Okay, I don’t think I’m actually losing my creativity, but something weird happened the other night. I set out to write a blog post on how I started writing the Civil War dark tales series of stories. I remembered having written a short scene about two soldiers, which was just sort of an idea for the beginning of a novel. Rather than going to dig out the small sketch of the scene that I had written, I decided to just wing it, writing it out from memory. I knew it would be impossible to get it exact, other than the basics, because it was several decades ago when I had first written it. And then, of course (as usually happens) I wrote a story.
Now, here’s the weird thing. I didn’t feel as though I was writing a story this time. I felt more like I was constructing a story. I felt as though I was just chunking down sentences, like one would stack bricks to build a wall. And hopefully there would, at the end of it all, perhaps be a story painted out on the wall that would make sense. A mural? Now, don’t get me wrong, the story was there at the end. I had a little over a thousand words. It was a well-constructed story . . .
And here’s the difference and how it all usually happens:
I just start writing and the words flow out and form into something amorphous; and the whole mass resembles a story, with a few significant incidents or highlights. And then I just go back over it all to clean up, or tighten up, and maybe smooth things out. I usually don’t know where I’m going to end up. Oh sure, on occasion I’ll have a “highlight” in mind; perhaps a sentence, or bit dialogue, or part of a scene. Maybe an image of a character doing something is all I have pictured. But I don’t, as a rule, know where I’m going or what the story is going to be about. The “highlights” or scenes usually just appear and flow out as I roll along. It is all just me having fun. I “let ‘er rip,” and just enjoy seeing where things go, where I end up. It’s exciting–well, to me at least, as I’m writing. Hopefully the reader feels some of that as he or she reads, the sense of not knowing what’s going to happen next. It’s why we read, right? Unless we ‘re reading something for information purposes.
As an example of my not knowing where I’m going when I start, I would suggest that you check out the story “Cap’n’s Eyes,” which is the first story in my book, Pirate Tales. I believe you can access it through the “Look Inside” feature for the book on the Amazon website. I’ll check when I finish the post. If not, I’ll get you a copy somehow. I’m thinking of putting the book up as a Goodreads giveaway in the next few days anyway. If I had it in Amazon’s Kindle Select program, I would make it free for a couple of days. I can’t put the book in the program, however, since I have it up on Draft 2 Digital (meaning it is available elsewhere on the internet–which is not allowed when a book is enrolled in the Kindle Select program).
Anyway, in the story, “Cap’n’s Eyes,” I have a character known as the Chinaman. I don’t ever give him a name. I describe him right off the bat in the story. In the description, the Chinaman has a scar running down his face. I describe this scar in great detail. Now, this sort of flies in the face of what I said earlier in a post about characterization, I know. But I did it, I believe, just to linger on things to buy time until the story started rolling. Like I said, I almost never know where I am going. So here I was, waiting on something to hit me, to move on with the story. I didn’t do this consciously, this lingering. I’m just reasoning it out now, and assuming that’s what happened.
Now, if you read the story, when you get to the end of it, you will undoubtedly think, Oh, that’s why the scar was there. I remember chuckling to myself, thinking this same thought when I wrote out the ending. I remember thinking, anyone who reads this is going to think I planned this out. But honestly, when I was describing the scar in great detail in the beginning of the story I just had some vague notion that it was some sort of battle scar from the past. I didn’t figure it would really surface again in the story. And I don’t actually mention it again, but it seems to surface for a specific reason at the end. Things just magically worked out. I hate using the term magic to describe it, really, but I can’t explain it. I think of Chekov’s description of a short story, and how he describes it as only a window through which the reader peers at some specific point in time, and just for a brief period. The reader is only getting a glimpse of the character’s life. The character has a life before the reader observes things, and the character’s life will continue after the reader has long gone. I’m paraphrasing here, but that is the gist of it. In the case of this story, it is true–the Chinaman had a life previous to the story. He had to have, otherwise, where did the scar come from? He doesn’t acquire it within the confines of the story.
Anyway, that isn’t where I meant to go with this post (funny, just like when I write stories). I meant to discuss flow of words, as opposed to just chunking down sentences like bricks or building blocks. In essence, I guess that’s what it always is, really, sentences being used to construct a scene or story. Maybe I’m just usually less conscious of it. I can’t give you the whole story in this post (the one I wrote, or constructed the other night), because the post would be too long (and the post is going to be long enough as it is); but I can paste a little of it here. Maybe enough for you to get a sense of what I’m saying.
Here it is:
There is a soldier on a hill somewhere. He is alone. He looks around and sees only trees and more hills in the distance. There is a clear blue sky filled with billowy clouds. He sets his knapsack on the ground and rests his rifle against it. He stands. He shifts his shoulders in a rolling motion. There’s got to be a stream somewhere close by, he thinks. He hopes. He tries to lick his parched and cracked lips. His tongue is barely moist. It is too late when he hears the shot. A minné ball grazes his head. He spins away. His knees crumple. He falls to the ground . . .
Reading this chunk over now, I’m thinking, my God, this is atrocious writing. There is no flow. I’m (as I wrote) just chunking sentences down . . . Plunk . . . Plunk . . . Thump . . . Plunk . . .
I’m just constructing a story with sentences, there is no flow, really. Or so it seems. This isn’t the way I usually write. The prose does get a little better, and a story emerges, a very tightly written story, in fact.
But wait, I think, this is like Hemingway, sort of. Maybe. Am I leaning in that direction? Is my writing style changing? Or, is this just, like I mentioned, atrocious writing? Don’t get me wrong, I love Hemingway. There is a joke that I read somewhere: “Only Hemingway was Hemingway, Shakespeare was everybody else.” I don’t remember where I read it, but it cracks me up. It is so true.
There is something about writers who had started as newspaper reporters. Hemingway, Stephen Crane, Ambrose Bierce all had a laconic, terse style. There is an economy of words, a minimal use of language. I’ve heard it said that they wrote this way because when writing for the newspapers they didn’t have much space available. They had to be able to get the idea or story across in just a few brief paragraphs. They had to find words that were impactful and more matter-of-fact. This last sentence is my own thought. But, in truth, they had to be economical in the use of words.
Years upon years ago, I sat through an American Literature class where we studied the works of Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck . . . All the usual suspects of an American lit. class. And of course Twain. And, well, don’t even get me started on Faulkner, who wasn’t anywhere close to economical or laconic. He’s the only writer I know who could have one sentence extend for two pages. I’m exaggerating, of course, but not by much. And I love Faulkner too. I just have to be in a certain mood to read him. And of course, I loved the class, though I had a habit of skipping it more days than not. But I did the work, the reading and paper writing, because I loved it. And when I first started to try and write short stories, I tried to write like Hemingway. This was next to impossible. You can see the results of my effort in the book, The Soft Eloquence of Neon. The title of the book is the title of my very first (if I remember correctly) story. That story is an example of me trying to write like Hemingway. Unsuccessfully.
Here’s a sample:
There are some things about her that I do remember though, like the smell of hotel soap, a nice smell, kind of fresh and clean, not too innocent. She had a soft but firm body, artistically contoured, young, tightly honed. She was crisp and clear, sharp, like fine crystal. Her breast pressed firmly against my arm as she lay there next to me, and I remember thinking how lucky I should feel to have her with me then; but I felt nothing at all . . .
Well, I gave it a try . . .
. . . crisp and clear, sharp, like fine crystal. Her breast pressed firmly against my arm . . .
I was deliberately trying to evoke a sense of “crispness” and “sharpness” of image and prose, with thin, crisp, lines. I don’t mean “lines” in the sense of prose lines here, so much as imagery. And there was perhaps a continuation of sharpness (in a subtle way) of her breast pressing firmly into the arm.
Overall, I was presenting a crispness and clarity, a sense of coldness in humanity, along with imagery. And then I was juxtaposing and tempering that with the softness of the neon coming in through the window.
I don’t know. It all sounds sort of high-brow, and haughty or philosophical when I say that. I don’t mean it to sound like that. And I wrote the story so long ago that perhaps I’m reading into things. The story is about the human condition, a sense of human coldness, when people don’t connect: and then a warming-up when a connection is made. So it is that, I can say. But all I know for sure is that I was intentionally trying to write like Hemingway when I wrote the story.
There is an image, or a line that Hemingway did use (I believe more than once in his writing). It went something like . . . Her hair cut sharply across her cheek. Or perhaps it is just Her hair cut across her cheek. Without the word sharply. I always think of the roaring twenties, and Jazz, or Art Deco style, with thin stylized lines and . . . well, you know what I’m trying to say. I’m thinking bobbed hair, as in Fitzgerald’s story “Berniece Bobs Her Hair,” or maybe not quite like that so much as The Great Gatsby. Obviously, I’m going for images and impressions more than anything.
I, crazily enough, and very intentionally, used the line about the hair cutting across the cheek in the story, “Club Alhambra,” in my sci-fi book, The Red Kimono. Now, I’m not that detailed, meticulous, or deliberate in my writing. I was more or less just cruising along and the line popped into my mind, so I used it. Of course I thought of Hemingway and smiled to myself as I typed it. And my thinking of it, I’m quite sure, was triggered by the story being a futuristic type story in the Philip K. Dick vein. And then, thinking of PKD, of course, led me to think of the movie Blade Runner, and also the sequel, Blade Runner 2049. And in Blade Runner 2049, there was heavy use of an Art Deco style. So there I was, in that frame of mind. And also, probably floating around in the back of my mind was the movie, In Time. Did Amanda Seyfried’s hair cut sharply across her cheek? I started to say Emma Stone, but I’m pretty sure it was Seyfried. I’ll have to go back and watch the movie again too see how her hair was cut. Maybe one of the other women in the film had such a hair style.
Okay, so I got way off topic there. I was just recalling (though I’m not old enough to recall, actually) the sense of the Jazz Age and Art Deco style, which is often used in futuristic type stories, or at least the movies. And I think it fits.
But getting back to Hemingway . . .
I don’t know whether my writing style is going to end up there, Hemingway-esque. But that would be odd. In a sense, it would be me coming full circle and ending up leaning toward doing what I initially set out to do but couldn’t.
But as you are aware from reading my blog posts, I’m not really an economy-of-word type guy. LOL. Nor do I think I truly have anything to worry about as far as creativity goes. Maybe I was in a weird mood the other night. But I did feel as though I was just constructing a story as opposed to creatively writing it. There certainly wasn’t the usual flow. It all felt stilted and awkward. I’ll probably read it over a few times and end up smoothing it out with longer, more languid or flowing sentences getting inserted. Maybe not.
Most of my writing has, in fact, become pretty tight as of late. Both books, Pirate Tales, and The Red Kimono (which I forgot to mention is currently a Goodreads Giveaway, ending Oct. 18), are filled with the tightest stories I’ve ever written. The Red Kimono seemed extra solidly-written when I went back to proof it. This surprised me, actually. There was only one story, “Lost Between Holden Caulfield and Walter Mitty,” in The Red Kimono, that I had written about ten years previous (at least the first part of it). And this story, though it seems at first to have been written by a schizophrenic person (the style of which, or reason for it, is more or less revealed in the end of the story) is even sort of tight. Pirate Tales is a little looser, but more or less solid. I believe it is the looseness of the dialogue that makes PT seem more “free spirited,” or perhaps less tight than TRK.
I will tell you that if you want to read “The Soft Eloquence of Neon” story, you can. Once again, by using the “Look Inside” feature that Amazon provides. However, I’m going to apologize up front to you for the errors and sloppy writing. All of the stories are early stories, typed on an old typewriter. I had to scan them into the computer. OCR software isn’t quite what it should be. The stories get scanned in as images and then converted to editable documents. Strange things appear and strange formats form. I went through at the time and tried to proofread and edit all twenty-four of the stories. It was a monumental task, and took like a week and a half. It was exhausting. I know I didn’t catch everything. I intended to go back through again. The digital copy is published, but the paperback is not. I started proofing again, but haven’t finished. I’ve made edits to the first three stories, but don’t usually upload changes until I’ve finished with the whole book. One could argue that I shouldn’t even upload and publish in the first place if things aren’t kosher. I was dazed and confused after scanning them all in (yep, that’s my only defense). I have to say that it would have been easier, I believe, to just write 24 new stories. In any case, I thought I had things in pretty good order– aside from the obvious fact that the stories were written early on in my writing career and I wasn’t as adept at writing, so there are a ton of corrections that could arguably be made. Though my adeptness, even now, might possibly be questioned by some. LOL. Fair enough.