No two writers are the same. That’s stone-hard fact.
Some workshops do not want you to think that way, however. In the course of a weeklong literary bivouac, a writing fellow is honed and shaped by principles which could easily be mistaken for rules that force writers to “sound” the same, or rather, write in a way that mimics their mentors.
Yet anyone who has read more than enough literature to choke on some of its poorly proofread pages know that writing styles come in sundry packages. No one can argue the fact that Ernest Hemingway’s unassuming lines would have nothing to do with László Krasznahorkai’s lava flow of prose.
Both are acknowledged in their own time as great writers.
Even journalists differ from one another. H.L. Mencken’s writing is so far removed from Hunter S. Thompson’s that one can actually tell between the two. The cold, calculating style of American novelists will probably find the Latin American’s prose a tad too magical, if not melodramatic. And so on and so forth.
One can argue that these writers belong to very different generations and cultures. True, but the nature of writing itself is largely relative. Some like their novels crisp and fast-paced, while others prefer the sweet meanderings of a prose stylist.
The heart and spirit that go with writing differ from each individual, thus the wide variety of styles, likewise dictating a person’s reading and writing preference.
I remember an incident in a writing workshop I once attended as a fellow. One of the panelists, an esteemed novelist and professor, asked me, “Why do you write this way?” His words carried with them all the disparaging tenor of a hammer coming down hard on a poor, thin nail.
Suffice it for this piece that I had asked the very same question while I read his novels.
On the matter of style, award-winning novelist and playwright Sophy Burnham has this to say: “There are so many different kinds of writing and so many ways to work that the only rule is this: do what works. Almost everything has been tried and found to succeed for somebody. The methods, even the ideas of successful writers contradict each other in a most heartening way, and the only element I find common to all successful writers is persistence—an overwhelming determination to succeed.”
Two important things, says Burnham: Do what works and do not stop. What do these two principles even mean?
Notice that it did not say do what you want, no matter what the cost. It also did not say insist on what you think is right, screw the consequences.
There is a science to language writers cannot naïvely disregard: grammar, syntax, the whole English 101 caboodle. While artistry may sometimes deem the science of language as altogether banal (think E.E. Cummings’ verses and José García Villa’s comma poems) in relation to an artist’s hypothesis of what art is, these literary road signs guide as well as keep the writer from going dangerously off-road.
Many a writing fellow had heard this at least once before: know the rules before breaking them. I am all for being brave and even transgressive, yet even art must communicate, hence the insistence on the basics of language construction.
A writer’s “voice,” on the other hand, is open to experimentation until you find what works for you, what keeps you apart from the mass of other writers trying to secure their place under this capitalist sun.
As a young writer more than thirty years ago, I have to admit I had difficulty finding out and discovering what voice works for me. I had dreamed of being a novelist, but kicking off my career as a journalist posited some problems. Both belong to two opposite poles, or so I thought.
I began imitating my favorite authors, starting with the poets and novelists, Russians and Germans, in particular. This did not work as quickly as I had hoped it would; but after having read novelists who were themselves journalists (Gabriel García Márquez, George Orwell, F. Sionil Jose, not the least), it got me thinking: the two can go hand in hand—with a bit of tweaking.
Three rules I learned from their writings: First, a sentence doesn’t necessarily have to be short; it must be readable; second, first few lines must grab the attention of the reader; and lastly, though not the least, the flow of thought must always be consistent.
Brevity is sometimes overrated. JM Barrie’s first line in his classic, Peter Pan—”All children, except one, grow up”—is just as beautifully written and engaging as Gabriel García Márquez’s first line in One Hundred Years of Solitude: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”
The trick is readability, and with enough “shock value” to keep the reader glued in place. Second, to grab the reader’s attention to such an extent that he or she would read on.
Flow of thought, of course, has as much to do with the seamlessness of the story as texture is to food. Readers should not stumble about reading a story. Suspension of disbelief shouldn’t be more than what is normally required. Transitions should be smooth, plot construction persuasive.
While writing has as much to do with learning as well as comprehension, readers should also be entertained. Simply said, writers cannot leave roadblocks in one’s journey through a short story or novel without expecting some injuries or delays.
This is where mastery of the language comes in. Not to sound simplistic, still I’m a firm believer that language mastery comes with the discipline of reading. A whole damn lot of it. So, ask yourself, “What is it that works for you?”
Now, persistence is where the rubber meets the road.
We’ve heard it said time and again how inspiration is crucial to writing and literary creation. Many writers understood it as waiting for the push and pull to arrive, the sudden burst of bright ideas. Its definition is a bit vague, however: “the process of being mentally stimulated to do or feel something, especially to do something creative.”
But then, how does one go about kickstarting the process? Do we wait for it to drop from the sky or a tree, perhaps? Maybe someone would be kind enough to send it via Grab Express or LBC.
What works for me might work for you. Three things: First, I read.
When the mind is empty and the effort to summon words and lines has become difficult—some call it “writer’s block”—I drop everything I’m doing in order to read. Seeing words on paper is a huge trigger for me. It jumpstarts my cranial engines. Reading rouses my curiosity, and when the brain begins to draft lines on its own, I drop my reading to begin writing.
Second, I give myself time to do other things. Wash dishes, walk the office corridors, smoke a cig and stare into open spaces, or maybe kickback and watch a bit of television. Sometimes the brain needs prior stimulation before it can go back to the rigors of writing. So, stimulate it as best you can with what is within arm’s reach.
Third, and I learned this not in literature but the practice of journalism: Give yourself a deadline and stick to it come hell or high water. Write whether you feel like it or not. Better yet, write every single day. A page or two, maybe half: It matters little as long as you get it done.
In journalism, I have learned that the greatest and most effective stimulant is discipline and a strong sense of the deadline. You respect the deadline and it respects you back by granting you your wishes: An article, a story, poem. Write every day and you will begin to see a difference.
After three decades of writing, I have come to the conclusion that it is discipline, not inspiration, that strengthens my persistence and my resolve. So much so that taking my place in my writing corner, at a very specific time each day, is more than enough stimulant to urge you to write.
So, why don’t you give this a try?