Integral to the development of my approach to writing is my own patented, Three Stages to Writing.
Stage one was letting go of the romanticised vision of writing; of accepting that writing is not some ethereal thing, rather it is a craft. For me, this stage was made manifest in the first session of a creative writing evening class I did as a student. I came to this session with all the usual hang-ups. I could not write without complete silence; I would await the flimmers of inspiration, 1960s parker fountain pen in one hand, leather-bound notebook in the other. I was precious about my writing; delicate, wafting in romanticism, and quite frankly more than a little ridiculous. But there I was, in this evening class. A room full of strangers, a weird buzzing noise coming from the lights, no fountain pen, no leather-bound book. Just a Biro, a pad of lined A4, and that bloomin buzzing light. The tutor turned to us all and gave us a writing exercise. Well, I was apoplectic with the certainty that this just wasn’t the done thing. How was I to be expected to just scribble out some writing, willy-nilly, in a room full of strangers and buzzing lights? But the fact is, I did it. I wrote a short story… I even read it out. And people loved it. This was my eureka moment; my letting go of such foolish romantic notions that things had to be ‘just so’. It was the first time I had embraced the idea that I could just sit down and write.
Stage two, was engaging in the notion of writing as a craft. By thinking about structure, characters, setting, and idea generation techniques I was able to tell complete, workable stories. These stories were complete enough, they had a beginning, middle and end. However, they were very much TOLD stories, akin to a list of events, a padded-out step outline, with dialogue and a few descriptions added in.
Consider the example:
Jack finally got the job. He was nervous on his first day. But it all went okay in the end.
We have characterisation and elements of structure and plot. However, we are reeling off event after event – REPORTING on what is happening. This creates stories that are not engaging, that highlight the distance between reader and text, are lacking in drama and are anecdotal in nature.
Stage three was about turning a list of events into an immersive narrative. It is a movement away from the reporting of:
Jack was recently divorced. He wanted to kill his ex-wife.
And towards the immersion between story and reader, inviting them to come watch the pictures in my mind for a while. Something more like:
Jack sat by the window, watching the rain, but not really seeing it. In his left hand he absently played the plain gold band between finger and thumb. Thunder cracked outside in a cackling sneer. The legal papers fell from his right hand to the floor, the knuckles of his left hand now bone-white as he gripped the wedding ring in a tight fist.
This approach is of course the movement from ‘telling’ towards ‘showing’. Despite Paterson’s assertion that talk of show-not-tell is “nonsensical” (2004, p2), I find it the true distinction between a boring, disengaging list of events, and the presentation of an immersive narrative; ergo, stage three.
In Practice
The idea of the Red Eye and the Blue Eye, presented by Don Paterson (2004), resonates with me. Here Paterson speculates that the writer (in this case the poet) has at his disposal a red, “wild, creative eye” and a “blue, cold editorial one” (p17). Furthermore, he presents the idea of the more practiced writer engaging a stereoscopic view, whereby the writer is using both simultaneously. I can relate to these Nirvana-type moments, when everything seems to be happening all at once and you realise that you are being both creative and critical at the same time; thus engaging this stereoscopic view.
I think that I reached the point of the stereoscopic view for the first time with a writing exercise that I launched for my writer’s website, Sunday Shorts. Here, three randomly generated words were given and then I had an hour to write a fully formed story. Through the weeks engaging in this exercise, I found that I would use the first two words as set up. As the red eye was busily presenting my world, characters and conflict, thrashing out wild elephants setting fire to circus tents, or boys inventing flying machines, all the while the blue eye was taking that third word and coldly plotting on where the piece was heading and how it would create closure following some kind of climax and resolution.
Mug slogan
In way of conclusion, if I were to sum up my approach to writing and what I hope to manifest in the world through it, I would do it in the form of the following mug slogan:
Passing the gravy, whether you like gravy or not and I don’t care if it gets on our shoes!
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Robinson, Phil. Charlie Big Potatoes. London: Macmillan, 2002.
Daredevil. USA, Netflix, 2015.
Superman. Dir Richard Donner, USA, 1978.
The Princess Bride. Dir. Rob Reiner, USA, 1987.
Secondary Sources
Barthes, Roland (trans. S. Heath) The Death of the Author. London: Fontana.
Dawda, Darek. “The Literary Hypothesis and Cognitive Development.” PhD diss., Simon Fraser University, 2006.
Fitzhenry, Robert I. The David & Charles Book of Quotations. London: David & Charles, 1986.
King, Stephen On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. London: Hodder & Stoughton, 2000.
Paterson, Don. “The Dark Art of Poetry.” Lecture, T S Eliot Lecture from South Bank Centre, London, October 30, 2004.