Closing Out on a Dead Horse

Only occasionally is Stephen King my favorite fiction author. However, when it comes to writing or pontificating about writing he is never anything less than exceptional.  The quotes, and there are many, are always memorable. (But, of course they’re memorable, or why else would I call them “The quotes”?) One of my favorites is, “If you don’t have time to read, then you don’t have time to write.” I can’t say for sure what he meant by that, but I do know that writing is communication and that reading helps you better understand the craft of communication.

Being tone-deaf allows me the privilege of thinking of myself as something of a musician. Being a  hapless musician the best I can hope for is to accidentally stumble across what real musicians know as the perfect sound. It is a sound so pure that it can be felt by the musician and the audience alike. It owns all who are able to hear it. It evokes a feeling that you want to hold on to for as long as you can.  (This can sometimes result in over-indulgent guitar solos by hack bands. The writers analogy, I believe, would be purple prose.)

With my writing, my purpose is not too dissimilar from that of the musician. I’m attempting to capture that perfect mix of words that will create a moment where the reader can actually feel beyond the words. My hope is to elicit a visceral response equivalent to that of the perfect sound. I want to awaken a buried memory in the service of whatever tale it is that I am trying to tell. And I’m hoping that I can create the emotional connection within the reader that will transport them to someplace that they want to hold on to for as long as they possibly can.

This brings me back to the beginning and the Stephen King quote. In order to learn the craft we must, of course, write, write, write, but we also need to read, read, read in order to understand the many nuances of the craft that we hope to master. (With any luck I’ll improve as a writer and look back on these words and want to puke; I’m hoping that day won’t be tomorrow.)  I’ll close out this blog with some observations comments regarding my two most recently read books. Although they are the “Dead Horse” of the title that is in no way a meant as a comment regarding either of them.  These books have had varying degrees of success in evoking visceral responses in me. I almost hated one and had to struggle to complete it. I loved the other. I enthusiastically suggest them both to writers interested in mastering the craft.

Ray Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes” was really difficult for me to get through. The term “purple prose” was probably invented for this book.  Bradbury spends a lot of words fondly reconstructing various moments of what must have been his Norman Rockwell-like youth. But, as much as I hated these diversions from anything resembling a plot, many of these isolated moments worked. They felt as vivid as my own dreams. I felt what it was like to be that kid, in that tree, at that moment in time. The touch, smell and visuals all felt right, but just like a real dream they didn’t hold together for long and quickly dissolved into nothingness. Many times I felt as though the plot, such as it was, was held together more by my determination to finish this book than anything written. Still, all of the individual poetic moments in this book both inspired and cautioned my own ambitions. The inspiration was in finding the courage to write to sentimental excess in order to reveal the greater meaning in the everyday occurrences  that we often take for granted; the cautionary note is the knowledge that sometimes a thesaurus can be a really bad thing to have at your side.

The second book I’ll mention is David Mitchell’s “Cloud Atlas”. In its telling “Cloud Atlas” is more conventional than “Something Wicked…” However, instead of getting caught up in small moments the story weaves a much larger landscape that is virtually impossible to describe as it spans past and future generations with only the hint of a link. Unlike “The DaVinci Code” which tells a very linear tale, and is a good read in spite of all the cheap-shots its endured, the impact of “Cloud Atlas” is received only its conclusion and as the sum of all its parts hit you face on. It is the perfect note, the one that many musicians and writers have been chasing after for hundreds of years, seldom with only fleeting success. And that is what I, as a writer, try – so far not to my satisfaction – to do.

Something Wicked

Finally, after many months of avoidance activities, I've finished reading the classic Ray Bradbury novel, "Something Wicked This Way Comes".

This review has been almost as difficult to write as the book was to read. My feelings towards this book constantly vacillated from wanting to toss it on the garbage heap to  marveling at the poetry of so many of its truly great and beautifully written passages. As a reader there were many times were I was drawn in by the prose. At times it almost felt as though I was actually remembering the sights, sounds, smells and flavors of moments that I had experienced. But inevitably, the crash to reality would come as the sentimental passages, seemingly supplanting any actual story, were drawn out too thin. As the novel wore on, regardless of how poetic and brilliantly written many of passages were, I found myself growing weary for what felt like an endless run of overly romanticized, ultra-nostalgic moments.

I'm sure there is a technical term, other than tedious, to describe the running together of strings of adjectives and/or adverbs to describe a multiplicity of actions that most authors would relegate to a simple sentence. On many occasions Bradbury - sometimes brilliantly - wanders where others fear to tread. In describing an evil character who is simply waiting for his moment, Bradbury writes:

“so he scuttered, crept, scurried, stalked tip-toed, wafted, stood immensely still among the primates, the Egyptian monuments to bestial gods, brushed back histories if dead Africa, stayed awhile in Asia, then sauntered on to newer lands.”

While there were occasions where this method of writing works well, on more than a few occasions it falls flat and comes off sounding as though he simply ripped a page from a thesaurus.

There are too many moments where the story takes a back seat to prolonged periods of misty-eyed reminiscing. It isn't until halfway through the book that the there appears to be any interest in developing an actual plot. To be fair there are genuine moments of fear and apprehension, but they're not sustained and instead are buried under more reminiscing. From beginning to end the plot remains vague. It is unclear what motivates the villains. In fact it is unclear if the villains are legitimately evil or victims themselves. 

The ending is too convenient. It is too pollyannish and meaningless to be satisfying. I will note that the books was published in 1962, although I'm not really sure that that should change anything. It may be that the book's format was daring for the time.

In the end, when it comes to recommending this book, I remain conflicted. I felt that, from a reader's perspective, there was a lack of involvement with either plot or characters. Because of my inability to develop any connection to the characters and situations, and because of the frequent forays into the poetic jungle, I struggled to complete this book. Yet, in-between the too many large sugary dollops of overly sentimental nostalgia it does contain some of the best and most poetic passages that I’ve ever read. For that reason alone it may be best to ignore my review and read this book for yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Greatest of Them All

“The Greatest of Them All” That title was not what it seems. It was cynicism and sarcasm mixed with spittle as I prepared to dismantle one of the most revered writers of our time. Sorry, I’ve read him but I just don’t get him. I drown in his pages of purple prose long before a point has been made or a real event occurs. But as I wrote my carefully crafted take-down I began to wonder what’s my point? Insane jealousy? You’ve never heard of me but I guarantee you’ve heard of him. Nevertheless I did eventually finish my essay, I mean blog entry. Unlike most of my other efforts, this one was brilliant! Yet, I realized that it did not represent what I hope to accomplish with the word craft. (No, the author I was referring to was not Lovecraft!)

In my last blog entry I heaped praise on a story that I found moving, profound, just a little bit difficult, and well worth the effort. Now, should you take my advice and read that particular story you may think that it sucks - differences of opinion do happen. But, at least I didn’t waste your time by bitching about some writer who pisses me off, or simply bores me. I tried to introduce you to something good. For both of you who read my blog, there is the possibility that I’ve introduced at least one of you to greatness.

So here I was, having deleted my best work to date, with a blank page. I began to ponder: Why do I bother writing anyway? After several false starts, and the inevitable deletions I decided that, at least for tonight, I would give up on that particular question. However, I can say that my intention in writing is that my writing be a positive experience. Not necessarily all laughter and giggles, maybe something that tears you apart, but in a way that allows you to empathize and relate with the story and with the characters.

It occurs to me now that there is a mantra stating that you write for yourself. Well, OK, of course you write for yourself, but there would be no need to bother with all this typing if I didn’t want somebody else to read it too. So, write for myself - yeah, yeah, of course – but I also write to create something of worth; something worth sharing. Sharing because I’ve been constructing my alternate reality in an effort to explain - everything and anything - to me - and to you. 

They - and as had been established many times, we have no idea who they is - say that a picture is worth a thousand words. I’ll leave that unchallenged as truth. But an idea or emotion, especially one that attempts to encapsulate the many thousands of contradictions that are inherent in any worthy notion, easily requires tens of thousands of words. (Or a few carefully bent notes from B.B. King, but I’ll leave that discussion for another day.)

Lost in the Cloud Atlas

This is not a book review. But occasionally a book will come along that inspires as much as it intimidates. I recently read one such book: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.

Why Cloud Atlas? I don’t know. For someone such as myself, with a slightly sub-standard cranial capacity it was quite a challenge. It’s the story - no, it’s six stories - of people bound to each other through several (many) generations by... Well it’s not too clear on that point. I think the best way to explain it is to say that we’re constantly being re-incarnated with the same collection of souls. How we interact today, with cruelty or kindness to our fellow travelers will have an effect on our relations in some future life. Of course, I over simplify. If it were simply a tale of what-goes-around-comes-around that wouldn’t be so interesting. The type of karma described in Cloud Atlas does not manifest itself as some linear cause and effect equalizer of deeds. The karma in Cloud Atlas is more like that ball of Christmas lights that while packed away for a couple of seasons somehow managed to intertwine itself into a seemingly inextricable mass only to magically unravel and expose itself as an orderly string of lights, connected one to another, always and obviously.

As a would-be-writer of good stuff (I’ve somehow managed to publish some not-so-good stuff) I come across something like Cloud Atlas and think: That’s what I want to do! It is then that my limitations hit me. I struggle with Purple Prose. I hate it, but I fear my writing appears naked without it. My story lines too are simple: boy meets girl, boy meets problem, the problem comes between boy and girl, boy and girl beat the problem, some good guy dies so happy ending can become a tragedy and therefore turn into serious literature. Ugh!

I have no way of knowing what David Mitchell was thinking when he began writing Cloud Atlas - even though I did check for insight on Wikipedia. Maybe all he ever intended to create was a really exciting pirate story. I said maybe - so don’t complain to me that there are no actual pirates in Cloud Atlas. Did he sit down with the intention of capturing… hmmm. What did he capture? I’ve sometimes equated writing that works for me as hearing the perfect blues note. I don’t know exactly what it is but when I hear it, or read it, it rattles the dust off the soul. For a moment teleportation is not just science fiction, it’s real, and I’m someplace else where clarity of vision is the norm, harmony is inevitable and the warmth, wherever it’s coming from, is nourishing.

Someplace David Mitchell is saying, “For crying out loud, it’s only a book!” But for me Cloud Atlas successfully encapsulated all those little sparks of thought that are constantly darting about in my head making absolutely no sense at all: the contradictions of thoughts that can love and hate the same things at the same moment, the supposedly deeply held beliefs that aren’t so deep but are really equal parts faith and doubt. For the brief moment that I basked in the shadow of Cloud Atlas what once was a convolution of seemingly unrelated thoughts mucking up my psyche appeared orderly. Then, like that magic single note that only an Eric Clapton or B.B.King can find, that moment of clarity fades away.

And this is why I don’t write book reviews. I can’t tell you how many misspelled words there may have been in my edition of Cloud Atlas. I’m not entirely sure that commas weren’t over-used, or that semi-colons were used correctly. I read a book. I fall into it or I don’t.

So, why does Cloud Atlas inspire? Because, once again, a gifted author shows what can be achieved with nothing more than a collection of words. Why does it intimidate? Because while writing can be enjoyable in its own right, and life on the plateaus of blogdom can be fun, it’s the top of the writing mountain that we strive for. Luckily, inspiration and the desire to emulate will overtake intimidation.

“…only as you gasp your dying breath shall you understand, your life amounted to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean!"

"Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?”
- David Mitchell