Freed From Behind the Paywall: Why Writing Isn't Like Pottery
And why 'Tell Me Less' is the best motto
Learning to write fiction is not like learning pottery, or horse riding.
These are crafts and skills. They may occasionally reach the level of art, but you can make a nice ceramic pot and ride a horse perfectly decently after not too long practising without drawing on an underlying pool of creativity.
Writing fiction is different.
Firstly, the craft/skill itself is much more complex. You cannot ‘master’ it in the way you might master control of a horse or a potter’s wheel. There is simply too much to take on board.
That is because writing is art as well as craft.
It has to be conjured literally out of nothing.
No professional writer, ever, has mastered completely all the craft of fiction. Everyone has weak spots. Lots of them. Some write great plots or create compelling characters. Some write beautiful sentences, some are superb at dialogue or description or style or have a fascinating voice. But no one can do it all. And some very successful writers manage by mastering just one of these skills. Jeffrey Archer springs to mind. While I respect his enormous success, all he can really do is write plot. He seems to have virtually no interest in character at all, except at a very superficial level. He has no style. His dialogue is wooden.
But he’s one of the most successful writers in the world.
The trouble with trying to learn to write fiction is that one is taught - subliminally if not explicitly – that if you just master all the modules offered in creative writing courses, you will have the tools necessary to write a novel.
That isn’t the case.
Partly because most of the subjects offered on creative write courses can be taught – but they are almost impossible to learn.
For Instance - On Dialogue.
I recently went to see a David Mamet play, and I knew within five minutes that I could spend the next five years studying how to write dialogue and I would never be able to get even an inch closer to what Mamet can do with the spoken word.
I don’t write bad dialogue in my novels, I don’t think. It works well enough. But if I’ve got better over the years, it’s not by reading books on the subject, but by trying to get it right again and again and again.
I understand a few principles about the writing of dialogue and I try and incorporate those into my fiction. For instance, people often don’t say what they mean ( although often they do). People use words not as just means of communication but shields and swords. Dialogue is a form of action. And so forth and so on.
I tried to get a better idea of dialogue by reading a massive book by one of my storytelling heroes, Robert McKee, called, ‘Dialogue’.
I couldn’t get through the first chapter. There was far, far too much information.
And that is one of the main problems in learning to write fiction. There’s just far too much advice out there - and most of it isn’t much use.
I myself, when I am writing a novel, hardly think about the ‘principles of writing’ at all. I just crack on. I do, as it were, check my prose against what I know ( and what I teach). Is this character sufficiently motivated? Does this passage serve any purpose? Does the story have a discernible shape?
But most of the time I am flying by the seat of my pants.
This is not because I have imbibed so much writing wisdom that I do it all automatically. It’s because learning to write is not the same as actually writing.
Every book is a new struggle, with new problems.
So what can I offer any would-be writer in this newsletter?
I can simply teach the few things that are worth bearing in mind as you write.
It is not a how-to guide or a checklist. This newsletter will suggest to you what it is useful to know as a writer and nothing more.
I always tell my tennis coach as she gives me detailed instructions on how to volley or drive tell me less. Because I can’t keep it all in my head.
If you’re not careful you will drown in all the information out there.
I’m here to throw you a lifeline.
Many of my thoughts and observations will be on the subject of character and plot – because although they tend to get lost in the syllabuses of so many writing courses, they tower above all other subjects, not only in their importance but in their teachability.
As I say, I can teach very little about dialogue ( although that which I do know I will post). Or voice, or style, or theme or much besides.
But I can teach a LOT about character and a LOT about plot. Because principles of both can be and should be learned by the aspiring writer.
Of course, you still have to add talent, determination and so forth.
But it’s a start.
What you think? Do you think I’m being overly narrow? Or overestimating the difficulty of intangibles?
Post your comment here.
Let’s get a conversation going.
Because my motto as a writer ( and as a person ) is always ‘ I could be wrong’.
I am fascinated what makes me want to keep reading a book and what makes me want to stop.
The last three books I read that I couldn’t wait to get back to were ‘Lean on Pete’ by Wally Vlautin, ‘Fleishman Is In Trouble’ by Taffy Brodessor-Akner and ‘Crossroads’ by Jonathan Franzen. The three I kept wanting to put down were ‘Hot Milk’ by Deborah Levy, ‘Detransition, Baby’ by Torry Peters and ‘The Brickfield’ by LP Hartley. What did the first three have in common, or the last three? I’m not sure. ‘Lean on Pete’ was a masterpiece of minimalism, not a spare word, and I love that kind of writing ( other masterpieces of this type , ‘The Great Gatsby’ ‘The Reader by Bernard Schlink and ‘Olive Kitteridge’ by Elizabeth Strout. ) ‘Fleishman’ and ‘Crossroads’ have all the hallmarks of the great American novel - terrific characters, carefully crafted plot, wit and very sharp dialogue. On the other hand, the much-praised Levy book - which I at least managed to finish - although sometimes quite funny, seemed to me self-indulgent and only faux-profound ( I do dislike faux-profound more than anything else). ‘The Brickfield’ seems a mere re-heating of Hartley’s masterpiece, ‘The Go Between’. And ‘Detransition, Baby’ while unquestionably very clever, ahead of the curve and insightful - and well written - struck me as too cool for school, that kind of American writing that is ultra polished and ‘insider’ but finally rather hollow. If Lana del Ray’s ‘Brooklyn Baby’ had written a novel, I suspect this would be it.
What do you think makes for a great read? What makes you want to keep going or stop? Post here.
A much-loved French writer (Daniel Pennac) a few years back published “The Rights of the Reader” the third of which was the right not to finish a book. I suspect that the “duty” to finish a book weighs heavily on most of us. Nonetheless, during lockdown I tackled some weighty tomes, hitherto avoided because of laziness or being intimidated or whatever, and came perilously close to setting aside a classic. “Dr Zhivago.” I loved the epic sweep, the extraordinary backdrop of the Russian Revolution, the love story of Zhivago and Lara. Yes, there was the sempiternal problem of three Russian names for each character. Yes, it seemed to me that Pasternak introduced characters by one name and the next time by another. Yes, Pasternak introduced characters who lasted but one or two pages. And, yes, he was above all a poet and not a novelist. But, the extraordinary story kept me hanging in there. Along with a long-ago teenage crush on Julie Christie and a teenage wish that I looked like Omar Sharif. So, I had trouble reading Dr Zhivago. My fault no doubt. In contrast, another classic, also a tome, I read riveted from beginning to end: “The Grapes of Wrath.” They were both great reads. But one was, for me, far easier and more compelling than the other. Why? External conditions must play some part: inability to concentrate, the latest family worry, the temptation of the less demanding new Netflix thriller, the screaming kids next door, indigestion, one glass of wine too many,… I don’t have Tim’s capacity to analyze, though I’m trying to work on it. I recently read Paul Auster’s “Baumgartner.” It was enjoyable in many ways, through less enthralling than “The New York Trilogy” and less intriguing than “The Music of Chance,” both read decades ago. And less moving than the film “Smoke” for which Auster wrote the screenplay. Why? I’m not sure I could explain why.