Lush and Lyrical, or Compact and Succinct? Stark or Subtle? So many possible ways to write, and so many examples of how each style can be successful - or disastrous. Tom Lehrer said it well in his song "Bright College Days" with the line "Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life", which is just as applicable to the perilous task of writing as it is to life in general.
Writing groups are an excellent place to examine the possibilities. A prompt is set out for consideration; each writer makes their own interpretation of the concept and then launches that idea on a distinct course. The end results can be quite different in theme and style, and are always a lesson in how our own interpretation and methods are not the only ones that work.
It is often said that writers should read - widely and continuously - to broaden our understanding and knowledge, and as an aid to our future writing efforts. As if I need such an excuse to buy books, new or second hand - and as for those hours when I am working on the returns desk, well, my bag going home from work is always a lot heavier than it was going to work. Where to put them, when I get home, is another question altogether - especially since (imagine a deep sigh at this point) a rearrangement of the furniture has somehow left me with fewer bookshelves than before.
There are other places to seek inspiration - the lyrics of some of the great songs of the 60's and 70's for example, are fine poetry in their own right, and poetry at its best shows how a few words can be loaded with meaning of great breadth and depth. I have always envied people who can write lines like this, from "Hotel California"..... "there she stood in the doorway, I heard the mission bells"
A few words that bring to me a wave of images, sounds, and smells - especially after the opening lines...... "On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitas rising up through the air"
Billy Joel sets a mood and place concisely - "It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in. There's an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin"
That regular crowd certainly does not sound like much fun at all - perhaps if they had danced in, or charged in, or tangoed in, or marched in, or, well, you get the picture. There are so many ways to move into or through a space, or to look at someone or some thing, or to put a glass down, or to pick up a weapon.
How many different ways could a person enter a bar? A thesaurus will give us some idea, but so will poetry, and Billy Joel, and The Rolling Stones, and so many others.
I've largely finished the first draft of a novel I'm working on. It was done by trying to charge along, getting the story down, and then doubling back to sort out the continuity, and add in hints, clues, and characters that might add to the integrity of the tale. Some of the writing was sharp and interesting - much of it is still in a bland state; descriptive, without attaining any great literary heights.
So it is time to start on the second draft, and the best way I can think of doing that is to take a scene such as the protagonist entering the bar of the small town pub that is close to the center of the story, and rewriting it in different styles until one jumps up and grabs me by the throat. How do you attack this problem?
Tuesday 26 June 2018
Tuesday 19 June 2018
Nipped in the Bud
Just as some optimistic trees and bushes were tentatively opening a few flower buds...
the prolonged autumn was pushed off the mountain by winter's first snows.
Not much of it fell on my gardens - the Oberon Plateau snagged most of the snow - but the apple trees that flowered in May are looking a bit sorry now, and the brassicas that were burgeoning have suddenly hunkered down. They enjoy the cold, for sure, even if only for the relief it brings from the constant assaults by cabbage moth caterpillars, but there is something different in their colour and demeanour, now that the first Antarctic blast has passed through.
The colour did not all disappear when the blossoms and leaves fell - in some ways the view from the kitchen window is brighter than ever.
But the jonquils are already offering an early promise of spring to come....
the prolonged autumn was pushed off the mountain by winter's first snows.
Not much of it fell on my gardens - the Oberon Plateau snagged most of the snow - but the apple trees that flowered in May are looking a bit sorry now, and the brassicas that were burgeoning have suddenly hunkered down. They enjoy the cold, for sure, even if only for the relief it brings from the constant assaults by cabbage moth caterpillars, but there is something different in their colour and demeanour, now that the first Antarctic blast has passed through.
The colour did not all disappear when the blossoms and leaves fell - in some ways the view from the kitchen window is brighter than ever.
But the jonquils are already offering an early promise of spring to come....
Saturday 16 June 2018
Tortoise and Hare
When our little group of writers meet to share ideas and practice our craft, we often use "prompt based" exercises to get the creativity moving. A word, a phrase, a setting, or an object - or several of each - is placed on the table and the a timer is set running. The pens and pencils set off in hot pursuit and, after fifteen or twenty minutes has passed, an end is reached.
An end, I say, because that's where we stop, even though the finish that each writer was aiming at, if indeed they knew for certain what their target was, might have needed many more minutes or hours to achieve. After a brief examination of each work by the group, another prompt is chosen, and the race begins anew. I tend to leave these sessions in an uplifted and enthusiastic mood. I seem to be one of those people who finds it easier to begin a work with some costraints in place - such as theme, setting, and a time limit for completion.
I also leave with a collection of short pieces that need further work - sometimes they merely need tidying up, but more often the ending has to be written, and the middle properly fleshed out. Then, of course, the beginning will often need a bit of a re-write as well. Occasionally, I find myself with a page or two that could turn into much more than a short story.
Some teachers of writing insist that this is the best way to write - pick up the pen and set out on the journey, never looking back until the destination is reached, and only then commence the task of perfecting the work.
Is it better to rush forward, spilling words across the paper until the conclusion has been attained, and then go back to begin the painstaking review and reconstruction of paragraphs and chapters - or to shape each word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph into a perfect form before moving onto the next?
Is that even possible if the writer does not yet know the ending?
For the writer, though God of the Universe that is flowing from the Authorial Pen, is not - cannot be- Omniscient until the final word is on the page, and the new universe has taken its full shape. Only then can the true relevance and aptness of each word and phrase be known.
Others advise that, instead of reviewing and reworking, the author take the first draft and hurl it into the fire, before starting afresh and producing a new body of work from the ghost of the old. Finding the "best way" to write is a question that is always lurking in the background - whether I am at my desk or not.
I recently read Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life" In it, she examines the alternatives, and gives reasons why each method is good, without selecting one above the others - which left me wondering if Professor Tolkien had been having a dig at teachers of writing when he had Frodo say "And it is also said, 'Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.'"
I will just have to keep wondering, I guess - and keep that pen scratching across the page while I do so.
An end, I say, because that's where we stop, even though the finish that each writer was aiming at, if indeed they knew for certain what their target was, might have needed many more minutes or hours to achieve. After a brief examination of each work by the group, another prompt is chosen, and the race begins anew. I tend to leave these sessions in an uplifted and enthusiastic mood. I seem to be one of those people who finds it easier to begin a work with some costraints in place - such as theme, setting, and a time limit for completion.
I also leave with a collection of short pieces that need further work - sometimes they merely need tidying up, but more often the ending has to be written, and the middle properly fleshed out. Then, of course, the beginning will often need a bit of a re-write as well. Occasionally, I find myself with a page or two that could turn into much more than a short story.
Some teachers of writing insist that this is the best way to write - pick up the pen and set out on the journey, never looking back until the destination is reached, and only then commence the task of perfecting the work.
Is it better to rush forward, spilling words across the paper until the conclusion has been attained, and then go back to begin the painstaking review and reconstruction of paragraphs and chapters - or to shape each word, phrase, sentence, and paragraph into a perfect form before moving onto the next?
Is that even possible if the writer does not yet know the ending?
For the writer, though God of the Universe that is flowing from the Authorial Pen, is not - cannot be- Omniscient until the final word is on the page, and the new universe has taken its full shape. Only then can the true relevance and aptness of each word and phrase be known.
Others advise that, instead of reviewing and reworking, the author take the first draft and hurl it into the fire, before starting afresh and producing a new body of work from the ghost of the old. Finding the "best way" to write is a question that is always lurking in the background - whether I am at my desk or not.
I recently read Annie Dillard's "The Writing Life" In it, she examines the alternatives, and gives reasons why each method is good, without selecting one above the others - which left me wondering if Professor Tolkien had been having a dig at teachers of writing when he had Frodo say "And it is also said, 'Go not to the elves for counsel, for they will say both no and yes.'"
I will just have to keep wondering, I guess - and keep that pen scratching across the page while I do so.
Thursday 7 June 2018
Bald Faced Satire
The only national art competition to be judged by a Cockatoo - the 25th Bald Archy Exhibition - has taken to the road. Until the end of June, it is residing in the Club House of the Leura Golf Club, and is well worth a look. If you can't get to The Blue Mountains, check the schedule on the website - it may end up closer to you, sometime this year.
It is as wide ranging as ever in the variety of styles displayed, and range of subjects portrayed - for copyright reasons, photographing the exhibits is not permitted, so you will need to make the trip to see the real thing, though this article from the ABC gives a sense of what is there.
Many of the usual suspects are represented, some of them in most unexpected poses and settings, while the winner - Anh Can Do by James Brennan - is a wonderfully whimsical work. Keep your eye out for Sam Dastyari -his portrait is a rib tickler, and not the only one that will make you laugh. A couple of our more rough and tumble politicians have somehow ended up looking almost cute.
Between the politicians you will find a superb portrayal of one of Australia's best known rock stars, as well as an equally well known, but non-human figure - it's possible Maud the Cockatoo was slipped a bucket of oats by this character.
A certain former Prime Minister makes a number of appearances, with the most notable being a blend of reality and fictional mythology that is a dark but apt caricature - it needs to be looked at closely, there are subtle details near and far that add meaning and pathos.
My favourite was not a prize winner; perhaps it lacked the levity that many other pictures had, but it is possibly the most original and subtle work in the show. See if you can find the two dimensional representation of a three dimensional image of our present PM - the artist has done a superb, poignant work, and she deserves to be more widely known and viewed. This one picture would make the trip worthwhile.
It is as wide ranging as ever in the variety of styles displayed, and range of subjects portrayed - for copyright reasons, photographing the exhibits is not permitted, so you will need to make the trip to see the real thing, though this article from the ABC gives a sense of what is there.
Many of the usual suspects are represented, some of them in most unexpected poses and settings, while the winner - Anh Can Do by James Brennan - is a wonderfully whimsical work. Keep your eye out for Sam Dastyari -his portrait is a rib tickler, and not the only one that will make you laugh. A couple of our more rough and tumble politicians have somehow ended up looking almost cute.
Between the politicians you will find a superb portrayal of one of Australia's best known rock stars, as well as an equally well known, but non-human figure - it's possible Maud the Cockatoo was slipped a bucket of oats by this character.
A certain former Prime Minister makes a number of appearances, with the most notable being a blend of reality and fictional mythology that is a dark but apt caricature - it needs to be looked at closely, there are subtle details near and far that add meaning and pathos.
My favourite was not a prize winner; perhaps it lacked the levity that many other pictures had, but it is possibly the most original and subtle work in the show. See if you can find the two dimensional representation of a three dimensional image of our present PM - the artist has done a superb, poignant work, and she deserves to be more widely known and viewed. This one picture would make the trip worthwhile.
Tuesday 5 June 2018
The Long Goodbye - or How Things Stay the Same
Raymond Chandler's novel The Long Goodbye - published in 1953 and set in the previous few years, contains substantial amounts of social criticism - something writers are warned against doing by publishers and creative writing advisors.
Yet Chandler has woven it into the story deftly, in mostly small doses, as part of conversations and descriptions that fit neatly in with the action and the characters.
One passage that caught my eye in particular was a monologue from the extremely wealthy Mr Potter to the hero, Philip Marlowe, set out below......
"There's a peculiar thing about money" he went on "In large quantities it tends to have a life of its own, even a conscience of its own. The power of money becomes very difficult to control. Man has always been a venal animal. The growth of populations, the huge cost of wars, the incessant pressure of confiscatory taxation - all these things make him more and more venal. The average man is tired and scared, and a tired, scared man can't afford ideals. He has to buy food for his family. In our time we have seen a shocking decline in both public and private morals. You can't expect quality from people whose lives are a subjection to a lack of quality. You can't have quality with mass production. You don't want it because it lasts too long. So you substitute styling, which is a commercial swindle intended to produce artificial obsolescence. Mass production couldn't sell its goods next year unless it made what it sold this year look unfashionable a year from now. We have the whitest kitchens and the most shining bathrooms in the world. But in the lovely white kitchen the average American housewife can't produce a meal fit to eat, and the lovely shining bathroom is mostly a receptacle for deodorants, laxatives, sleeping pills, and the products of that confidence racket called the cosmetic industry. We make the finest packages in the world, Mr Marlowe. The stuff inside is mostly junk."
As Chandler wrote and published this novel that included many critiques of American society, especially of the wealthy parts of that society, Ayn Rand was busy compiling her longest and most controversial work, Atlas Shrugged - a work that in so many ways opposed what Chandler was saying about the root causes of societal problems of the day; problems that were with us long before he wrote, and that continue to plague us today.
In Mr Potter, Chandler has managed to introduce us to a man who, while not the real villain of the book, still imposes his own warped agenda on the other characters, and is Randian in his ability to set out many of the problems of society while not quite coming to grips with the real causes of what he has perceived, nor with his own part in the forming of those problems.
Being a child of the times during which this book was published, I was surprised by the extent of the cynicism and world-weariness of so many of the characters in this novel. After all, was not this the beginning of the new golden age of peace and modernity that had been ushered in by the great victory against fascism?
It seemed to me, as the Fifties folded into the Sixties, that it was a golden time, despite the dark threats the cold war from time to time imposed upon my awareness. But if it was so golden, why did Philip Marlowe resonate so strongly with so many readers? And why does it feel as if nothing much has changed?
Yet Chandler has woven it into the story deftly, in mostly small doses, as part of conversations and descriptions that fit neatly in with the action and the characters.
One passage that caught my eye in particular was a monologue from the extremely wealthy Mr Potter to the hero, Philip Marlowe, set out below......
"There's a peculiar thing about money" he went on "In large quantities it tends to have a life of its own, even a conscience of its own. The power of money becomes very difficult to control. Man has always been a venal animal. The growth of populations, the huge cost of wars, the incessant pressure of confiscatory taxation - all these things make him more and more venal. The average man is tired and scared, and a tired, scared man can't afford ideals. He has to buy food for his family. In our time we have seen a shocking decline in both public and private morals. You can't expect quality from people whose lives are a subjection to a lack of quality. You can't have quality with mass production. You don't want it because it lasts too long. So you substitute styling, which is a commercial swindle intended to produce artificial obsolescence. Mass production couldn't sell its goods next year unless it made what it sold this year look unfashionable a year from now. We have the whitest kitchens and the most shining bathrooms in the world. But in the lovely white kitchen the average American housewife can't produce a meal fit to eat, and the lovely shining bathroom is mostly a receptacle for deodorants, laxatives, sleeping pills, and the products of that confidence racket called the cosmetic industry. We make the finest packages in the world, Mr Marlowe. The stuff inside is mostly junk."
As Chandler wrote and published this novel that included many critiques of American society, especially of the wealthy parts of that society, Ayn Rand was busy compiling her longest and most controversial work, Atlas Shrugged - a work that in so many ways opposed what Chandler was saying about the root causes of societal problems of the day; problems that were with us long before he wrote, and that continue to plague us today.
In Mr Potter, Chandler has managed to introduce us to a man who, while not the real villain of the book, still imposes his own warped agenda on the other characters, and is Randian in his ability to set out many of the problems of society while not quite coming to grips with the real causes of what he has perceived, nor with his own part in the forming of those problems.
Being a child of the times during which this book was published, I was surprised by the extent of the cynicism and world-weariness of so many of the characters in this novel. After all, was not this the beginning of the new golden age of peace and modernity that had been ushered in by the great victory against fascism?
It seemed to me, as the Fifties folded into the Sixties, that it was a golden time, despite the dark threats the cold war from time to time imposed upon my awareness. But if it was so golden, why did Philip Marlowe resonate so strongly with so many readers? And why does it feel as if nothing much has changed?
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