The Scribbler (Part II)
So what is good writing anyway? I can say honestly, emphatically, even passionately: I don't know. I'm really concerned with the search, but not with answers I can stuff into a self-written textbook on style. If I had to guess I'd say it's good style broadly conceived. And because of this I can probably defend the assertion that good writing is inseparable from good living. Or maybe interesting writing is inseparable from interesting living, which accommodates all those obtuse wrecks of human beings who wrote the canon. But this is controversial, and I'd hope for nothing more than to spark some debate, the more vicious, the better. Because as I just said: I'd rather have a long, protracted argument than be right. I'd rather have my ass kicked and bruised in conceptual Judo than learn nothing. But this is rare.
To that end, I went to a reading of book excerpts in a place I will invariably associate with "hipness" forevermore (you who started that association: you know who you are). And I learned nothing. I was milsly entertained. I reluctantly provided a couple of critical barbs at the writing exhibited before me. That was totally not what I wanted to do. I wanted to be overshadowed and dominated by superior minds who would give me ideas for new conceptual directions and combinations, plots beyonds the Standard Seven, narrations beyond I-you-(s)he. Sadly, the only idea I got was and approach for defining what my style strives after.
Essentially, I feel that I have not yet solidified any kind of style out of all my meanderings. But when something unified peers out, I am often displeased. It comes across at worst as vain, pedantic, or worse, so insecure that it has to hide beyond complicated sentence structures and a ready supply of ten-dollar words, otherwise the reader will clue in. At best, it completes the world-view of a specific group of people. Let me explain. When I open my eyes in the morning, what greets me? It's almost never a fresh visual scene. All I get is regions of colour (usually green from the trees outside my window). Once the glasses come on, I get specks of dirt, streaks, little etches in the glass. And then there are the entoptic effects: long chains of floaters which twist and turn like earthworms or a little scum pond right inside my vitreous humour. And on top of that, my retina likes to flare brilliantly bright colours in tiny dots at odd times. Why did I veer into this discussion of my personal optometric and opthalmological history? Because this filters my impressions of the world. And it probably affects my style and preferences in ways I can't understand but can't deny. I know some people who write vividly: long discursive passages on little details. And that's great, if done right; if it explores aspects of objects from thought-provoking or unusual ways. But most times it's not done right. One of the writers I heard today spent too much time on thrown-in irrelevant details which added nothing to the theme. Sorry, hon. We've already got cameras for recording every little detail. They're a legitimate art form with a well-recognized niche. You can't compete with them. Besides, for a myopic person like me, details have never been essential. I'm not blind, but I have heard that blind people are more inclied to gaze beyond. For me, therefore, it is the concept that motivates the work, not a scene. I try my hand at gritty realism sometimes, but that is subordinate. Another of the writer punctuated too much of her reading with "he said" and/or "she said": it shows an unsureness of voice, which is particularly egregious in a reading. But I can't blame her: I'm obsessed with the voice I have never found. For a long time, I wanted Allen Ginsberg's, but he can have it, though so much of him remains in these posts, I can never acknowledge.
Enough for now.
Consider: "With our concept making apparatus called "mind" we look at reality through the ideas-about-reality which our cultures give us. The ideas-about-reality are mistakenly labeled "reality" and unenlightened people are forever perplexed by the fact that other people, especially other cultures, see "reality" differently. It is only the ideas-about-reality which differ. Real (capital-T True) reality is a level deeper than is the level of concept."
To that end, I went to a reading of book excerpts in a place I will invariably associate with "hipness" forevermore (you who started that association: you know who you are). And I learned nothing. I was milsly entertained. I reluctantly provided a couple of critical barbs at the writing exhibited before me. That was totally not what I wanted to do. I wanted to be overshadowed and dominated by superior minds who would give me ideas for new conceptual directions and combinations, plots beyonds the Standard Seven, narrations beyond I-you-(s)he. Sadly, the only idea I got was and approach for defining what my style strives after.
Essentially, I feel that I have not yet solidified any kind of style out of all my meanderings. But when something unified peers out, I am often displeased. It comes across at worst as vain, pedantic, or worse, so insecure that it has to hide beyond complicated sentence structures and a ready supply of ten-dollar words, otherwise the reader will clue in. At best, it completes the world-view of a specific group of people. Let me explain. When I open my eyes in the morning, what greets me? It's almost never a fresh visual scene. All I get is regions of colour (usually green from the trees outside my window). Once the glasses come on, I get specks of dirt, streaks, little etches in the glass. And then there are the entoptic effects: long chains of floaters which twist and turn like earthworms or a little scum pond right inside my vitreous humour. And on top of that, my retina likes to flare brilliantly bright colours in tiny dots at odd times. Why did I veer into this discussion of my personal optometric and opthalmological history? Because this filters my impressions of the world. And it probably affects my style and preferences in ways I can't understand but can't deny. I know some people who write vividly: long discursive passages on little details. And that's great, if done right; if it explores aspects of objects from thought-provoking or unusual ways. But most times it's not done right. One of the writers I heard today spent too much time on thrown-in irrelevant details which added nothing to the theme. Sorry, hon. We've already got cameras for recording every little detail. They're a legitimate art form with a well-recognized niche. You can't compete with them. Besides, for a myopic person like me, details have never been essential. I'm not blind, but I have heard that blind people are more inclied to gaze beyond. For me, therefore, it is the concept that motivates the work, not a scene. I try my hand at gritty realism sometimes, but that is subordinate. Another of the writer punctuated too much of her reading with "he said" and/or "she said": it shows an unsureness of voice, which is particularly egregious in a reading. But I can't blame her: I'm obsessed with the voice I have never found. For a long time, I wanted Allen Ginsberg's, but he can have it, though so much of him remains in these posts, I can never acknowledge.
Enough for now.
Consider: "With our concept making apparatus called "mind" we look at reality through the ideas-about-reality which our cultures give us. The ideas-about-reality are mistakenly labeled "reality" and unenlightened people are forever perplexed by the fact that other people, especially other cultures, see "reality" differently. It is only the ideas-about-reality which differ. Real (capital-T True) reality is a level deeper than is the level of concept."
posted by A. D. at 12:25 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home