Tag Archives: Writing

Thought of the Week: I’m Ack-Basswards, Apparently

In all my many moonless nights spent writing and posting and staring at the empty hit counter, I’ve always secretly desired to be as famous as every other blogger in the world, since they all get more hits than I do. My biggest spike in followers came the day WordPress thought my Facebook friends counted, completely misunderstanding their literary interests (though I doubt they were asked).

Little did I know that all it took was a little versatility. I had to look the word up just to be sure, when Jennifer Bresnick included me in her list of fifteen blogs she checks every once in a while (after a stiff double Jack to recover). Apparently, it seems I am thought to be versatile (though her own thoughts on the accolade seem somewhat dubious):

Versatile: 1 – Able to adapt or be adapted to many different functions or activities. 2 – Changeable; inconstant

The root of the word comes from the Latin vertere, to turn. Now let’s think about this for a moment, because my suitability for this commendation may largely depend on our interpretation. Regarding change – I don’t like it. At least, not when it involves other people’s changes. Personally, I change an awful lot, usually from grumpy to dour to cynical and back to grumpy again. Highly inconstant, and it rather bothers people.

I also turn. I turn left a lot; sometimes I also turn right. I turn in at night, and turn up for meetings. I turn taps, dials and knobs, and the volume control in my car. I won’t turn leaves, though, in case one of them is new. That’s why I only read second-hand books or digital books, which don’t have pages (iBooks does, but don’t tell anyone).

Adaptable, though…I’d never really considered it before. I don’t generally tend to think about adapting, mostly because the world adapts around me. It’s a funny thing, really; everywhere I go I fit in perfectly, even if no one likes me and they don’t have long hair. It’s an awkward word, really, and confuses me:

Adapt: 1 – make suitable for a new use or purpose; modify. 2 – become adjusted to new conditions. 3 – alter a text to make it suitable for filming, broadcast or the stage

I could probably be repurposed as a hammer, or maybe a player piano. If I could, I’d see if I could be Anthony Hopkins, but I don’t think he’s done being Anthony Hopkins yet. I don’t adjust to new conditions – see above. And I really don’t think I’d make a very good movie.

It’s starting to look like I’m possibly not all that versatile at all. I’ve written about a few different things, from my neighbor’s garbage to the fallacy of American Idol, but I think I kind of write them all in the same way, which is to say not all that well. I could certainly try to be more diverse; after all, with something like 100,000 nouns about which to write, I certainly can’t run out of topics. I might run out of patience, however (I could write about that last).

Could I try to write in a different style? According to I Write Like, I’m a Tolkien/Tolstoy mutt. Maybe I could throw some Dan Brown and Kafka into the mix as well, but I think it’d become a little depressing.

So having thought about it, thank you, but I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this Versatile Blogger Award. Perhaps I can give to other people instead. They can keep it, if they like. If not, they could pass it on as well. Actually, if you apply some vampire logic to this, if every person infected with the Versatile Blogger Award passed it on to fifteen other bloggers, all of WordPress would succumb within five days. I suppose that would be the ultimate versatility – one, giant blogger that writes on every subject imaginable. But then, how come it took so long to get to me?

Versatile Blogger Award: 1 – A green square that heralds great fame. 2 – The blogging equivalent of an ‘I’m Too Sexy’ t-shirt. 3 – A piece of harmless fluff that most people spurn, but kind of makes them feel all warm inside at the same time

alexandracorinth

Ashley Jillian

Caeruleus Aether

Catharsis of Creativity

ck’s days

Fabulous Realms

Looking for Pemberley

Looser or Not

My Body the City: The Secret Life of a Manhattan Call Girl

Nick Rolynd

Not Quite Dead Yet

Storytelling Nomad

The Writing Desk

(If anyone noticed, these are the same links at the bottom of every page on my website, ’cause these people are cool.)

Super-thanks!

And, if you really, really want to know seven things about me…

  1. I wear my wedding ring on my right hand, but not because I’m Russian.
  2. I got very angry at Teavana when they didn’t have Lapsang Souchang.
  3. I’ve lived in three different countries (but not at the same time).
  4. When I was eighteen I cracked my skull on a doorframe, and my dad stitched it up with a sewing needle because he didn’t want to drive to the emergency room. He used Listerine for antiseptic.
  5. Our son is named after a character from Star Trek.
  6. I continue to hit my head on things, but won’t let my dad near me with a sewing kit.
  7. I consider myself something of a Vodka connoisseur, which isn’t really something to be all that proud of.

Thought of the Week: Get Inside Their Head

A couple of things this week have got me thinking about the concept of empathy, and what it takes to actually think along someone else’s lines. This is something of a two-pronged thought, for the idea of being able to put yourself in someone else’s place is dreadfully important, both in fictional writing and in real life.

I owe the inspiration for this post to The Random Fangirl for her excellent post on bullying. Apart from the naturally troubling nature of such a subject, there was something she said at the end that really got me thinking:

And I didn’t understand. And I still don’t understand. Didn’t these people have parents who taught them better? Couldn’t they see the pain they were causing? Didn’t they care?

Now, empathizing with bullies – particularly those who abuse, harm and kill – may not sound very tactful. But bear in mind – empathy is not sympathy. I couldn’t help but wonder if I could understand, if I could out myself in the place of a person who could willingly cause such harm.

The initial reaction to this is to rationalize. Something must have happened to them in their youth. They must have terrible home lives. Perhaps they genuinely are psychopathic, and unable to understand the feelings of others.

The trouble is, this is the very antithesis of empathy – there is no emotion here. It is incredibly difficult and painful to force yourself to feel what another person feels – all the more so when you find their actions abhorrent. Think for the moment about the phrase “in one’s shoes”; the implication is of switching places, literally standing where the other person is.

Imagine you witness a terrible beating; a person is punching, kicking, tearing and clawing at another – or perhaps you – and will not stop, despite all the screams, the tears, the pleas and the blood. Now, imagine you are the person delivering the abuse. Don’t make yourself stop – continue beating that poor person within an inch of their life.

Why are you doing this? What terrible events could possibly have led you to enact such violence upon another person? What would possess you to continue kicking them in the teeth even as you look upon the blood and the tears and the fear?

And here is the crux – the crossing point into genuine empathy. Answer those questions, genuinely and from the heart. Don’t stop until you uncover the reasons why you would do such a terrible thing. It won’t be easy – you’ll almost certainly be outraged, and unwilling to acknowledge that you could ever be capable of such injustice, because it is so far from the core of your being.

But what makes you different from that terrible person? We are all of the same ilk at birth. For me, the only reason I have to descend with such viciousness upon someone is pure, blinding hate. Then I am given to ask – what could cause such hate, especially if this person hasn’t wronged me? Perhaps I am convinced they have – I see something within them that I am desperately jealous of. Perhaps I am terrified of them, and see no other option – like killing a wasp so it won’t sting me. Then a new question follows this – why am I jealous?

This line of thought will lead you to a great many questions, each one burying down into a new depth of your own soul, into places you didn’t even know existed, or worse, wouldn’t accept. This has taught me that I would most certainly be capable of such despicable actions – in just the right scenario and given the right set of circumstances that led to it. It will be torture to acknowledge these terrible parts of you, but if you can face it, if you can admit to your own failings and insecurities, you might find yourself suddenly able to understand behaviors that you, yourself could never dream of doing.

And this very same line of thought applies to creating the characters in your story. No matter how brilliant and inventive your plot, the entire story hinges on the believability of your characters. Unfortunately, this is probably the hardest part of writing. Hands up who is 100% confident of the quality of your dialogue. What’s that? Only a few? I’m right there with you. Why is it so hard to write convincing dialogue?

For me, part of the reason for this is the instinct to write dialogue out as though I was speaking it myself. All of it. Imagine watching a movie where every character spoke in the same way! Come to think of it, this does happen in film – think of someone like Johnny Depp. For all his brilliance as an actor, a huge number of his films rely on him being Johnny Depp, whether he allows it to run rampant (Pirates of the Carribbean) or tones it down (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory).

It becomes all too easy when coming up with a storyline for the characters to become the vehicle to carry the plot to its end. The difficulty here is that it can lead to shallow characters, who speak only to further the plot, and act as needed, not as they must.

So I would encourage you to do the same soul-searching for your characters as you would for other, real people. Imagine yourself stabbing someone in the back, or having to decide between saving your by friend or your lover. Forget the plot you intended – it might not work! Follow your character, see what they get up to, and above all, imagine yourself in their place, and then ask yourself: why would I have done this? Your characters – and your readers – will thank you.

Your friends just might, as well.

Thought of the Week: The Right and Wrong of Revising Your Writing

First of all, I had considered titling this The Wright and Wrong of Wrevising Your Writing, but it seemed a little too kitsch. What do you think?

Secondly, I have no intention of defining right and wrong. I’m not that daft.

Johannes Brahms (1833-1897) is one of my favorite composers. His four symphonies are of course the best known of his works, the first in particular, opening with its dramatic C minor chords and booming timpani, inspiring pathos and doom in all their forms. However, far more than these massive works I prefer his chamber music, and in particular his works for piano and strings. In his life, Brahms wrote three piano trios, three piano quartets, and one piano quintet. That we know of.

His first piano trio, in B, is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I’ve ever heard, and is a constant player for me. The opening theme is serene and grand, and simply leads onward from there. The scherzo is tense and jittery, with the third movement being the sound of utter beauty. The finale, with its ambiguous tonality, draws on the agitation of the scherzo but adds in a extra melodic element to it.

Here’s the thing: it isn’t what he originally wrote. The piano trio was written and published in 1954, when Brahms was twenty-one. The piano trio we hear and listen to today was written and published in 1891, when he was fifty-eight, and it is almost completely different. In fact, it’s unique that we even know of the two versions, because Brahms spent his entire life revising and rewriting his works, never satisfied with the results. The tragedy of this was that, upon completion of his revision, Brahms would burn the original manuscript, leaving us with no trace of the process of his genius.

This is a shame, for having heard both versions, I actually find myself preferring the simpler innocence of twenty-one-year-old Brahms to his more mature and darker fifty-eight-year old self. I am given to wonder what the first editions of his other works might have been like. Sometimes there is a charm and quality in the passion of the first draft – Black Sabbath’s debut album, recorded on an eight track for £500, is a masterpiece.

My son makes up stories. Mostly in his head at the moment, but he enjoys it. Recently he started inventing back stories for the bounty hunters in Star Wars, which I thought was pretty cool, and not something I had given much thought to. When we discussed it, we realized that a particular detail of his invention couldn’t possibly have happened, because Boba Fett ended up alone on Jabba’s skiff over the Pit of Sarlaac, and so couldn’t have been involved in a smuggler’s ring previously. At first he disagreed with me, and I let him have his way. But a few hours later, he came to me and asked, “Dad…is it okay if I change the history I made up about the Star Wars bounty hunters?”

I thought this was incredibly insightful; having only just invented this history hours before, there was already a danger to him of changing that history – as though it would be telling a lie. If we decided to change our minds and say that it was actually Buzz Aldrin that first walked on the moon, there would be an outcry. “Lynch them!” people would cry. And they would be right.

But then what of fictional history? The natural answer would be, of course you can change it – it was made up in the first place! But look at what happened when George Lucas changed the history of Star Wars, with his revisions of Episodes IV, V and VI, and the release of Episodes I, II and III. Some of the scenery in the original movies was entirely changed. Whole scenes were added, which again changed the meaning of some of the story. Han Solo fired first! In the later films, we learn details that very nearly contradict the original movies entirely, and people have had to greatly stretch the meaning of some of the character’s dialogue in order for it to all fit. And look at what poor George got for his efforts.

So where does that leave us? As a fiction writer, you’ll often find yourself modifying some of your back story so that it makes more sense in the context of the main plot. Heaven knows, half of what I created in the Appendices of The Redemption of Erâth has already been flatly contradicted by the story I’m now writing. And I can’t imagine anyone would question me for that.

So when does it stop being okay to change your story’s history, or even the story itself? I’m sure J.K. Rowling wasn’t 100% happy with every word she wrote; even I can see some passages that leave something to be desired. But would we let her rewrite the book? Is it merely when the book becomes published that we lose the right to change it? Isn’t still in its essential nature our work? Why shouldn’t we be able to change it as we see fit?

I don’t have an answer to this; Brahms got away with it, and George Lucas didn’t. Peter Jackson felt the need to turn the ten hours running time of The Lord of the Rings trilogy into fifteen hours, and most people are okay with that (though not, perhaps, with watching it all). It seems funny how the public become so possessive of another person’s work – as though we owe it to them to stand by the work we created. Is this fair?

Let me know what you think in the comments!

Satis