There’s an
old saw that says “writing must be fun—if it was work, you’d get paid for it.”
As true as
that may be—and writing is fun for most of the folks I know who do it—writing
well is, at the same time, work. But there are people I know who “write” but
are not willing to work at it, or even acknowledge that work is required.
For
example(s):
Once, while
judging a poetry competition, another of the judges and I were discussing the
relative merits of some of the submissions. This judge did not much take into
account the use of literary technique, seem to appreciate its value, or want to
reward the obvious effort of some of the poets to make their poems poetic. Subject
matter and story were the only measures—“poetry” didn’t matter. To paraphrase,
“I’m a big believer that this stuff comes from God, and all we do is write it
down.”
Well.
While
inspiration is important to writers, it is the Alpha, not the Omega. Once
inspired, it is up to the writer to turn that inspiration into poetry (or
prose, for that matter). Otherwise, we lay the blame for mediocre or downright bad
writing where it does not belong—in the lap of the Almighty—and relieve the writer
of the responsibility. It is our job as writers to take whatever inspiration we
receive and mold and shape and polish it into something worthy of the muse.
One more
illustration:
From time to
time I am approached by writers and poets for advice. (Why they would stoop to
my level is beyond my ken.) One poet wanted suggestions on that nasty little
thing called meter. In my experience, there are a lot more poets who lay claim
to using meter than there are poets who understand and use it properly.
After a few
go-rounds of discussion, that poet threw in the towel.
"I
really don’t want to get too technical if I can help it,” came the explanation,
“because I think it might take the magic out of the process. Some of what I
feel is my best poetry just seems to flow out almost complete.”
Well.
Like it or
not, using meter properly in poetry is largely a technical process. It takes
work and frustration and rewriting and revising and struggle and exertion to
get it right. And, when well done, it will add to, not subtract from, the
“magic.”
Whether it is
poetry or prose, fiction or nonfiction, writing well is work. As English
novelist Anthony Powell said, “Writing is a combination of intangible creative
fantasy and appallingly hard work.”
Part of the
work is understanding the gritty little details of why you’re writing what
you’re writing the way you’re writing it. “Writing is very hard work and
knowing what you’re doing the whole time,” historian Shelby Foote said. I
agree.
William
Styron said, “Let’s face it, writing is hell.” He’s right, too—even though
writing sometimes seems heavenly.
Finally, Thomas
Mann made a good point when he said, “A writer is someone for whom writing is
more difficult than it is for other people.” That may be the difference, right
there. Anyone can put words on paper, and many have a knack for putting them
down well. But writers—real writers—are the ones who invite, and endure, and even
enjoy, the difficulty involved in writing right.
