On Writing

A Literary Article

back

Writing in the 21st century is going to be different than anything preceding it

because the world has radically changed. Gone are the values associated with all the various forms of creativity as I have come to know them. Only the stricter artistry involved with scientific innovation remains, for none of the cultural aesthetics that governed painting, sculpture, music and writing, the techniques and mastery that thrilled so many billions of admirers in the past, have survived. The rules by which authors once felt bound to satisfy propriety, the regulations severely followed by literate men and women of the past, have been evaporated as surely as the codes employed by pyramid builders Necessity and reality have again replaced what was in favor of what is.

It makes little difference what literary forms you prefer, nor the scholarship

employed. There are, as there always has been, but two venues for success, and only you can judge the path. The first is financial reward, which means allowing others to exploit your real or faked name to achieve monetary profit. I find that it is quite possible for people who think of themselves as writers to become extraordinarily famous and wealthy, in spite of their lack of literacy. Time after time, I read novels, stories, poems and essays by well-established authors without a shred of evidence to support a claim of quality. In this modern era, craftsmanship is the value that fades in favor of commercialism as defined by

those who honor the bankroll above beauty and the memories it inspires.

The second locus is arguably much more complex and difficult, for it precludes that you are satisfied with your creation. There was a time when oil painters would tear their canvasses to shreds before showing what they considered a monstrosity to the public, when a sculptor would chop his work to pieces, a composer rip a score to tatters or a writer fill a thousand wastebaskets rather than risk what in their eyes might be ridicule. That is the passion and fortitude required by this other avenue, pleasing oneself before venturing

exposure. This is the path of the true creator, the ones who understand that when they themselves are satisfied with their work, it is ready for others, never before. This is the trail of perfection upon which the road signs say, "You no longer have to be alive for the world to appreciate this creation." With this as your motivation, no rules apply, only the beauty of the work itself.

Pablo Casals, the greatest cello player of his day, was asked why he bothered to practice if he was the best. He replied that there was always a higher level of perfection for the purist to find. One thing is relatively certain. Those of you who choose the first path will be forgotten in your lifetime. Those selecting the second option have a chance for their works, possibly their names, to become immortal.

In opting for the second choice, I have managed to intuit five insights which may prove invaluable to you. Keep or remove what you like.

1. Obviously, the two most powerful emotions are love and hate. Never write about either unless you have personally experienced it, for it can never be convincing Imagination involving these two feelings is useless compared to experience, for the necessary phrases to pique another's interest cannot be summoned from within. But if you have had the fortune to love and be loved, or the misfortune to hate or be hated, then use that feeling to build something that no reader can ignore.

2. To comprehend motives alien to your nature, study psychology. You cannot write convincingly about people other than yourself without living their lives for a time, and admitting that their responses to situations and stimuli, though never yours, are legitimate, valid and real. Neglecting the serious study of other cultures, mannerisms, beliefs, art, and social interaction means that you cannot be a cosmopolitan author, that you will be limited only to your own environment.

3. The only known method of comparing your creative talent to those who are or were considered the literary giants of the past is to read their works and see for yourself. You can discard the words of the critics because yours is the appetite that must be satisfied, though you can certainly consult the lists so as not to miss any.

4. If you must write about the extinction of the orange roughy, let nothing stop you to exhaustively amass all that is known on the subject, where it was located and the nature of those locations, its physical characteristics, its discoverers and scientific description, the items upon which it survived, how it tasted, the manners in which it was prepared in the kitchen, the restaurants that specialized in the cuisine, the people that preferred its taste to other fish, the means by which it was captured and brought to extinction, the industry that collapsed when it was no more and the morality of doing so. When you know all that, you may be able to ink an interesting tale.

5. If you are not happy with your work, bury it somewhere and come back at another time. By then, a new experience, thought or research may provide the very thing you need to perfect the work that did not exist when you first conceived it.



On Writing A Literary Article
		back




	Writing in the 21st century is going to be different than anything preceding it because the world has radically changed. Gone are the values associated with all the various forms of creativity as I have come to know them. Only the stricter artistry involved with scientific innovation remains, for none of the cultural aesthetics that governed painting, sculpture, music and writing, the techniques and mastery that thrilled so many billions of admirers in the past, have survived. The rules by which authors once felt bound to satisfy propriety, the regulations severely followed by literate men and women of the past, have been evaporated as surely as the codes employed by pyramid builders Necessity and reality have again replaced what was in favor of what is. It makes little difference what literary forms you prefer, nor the scholarship employed. There are, as there always has been, but two venues for success, and only you can judge the path. The first is financial reward, which means allowing others to exploit your real or faked name to achieve monetary profit. I find that it is quite possible for people who think of themselves as writers to become extraordinarily famous and wealthy, in spite of their lack of literacy. Time after time, I read novels, stories, poems and essays by well-established authors without a shred of evidence to support a claim of quality. In this modern era, craftsmanship is the value that fades in favor of commercialism as defined by those who honor the bankroll above beauty and the memories it inspires. The second locus is arguably much more complex and difficult, for it precludes that you are satisfied with your creation. There was a time when oil painters would tear their canvasses to shreds before showing what they considered a monstrosity to the public, when a sculptor would chop his work to pieces, a composer rip a score to tatters or a writer fill a thousand wastebaskets rather than risk what in their eyes might be ridicule. That is the passion and fortitude required by this other avenue, pleasing oneself before venturing exposure. This is the path of the true creator, the ones who understand that when they themselves are satisfied with their work, it is ready for others, never before. This is the trail of perfection upon which the road signs say, "You no longer have to be alive for the world to appreciate this creation." With this as your motivation, no rules apply, only the beauty of the work itself. Pablo Casals, the greatest cello player of his day, was asked why he bothered to practice if he was the best. He replied that there was always a higher level of perfection for the purist to find. One thing is relatively certain. Those of you who choose the first path will be forgotten in your lifetime. Those selecting the second option have a chance for their works, possibly their names, to become immortal. In opting for the second choice, I have managed to intuit five insights which may prove invaluable to you. Keep or remove what you like. 1. Obviously, the two most powerful emotions are love and hate. Never write about either unless you have personally experienced it, for it can never be convincing Imagination involving these two feelings is useless compared to experience, for the necessary phrases to pique another's interest cannot be summoned from within. But if you have had the fortune to love and be loved, or the misfortune to hate or be hated, then use that feeling to build something that no reader can ignore. 2. To comprehend motives alien to your nature, study psychology. You cannot write convincingly about people other than yourself without living their lives for a time, and admitting that their responses to situations and stimuli, though never yours, are legitimate, valid and real. Neglecting the serious study of other cultures, mannerisms, beliefs, art, and social interaction means that you cannot be a cosmopolitan author, that you will be limited only to your own environment. 3. The only known method of comparing your creative talent to those who are or were considered the literary giants of the past is to read their works and see for yourself. You can discard the words of the critics because yours is the appetite that must be satisfied, though you can certainly consult the lists so as not to miss any. 4. If you must write about the extinction of the orange roughy, let nothing stop you to exhaustively amass all that is known on the subject, where it was located and the nature of those locations, its physical characteristics, its discoverers and scientific description, the items upon which it survived, how it tasted, the manners in which it was prepared in the kitchen, the restaurants that specialized in the cuisine, the people that preferred its taste to other fish, the means by which it was captured and brought to extinction, the industry that collapsed when it was no more and the morality of doing so. When you know all that, you may be able to ink an interesting tale. 5. If you are not happy with your work, bury it somewhere and come back at another time. By then, a new experience, thought or research may provide the very thing you need to perfect the work that did not exist when you first conceived it.