Writing and more writing

2004-08-25 - 3:25 p.m.

During a lull at work, I decided to poke around some writers' sites. Nanowrimo is approaching again, and, with my renewed enthusiasm for writing, I wanted to brush up on thinking writer thoughts.

There are two kinds of writers. Actually, there are about a billion kinds of writers, but two stood out to me today. They are:

"Writing is a gift. You either have it, or you don't. The Muse is fickle, but when she arrives, she's beautiful and radiant and makes everything flow. If you don't have the muse, don't even try: writing is only for the creative, the elite."

And...

"Writing is a craft. Anyone can learn the basic skills, but not everyone can handle the work and dedication it takes. You'll suffer years and years of backbreaking labour, and hours of staring at the computer until your eyes bleed. Talent is an illusion: writing is only for the industrious, the elite."

I think both sides have their strong points, and my personal philosophy shares a little bit with both (I think I have something that some others don't that gives me an edge in writing, but I also think that a lot of successful writers work hard and that that's how I'm going to be successful, too), but what gives me the bristles is the idea that writing is one thing.

Writers (and maybe all artists?) can be protective of their craft. I think there's a bit of a superstition about it, in part because art, as an abstract noun, is so difficult to describe. I think every writer has a part of them that is completely baffled at where the ideas come from, or how they can put the words together the way they do. Lately, I've been musing on how differently writers express themselves. We all have the same words, but everyone has a completely different style: words communicate so much more than their literal definition, in a way that I've heard described (dubiously) as "tone", "cadence", or "texture". This mystery, combined with what I think is also universal - a writer's need to write (be it a joyous need or a tortuous one) - must leave some of us afraid that it will all suddenly evaporate, leaving us without a calling.

E.M. Forster wrote in one of his essays in Two Cheers... about how difficult it is for artists to exist in a bureaucrat's world. The artist wants to create, but can't always describe what he wants to create, whereas the bureaucrat wants to know exactly what the artist plans to do, what materials are required, the length (or dimensions or whatever) of the work...

A large part of writing is communication. Writers aren't just good at using words that sound nice together, they evoke images, they use language to describe, as accurately as art allows, setting, character, theme. I think that maybe writers, at a loss to describe what writing is, use that energy to describe the writing process. Or the writing philosophy. Or whatever.

And because writers are first and foremost human, a few of us err on the side of extremism. One way to write becomes the best way and maybe even the only way to do it (or at least, to do it well).

I'm a moderate on writing. I think that whatever way you want to do it, so long as it works (and I don't have to read it if it sucks) is fine. I have my own philosophies (in development), and I definitely can be a bit of an extremist when it comes to some things, but this isn't it.

In other news, I've discovered that I've been spelling eligible wrong for maybe my whole life ("eligeable" - which a part of me is still convinced is an acceptable spelling somewhere...but not in the Canadian dictionary sitting next to me, nor the US dictionary on the web. Word is out on UK spelling, but I'll check tonight at home).

I'm also really sick of the Olympics, which I wasn't expecting at all. I never really cared about the Olympics, except for a mild appreciation of the idealism behind the idea and an equally mild frustration/disgust with the greed and selfishness behind the people who make oodles and oodles of cash off it. This year, though, it seems like my country's becoming a great big giant whiner and bad sport (I'll elaborate if anyone wants), plus all the sports coverage is interrupting my usual news-watching and -listening routines.

Lastly, I'm toying with the idea of self-publishing an anthology of the short stories I've been putting up on the web. Once something's online in a public setting, it's considered by many to have forfeited it's "first publishing" rights (or whatever they're called) which makes them less attractive to prospective publishers. I'm uploading some of my stories because it's good practise for me: I'm setting and (sometimes) keeping deadlines, I'm practicing the writing and editing process, and I'm (eventually, hopefully) giving people a chance to see my work. But those stories will probably never be picked up by a publisher...so, if I can assemble a dozen or so new short works of fiction, I may just bind them all up into my own self-published anthology. Which, of course, I'll then offer to my friends at a great cost. It'll be a steal.

That's all....

Cheers,

The Magus

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