The Tyranny of Perfection

Reading Peter Godfrey-Smith’s Other Minds recently, I was reminded of an Intro I wrote for Knock and Enter, a book I edited during my stint as Writer-in-Residence with UNESCO / Dublin City Libraries. To wit:

I’ve always thought that an octopus would make for an ideal Editor, with its eight arms and a complex nervous system that consists of one main brain and eight mini-brains that operate each arm independently.
 Of course, most writers would likely also wish that their editors were octopuses, given that octopodes possess three hearts, one of which might be given over to compassion for those who toil at the coalface creating the imperishable prose which the editor, having nothing better to do, then proceeds to blithely deface with his or her ‘suggestions’ and ‘advice’.
 Happily, whilst all octopuses are venomous, only the blue-ringed octopus is actually deadly to humans. And while the business of writing can feel like a tiresome chore – planning and writing and editing, and rewriting, and re-editing, and then rewriting some more – it very rarely proves fatal.

 Writing advice is hedged about with clichés (‘Write what you know’; ‘Read, read, read,’ etc.) but some clichés have their kernel of truth, and none more so than ‘Writing is re-writing’ – and if you’re a writer who doesn’t like the idea of reworking your stuff, then you’re in for a long, hard uphill slog.
 There are very good reasons, of course, why new writers might resist the idea of re-writing. Whether it’s schoolwork or sport, or life itself, we’re socialised from a very young age to get it right first time (‘Do you want it quick or do you want it good? Both, you say? I see.’) and to view mistakes as some kind of personal failing. And we’re all time-poor these days; if we can only get it right at the first attempt, think of all the time we can save.
 Except getting ‘it’ right – when ‘it’ is the creation of a whole new world peopled with complex characters – is virtually impossible. Even if you’ve plotted your story out before you begin, even if you know exactly who your characters are and will become, there’s simply too much to get exactly right at exactly the right time.
 This might sound like something of a downer; in fact, it’s one of the great opportunities that writing offers. In life, we have no choice but to stumble ever onwards, tripping over our mistakes and fixing them on the hoof (or ignoring them and hoping no one notices); in writing (or re-writing, rather) we get to go back in and fix it until we’re happy (happy-ish).
 Accepting that you’re not going to get it right first time might come as something of a blow to the old ego, but it does allow for an enormous amount of freedom. The freedom to get it not quite right; to make and acknowledge mistakes; to allow yourself, for the purpose of this draft at least, to be less than perfect (‘Perfect is the enemy of good’).
 We can waste a lot of our energy in worrying about getting it immediately right, turning what should be a positive (creativity, imagination) into a negative (the grinding, Sisyphean pursuit of perfection). But perfection can wait. Instead, take a deep breath, open yourself up to the inevitability of temporary failure, and allow yourself the delicious freedom (dare we call it fun?) of getting it wrong for now.

On Cliché and the Reader-Writer Contract

A sure sign that a writer has yet to develop confidence in his or her use of language, and perhaps the most obvious, is the use of cliché. But which is worse: the unintended cliché, or the one deliberately used?
 A cliché used unintentionally, simply because the phrase has become so polished by popular use that it slips unnoticed through the beginning writer’s neural network, is just about forgivable – let’s call it a venial sin. A minor offence, and one more to be pitied than censured (is ‘more pitied that censured’ a cliché?); moreover, it’s a fault that can be easily remedied, providing the writer is willing to bear down and pay close attention, and be worthy of the words they choose.
 A cliché used deliberately, on the other hand, can only be regarded as the blackest of mortal sins. For the writer who chooses to employ hackneyed phrases, and with malice aforethought to boot, there can be no forgiveness nor redemption; for such writers there is only Dante’s inferno, suspended somewhere in the outer dark between levels seven (violence against neighbours and/or God) and eight (fraud and deception).
 The beginning writer, of course, might feel that this is all rather strong stuff, and that the occasional lapse into platitude might even be expected – there must be a reason, after all (possibly because they contain their kernel of truth), why clichés became clichés in the first place.
 The issue for the experienced reader, however, is overly familiar phrases are bum notes; and should they go clanging and banging about in our inner ear, we will immediately know that the writer-reader contract is being violated. Implicit in the writer-reader relationship is the idea that, should a reader choose to read a particular book, she will be offered a new way of seeing the world, or at the very least get a distinctive perspective on whatever subject the writer has chosen to offer. Clichés are the laziest kind of plagiarism, and a very strong hint that the writer is more interested in sounding like a writer than being an actual writer, which is to say delivering original insights derived from the writer’s unique take on the world.

Writing Advice: Highsmith, Plotting and (Re)Living Your Dreams

One of the main issues that tends to come up when I’m teaching creative writing is that of plot – as in, many new and aspiring writers generally believe that they don’t know how to plot and/or tell a story. And it’s no use telling them that they’ve been listening to stories since before they knew they were listening to stories, or that they have been absorbing plots ever since they first started watching TV, or that our species thrived, evolutionarily speaking, because our minds are hardwired to think in narrative terms. Most new writers are conditioned to believe that the secret to great writing is plotting, and they’re depending on me to reveal the great secret.
 There is no great secret, of course, but because people appreciate concrete detail and examples, I’m very happy to break down the basic plot mechanics and talk about seven-point plot arcs (other plot arcs are available) – I tend to use Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr Ripley as a case study, because (a) it’s a brilliant book and (b) it allows for a neat contrast between the novel and Anthony Minghella’s film due to one crucial scene change (no spoilers, etc.) in Minghella’s adaptation.
 And then, at the end of that class, I’ll give them a task: remember a dream and write down as much of it as you can, trying to capture its weirdness and bright colours and its random twists and turns (if you dream in seven-point plot arcs, so much the better).
 Some of them follow through on this homework, some of them don’t (some people, like me, rarely remember their dreams). And some of the results can be fantastic. But none of the results are anywhere near as fantastic as the wild idea that humans are so hardwired to tell stories that we do it even when we’re asleep; that even when we’re unconscious, we’re still telling ourselves stories.
 Do we know how and why it happens? I’ll wager that most of us don’t, and – unless the dreams become traumatising nightmares – we don’t much care. And in this context it really doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we understand we already know everything we know about the storytelling basics at the unconscious level; that we appreciate and accept that, in our most fundamental sense of self, we are storytelling beings.

Daniel Woodrell: Love What You Do

Daniel Woodrell (right) is probably best known for his novel Winter’s Bone, although really you could pick any of his novels and make a reasonable argument that it is his finest work. Or was his finest work, as we should probably say now, given that Daniel passed late last November – although, as with all the great writers (and Daniel Woodrell was most certainly a great writer), he’ll never truly be gone so long as his novels are still read.
 I was lucky enough to meet with Daniel way back in 2012, when we were interviewed together for the Mountains to Sea Festival in Dun Laoghaire, when I took the opportunity to interview him for the Irish Times. To wit:

Back in September I had the very great pleasure of reading alongside Daniel Woodrell during the Mountains to Sea Festival in Dun Laoghaire. Even more enjoyable was the couple of hours before the event, when we sat down for a chat over some lunch, conducted an interview for the Irish Times, and then sat around some more, talking books and writing and whatnot.
 He’s a good guy, Daniel Woodrell. Understated, funny, with no affectations. The kind of quietly spoken that comes with carrying a big stick – or in his case, a big, big talent. I liked him a lot. And then, last week, after the interview finally appeared in the Irish Times, I received an email from him to say thanks, he liked the piece. A classy touch, and a pleasant surprise, but not really surprising, if you follow my drift.

 Naturally, it was that afternoon that sprang to mind when I first heard of Daniel’s passing. And while I – like many, I’d imagine – immediately resolved to go back and reread some of his novels, what has stuck with me ever since was what he said when I was concluding the interview with the standard question about advice for aspiring authors. Daniel thought for a little, then said:

‘Make sure you love what you do, because that might be all you get out of it.’

 Sage advice if you’re working on a novel, because if you don’t love your story and your characters, you’ll probably end up hating them over the course of a 100,000-word marathon, and that’s a scenario that rarely ends well.
 But that advice also applies to the bigger picture. Like most writers, I don’t earn a huge amount of money from my fiction (and by ‘don’t earn a huge amount’ I mean that most of the advances for my novels over the years just about paid my mortgage for that month). And that’s okay, from my point of view, because I didn’t start out writing fiction with any great plan to make a living from it – back then, if I’m honest, my main ambition was to write books that other writers would like, the idea there being that if other writers liked it, it was probably a decent book.
 It wasn’t until the brutally isolating days of the Covid pandemic, when everyone was shut up at home and baking banana bread and talking about mindfulness, that I belatedly discovered what writing truly meant to me. Writing was and always had been my form of mindfulness, I realised, my way of (partly) self-medicating for mental health. I didn’t just love what I did, I did it because I loved doing it, and because – imperceptibly, day after day after day – the process boosts my self-esteem, gets the synapses fizzing and the serotonin bubbling up nicely.
 ‘Make sure you love what you do, because that might be all you get out of it.’ No arguments here, Daniel, except to say that that ‘all’ contains multitudes. But you knew that too.

Writing Advice: Plotting, Buddhism and Marrying Millionaires

I’ve been seeking out writing advice for about 40 years at this point, and I’ve yet to find anything more succinct than that (reportedly) offered by John Gardner in On Becoming a Novelist: ‘Marry a millionaire who thinks you’re a genius.’
 Sounds cute, but what Gardner actually says is this:

‘The best way a writer can find to keep himself going is to live off his (or her) spouse. The trouble is that, psychologically at least, it’s hard. Even if one’s spouse is rich, it’s hard. Our culture teaches none of its false lessons so carefully than it teaches that one should never be dependent.’

 Not every writer gets to move in the 1% circles, of course, so even if you can overcome the whole dependence bit, Gardner’s isn’t the most practical advice you’ll ever get. Happily, writers tend to be quite generous when it comes to talking about their process, so there’s a whole world of tips and suggestions available to anyone willing to read author interviews.
 One of the most common questions that comes up when I’m teaching has to do with plotting. Should the entire novel be plotted out in advance before we begin? Is it okay not to know everything in advance?
 ‘Not necessarily,’ and ‘Yes,’ are the answers to those questions, respectively, and especially if you’re George Saunders, who has just published the excellent Vigil and who had this to say on the business of plotting when discussing Lincoln in the Bardo in an Observer interview titled ‘How Buddhism Made George Saunders a Better Writer’:

“To answer truthfully, I don’t really do a lot of pre-deciding,” Saunders said. “It’s more like wading into it, trying to make good line-to-line energy, and then trusting that that will decide for you. So in this case, that weird form came out of a series of obstructions that I ran into, and then thinking, How can I do this without sucking? How can I avoid this move that I think is going to produce a boring text?”

 Wading in, making good line-to-line energy, and not being boring: start with that and you won’t go too far wrong. John Gardner’s On Becoming a Novelist, by the way, is aimed at “the beginning novelist who has already figured out that it is far more satisfying to write well than simply to write well enough to get published.” Which is you. Right?

Writing Advice # 2,017: In Which Captain Barbelo Nails It

The whole interview is worth catching, but the writing advice from Captain Joseph W. Barbelo’s – yon maverick genius behind BARBELO’S BLOOD – in his Q&A with Gerard Brennan at Crime Scene Norn Iron, is a piece of, well, maverick genius. To wit:

“The thing to remember is your book is already written, in its future, waiting for you to catch up with it. Do the legwork and you will.”

  There really isn’t a whole lot more you can add to that, is there?