There's a post on arstechnia I read via the blog-vine (like the grapevine, but I don't actually know any of these people, I just read their words) arguing that we'd all enjoy books more if we read the last five pages first. (I'm being glib).

Before I start talking about this, I'll make mention of the fact that I know people who read the last few pages to make sure the book ends on a happy note before they read it. They're especially sensitive to things they read and watch, and at times don't want to risk falling into the blues just from reading the wrong book. That's their lookout, and while it is related to what we're talking about here, I don't think it's really the same thing. But anyway:

 

There've been a couple of posts lately in various blogs I read about literature vs genre. Ursula le Guin's post Petty Expectations stood out for me, especially her examination of the Y.A publishing trends. Go read, I'll wait.

The argument of literature vs genre, in all its forms, is a bugbear of mine. Largely because it crippled my writing for years. I spent four years in a degree that worshipped literature, where my desire to play with otherworldly ideas was met with scorn and, on occasion, pity. I accepted and resented their assumption that literature was intrinsically "better" than genre, and despaired as I realised that it was not what I loved to write. But it was what I had to write, or fail. And I developed a terrible habit: I wrote to show I was clever. And I kept that habit for another three years after I left.

It didn't stop me writing. But my stories tended to hit people over the head with their concept, and shout There! Aren't I smart, Oooh, is it the old lady or the girl? Faces or vase? Isn't your mind blown? Hmm? Hmm? Praise me, praise me! They weren't bad, per se. Perhaps a little self-satisfied. But it was limiting what I could write - I would only write what I thought could be clever. And that's ridiculous.

My mother has an apt phrase for the distinction between genre and literature: one is written primarily to entertain, the other primarily to communicate a message or theme. Neither is better than the other, they're just different priorities.

The reason genre gets so bad a wrap is frankly that our various puritanical influences have devalued and even perverted the notion of entertainment for its own sake, and people forget that there is often a message or theme behind the genre-work, it's just not the primary purpose. But being 'entertained' just for its own sake is seen as wrong, somehow. A waste of time and resources, childish, pseudo-masturbation for those who couldn't put their brains to deeper thought, and that prejudice prevails over any closer examination of the merits of the work.

The reason literature is seen as so high and mighty is that so many of those books have forgotten the 'entertain' component entirely - and gotten away with it, too, for the same reason.

Books that have both rise above their category, whatever it is. But while we might scorn a message-less genre book, literature that doesn't entertain is alright - you're just not 'deep' enough to get it. Or smart enough. You haven't seen the cleverness of the work. How the author pulled in components from these classic (and also probably not very entertaining) texts, how the symbolism fliped the whole story on its head, and even though it has no protagonist, no plot, no entertainment value and is in fact a very boring diatribe about a chair in somebody's living room, it works, you see.

It's the same principle behind the incoherence of many academic texts - if you don't understand it, it must be good. Because if you admit you don't understand it, everyone else will look at you, shake their heads, and try patiently to explain it to you in as complex and convoluted manner as possible to disguse the fact that they don't get it either. It's an agreed code of conduct. They spent ten years of their lives geting to a place where they could garner respect for pretending to understand things; if people start writing things simply, then anyone could get in.

I should point out here that by 'they', I don't mean indivuals. I don't think any of my professors ever thought "No, I can understand too much of this, take it away and obfuscate it until I'm only 30% sure I even know what you're talking about". This is a mob-process, created by the gathering of specifically-similar individuals into its own entity, and propelled forward by the momentum of its own existence. Its purpose is purely to maintain the status quo - to keep itself in the undercurrent of the mob. And it does this by seducing the newcomers into unknowingly believing in it.

I'm not saying "don't write literature". I'm not even saying "don't write experimental literature that doesn't work", because you can't find what does work until you've found a bunch of things that don't. I am saying:

don't feel that "just" entertaining people isn't enough don't feel that you have to make some new and groundbreaking point about humanity with every story don't feel you have to be clever - don't try to be clever. 

Just let the story be what it needs to be. There are no new ideas. Especially now, when everyone and their dog is publishing. Ever since we had fire, we had stories to entertain us while we huddled in from the cold. So tell us one that speaks to you. That's all you need to do.

 

This one lurches towards the literary end of the bookshelf, but it can be a lot of fun.

Pick a scene, something simple. Two people having a romantic evening, and trying to scrape off the accidental tagalong. A job interview for professional base jumpers. Something that'll run itself, more or less. You're going to write it.

The trick is, you're not allowed to describe anything directly. Everything must be metaphor or simile. She did not have long black hair, but a mane of ink, or halo of midnight. A good rule of thumb:

no colours that would normally be associated with whatever you're describing no adjectives or adverbs that would normally be associated with what you're describing (eg 'tall', 'blonde' or 'energetic' for people, 'shiny' for cars, etc) no nouns that are normally related to what you're describing (no 'hair', 'feet', 'lips', etc.)

It's tricky, and you're likely to wind up with something that reads like a Picasso, but I find it inspires a joyful silliness with language, and a great bout of creativity.

Feel free to get as purple as you like - amid the hilarity, you'll often find a gem of a description that'll shine when fitted into a more natural text.

 

This is a fairly 'literary' game, and can be quite tricky to master. It requires (and helps develop) a lot of understanding and control over voice: both your own, and what makes up someone else's. With practice, however, you can use it to fine tune your own voice for different projects, or fit your words seamlessly to someone else's. As a technical writer, controlling your voice and blending in is essential. As a creative writer, the ability grants access to a host of new techniques and ways to play.

If you're just starting out with the game, choose something easy - either:

an author whose work you love (and are therefore very familiar with) an author whose work is very different from your own poetry. (I first learned this game mimicking Sylvia Plath).

Find an example of their work - a page or two, or a poem, and study it. Look for the patterns of their writing - phrases they like, what kind of words do they choose, how does the work sound, or feel in the mouth when you read it aloud? What tones does it evoke, does it demand to be read slowly, quickly, does the tempo jump? Don't worry if you can't see too much at first - this is something that demands practice.

Now, try to write a scene (or poem, if you chose a poet) in their voice. Try to mimic the style, structure, word choice, tone, rhythm, pattern, phrases and imagery that makes up their voice.

It takes practice, a lot of practice, but it's an extremely useful (I'd venture near saying 'essential') skill. When you've mastered the familiar voice, try for the unfamiliar. Pick up a book by an author you've never read, and read a chapter.  Then write a scene in their voice.

So, the most interesting thing in my Google Reader this week was the development of an 'e-skin' for robots that enables a sense of touch. There's a faily detailed article on the breakthrough here, but the potential leap forward in robot and cyborg technology is astounding.

In other, quite unconnection thoughts, Nathan Bransford has an excellent post on the problem of initial ideas, where we tend to hold too tightly to an initial idea instead of allowing the work's central concept to evolve as the work progresses. Robert Jackson Bennet has an interesting post discussing the difference between 'genre' and 'literature', and touching briefly on why each is so nonsensically snooty about the other, making gap-bridging near-impossible. Though I think he may have done well to examine some authors who've been bridging the gap for decades, such as Atwood and LeGuin (and indeed most spec fic "Masters"). But still - good points, thoughtfully made.

And I want to share a Chasing Ray post on a book that I, honestly, haven't read yet and hadn't heard of until this post, but the premise behind it is fascinating me, so I intend to find and read it in the near future. The book is The Thief of Broken Toys (Tim Lebbon), and it's (apparently) a story that builds fear and horror not out of gore or violence, but sadness. Which, for me at least, is an instant "I have to see how he's done that!".

I've always loved surreal art. Or perhaps realistic-surrealist - where both the familiar and absurd are constructed photorealistically. It's a difficult stunt - most often, the meld between reality and unreality is difficult; there's a 'seam' in the art, a place where it's clear the concepts are changing.

It's less obvious with different styles. Vladimar Kush's work, for example, has a clear illustrative style, which helps blend the concepts, similar to the great Dali. But it's the realistic ones - the ones where I can believe the absurdity with just as much conviction as the mundane - that really get me. I saw one such artist several years ago in a local gallery - I wish I could remember his name. His paintings were 2m square, and therefore far too large for me to own, rich with vivid colours, and real enough to touch. The concepts were simple and clear - a caravan in the sky, a sunset being 'unzipped' into day, posts from a pier in the clouds (yes, the collection had a sky/clouds theme.) - but the execution was gorgeously realistic.

There seems to be a growing conviction in both comments on the blogosphere and in the real world that one needs a degree in Being A Writer - specifically, an MFA or other degree in creative writing. That agents, editors and even readers will roundly dismiss any upstart daring enough to query, write or publish without such an esteemed qualification.

Bollocks. I should know: I have one. Hell, technically I have two.

Honestly, I blame this misconception largely on the glut of creative writing degrees and courses that began not too long ago, and the marketing that accompanied them. With so many universities claiming their degree teaches you how to hone your fiction and characters and learn what it takes to create a good piece of writing, it's somewhat inevitable that would-be writers form the impression this is the only way to learn to hone your fiction and characters. But a degree isn't always helpful to a budding writer. Sometimes they can do more harm than good.