Last night I went to my monthly writer's group, where I became very drunk on red wine. When I came back I made the ill-advised move of writing a blog entry. The title was the same as it is now – 'Wine-Stained Lips', after the song by Smog – but the content was different. My mention of those lyrics was prophetic. I suppose I must have known I would feel like this, thinking about "All the stupid things I said/Through wine stained lips". I have now deleted that content and am replacing it with this.
(I'm still a little drunk. I just knocked over a mug of water and had to clear it up.)
In a recent post called, The Accidental Florist, I mention confessional writing (which is a large part of what I do), and say, "confessing to a specific mixture of known and unknown individuals brings to mind images of a maudlin drunk and makes me think uncomfortably of phrases such as 'crocodile's tears'." Well, last night confessional writing was, very literally, the ramblings of a maudlin drunk. Interestingly, perhaps, these ramblings were – I think, accidentally – an almost perfect synopsis of the novella from which I read out a passage at the writer's group. The novella in question is Shrike. I finished the long-hand version on the 22nd of August at 7.15 PM. Since then I have been word-processing it, and have nearly finished.
A number of people have asked me what I'm going to do with it. Which publisher will I send it to? The fact is, I don't feel much like sending it to any publishers. It's a kind of drunken confession that runs to tens of thousands of words. It's in many ways about self-hatred and it's embarrassing. Which is how I feel about what I do generally, and who I am – embarrassing.
So, isn't it perverse to send what most embarrasses you to a PUBLISHER?
I find that I'm struggling between the instinct that tells me that I need to confess in some deep and comprehensive way in order to create an authentic piece of literature, and the instinct that tells me I should be a bit more dignified and decorous. Interestingly, I have read a couple of entries on Momus' blog on this theme recently. They are here and here.
At the end of the second one (as linked to here, not chronologically), Momus gives us a new list of what is in and out, in contrast to the ins and outs of the twentieth century, the century of the self. The list is as follows:
"Out: Emotion, instinct, self-expression, atomization, immediate gratification, focus groups, marketing, psychoanalysis, the self, the now, extraversion.
In: Guilt, repression, class consciousness, elitism, traditional society, duty, restraint, decorum, bottling things up, deferred gratification, introversion."
Well, I don't care too much whether I'm in or out, but I suppose I have the writer's desire to be a little bit ahead of the game, at least. That's not to say that I think Momus is always necessarily ahead of the game in what he says. In terms of what's out, for instance, I still value concepts of emotion, instinct, self-expression and the now. Not that I'm necessarily 'good' at those things – I'm not. However, I also have a lot of what – according to Momus, at least – is now 'in': guilt, repression, restraint, bottling things up, introversion, in fact, all of it with the possible exceptions of class consciousness and elitism.
The result? I really don't know what to do with my writing. It's a kind of stalemate. I hate it, but I'm compelled to carry it on, and I hate the compulsion and am compelled by the hatred.
Anyway, what I have decided I will do is send the manuscript (or word document or whatever) of Shrike to a few friends and see what the reaction is. I probably won't do more than that, but it's possible that I will decide on 'marketing' and 'self-expression' and send it to a publisher, after all. (I confess, I'm fickle. So, hate me.)
If you want to read Shrike and you have my e-mail address, let me know, and I might send you a copy, and then squirm in agony after I have sent it. It's not as if I'm expecting a snow-drift of e-mails in response, anyway.
Did you also delete a blog entry under similar circumstances recently? I was reading your blog, and that seemed to be the case. You don’t have to answer that, by the way.Actually, I’ve been hideously depressed all day. Except that I cheered up a bit this evening. And last night, well, I don’t know. Perhaps the new song I’ve put on my MySpace profile says it all.”I don’t believe, but I’m trying to decide/Which game is best for me/Which can I bear?”I’m trying to think of some words of wisdom, but I’m no match for other people’s cynicism, I’ve found, so I tend not to put forth tentative buds of hope for fear of having them blasted.Besides which, the one truly ‘hopeful’ thing I know (‘know’ as in, own as part of my experience) seems to be beyond words. The theme for the writer’s group last night was death, and everyone wanted to know why I wasn’t saying anything (actually, I always get teased for never saying anything), while the others were all stating boldly, as if they know, “Actually, when you die, there’s nothing. That’s it.” Or, conversely, “I believe in angels” and so on. I suppose it’s probably necessary to have this level of conviction, just because other people seem to have it, and one needs to protect oneself. But I do not have that level of conviction. So I tend to keep quiet, unless I know I’m in a safe environment, and even then I tend to hedge my bets.But this thing that I know or feel inside, which I say is beyond words, I really feel like it would demean that thing to put it into this sort of arena of opinion that exists in society, where beliefs are clothed in the martial regalia of words and must do battle with other beliefs. That’s really not what it’s about for me. If something is true, I don’t want to send out combatative words in this arena to ‘represent’ that truth.I wish I could communicate it without words. I wish I knew the way. I try. But I often feel like those around me are wilfully ignoring it. I can’t be the only one who feels it – this thing I can’t name.Anyway, I really went off on one there.Maybe the best I can do is repeat the – it seems to me rather teasing – words of a Morrissey song I’ve been thinking about recently:”You say that the dayJust never arrivesAnd it’s never seemed so far away.Still I know it’s gonna happen somedayTo you.Please wait…Don’t lose faith”.
Somebody somewhere once said “Writing is fine as long as you do it in private and wash your hands after.” I’m sure someone out there will correct my badly remembered paraphrase of the quote (or even remember the source for me), but that does seem to be the nature of the art.I hope you do send it off to a publisher, and wish you all the best! Mostly because I’m currently tearing out my own heart and I’ve heard that misery loves company.And it’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s written while under the influence…
Ha–well, no, I wasn’t under the influence, I was at work–not quite the same thing. I was ranting about something I read on another blog by John Crowley who wrote the novel Little, Bigabout 25 years ago. I’d commented on another aspiring author’s blog when she asked about our writing methods. Then he commented on his blog how those were exactly the methods he warned his students against, as it led to what he thought of as Bad Writing. So I was seething a bit, then had time to think about it, then thought with horror about what it was I was saying, which wasn’t anything of use, so I yoinked the post–and a couple others–in a fit of self-consciousness and depression. And spent a couple of days in a blue funk, I’ll add. And did do a little drinking after, besides. Long explanation, little content, sorry.You say: “I’m trying to think of some words of wisdom, but I’m no match for other people’s cynicism, I’ve found, so I tend not to put forth tentative buds of hope for fear of having them blasted.”Indeed. I often feel the same–and I’m also trying to learn to keep my mouth shut because of said cynicism, as I’m beginning to wonder if I know anything at all and often that same damning cynicism serves no purpose other than to draw attention to how smart one thinks oneself. I’m working on it.One thing John Crowley did talk about is how some authors intentionally use words to obscure themselves or their true personality from those oh-too-prying eyes. At least that’s what I think he was on about; apparently, I’m a bit of a thickie.So, good night, good luck with Shrike, and in the words of the article link I posted the other day, Don’t Give Up. There’s nothing else, really, is there?Off to make a spaghetti dinner and drink some more red wine.
Hello Melissa.I went to bed in the meantime, so didn’t answer last night.In terms of methods of writing, well, to put things in perspective, there are many, many people who think H.P. Lovecraft is quite simply a terrible writer, but I love his prose. He is, in fact, one of my favourite prose stylists. I actually remember passages of his by heart, and not because I’ve sat down and tried to learn them. I don’t think there is a proper way to write. If I had to run a course on creative writing, there are certainly methods and so on I could teach, but as far as I’m concerned, the whole thing is wide open.I remember Burroughs’ response to this question – though not verbatim. Someone had said something about you should never re-write what you’ve written. He said, “That’s not ‘how to write’, that’s ‘how to write like Jack Keroac'”.
I realize there are rules, and that usually if you learn the rules really well, you’ll know how and when to break them…I just felt a bit like the unwitting subject of a teacher’s experiment, where they invite you to speak frankly and then turn to the class and say, “Now, this is exactly what you SHOULDN’T do.” Felt lousy.
I’m not sure there are rules. There are skills to master, and these are often mastered by trying to do something that is, in some ways, formulaic. But what are the rules, really?I’ve heard some, like, never use adverbs.Well, what are they there for, if not to be used.Then there’s, never end a story with, “She woke up and it was all a dream”, but there’s a very powerful story in Chinese literature that ends exactly that way. (Can’t remember the title now.)I suppose I don’t know specifically what you mean by rules, but don’t worry about it if it’s a boring discussion. Having said all that, I do struggle for the very things that I possibly seem to scorn. I want to tie up all my loose ends. I don’t want there to be chinks in my verisimilitude, and so on.One of my favourite novels – which I started translating into English, but have yet to finish – is like a deliberate vandalism of all the rules. Someone receives a letter from an ex-lover in a shady trade, which looks like the beginnings of blackmail, but we never hear of it again. The main character discovers someone has been selling his paintings off under another name, which seems to herald the start of another plot development, which does not develop. And so on. I feel like I’m rambling a bit now.Anyway, here’s an interview with a write I admire. It’s probably got little to do with what we were talking about, unless it’s in the sense of sticking to one’s literary guns. But it came online recently, and I think it’s interesting and worth reading, and not only because my name appears in it.
I guess by the ‘rules’ comment I was thinking of Picasso, or whomever, who mastered the techniques and then went all jazz-age with it. As far as there being actual rules beyond the subject-verb-noun-parallel sentence sort, I guess there aren’t any. If you can get away with it and keep it entertaining, go for it.I really don’t understand Crowley’s comments (and I realize it’s difficult trying to explain this one-way, without showing them to you. His blog is http://crowleycrow.livejournal.com/). I’ve been (and I say this without pride) a mostly self-taught writer; I’ve never taken a writing course, nothing beyond my literature classes–and what I’ve read. I read copiously and across all genres, but with favorites in fantastic fiction. When I have an idea or just the overpowering urge to write, I often start with a day-dream or image in my mind. Words often are the same as images to me–I don’t know if it is a product of having read since I could walk, almost, or not, and it doesn’t really matter. What he was warning would-be writers against is not something I engage in, that of telling and not showing or vice versa, whichever is the wrong one. I think. But I’m not just transcribing an ‘inner movie’; it’s much more than that, and then there’s all the shaping & polishing afterwards. (The Burroughs comment about Kerouac is priceless.)Interesting interview. I haven’t read anything by Mark Samuels; now I’ll have to put him on the list.
I read the comments he made about the mental-movie thing, and to be honest, I don’t know what he’s getting at. I mean, it seems too obvious to be making a point about it. Words are not the same as images, therefore images cannot be transcribed ‘literally’. All this means is that you have to be artful in your transcription. Whether it’s good writing or bad writing, it comes from the same process, I think, if it’s a narrative. I don’t think there’s any problem in transcribing a mental movie, and – as I suggested – I’m not sure, in broad terms, there is another way to write fiction, or the ‘real time’ sections of it, anyway. So, it’s all in the transcription.If what he means is that a purely visual story doesn’t work, well, this is a matter of style. I think I’m very visual, but I tend to have a huge amount of introspective reflection in there, too. If anything, my fault is that I tell rather than show. Showing alone, well, sometimes it’s not enough, but again, this is a question of individual artistry. Some writers are enormously skilled at purely visual detail that also contains a wealth of suggestion about emotion and so on. When I say words aren’t images – I think the two are linked, but images are fixed in a way words are not, and words are fixed in a way images are not. Another way of saying this is that words have definitions, which are fixed and vague at the same time. Images are fixed in a sensual sense, but not conceptually.Am I getting carried away with this explanation?Basically, I see words as tools for suggesting a kind of protean imagery. Good prose, for me, is fertile with images, but the images are not fixed. So, for me, learning to write has been a study of how words work together to create the imagistic fertility known as atmosphere. Atmosphere, of course, requires a certain consistency of language, which is most definitely an art rather than a science. Without that consistency, language loses its fecundity and becomes barren…Maybe I’ll leave it at that for now..