Not quite sure if the mechanics of an actual train mesh with the mechanics of the metaphorical train, at least in the prison movie sense. If one is pulling a train out of, say Attica station, then the “cars,” if you will, of necessity, line up behind you. While you might be the head of the train – the engine – the physical impetus comes from them, not you. They are the driving force, you’re just along for the ride. But with your real train, the engine is the top dog. It makes the whole thing go. Real trains pull, prison trains push.
And I’m not sure which I’m doing.
John “Jack” Hornor ne Jacobs – and the man do have a pile of names – kicked things off yesterday over on his blog with the assertion that, outside of some basic rules, writing isn’t a teachable art so much as an inherent skill that each of us masters in our own fashion. The estimable Chuck Wendig ne Wending ne Wendigo ne Stinky Beard chimed in today with something about dirt and coal dust and how he’s the douche God and, as such, does not so much channel an extrinsic metaphysical shit stream of angel-begat word sludge as he tunnels into the earth like the Wendigs of old and mines up that shit his own bad self.
And me, I’m just confused. ‘Cause looking at both entries (and both are worth your time) I didn’t find a ying and a yang or a dichotomy or a polemic or nothing like that. Maybe a NNW and a ENE on the old compass.
A compass is nice. I mean this writing thing? Each day you wonder into the primordial word thicket with pretty much nothing but a loin cloth and a machete. Some days you blaze a trail, some days you just make little Blair Witch stick thingees and hang them from the trees. And every so often you happen on God’s own scenic overlook with the scented air overblown with angel trumpets and billowy waterfalls plunging all sparkly-like into greeny bluey facetted pools and magical unicorny creatures having Avatar braid sex all about, and you realize your vocabulary is the only camera you got if you want to share this with anybody.
I can’t tell you whether it’s the bad acid you had in ’79 or if you’ve tapped into the Jungian Collective Unconscious, all I can tell you is each of us wanders alone in our own forest primeval and if we want anyone else to share that experience, then we gotta write that shit down, ‘cause there ain’t nobody else there to do it.
I read somewhere that Kurt Vonnegut used to teach writing, but then quit because he decided it felt like a kind of fraud. He said (and I’m not gonna go find the actual quote so I’m doing this from memory) “Writing well is something God allows you to do or neglects to allow you to do, and there’s not much I can do about that.” So far as that goes, I think it’s true. Talent’s involved – same kind of a talent that means you can sing or hit a curveball – and you’re born with that or you’re not. A certain instinctive felicity with language, an inbred facility for storytelling. And you can’t teach talent. You can develop it, though, but that’s on you. All the usual shit, read a lot, write a lot. The magic is in the repetition somewhere.
Not sure whether I was an engine, a caboose, or just another lump of coal under the boiler, but, in my usual Gumpian fashion, that’s all I have to say about that.
You go in with a loincloth and a machete, but I take every damn tool I can duct tape to or insert into my body.
Mining hat, pick-axe, canary, double-dildo, reciprocating saw, red pen, howler monkey, binoculars, baseball bat, .45 ACP, Hazmat suit, toothbrush, asbestos codpiece, robot attendant, all that.
(In other words: outline, mind map, proper character sketches, arcs, writing tools like pens and programs, note cards, whatever I need to take into battle.)
Vonnegut was an interesting enough dude, but I don’t let God dictate my fate and future in terms of pen-to-paper. That shit’s on me. God’s got his own problems.
— c.
I’ve given up on most of the tools. I used to outline, make character sketches and such, but the outline always ended up being the MapQuest instructions to someplace I wasn’t going and my characters would bitchslap me with their rolled up sketches and just do what they wanted anyway. It’s just one of those de gustibus non est desputandum things, I guess. I’m better off buck nekkid with just the machete than I am in the Ghostbusters outfit.
Example of why I outline now:
Our recent screenplay.
Writing partner and I went through five drafts. Our outlines at first were non-existent, and then throughout, we did some meager outlines.
This last go-round, though, was going to be a full rewrite, and so we did a full outline from the ground up. Really, a treatment — every beat laid out.
And it rocked. It made it easy to write (10 page a day on average, up from 3-5), and further what came out of that outline was a bad-ass script.
Every time I let the characters run rampant, I get a reasonable — but ultimately mediocre — piece.
From now on, I’m strapping myself into a robust outline every time.
— c.
Hmmm . . . can’t reply to your reply to my reply so I’m gonna reply to your first reply and hope that you get it’s the reply to your last reply. We clear on that?
Totally get outlining if you’re working with a partner — you can’t be headed for Omaha when he’s headed for Mackinac. Also totally get that outlining works for some, ok, a lot, of people.
Here’s why I don’t. Flashback a month or so. I wrapping up a major rewrite on the novel. I’ve taken a couple days off from the day job for the sprint to the finish. I start one day at 8am and I am cooking with gas — I mean I’ve got close to 8000 words under my belt for the day — but it’s 2am now, and I just can’t go on. Maybe 2000 words to go. I leave myself a quick outline of what’s left, because at that moment, it’s all fixed in my mind and if I had the stamina, I’d just knock it out. I go to bed. I get up the next day, I sit down. I get about three sentences into my proposed direction when it veers off in a new and better direction, so I run with it. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING from the notes from the night before, makes it into the draft. And yet, if I’d finsished the book the night before, that would have been the draft. Don’t know how to explain shit like that, but that’s what happens to me all the time. I actually think I might have a little rebellion gland somewhere in my noggin that has an intense allergic reaction to any kind of instruction. I also know that, when I try to outline, the story tends to get predictable. When I let it flow organically, I’m usually surprised by what happens, so I’m guessing the reader will be as well.
Ain’t saying it’s right or even a good idea, just the only way I’ve been able to roll.
Dan
“I also know that, when I try to outline, the story tends to get predictable. When I let it flow organically, I’m usually surprised by what happens, so I’m guessing the reader will be as well.”
This is the single best reason to do it that way.
Thing is, for me, the outline doesn’t stand in the way of the story moving in unexpected ways, just as a map doesn’t stand in the way of me taking a detour if that road over there is the prettier road to travel. Then it ends up a mix of “planning” and “intuition.” And “scotch.”
— c.
Word.
Stephen King has an interesting perspective on this topic in ON WRITING. I’m not going to look it up, either (mainly because I’m at work), but it goes something like this.
There are four levels of writer: Incompetent, Competent, Good, and Great.
An Incompetent writer is, well, incompetent. Not much you can do with him.
A Competent writer can, with work and guidance, become a good writer.
A Good writer can, with sloth and dissipation, become a Competent writer. He cannot, however, become a Great writer, only a better writer.
Great writers are born. They can, however, piss that greatness away and become Good, or merely Competent. We all know people who have done this.
Greatness is that unteachable spark called talent, or a gift, or God’s Lips to our ear. Everything else can be learned. Incompetence is like anti-talent: no matter how hard you try, you’re just not wired that way. You’re never going to get it.
I suspect it’s not just writing. Every field is like this. I used to be a musician, and it’s certainly true there.
On Writing is a great book — most helpful of it’s kind I’ve run across.
This is the third day in a row you guys have all made my head hurt. Can’t we go back to talking about curvy chicks and guys shooting laser pistols at each other?
(Actually, I jest. Good posts, all)
When did we talk about curvy chicks and laser dudes?
I missed that day!
I want a do-over. I want in.
— c.
Curvy chicks? Where’s that one in the archives? What are we doing wasting our time talking about writing and shit when there’s curvy chicks around?
Until I find the archive post, I’ll just say this was one great post, Dan. Very well-put. In fact, it was so well-put that this hot curvy chick on my lap says…no, wait.
Actually, I was inspired to write my own blog on my website about this topic, and I referenced both you and your site on it. Check it out. You might get a charge out of it.
Hey, Mike, thanks for the plug — we got us a whole little blogging daisy chain going here. Better stock up on Kleenex.
As you well, know, Dan, I’m not a writer. But that Stephen King analysis is depressing in the extreme when applied to my golf game.
What happens when a incompetent practitioner masters that sloth and dissipation stuff?
Your posts continue to intrigue me and I continue to enjoy them.
Locomotives push, too. Commute trains generally don’t turn around. The last car has engine controls and when it’s time to go the other way, the engineer goes to that car and drives the train.
And then there were the pusher/helper engines back in the steam era.
Damn, you know a lot about trains — something you want to share with the group?