Professor Jack Sanger
Subscribe to The Moment by Email

Archives

November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 September 2009 October 2009 November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 December 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 April 2011 May 2011 February 2012 March 2012 April 2012 May 2012 June 2012 July 2012 August 2012 September 2012 October 2012 November 2012 December 2012 January 2013 February 2013 March 2013 April 2013 May 2013 June 2013 July 2013 August 2013 September 2013 November 2013 December 2013 January 2014 March 2014


Powered by Blogger
The Moment
Thursday, April 19, 2012

The Art of Writing No. 18

A reader has pointed out that my dichotomy of clay and lego to crudely divide approaches to writing are somewhat patronizing and imbalanced. That was not the intention. By clay I meant organically developed narratives where the writer is only one step ahead of the reader in understanding what is going on, while by lego I meant that much of literature is plugged together from familiar elements within a genre.  Maybe I should have used plasticine and meccano as metaphors, though those remembering that latter are fewer on the ground as each decade passes! The reader pointed out that the terms themselves are from a child’s world, not from an adult’s. I tried to defend myself by saying (did I wholly believe it?) that authors should have a child-like playfulness to be properly creative. Engaging with the construction of a novel is akin to entering a playroom, bursting with potential, eyes wide and trusting.

Actually, the reason we have genres in writing is because there forms are so appealing. Most successfully rich authors are those who mine a stratum of precious metal efficiently, satisfying their readers’ desire for certain verities; structural topographies, a range of characters, degrees of credibility and satisfying narratives.  It does not mean that they do not borrow from plasticine’s organic elements. Better still if their novels belong to a series where the reader feels s/he knows the chief protagonists and their relationships, traits and modus operandi. If clay is an art and lego is a craft, all writers will try to utilize some elements from each.

A reader’s review I had the other day regarding Azimuth (http://www.azimuthtrilogy.com/reviews) said she loved the trilogy but did not know much about the genre. This nonplussed me. What genre is it? By stipulating a genre it might be easier to market it to a specific audience but that would obviously be limiting, as well. Most writers would love a crossover hit of a novel that appeals to everyone at some level or other. Azimuth contains elements of fantasy, fable, modern philosophy, labyrinthine plotting and pulsating (!) adventuring. A one name genre title would surely be too restrictive.

I realize this blog has been less practical than I might have wished so will tether an useful insight to it.

Because I write organically myself, wondering where the next paragraph of a meal is coming from and because it is easy to forget detail as I progress through my novel’s circumlocutions, I constantly make notes about people, places and events at the bottom of my draft concerning what has just been written. These are seeds which alert me to what MUST be dealt with later, what facets of character might affect future behaviours, what puzzles must then be solved, what an environment looks like, the colour of hair and eyes, the skills and/or character defects of individuals. Once I have satisfied the reason for keeping this self-advisory note in my later writing, I scrub it. Thus, I try to ensure that there are no loose ends that will trip up the storyline. It is the novelist’s version of ‘continuity’ in film. This does not mean being too smartass neat and tidy at the end of a book but rather that the integrity of character and plot has been maintained throughout , even if there are still poignant questions hanging in the air at the end.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment


<< Home