Creative Writing Practice: Reflections on Form and Process 3030736733, 9783030736736

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Contents
Notes on Contributors
List of Figures
Part I: Theoretical Challenges: Working It Out
Chapter 1: Introduction
References
Chapter 2: The Ethics of Working-Class Realism in Poetry
References
Chapter 3: The Golden Rules
Learning, Not Being Taught
The PhD Versus the MFA
Textualist Atheism and the Death of the Author
Art and Craft
Easy Answers, Hard Questions
Qualified Advice
The Golden Rules
Theory, Practice, Reading and Writing
References
Chapter 4: Screenwriting Beyond the Paradigms: Creative Thinking and Script Development
Introduction
Creative Approaches to Screenwriting
Critical Approaches to Screenwriting
Creative Thinking and Script Development Models
Creative Thinking in Action
Conclusion
References
Chapter 5: Everything You Can Imagine Is Real: Worldbuilding, the Donnée and the Magic of Writing
Backstage at the Aquarium
The Imagination of Nature
Top Down and Bottom Up: From Concept to Story Mechanics to Sentence
How Do You Know? Research and Beyond
Worldbuilding Traps and Techniques: Exposition, ‘Infodumping’ and ‘Incluing’
Why a Story Is a Journey
This Is Your Brain on Fiction: Beyond Reality
References
Chapter 6: Adaptation: Essence, Originality and Radical Transformation
Introduction
Breaking Free of the Original
Re-visioning the Source Text
Certain Women (Reichardt 2016)—Case Study
Radical Transformations
Fear Eats the Soul (Fassbinder 1974) a Case Study
Far from Heaven (Haynes 2002)
The Television Scene—Comparative Scene Analysis
Conclusion
References
Part II: Practical Challenges: Starting, Stopping and Failing
Chapter 7: The Writer’s Notebook
References
Chapter 8: Prompting Creativity: Revisiting Aristotle’s Advice on Plot and Character
Introduction
Theory
Example
Exercises
Plot Versus Character
Plot Structure
Plot Complexity
Conclusion
References
Chapter 9: Trading Hours: Time, Order, and Narration in Lucky’s
Causation, Time, Order
Narration and Time
References
Chapter 10: Writing Without Frames
References
Chapter 11: The Corrections: Succeeding at Failure in the Creative Process
Introduction
Creative Corrections
Completion
Rejection: Losing the Fight with One’s Own Imagination
Uncertainty
Failure of Language
References
Part III: Consolidating the Process: Success and Resilience
Chapter 12: Counting Coco Pops: On Constraint and Creativity
Reading
‘Riting
‘Rithmetic
Appendix
References
Chapter 13: When Your Subjects Do Not Agree: An ‘Idiosyncratically Australian Perspective’
References
Interviews
Chapter 14: Critical Distance: Creative Writing as a Critic-Fan
Critic-Fans as Critical Creative Writers
Creativity Versus Criticism—Is It a Battle?
So What Does All of This Mean for the Creative Writer Who Is (or Wants to Be) a Critic?
How I Approach Creative Writing Work as a Critic-Fan
A Final Note on Critical Writing, Fandom and the Problem of Gender and Identity
References
Chapter 15: Art, Design and Communicating the Story: The Cover of Coach Fitz
References
Chapter 16: Behrouz Boochani: Writing as Resilience and Resistance
Introduction
Cultural Activism in Ilam
Writing from Manus Prison
Victory
References
Index

Citation preview

Creative Writing Practice Reflections on Form and Process Edited by Debra Adelaide Sarah Attfield

Creative Writing Practice

Debra Adelaide  •  Sarah Attfield Editors

Creative Writing Practice Reflections on Form and Process

Editors Debra Adelaide University of Technology Sydney Ultimo, NSW, Australia

Sarah Attfield University of Technology Sydney Ultimo, NSW, Australia

ISBN 978-3-030-73673-6    ISBN 978-3-030-73674-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the ­publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and ­institutional affiliations. This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Acknowledgements

The editors would like to express their sincere gratitude to all the contributors to this book. Most of them were severely disrupted due to the 2020 Covid-19 pandemic, to the extent that their working habits, places and practices all underwent radical changes. Despite the limitations on their time and ability to focus, they remained committed to this project, and we thank them for all the original and fascinating ways they approached their chapters. Chapter 7, “The Writer’s Notebook,” is a reworked version of an earlier essay, which appeared as Falconer, D. 2020, “The Uses and Enchantments of the Writer’s Notebook,” TEXT Journal of Writing and Writing Courses 24, 1 (April): 1018.

v

Contents

Part I Theoretical Challenges: Working It Out   1 1 Introduction  3 Debra Adelaide and Sarah Attfield 2 The Ethics of Working-Class Realism in Poetry 13 Sarah Attfield 3 The Golden Rules 29 Sunil Badami 4 Screenwriting Beyond the Paradigms: Creative Thinking and Script Development 51 Craig Batty and Zara Waldeback 5 Everything You Can Imagine Is Real: Worldbuilding, the Donnée and the Magic of Writing 65 Claire Corbett 6 Adaptation: Essence, Originality and Radical Transformation 83 Margot Nash

vii

viii 

Contents

Part II Practical Challenges: Starting, Stopping and Failing 101 7 The Writer’s Notebook103 Delia Falconer 8 Prompting Creativity: Revisiting Aristotle’s Advice on Plot and Character121 Mark Rossiter 9 Trading Hours: Time, Order, and Narration in Lucky’s135 Andrew Pippos 10 Writing Without Frames147 Gregory Ferris 11 The Corrections: Succeeding at Failure in the Creative Process161 Debra Adelaide Part III Consolidating the Process: Success and Resilience 177 12 Counting Coco Pops: On Constraint and Creativity179 Dave Drayton 13 When Your Subjects Do Not Agree: An ‘Idiosyncratically Australian Perspective’191 Sue Joseph 14 Critical Distance: Creative Writing as a Critic-Fan207 Liz Giuffre 15 Art, Design and Communicating the Story: The Cover of Coach Fitz223 Tom Lee

 Contents 

ix

16 Behrouz Boochani: Writing as Resilience and Resistance235 Mark Isaacs Index253

Notes on Contributors

Debra  Adelaide  is the author or editor of 17 books including several anthologies and 4 novels; these include the critically acclaimed The Household Guide to Dying (2008), which was sold in 12 countries including the UK and the USA, and The Women’s Pages (2015). Her two collections of short fiction are Letter to George Clooney and Zebra; the latter was the winner of the Steele Rudd Award for Short Fiction in the 2019 Queensland Literary Awards. Her research interests include the culture of reading and the writing life, both reflected in her edited collection The Simple Act of Reading (2015) and in her most recent book The Innocent Reader (2019). She is also the fiction editor of Southerly, Australia’s oldest literary journal. She is an adjunct associate professor at the University of Technology Sydney (UTS). Sarah Attfield  is Lecturer in Creative Writing in the Faculty of Arts & Social Sciences at the University of Technology Sydney, where she has taught creative writing, film studies and cultural studies in the undergraduate programmes. She is the author of the poetry collection Hope in Hell (2000) and co-editor of The Journal of Working-Class Studies. Her most recent book is the monograph, Class on Screen: The Global Working-­Class in Contemporary Cinema, about the global working class in contemporary cinema, and was published by Palgrave Macmillan in 2020. For more information, see: https://www.uts.edu.au/staff/sarah.attfield. Sunil Badami  is an academic, broadcaster and writer. He is a mentor for the Australian Society of Authors and a past judge of the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards. He has been published by every major Australian media xi

xii 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

outlet, including The Sydney Morning Herald, Good Weekend, The Australian, The Monthly, The New Daily, The Australian Literary Review, Australian Gourmet Traveller, Art and Australia, Southerly, Island, Westerly and Meanjin. He devised and presented the national ABC Local Radio show Sunday Takeaway and a number of acclaimed documentaries for Radio National, including the Priz Marulič-nominated Riddle. Mystery. Enigma. and Stones and Sticks and Suchlike, based on a story used as an HSC study text around Australia. Craig Batty  is an award-winning educator, researcher and supervisor in the areas of screenwriting, creative writing and screen production. He has worked on a variety of screen projects as a writer and script editor and is also an expert in creative practice research methodologies. He has published over 70 books, book chapters, journal articles and creative practice research works, as well as many industry articles, book reviews and interviews. He is Chair of the Australian Screen Production Education and Research Association (ASPERA) Research Sub-Committee and leads the research portfolio for the Australasian Association of Writing Programs (AAWP). He is co-editor of the Journal of Screenwriting and is on the editorial boards of Media Practice and Education, the International Journal for Creative Media Research, and the Journal of Writing in Creative Practice. He has taught at RMIT and the University of Technology Sydney and is Dean of Research (Creative) at the University of South Australia. Claire Corbett  is a writer of novels, short stories and creative non-­fiction. Her first novel, When We Have Wings, was shortlisted for the 2012 Barbara Jefferis Award and shortlisted for the 2012 Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction and published overseas. Watch over Me, her second novel, was published in 2017. She teaches Creative Writing at the University of Technology Sydney, is on the Board of Varuna, the national writers’ house, and is the fiction editor of Overland literary journal. Dave Drayton  holds a PhD from the University of Technology Sydney, where he works as a lecturer in creative writing in the School of Communication. His works include E, UIO, A, P(oe)Ms, A Pet Per Ably-­ Faced Kid and Haiturograms. Delia Falconer  is the author of two novels, The Service of Clouds and The Lost Thoughts of Soldiers, and Sydney, in NewSouth’s Cities series. Her books have been shortlisted for awards including the Miles Franklin

  NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS 

xiii

Award, the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize (Asia Pacific Division), the National Biography Award and the Prime Minister’s Literary Prize. In 2018, she won the Walkley-Pascall Prize for Arts Criticism. She is Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at the University of Technology Sydney. Her next book, Signs and Wonders, will be published by Simon and Schuster in late 2021. Gregory Ferris  has worked consistently in the industry ever since his first experimental films screened on the ABC in the mid-1980s. He works across a variety of media environments, including interactive media, installation, virtual reality and traditional moving image. He was Cinematographic Designer and Post-production Supervisor of the installation project Eavesdrop, which was the world’s first panoramic, interactive, multi-linear narrative film, and was presented at the Brisbane, Melbourne and Sydney Festivals. He was also editor, compositor and cinematographer on the pioneering ARC-funded project Conversations, the world’s first 360-degree virtual reality stereoscopic, narrative interactive, exhibited at the Powerhouse Museum in December 2004. He is Lecturer in Media Arts and Production in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at the University of Technology Sydney. Liz  Giuffre is a popular music and culture writer, scholar and non-­ practising musician. She has been published in a wide variety of mainstream and specialist publications, including the Sydney Morning Herald, The Conversation, Metro Magazine and The Music, while also publishing scholarly work on everything from fan studies and early Australian music industries to institutions like Rage and its unique international influence, and emerging icons like the children’s crossover hit Bluey. She is a senior lecturer at the University of Technology Sydney. Mark  Isaacs is an author, researcher, photographer and community worker, and has published three books: The Undesirables: Inside Nauru (2014), Nauru Burning: An Uprising and Its Aftermath (2016) and The Kabul Peace House (2019). He is an advocate for refugee and asylum seeker writers and activists and has spent time working in Nauru and Afghanistan and in Sydney where he is based. He is the President of Sydney PEN and was the recipient of the University of Technology Sydney Community Alumni Award Winner for 2017. He is a doctoral candidate in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences of UTS where he is researching human migration in the Asia-Pacific region. www.markjisaacs.com

xiv 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Sue Joseph  has worked as a journalist for more than 40 years in Australia and the UK and began working as an academic, teaching print journalism at the University of Technology Sydney in 1997. Until 2020, she taught creative writing, particularly creative non-fiction writing, in both undergraduate and postgraduate programmes. Her research interests are around sexuality, secrets and confession, framed by the media; ethics and trauma narrative; memoir; reflective professional practice; ethical HDR supervision; non-fiction poetry; and Australian creative non-fiction. Her fourth book, Behind the Text: Candid Conversations with Australian Creative Nonfiction Writers, was released in 2016. She is joint editor of Ethical Space: The International Journal of Communication Ethics. Tom Lee  is a senior lecturer in the Faculty of Design, Architecture and Building in the Design School at the University of Technology Sydney. His research focuses on experiential dimensions of technology, materials and spaces, which he explores in traditional academic publications and fictional narratives. His explorations of aesthetics in Australia are shared on Instagram @theaustralianugliness and on his blog of the same name. His first novel, Coach Fitz, was published in 2018. Margot  Nash  is an Honorary Associate Teaching and Research in the School of Communications at the University of Technology Sydney. She has produced, written and directed a number of award-winning films as well as working as a cinematographer and a film editor. Her credits include the feature documentary For Love or Money (co-filmmaker 1982), the experimental short Shadow Panic (prod/dir 1989) and the feature dramas Vacant Possession (dir/wr 1994) and Call Me Mum (dir 2005). Her 2015 feature-length personal essay documentary The Silences screened nationally and internationally, and in 2016, she won an Australian Writers’ Guild AWGIE Award for the screenplay. In 2019 she produced and edited a short experimental film called Take with Sydney-based Maori performance artist, Victoria Hunt. Andrew Pippos  His first novel, Lucky’s, was published in 2020; his second forthcoming book is a work of narrative non-fiction. In 2018, he graduated from the University of Technology Sydney with a Doctorate of Creative Arts. He has taught in the creative writing programme at UTS since 2015. Mark  Rossiter  has published a range of short stories, both fiction and creative non-fiction, in literary journals and anthologies. He teaches cre-

  NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS 

xv

ative writing and literary theory at the University of Technology Sydney to undergraduate and postgraduate students. Zara  Waldeback  is a script consultant and creative specialist living in Sweden and working across Europe. In the UK, she was for many years Senior Lecturer in Screenwriting and Directing at Thames Valley University, as well as working in development for British Screen and the First Film Foundation. She now teaches key narrative skills to a range of creative artists and works as script editor for feature films, including the award-winning Sami Blood.

List of Figures

Fig. 5.1 Fig. 6.1

Marked-up pages from When We Have Wings80 Lily Gladstone as Jamie in Certain Women (Reichardt 2016). (Photo by Jojo Whilden. Courtesy of IFC Films) 89 Fig. 6.2 Dustjacket images of All That Heaven Allows94 Fig. 15.1 Original cover image for Coach Fitz226 Fig. 16.1 Behrouz Boochani smoking a cigarette, Manus Prison (2017); photo credit: Mark Isaacs 243 Fig. 16.2 Behrouz Boochani writing on his mobile phone, Manus Prison, 2017; photo credit: Mark Isaacs 244 Fig. 16.3 Behrouz Boochani, Archibald prize finalist by Angus McDonald 245

xvii

PART I

Theoretical Challenges: Working It Out

CHAPTER 1

Introduction Debra Adelaide and Sarah Attfield

The challenges to emerging as well as established creative writers are many, and at the time of writing arguably the greatest challenge is a fundamental existential one: How to be creative in the time of a global pandemic? Specifically, how do creative practitioners respond to this contemporary crisis, given that it is impossible to ignore it, yet at the moment, while living within it, equally impossible to convert it into story? Is it even possible to compete? After all, the world has produced its own surreal narrative, one far beyond our wildest imagining. Solutions to this will eventually emerge, but they will not come easily. In the meantime, however, writers are still grappling with their creative practice in both general and particular ways: How to maintain faith and momentum in a project, as well as how to address a difficult plot point, remedy a flat scene, represent real-life characters, conduct and use research, or even choose the most appropriate punctuation. These challenges may be termed problems except that these are problems that all writers accept as simply part of the process of writing, whether they are composing poetry, writing a screenplay, or drafting a short story.

D. Adelaide (*) • S. Attfield University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_1

3

4 

D. ADELAIDE AND S. ATTFIELD

Nevertheless, it is in focusing closely on specific problems that we learn most about the craft of writing. All of those involved in teaching creative writing are familiar with the student writer’s hunger to hear stories from the coalface, as it were, stories that reveal how a particular challenge was met or a problem solved. As teachers, we have encountered endless examples of the same sort of questions: How did you adapt that story into that film script? How did you find the right structure for your novel? How did your journal feed into your published book? And so on. Reflecting on the importance of these persistent questions provided the initial inspiration for this book. Creative Writing Practice: Reflections on Form and Process concentrates on illuminating the practices of writers who demonstrate solutions to problems across forms and genres, and the subtitle of this book reinforces this. Each contributor has in their different way brought a personal and reflective element into their discussion of the different approaches to identifying, and solving, problems in their own creative practice. We have been openly keen to showcase the works of successful and well-known writers and teachers, as a way of demonstrating to emerging writers the possibilities of form and encouraging them to see the many ways that challenges of both a technical and a theoretical nature may be met. There are many excellent creative writing publications, including Palgrave’s Creative and Critical Approaches series, which includes Amanda Boulter’s Writing Fiction (2007) and Craig Batty and Zara Waldeback’s Writing for the Screen (2019, [2008]), as well as other titles, such as Story Logic and the Craft of Fiction by Catherine Brady (2010) and Inside the Writers’ Room by Christina Kallas (2014). Titles such as these usually explore aspects of writing theory and practice by focusing on a particular form: poetry, fiction, screenplay, and so on. What Creative Writing Practice offers is complementary to these and other similar titles in its specific focus on the practical challenges that must be confronted and solved. Drawing on the personal examples and professional experiences of its contributors—who are all writers and writer-educators—this book explores some common pitfalls faced by writers, including student writers. Aspects of problem-solving in creative writing practice are offered here to engage student readers in particular and provide insight into the way that the challenges in writing are met, from adapting a story to film, to composing long-form fiction, designing as well as writing a book, or converting journal-keeping into narrative. These are all perennial topics in classroom exploration, and so in some ways these chapters openly

1 INTRODUCTION 

5

confront such pedagogical discussions and debates. And as the expertise of all the contributors to this book within and across the literary industries forms a crucial part of their practice, this is captured in each chapter. Students of creative writing—particularly at tertiary level—typically respond to modelling by their lecturers, who are able to pass on the benefit of their varied practice. This, at least, is at the heart of the pedagogical approach that has been successfully followed at the University of Technology Sydney since creative writing subjects were first introduced in 1979, and where most of the contributors to this book are or have been in some way connected. The brief for this book was somewhat different to those for other books on creative writing. Contributors were asked to combine the academic and the personal, to find ways to marry the scholarly with the creative, and to do so according to their subject and personal inclination. But this was left entirely up to individual choice, and thus some chapters are more intimate and conversational, and delve deeply into a specific aspect of creative practice, such as how a complex time structure in a novel was approached, or how a cover image was intimately connected to the book it represented. Other chapters are the result of a broader, detached, or more objective approach on the part of their authors, for example, an analysis of the challenges of film adaptation, the role of the writer’s journal or notebook, or the question of how music, film, and other criticism may be regarded as essentially creative writing. But each chapter in some way offers readers a narrative or exemplary story as a way of consolidating its ideas, and by example as well as implication suggests to readers how they might approach their own challenges and seek solutions for their own creative writing practice. There are none of the usual writing exercises attached to the end of these chapters; instead, any exercises, approaches, or suggestions are embedded within the text, and many of the contributors pose questions— rather than prescribe methods—as a way of encouraging readers to explore ways to improve and extend their writing practice. * * * Creative Writing Practice is structured in three parts. Part I addresses the theoretical and conceptual challenges across different forms of writing—poetry, short story, screenplay, genre fiction, and so on. This first section, Chap. 2, begins with Sarah Attfield’s discussion of the ethical implications of using the real names of people and places in her

6 

D. ADELAIDE AND S. ATTFIELD

working-class poetry. The issue of ethics and creative writing practice is a perennial one and there are no easy answers. Attfield’s chapter displays the complexity of the issue through her personal experience of writing poetry about her working-­class family and friends. She questions whether she might be crossing into dubious ethical territory in using real names, but ultimately argues that the importance of telling working-class stories outweighs some of these potential issues. The attention to poetry is a timely one with interest in poetry growing in English-speaking countries, and spoken word and slam poetry are increasingly popular among younger people and those from minority or marginalised communities. With the return to poetry as a mainstream activity, it is hoped that more poets from disadvantaged communities will feel inspired and confident to share their work. And as a result, the issues outlined in Attfield’s chapter become even more pertinent. Chapter 3 considers the ‘golden rules’ of creative writing where Sunil Badami compares narratology and literary theory with writers’ writing rules, comparing these to his own short fiction writing practice. Badami considers the perennial quest for rules amongst writers, the reasons we feel compelled to seek rules, and the theoretical and practical aspects of this creative process, including the potential generative effects of applying other writers’ rules and practices to one’s own writing. This discussion of rules is of particular value to the creative writing teacher who needs to strike a balance between encouraging students to experiment and being cognisant of creative writing basics, such as grammar rules; students need to know, for example, the difference between rejecting punctuation as a stylistic choice and using punctuation incorrectly, thus creating unintentional ambiguity. Craig Batty and Zara Waldeback turn their attention to screenwriting in Chap. 4 and towards the application of creativity theory to the art of screenwriting. They explore the different ways that creativity might be theorised, such as through psychological and other approaches, and present a different method of screenwriting, one that acknowledges the different ways of understanding creativity and then using this knowledge to tackle the problems that emerge when writing. Batty and Waldeback suggest that, by doing so, screenwriters are better equipped to take risks and create more robust and better-developed work. This chapter shows the value to the creative writer of familiarity with theories of creativity, illustrating that using instinct alone when producing creative works can lead to works with less depth than those that are informed by theory.

1 INTRODUCTION 

7

In Chap. 5, Claire Corbett examines the importance of worldbuilding, not just in the genres where it might be expected such as science fiction or fantasy, but also in more general literary fiction which, she argues, also needs to involve extensive worldbuilding in order to provide the required level of detail that can draw in a reader. This is what she terms the ‘donnée’ or ‘given’ of the world in which characters exist and events are constructed. She considers how the current pace of change affects the way readers engage with fiction, and argues that research and attention to authentic detail is as necessary in realist fiction as it is in speculative fiction, and necessary not so much because it is indispensable but because ‘it is essential for inspiring your imagination’. In this chapter, Corbett draws on her own experience of creating convincing worlds and illustrates the importance of the attention to worldbuilding, which is relevant to the times we currently live in, when we are bombarded by misinformation and ‘fake news’. While accuracy of setting and place might seem less important in fiction, it is often in fiction that we encounter some of the deepest truths relating to our culture, societies, our histories, and the possibilities for the future; ensuring integrity of the worlds built in fiction is every bit as important as that for non-fiction and reportage. Chapter 6 concludes this section and is written by Margot Nash who looks at the process of adapting literature to screen, or creating new versions of older films, using the work of filmmakers Kelly Reichardt and Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Nash outlines the many different ways that adaptation can occur and considers how a filmmaker may ‘re-vision’ the original text to create a totally original product. She refers to the ‘courage’ needed by a filmmaker in order to radically change or deviate from the original and suggests that this is what is achieved in Reichardt’s Certain Women (2016) which was adapted from a series of short stories. In her discussion of Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul (1974), Nash considers the ways that the filmmaker transforms the original text (Douglas Sirk’s 1955 All that Heaven Allows), from the technicolour Hollywood melodrama into a gritty and realist drama that explores racism in 1970s Germany. In an era when many Hollywood films are adaptations of texts (such as comic books), that do little to transform the original texts, Nash demonstrates the richness and layering within films that do not attempt merely to parrot the original source text. Part II explores more practical examples and approaches to writing— the early working-out of projects, the idea of experimentation, of narrative time, and of failure. This section begins with Chap. 7, Delia Falconer’s

8 

D. ADELAIDE AND S. ATTFIELD

exploration of the importance of the notebook, but also the contradictory properties of notebooks (in that they can serve many different functions). Falconer asks whether the writer’s notebook has practical applications— what is its function and how does it benefit the writer overall? She looks at examples from well-known writers to illustrate the potential of the notebook and uses her own as a case study to argue for the relevance and usefulness of the notebook to the creative writer. Falconer also acknowledges the different formats of notebooks—from the traditional hard-copy journal to the digital notebook written on a computer or other device; the notebook, therefore, serves as an artefact of the writing process and contributes to a history of the writer’s process. With the loss of attention span in the digital age, these artefacts become even more relevant as they provide a tangible link from the finished, published work to its origins and process. Chapter 8 focuses on debates around plot and character that have existed for millennia and which have attempted to determine which is more important in the creation of fiction. Mark Rossiter starts with the ideas on the topic presented by Aristotle and then brings the debate up to date by referring to contemporary theory and to the opinions shared by his student writers. In tackling this thorny issue, Rossiter suggests using practical writing exercises that have not only greatly aided his own fiction writing process, but also provided his students with the opportunity to think through the argument and come to their own conclusions. The discussion of the writing exercise operates as both an analysis of the debate and as a practical method of starting new pieces of writing. Andrew Pippos writes about narrative time in Chap. 9 and asks how writers might best deal with narrative time, particularly in fiction that spans multiple timelines. Pippos encountered this problem in the writing of his first novel, Lucky’s (2020), and discovered that he was faced with a daunting task of creating a workable structure. He wanted to create a novel that not only showed characters changing over time, but also showed how cultures change over the same time span. In this chapter, Pippos uses specific examples from his writing process to explain the narration and structure of the novel, describing the principles that guided its design. His discussion of the use of narration, time, and order are specifically based in the novel Lucky’s but extend broadly to illustrate how these approaches inform any novel using multiple focal characters and non-linear chronologies. Writing for the screen is the topic of Chap. 10. Here Gregory Ferris offers a broad but detailed overview in exploring the many changes faced

1 INTRODUCTION 

9

by screenwriters who are no longer simply writing for a single screen. In demonstrating that screenwriting is adapting to multiscreens, panoramic screens, 3-D, and beyond, he describes this as writing ‘beyond the frame’; his chapter offers ideas and insights into how particular immersive approaches feature in these ‘new’ forms of storytelling (though in some ways they are not all that new, as he shows). He considers the history of technical developments in screen production and how this can assist the contemporary creator in choosing the best approach, referring to the process of creating his 360-video installation, Sympathetic Threads for specific illustration. Ferris is one of a number of contributors who also discuss the effect of the global Covid-19 pandemic on creative practice, given that changes now need to be made in how works are made, exhibited, and experienced. As ‘some of the physical technologies are impractical in shared immersive works’, writing and screening or exhibiting works will need to adapt from, for example, the typical festival experience of sharing headsets and handset controllers in favour of things like gestural control, or the use of non-touch-based triggers. Chapter 11 is the final chapter in this section and here Debra Adelaide explores failure, something that is integral to the creative process. Adelaide draws from a discussion of Flaubert’s well-known struggle with composing sentences to argue that failure is a hitherto undervalued aspect of the writing process, not only because writers are able to learn from their failed attempts—with each draft of a work operating as a ‘series of perfect failures’—but also because rejection from within and without is inbuilt to the process of creativity. Such failure is vitally embedded within the process to the extent that ‘maybe it is not failure at all, simply art, something all writers must first acknowledge before they can achieve anything of significance’. Significant and useful failure was experienced by Adelaide in the process of turning one of her short stories into a novel, and she shares the lessons she learnt and argues for a more positive approach to embracing failure. Part III turns its attention to the consolidation of the writing process using both general and specific examples, and examines the overall result of writing practice in, for example, the completed book, as well as in the useful constraints upon, and the successes in, writing overall. This section includes discussion of some subjects not generally given much attention in books on creative writing practice, but which are now of increasing focus within the broader literary and creative culture: an interrogation of how critical literature—film, music, book reviews, and so on—constitutes

10 

D. ADELAIDE AND S. ATTFIELD

creative writing; an account of the intimate relationship between the book cover image and the book itself in relation to the author’s overall vision; and the very personal story of a refugee writer and his book, showing how writing can literally save one’s life. This section opens with Chap. 12, Dave Drayton’s exploration of the impact of self-imposed constraints on creative output. Drayton argues that constraints can lead to increased creativity and can ‘free’ the writer by providing opportunities to explore methods and approaches not previously considered. Drayton’s work is inspired by that of experimental authors from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, including the proponents of Oulipo, and he shows how the kinds of theoretical and conceptual elements applied by such writers can inform current work. This chapter also serves as an ingenious example of how constraints can be applied, and Drayton takes the reader step by step through the application of a very specific set of constraints to the writing of the chapter. One of these constraints means that his chapter is perfectly measured in terms of word length. In Chap. 13, Sue Joseph explains the solutions she was obliged to explore when the subjects of her study into creative non-fiction did not provide the answers she was looking for to support her arguments. Joseph had to recover from her initial disappointment and frustration and work out how to incorporate the material she had gathered into her work on creative non-fiction. She was able to use the potential failure of the project as the spark for her book, Behind the Text (2017), and turn the initial disappointment into a success. Joseph outlines the process of doing so in this chapter and demonstrates the importance of resilience and perseverance when tackling creative projects. Liz Giuffre brings the role of the critic to life in Chap. 14 and shows how the critic must find ways to create a picture of the text—music album, film, performance—being reviewed for the reader who may not have a point of reference to the work in question. In her work as an arts journalist, Giuffre has reviewed a variety of performances and productions but with an emphasis on live music performances. As she explains, writing about music is extremely difficult due to the lack of adequate words and phrases to describe the audio quality of music. The critic must develop writing techniques that allow the reader to imagine what the music may have sounded like in order to decide whether this type of music might be for them. Giuffre also explores the idea of the critic as fan and considers whether the fan critic might be better equipped to review works or

1 INTRODUCTION 

11

potentially too invested in them to be able to articulate their quality or value clearly to a reader. Tom Lee follows in Chap. 15 with an analysis of the relationship between the written content of a work of fiction and the visual aspect of the book’s cover design. Lee argues that there has been little consideration of this relationship, with studies of book covers usually using a semiotic approach to analysis or one based on the graphic design elements. This chapter shows that a book’s cover image can be intimately tied to the narrative and uses the cover of his novel Coach Fitz (2018) to demonstrate this relationship while also outlining his collaborative process with a visual artist to create the concept for the book cover. The chapter points to the possibilities of book covers playing a metafictional role, where the book can possibly be judged (somewhat) by its cover. The concluding chapter in this book covers in many ways what is the culmination of creative writing practice at this time, and is deliberately placed at the end as a reminder, and inspiration, to all creative writers, of the unshakeable power of the written word. In Chap. 16 Mark Isaacs discusses the writing practice of the extraordinary Kurdish-Iranian journalist and poet Behrouz Boochani. Boochani’s personal journey as a refugee and asylum seeker has been due to some of the very worst aspects of human nature, but as Isaacs shows, his story of resistance and resilience epitomises the best of what it means to be a creative practitioner. At this point in time, in the early 2020s, we are all still reeling from several shocks, chief of which is the Covid-19 pandemic, but also the threat to democracy and the bolstering of right-wing extremism across the world, including in previously stable states such as the USA. The massive disruption, suffering, and injustice in the previous two decades that have led to well over 70 million people around the world being classed as refugees and asylum seekers (United Nations 2021) is one of the most persistent challenges to all of us, creative writers included. Boochani’s story offers an unforgettable message regarding the great power of creativity. His much-awarded book No Friend But the Mountains (2018) is a unique work, combining memoir, story, philosophy, poetry, and advocacy in one powerful and lyrical book—and all composed, astonishingly, via separate WhatsApp messages sent secretly from his prison on Manus Island to his translators in Australia. Isaacs’ discussion of this singular author shows us several things: firstly, that the practice of writing can literally save lives, as it has saved Boochani’s life; secondly, that writing, moreover, can never be suppressed, and it

12 

D. ADELAIDE AND S. ATTFIELD

flourishes amid the most abject and repressed of circumstances; finally, that if it is possible to produce a book from a remote detention centre via text messages on a smuggled phone, then surely there is no problem in the writing process that cannot be surmounted. It is in the spirit of Behrouz Boochani’s creativity, optimism, courage, and persistence, and the great proof of his book of the transcendent power of creative writing, that we offer Creative Writing Practice to our readers. We hope that they find insight into the many possibilities of the craft, the voice, the structure, the problems, the form, the overall practice, of the written and performed word.

References All that Heaven Allows. 1955. Motion Picture. Universal Pictures, New York, NY. Batty, C., and Z. Waldeback. 2019 [2008]. Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches. London: Macmillan Education UK. Boochani, B. 2018. No Friend But the Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison. Sydney: Picador. Boulter, A. 2007. Writing Fiction: Creative and Critical Approaches. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Brady, C. 2010. Story Logic and the Craft of Fiction. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Certain Women. 2016. Motion Picture, IFC Films, New York, NY. Fear Eats the Soul. 1974. Motion Picture, Filmverlag der Autoren GmbH & Co. Vertriebs, KG, West Germany. Joseph, S. 2017. Behind the Text: Candid Conversations with Australian Creative Nonfiction writers. Victoria: Hybrid Publishers. Kallas, C. 2014. Inside the Writers’ Room: Conversations with American TV Writers. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Lee, T. 2018. Coach Fitz. Artarmon: Giramondo. Pippos, A. 2020. Lucky’s. Sydney: Picador. United Nations Website. 2021. Accessed 20 January 2021. https://www.un.org/ en/sections/issues-­d epth/refugees/#:~:text=An%20unprecedented%20 70.8%20million%20people,under%20the%20age%20of%2018.

CHAPTER 2

The Ethics of Working-Class Realism in Poetry Sarah Attfield

It is common for my undergraduate creative writing students to tell me that they don’t know what to write about. When I explain that there is plenty of material in the everyday and they can write about their own lives if stuck for other ideas, they often initially protest that their lives are not interesting enough. With some gentle encouragement, they can be persuaded to look deeper than the ‘big events’ and obvious dramas to find the tensions, humour, darkness or joy in the little things. I love this kind of writing and it reveals to the students the empowering effects of telling their own story, particularly if they have experienced discrimination, or have found their kinds of stories underrepresented. But the ‘writing about what you know’ approach does come with some potential pitfalls, and one of the main ones is the possibility of crossing into rather dubious ethical territory. Students can suddenly become very enthusiastic about potential stories of dysfunctional families, school bullies or failed relationships. There are

S. Attfield (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_2

13

14 

S. ATTFIELD

distant parents or parents who are overbearing. Grandparents die or cousins are lost in tragic circumstances. Friends are drug addicts and end up in prison. Boyfriends and girlfriends get exposed as deceitful or abusive or sometimes as wronged by the regretful author. These stories are often beautifully written and evoke the emotion in the experience. As the reader, I get to know a variety of fascinating characters and I learn a lot about the student authors’ lives. There is a trust there that I deeply appreciate and feel privileged to have. I do provide advice to the students though which sometimes tempers their excitement at the prospect of exposing a cruel workmate, or confessing a painful unrequited love, because the students often do not attempt to conceal the identities of their subjects, and sometimes use a real person’s name for a character. The pieces are fiction, but there is very little that actually fictionalises the events or the people—they are revealed in all their glory, whether that be as an object of disgust, disdain, fondness or explicit passion. I remind them of the ethical implications of revealing someone’s identity and what the consequences might be if their piece of writing is published. Sometimes they tell me that they don’t care. Other times they become thoughtful and let me know that they do not intend to publish the piece—it has been written as a cathartic exercise and so only I, as the tutor, will read the work. And then there are the students who are forced to consider whether the risk of upsetting or offending real people is worth it. These students will often rework the piece to try and make the subjects less obvious. They will change settings, time, genders and appearance and might combine subjects into composite characters. There is still a risk that someone might recognise themselves, but the changes also create an element of deniability and so they proceed. How this relates to the subject of this essay is because I write poetry, and the poetry I write is about working-class experience. It is mostly based on my experience growing up in a working-class family on Chingford Hall Estate, a North East London council estate. Many of my poems are based on my direct and personal experience, and there are a lot of other poems about my family and my old friends and neighbours. Sometimes I try and change the details of the subjects, but often I do not. A lot of the representations of my friends and family are positive—they are celebrations of working-class culture. But not always. In my first collection of poetry, Hope in Hell (Attfield 2000), I constructed a semi-narrative focusing on the lives of four people on a London council estate. Three of the characters were based on my family—my

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

15

mother, my brother and his wife. The fourth character was fictitious, but she possessed some characteristics of other people I knew. I did change names. The character based on my mother is called Joan, and she is a positive character—an elderly woman finding joy in her life despite hardship, and remembering times from her youth during World War II.  On the pedestrian bridge that crosses a nearby six-lane highway, she relishes the sensory experience of the wind on her face: ‘she can be alone with the clouds/let her hair fly’. In a local ‘caff’, she eats apple pie with her friend Barb: ‘luvly cuppa that/and our worries?/hot tea scalds them away/any bleedin problems?/cinnamon to spice/this afternoon/light as the swirls of cream’. She’s a salt of the earth working-class woman who does her best for her children, and she feels part of her community. Does a positive representation get the author (me) off the hook? Have I appropriated her story, and if so, is that okay? Zachary Snider suggests that writing about family ‘is one of the biggest risks that a writer can take’ (Snider 2017, 101), because what ends up in print can lead to family estrangement. Claudia Mills writes that family members generally expect confidentiality and that writing about loved ones can lead to ‘issues of betrayal of confidence and invasion of privacy’ (Mills 2000, 202). She also warns about the potential for ‘exploitation’ (2000, 203). According to Robert McGill, authors must ‘weigh their desire for self-expression against the wishes of their closest relations’ (McGill 2013, 2). While these writers are speaking more specifically about autobiographical writing, memoir and fictionalised autobiography, the same concerns can be applied to my autobiographical poetry. The character in Hope in Hell based on my brother appears less sympathetic. This character, named Dave (not my brother’s actual name), has some anger issues and seems frustrated with his life. But the poetry also represents value in his low-level vigilantism—his desire to help people despite the aggression that often results: Legging it down the market Dave yanks some bloke off his bike and cracks his head against the metal bar of a stall drags him up by the collar spits in his face jus be a bit more careful you tosser riding yer bike

16 

S. ATTFIELD

like a bleedin maniac could’ve killed someone lets him go gets on with the shopping   (Attfield 2000, 6)

The events described here have been changed a little, but they are based on a real-life moment in Walthamstow High Street that I witnessed. Arguably, the inclusion of this story, and others in a similar vein, is a form of exploitation as outlined by Mills (2000). I could have asked my brother for permission to use these stories but he definitely would have said no. I sent him the book when it was published and he has never mentioned the poems, so I have never asked him whether he is offended by the representation. But it doesn’t seem to have damaged our relationship at all (not as far as I know!). My mother loved the book and her characterisation, and she showed the poems to all her friends and neighbours. Maybe I was just lucky that my mother was my greatest fan and was so proud of my educational achievements which are against the odds—council estate kids don’t usually have opportunities to undertake PhDs, and my path to higher education was not a traditional one. On reflection, the collection now causes me some discomfort, and there are other aspects too that create a cringe effect when I read them now. Hopefully, I have evolved as a poet since those days. But at the time, I was so determined to publish a book of working-class poetry that I didn’t really think of the ethical implications of telling these stories and of revealing some elements of dysfunction within my own working-class family. This an example perhaps of what Janet Zandy describes as an ever-shifting working-class identity, one that ‘moves in time’ (Zandy 1995, 1), so that the working-class person of 20 years ago (when I wrote these earlier poems) is not the same as the present one (while retaining certain integral aspects of the working-class culture but with a growing class consciousness). John Duffy states that the ‘teaching of writing necessarily and inevitably involves us in ethical deliberation and decision-making’ (Duffy 2019, 14). And it is true that I spend a lot of time encouraging my students to think through the ethical implications of their story choices. I teach them about cultural appropriation and about moral superiority and try to steer them away from telling stories that aren’t theirs to tell, or from stories that apply severe moral judgement to the lives of disenfranchised characters. They learn how to be careful with their choice of subjects and to be respectful

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

17

as writers, as well as learning how to acknowledge the various privileges they might possess. And we talk about the kinds of ethical dilemmas that a writer might face. Since Hope in Hell was published, I have had many more poems published across a number of different outlets. They are all based on working-­ class experience. But the tone has changed quite a lot. In Hope in Hell, there was an element of judgement levelled at my characters and the estate community more generally. The poems include descriptions of ‘gob on the door handles/burnt-out cars/un-muzzled pitballs’—all accurate, in that they certainly existed, but the grouping them together made it seem as though these unpleasant things were there all the time (they were not). Despite the occasional ‘piss puddles in the lift’, for the most part, the estate I grew up on was a safe place to live, with a close-knit community. My concentration of the negative aspects together to create more dramatic effect in the poems has the consequence of rendering the whole estate and its residents dysfunctional. But when I think about my old neighbours, I mostly remember people who looked out for each other and did their best with whatever means they had on hand. There was some dysfunction, but it definitely wasn’t the norm. The last poem in the collection does offer a more positive description—‘the tower block windows/shine gold with afternoon sun’; ‘reggae throbs bass/into the end of the day’—but I wonder now whether it comes too late—once the reader has felt the negativity of miserable residents feeling trapped in the towers and kids vandalising trees, the more celebratory aspects of this community and culture might be too little. It could be suggested that this is a disservice to my working-class family and community, because I should use this platform to tell stories and steer clear of dysfunction and the unappealing elements of estate life. Some might argue that I should be concentrating on positive representations that can counter the many stereotypes of working-class people. On the other hand is the position that I should be showing life how it is and including both. The question of what might be more ethical is a hard one to answer easily. I don’t think it’s ethical to romanticise poverty and hardship. As Zandy states, ‘working-class life is not bucolic’ (Zandy 1995, 7). Poverty leads to dysfunction and should be acknowledged. The class structures that cause inequality need to be exposed, and the consequences of class discrimination and its intersections with racism and sexism should be documented. Poetry can do this, and it can do it very well. Jim Daniels states that

18 

S. ATTFIELD

‘working-class poetry is about something’ (Daniels 2005, 114), meaning that it doesn’t operate as leisurely reflections on abstract ideas—it is immediate and shows how class works. Poets from working-class backgrounds reveal the poetry that exists in the work and the lives of working-class people, lives that have often been deemed as unworthy material for ‘literature’. According to Daniels, working-class poetry ‘results in lifting the veil, seeing the men and women behind the curtain working to produce every single thing we purchase’ (Daniels 2005, 126). This lifting of the veil is an ethical act because it draws attention to the world of working-­ class work and the conditions of working-class jobs. If ethics is about debating and defending what is right and wrong, then working-class poetry provides the perfect material for these kinds of debates. It is not right for people to be paid a starvation wage or for people to work in dangerous environments. It is also wrong for people’s work to be undervalued or dismissed as ‘low skill’ or for people to be discriminated against at work because of their class, race, religion, gender, sexuality or disability. Working-class poetry can help us illustrate and assert these points. What is right is the ability to find dignity in work; to be able to provide for a family; to live without fear of homelessness; the relief that comes with a secure job and to be safe in the workplace; access to healthcare and education; to be able to express joy in working-class culture. All of these ‘right’ things are present in working-class poetry. There is potentially a risk though, that too much dysfunction in working-­ class poetry might lead to voyeuristic readings—the ‘poverty porn’ syndrome of people from affluent classes enjoying a vicarious experience of being poor. I’m more ambivalent on this because generally I enjoy the grim, but understand that some of the grim can be misunderstood by non-working-class readers. The grim or dysfunctional can be read as class exotic—as dangerously different, when actually is it neither. Although it isn’t poetry, I’m reminded of the US television show Tiger King (2020). The show, which featured big cat breeder Joe Exotic, became a Covid-19 lockdown favourite on Netflix. Some viewers and reviewers suggest that the show is exploitative because it features subjects who are clearly working-­class or poverty class, some of whom are missing teeth, and all of whom have strong rural accents. Joe Exotic describes himself as a ‘redneck’ and celebrates this aspect of his culture. The reviewers who think the show is voyeuristic strike me as people who may not have had any contact with the people featured in the show. I don’t think of the subjects in the show as exotic—they are people with flaws like all people, and some do

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

19

engage in some rather questionable (unethical) behaviour, but they are people I recognise. I know people who are missing teeth and who speak with strong regional/working-class accents, people who might not have a formal education and people who work in low-paid jobs. They are just working-class people to me, and I think this is the issue. The kinds of grim and dysfunction in some kinds of working-class poetry is only confronting or exotic to those who don’t understand it. The ‘no go’ areas of certain neighbourhoods are only thought of that way by the people who don’t live there, who don’t belong. When a working-class poet writes about violence in their community, they aren’t suggesting that all working-class people are violent. When they write about drug addiction, they aren’t trying to paint a picture of all working-class people as hooked on drugs. If there are leaking roofs, beat­up cars, broken washing machines, dirty carpets and mould on the wallpaper in poems, this is not because all working-class people live in squalor. These exist within the poems because they exist within working-class communities. The unethical thing is to ignore what causes these problems—to read and enjoy the grim but not care or want to find out why this might be the case. Some readers might see a run-down home and judge the occupant as lazy or uncaring. The truth is likely to be that the landlord refuses to repair the dwelling, or the occupant is unable to maintain the property for financial reasons, or for health/ability reasons. Simon Lee points to the tendency in much working-class writing towards grittiness, in terms of both gritty settings and the grit displayed by working-class characters (Lee 2020, 371). He says that when writers are mindful of the ‘complex intricacies of “grit”’ (374) they can produce works that offer an ethical exploration of class and avoid the danger of creating works that are exploitative or display working-class fetishism (375). And is certainly the intention behind my poetry. Maybe there needs to be a consideration too of ethical reading practice, of not ignoring the causes and consequences of poverty, and of not trying to blame individuals for making bad choices, when it is the results of class system inequities that cause the problems. If it is the reading practice that is unethical, then this does not mean that middle- and upper-class people shouldn’t read working-class poetry though. But it does mean that non-­ working-­class readers should understand that the poetry has not been written for them. Cassandra Falke suggests that because class background influences everything we do, then it follows that it would shape the way we read and understand literature (Falke 2018, 61). According to Ben

20 

S. ATTFIELD

Clarke, this can also be seen in the ways that working-class writing has often been dismissed by the gatekeepers and been marginalised (Clarke 2018, 36). The literary merit of working-class writing has often been overlooked and viewed as being too concerned with social issues, dismissed as being ‘formally conservative’ and lacking in experiment (Clarke 2018, 36). But being attentive to social issues, or producing works that fit into the genres of social realism, does not mean that writers have not been concerned with form and technique (Clarke 2018, 26). Social realism does not preclude literary innovation. Often the experimental or innovative aspects of the writing process are invisible to the reader because the immediacy of working-class experience is the dominant feature of the work. In Hope in Hell, I wanted to share some of the experiences of being working class and living on a high-rise council estate, but I was also exploring and experimenting with language—with ways to create rhythm through colloquial speech and to render working-class dialect. I played with structure too and created the work around the notion of the four humours, a theory of the human body that dates back to the Ancient Greeks (and popular during Elizabethan times in England) and combined these with Cockney argot to create poem titles such as ‘Melancholy Mucker’ and ‘Council Estate Choleric’. But maybe I’m digressing too much here—the ethics of gatekeeper obstruction of working-class writing is a topic I have already written about (Attfield 2019). In the collection that I have been working on since Hope in Hell (some of which has been published as individual poems), I continue to grapple with this ethical dilemma, but with some further experience and confidence as a writer and academic. I have more awareness of the possible ethical issues, but at the same time have become clearer and more decisive about what I want my poetry to do. And what I want it to do is evoke the working-class experiences that I have had, particularly those from my younger years. Illustrating teenage working-class life provides readers with a sense of how class affects all aspects of our lives. This isn’t made explicit in the poetry. I don’t write ‘I am oppressed due to my class’. But hopefully the events and experiences conveyed in the poetry shows the reader the political and social reality of my working-class life. As Clarke suggests (2018, 36), working-class writing is political by its very existence due to the marginalisation of working-class creativity and because the writing demonstrates how class works. My work could also be described as an example of ‘social poetics’ which Nowak articulates as a form of poetry practice that is written in order to both highlight the struggles of

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

21

working-class people and contribute to the fight for a more equitable society (Nowak 2020, 8). It might be a bit too much of a stretch for some readers, but like Nowak, I see my poetry as a potential radical tool for ‘social transformation’ (11). My poetry also challenges some of the more traditional views of British working-class people as industrial blue-collar workers living in the north of England and working in mines and factories. There are very few (if any) representations of working-class teenage girls growing up on multicultural council estates and enjoying popular music, hanging out with friends, drinking, taking drugs and working in fast food or retail. To illustrate my working-class life, I have mostly chosen to refer to real people in my poetry. I name them. They are my childhood friends, the people I worked with, people from my neighbourhood in North East London. The collection is called Mix Tape and it also includes references to pivotal popular music from my youth spanning a decade from 1980 to 1990. There is a sense of celebration of popular culture in the poems, and this celebration has to include the people who I listened to the music and went to gigs with. I decided to name real people and places because for me, it creates a more honest and authentic rendition of the experiences. Changing the names of people and places strips the immediacy and makes it harder to really share the details with the reader. I had initially intended to write the poems using real names only during drafting, and then change the names and details later when submitting poems for publication. But I decided against this as the drafting process developed. Using the real names helped take me back to the people and places that were important and assisted me in feeling the past. Being transported back to these events made it easier to feel in touch with the past and therefore relay this within the poems. Katrina Schlunke writes of ‘material remembering’—of memory that that is material, containing ‘effects’ (Schlunke 2013, 253). Evoking material memory allows for the memory to move beyond the realm of the individual and allows for a more collective experience of the memory (254). While Schlunke is relating these ideas back to actual objects that she finds while researching people and events from the past, this idea can be applied to the ways that writers attempt to share their memories with readers—to bring the reader with them back into the past and provide them with some of that experience. Poetry can do this through language—imagery and words that create the sensory memory effect. While the reader of my poems might not have ever set foot on a London council estate in the 1980s, I hope that they might come away from

22 

S. ATTFIELD

reading the poems with a sense of what that might have felt like. Zandy describes working-class writing as way of ‘liberating memory’—memory that that is important because it is both ‘personal and historic’ (Zandy 1995, 2) and provides insights into working-class experience and identity. Articulating working-class identity allows the author and the reader to appreciate that such identity is of value and is crucial to understanding how class works and what is meant by ‘class struggle’ (1). Working-class memories reveal the ways that working-class people use their ‘intelligence and knowledge’ (2) and show that this knowledge deserves the same attention as that given to middle- and upper-class forms of knowledge. Returning to the matter of using real names—I could have changed them once I was happy with a final draft, but I decided that the people who played such an important role in my life, the people who shaped my life at that time, should be named. There was no intent to shame or to disparage. My friends feature in the poems and they are not mocked or criticised. They are included in all their working-class glory! What does this mean? Childhood friends Angela and Suzie are named. In the poems that include them, they are with me when we listen to The Specials while sitting in a park. At the same time as we are swinging on the swing set and singing along, there are other kids a couple of miles away in our local area building barricades and fighting with police in protests against racist policing: ‘Three of us swing in the park/this warm evening/when the twilight just stretches and stretches/listening to the ghetto blaster/new for this decade’. I did not quite realise it at the time, but this was one of the politicising moments of my youth, and the realisation of the political importance of this time was made clear to me when I began writing the poem and remembering the moment. Suzie is in a poem about the Echo and the Bunnymen gig that I was ejected from for being too drunk: ‘don’t remember getting home/only the bitterness of vodka on my breath/it was Suzie’s 18th birthday/she reckons we had a great time/I was sixteen’. This memory has remained a vivid one, not just due to the embarrassment of vomiting over the programme stand, but also because this turned out to be the last chance to see the band before they split up, and it caused me much regret. Angela and Suzie are both part of the story of underage, drinking on the edge of the forest—a liminal space, not just due to adolescence, but also between city and the dark of the ancient forest and between classes: ‘we sat on a bench/under ancient oaks/with cans of Special Brew/ warming at our feet’. The neighbourhood surrounding the forest was an affluent one, and for us to be there was to straddle class boundaries.

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

23

In poems set in later years, school friend Denise features. Denise was always there to deal with the predatory men who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Her physical presence was important—her naturally red mohawk, her tall stature, white face make-up and black eyeliner intimidated these unwanted chancers. Denise’s methods of repelling the attention speak to the experiences and actions of many working-class women when dealing with sexual harassment: ‘Denise squeezes my hand/but we don’t leave/ till Tony with the dotted line/along his throat/picks up his cue/go on try it mate just try it’. Working-class women have often dealt with the harassment by themselves, with no support from HR departments, police or access to legal help that might be available to middle-class women. This needs to be written, and Denise’s efforts in fighting harassment should be known to the world. Naming Denise becomes a question of working-class empowerment. I don’t know if Denise is happy about being named in my poems, but I have shown some of the poems to other named people such as Katie and her response has been laughter (I’ll discuss humour a little later). My old school friend Katie joins me in poems set at the end of my teens when I was living in a share house with her and a motley crew of misfits. And Katie worked with me at Hamleys—the famous toyshop in Central London. The importance of Katie can’t be understated—she was my first non-family housemate. It was with Katie that I started to watch world cinema (which decades later led to an academic monograph, Class on Screen (Attfield 2020)). My friendship with Katie was so important and she is also a working-class woman whose life and story is of great value. It would be less ethical for me to not name Katie: snug in our coats me and Katie snigger at the girlies freezing their nipples hard in tropical climate clothes holding onto their boyfriends’ arms I wanna go home right now Kev we cross our legs try not to look at the fountains in the square while come on darling fancy a bit then do ya? is burped in our faces   (Attfield 2004, 110)

My poems include plenty of excesses—there is alcohol consumption, drug-taking and the subsequent crying and vomiting. According to Jack

24 

S. ATTFIELD

Windle, the inclusion of bodily functions is not uncommon in working-­ class literature and serves as a ‘site of working-class expression’ (Windle 2018, 53) that is ‘visceral’ and works ironically to challenge the ‘characterisation of the lower orders as excrement’ (54)— the working-class abject that can be seen in the dirty realist stories of authors such as Christos Tsiolkas or the down and out poems of Charles Bukowski. This excess in my poems is also meant as a challenge to notions of respectability. To be accepted by the middle classes means presenting as respectable—to be polite, quiet and to defer to authority, particularly for women (Attfield 2016, 45). Being an uncouth, loud and vomiting girl is an affront to middle-class niceness: ‘and the lunch time nut rissole in peanut sauce/ begins to bubble and soup/with the seven pints of Stella/that celebrated 6pm and a till cashed up right/… she belches up a stream/lets it flow over her chest/lumps catch in denim jacket buttons’. The abject qualities align somewhat with what Lee calls ‘hyperbolic representations of working-class grit’ (Lee 2020, 376) that occur in some working-class literature, but unlike the extremely over-the-top descriptions of filth and excess in works such as Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting  (1993) (that Lee refers to), the excess in my poems is all based on real-life events. But these moments of indignity are limited to my experience and similar exploits of friends are not included. Angela, Suzie, Denise and others are represented in a celebratory manner. They are strong, funny, sometimes daft, but they are only ever depicted in a positive light. And the abject aspects of the poems are meant to be funny. Working-class people are funny—humour is an important tool for marginalised people. Laughter is ubiquitous in working-class households (Vasconcellos 1995, 118) and is used as a defence during hardship and as a way to reduce the symbolic power of those who rule (Daniels 2005, 118.) Taking the piss out of the bosses, teachers and anyone in authority is an important part of working-­ class life. So is laughing at yourself. And never punching down. From a working-class perspective, it would be unethical for me to mock my working-­class friends and family, although there is a sense of mocking myself and my attitudes (such as my smugness due to my sensible winter coat vs the nightclub gear worn by the girls waiting for the night bus in freezing London). So I try and keep this in mind when writing about memories that are shared with people I still have in my life. This compulsion to include real people in my poems likely stems from the origins of my poetry writing practice. I started hand-writing poems

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

25

that people could read (rather than ones jotted in a private notebook) when I was working as a shop assistant in Hamleys as a teenager. I’m not sure exactly when it began, but a habit formed of writing poems about my workmates on pieces of till roll (receipt roll from the cash registers). I’d do this when working on the tills during the inevitable lull in customers when there was nothing else to do except stand and wait for the next group. I composed humorous poems based on my workmates’ characteristics—the things I knew they liked, their quirks, catchphrases and so on. I’d give the poems to the subjects as small gifts and they were usually well-received. I kept on doing this for years, and wherever I found myself, I would usually end up writing a poem for someone I liked. Sometimes the someone was a romantic interest, but mostly not. I stopped this after my first published poem. The gift of poems now transferred to the printed page, but I do try and send my work onto the people included in the poems where I am still in touch with them. This possibly quirky start to my poetry writing is not so quirky from a working-class perspective, when poems are created at work, or between work shifts and often relate to the immediacy of the work environment demonstrating that these workplaces provide a fine material for literature (Daniels 2005, 122). Now that I work as an academic, I am distanced from my working-class life in terms of my occupation and the level of privilege that it brings. The poetry that I started off writing for my working-class friends became the vehicle for me eventually entering university. Similarly to Jim Daniels’ story of becoming removed from his working-class life due to poetry leading him into academia, I have also found that writing poetry about my working-class life takes me back there ‘back home’ (Daniels 1994, 95) and keeps my working-class background and working-class family and friends in the centre of my work. And I have found ways to keep this focus in my teaching practice too. Using the stories of real people in my poems also serves as an education for my largely privileged cohort of students. By sharing my work, they are introduced to working-class life and to the ways that class works. The working-class students can hopefully feel empowered and inspired to write their own working-class poems (this gives me a great deal of satisfaction!). So, while I acknowledge that I might be straying into the potentially ethically dubious territory by including real names and details, I think this can be justified by the overall benefits of doing so—it would be unethical to not write about my working-class family and friends. At least, this is my rationale, until a person in my poems orders me to stop.

26 

S. ATTFIELD

References Attfield, S. 2000. Hope in Hell. Wollongong: Five Islands Press. ———. 2004. Night Bus. Famous Reporter, no. 29, pp. 110–111. ———. 2016. Rejecting Respectability: On Being Unashamedly Working Class. Journal of Working-Class Studies 1 (1): 45–57. ———. 2019. On Being a Working-Class Writer. Mascara Literary Review, December. http://mascarareview.com/on-being-a-working-class-writer-bysarah-attfield/ ———. 2020. Class on Screen: The Global Working Class in Contemporary Cinema. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Clarke, B. 2018. Working-Class Writing and Experimentation. In Working-Class Writing: Theory and Practice, ed. Ben Clarke and Nick Hubble, 17–39. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Daniels, J. 1994. Troubleshooting: Poetry, the Factory, and the University. In Liberating Memory: Our Work and Our Working-Class Consciousness, ed. Janet Zandy, 87–95. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. ———. 2005. Work Poetry and Working-Class Poetry: The Zip Code of the Heart. In New Working-Class Studies, ed. Sherry Linkon and John Russo, 113–136. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Duffy, J. 2019. Provocations of Virtue: Rhetoric, Ethics, and the Teaching of Writing. Boulder: University of Colorado Press. Falke, C. 2018. Meaning It: Everyday Hermeneutics and the Language of Class in Literary Scholarship. In Working-Class Writing: Theory and Practice, ed. Ben Clarke and Nick Hubble, 61–80. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Lee, S. 2020. Lit-Grit: The Gritty and the Grim in Working-Class Cultural Production. In Routledge International Handbook of Working-Class Studies, ed. Michele Fazio, Christie Launius, and Tim Strangleman, 371–380. New York: Routledge. McGill, R. 2013. The Treacherous Imagination: Intimacy, Ethics, and Autobiographical Fiction. Columbus, OH: The Ohio State University Press. Mills, C. 2000. Appropriating Other Stories: Some Questions about the Ethics of Writing Fiction. Journal of Social Philosophy 31 (2): 195–206. Nowak, M. 2020. Social Poetics. Minneapolis: Coffee House Press. Schlunke, K. 2013. Memory and Materiality. Memory Studies 6 (3): 253–261. Snider, Z. 2017. Mom and Dad will Hate Me: The Ethics of Writing About Family in Memoir-Fiction. New Writing 14 (1): 98–105. Vasconcellos, J.M. 1995. Laughter as Liberating Memory. In Liberating Memory: Our Work and Our Working-Class Consciousness, ed. Janet Zandy, 114–120. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press.

2  THE ETHICS OF WORKING-CLASS REALISM IN POETRY 

27

Welsh, I. 1993. Trainspotting. New York: Vintage. Windle, J. 2018. Interwoven Histories: Working-Class Literature and Theory. In Working-Class Writing: Theory and Practice, ed. Ben Clarke and Nick Hubble, 41–60. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Zandy, J., ed. 1995. Liberating Memory: Our Work and Our Working-Class Consciousness. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press.

CHAPTER 3

The Golden Rules Sunil Badami

I was at a party at the rain-sodden end of the Masters in Creative and Life Writing I had undertaken at Goldsmiths College in London in 2006 when one of my classmates pondered what we’d learned. It was all so hard, trying to work out what worked and what didn’t. How she wished there were just some rules for writing you could just apply, that you knew just worked to make a story good. Like a surprising number of creative writing students, my classmate didn’t read much and hadn’t written that much either. I replied that you only needed to know about five rules to write a good short story. This declaration was not supported by any evidence, research or theoretical foundations—or much thought, either. When she emailed me the next day asking me what these rules were, I dashed out what I called “the Golden Rules for Writing Short Stories”. At the time, with similarly limited writing practice and publishing experience (having only published one short story), I hadn’t really considered the craft of my writing or reading beyond plot and character. Occasionally, I might be struck by language, but only by imagery, or simile and

S. Badami (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_3

29

30 

S. BADAMI

metaphor. I never realised how difficult dialogue was to write until I tried writing it. Writing was imbued with incredible mystery, mainly because I had no idea what I was doing.

Learning, Not Being Taught Despite often being warned that they cannot be taught how to write, they can only learn, students and other aspiring writers still seek a formula enabling them to write and publish successfully, with countless books and courses promising them how to become a writer; how to overcome writer’s block and the financial and moral struggles of the writing life; how to write in various genres or like different writers; how to read like a writer; or how not write a novel. There’s even Writing Fiction for Dummies (although it isn’t clear if this refers to those who wish to write such fiction, or those for whom it’s written) (Ingermanson and Economy 2009). And that isn’t counting the many books by acclaimed authors such as Stephen King (On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, 2001), Garry Disher (Writing Fiction: An Introduction to the Craft, 2001), Margaret Atwood (Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing, 2002), Kate Grenville (The Writing Book: A Practical Guide for Fiction Writers, 2010) and others. Perhaps the best-known rules of the last 20 years are Elmore Leonard’s, first published as part of the New York Times’ Writers on Writing series in 2001, and subsequently featured in a 2010 Guardian series on other writers’ rules, which included: “Don’t be one of those writers who sentence themselves to a lifetime of sucking up to Nabokov [Geoff Dyer]; description is hard. Remember that all description is an opinion about the world [Anne Enright]; introduce your main characters and themes in the first third of your novel [Michael Moorcock]; leave a decent space of time between writing something and editing it [Zadie Smith]”. The Guardian also published a series on writers’ rooms (2007–2009), just as the Paris Review has long conducted extensive interviews with writers called “The Art of Fiction”, with Mason Curry’s popular blog Daily Routines (2007–2020) and others (Brainpickings, Lithub, Lit Reactor, The Rumpus, Verity La and more) all suggesting that by studying how, where or when famous writers work, aspiring writers can emulate their work or success, just as they flock to writers’ festivals to hear writers talk and enrol in creative writing workshops at writers’ centres or in university creative writing courses to be taught by published writers—and just as I did at Goldsmiths, where I was taught by Blake Morrison and attended

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

31

seminars by Kazuo Ishiguro, Julian Barnes, Alan Bennett, Bernardine Evaristo, Aminatta Forna, Jackie Kay and other acclaimed writers. Amitava Kumar suspects “writers are more likely than, say, firefighters or doctors to seek professional advice from those they admire… because writing is regarded as a magical act, its mysteries parted, if only temporarily, by the adoption of some practical rules” (2020). Although when a student asked for writing advice, W.  Somerset Maugham supposedly replied that “there are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately no-­ one knows what they are” (Maugham 1977; O’Toole 2020). Ernest Hemingway declared that “the laws of prose writing are as immutable as those of flight, of mathematics, of physics” (Hemingway 1981: 594). But what are the laws, or rules, of writing? Can they be universally applied, especially when many writers’ styles and advice often contradict those of other writers? How might these rules affect personal style and voice? And what role can creative writing teaching play in learning how to write? To interrogate these questions—and unlike my approach to devising the Golden Rules—I use qualitative, quantitative and empirical research, based on literary and narrative theory, popular science, literary precedent and my own writing practice and personal experience.

The PhD Versus the MFA Since Aristotle’s Poetics, there have been endeavours to analyse and taxonomise narrative, such as Vladimir Propp’s encyclopaedic research on folktale morphology and syntagma, Joseph Campbell’s The Hero with a Thousand Faces (1949) or Robert McKee’s Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting (1997). All suggest “universal” themes, frameworks or “monomyths” with easily replicated templates to appeal to the widest audiences in the same subtextual and subconscious ways rhetorical devices such as the tricolon or iambic pentameter strike chords with listeners and readers. More recently, books such as Lisa Cron’s Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere) (2016) or Will Storr’s The Science of Storytelling (2019) suggest storytelling can be deployed neurologically to write “more effective” narratives. The formal term “narratology” was only coined in 1969 by Tzvetan Todorov, in which (presaging the “theory wars” to follow), he called for a

32 

S. BADAMI

hypothetical “science that does not exist yet; let’s call it NARRATOLOGY, or the science of narrative” (1969: 10), which would move beyond the “surface” of text-based interpretation towards a general logical and structural system of narrative analysis. But while many literary theorists, such as Dorrit Cohn, Michael Riffaterre, Walter Ong and Dominick LaCapra, have offered extensive and insightful analyses and theories about the way language and narrative function to establish meaning for readers, literary theory might be, as Mikhail Bakhtin conceded, “utterly inadequate” in “dealing effectively with artistic uniqueness of novelistic discourse” (Bakhtin and Holquist 1981: 261–266). For many critics lamenting the decline of literary theory in English and creative writing courses since its apotheosis in the 1990s, this has led to “a schism… between literary scholarship and creative writing: disciplines which differ in their points of reference (Samuel Richardson v. Jhumpa Lahiri), the graduate degrees they award (Doctor of Philosophy v. Master of Fine Arts) and their perceived objects of study (‘literature’ v. ‘fiction’)” (Batuman 2010), resulting in a “hyperspecialized era… eager to distinguish between those who study fiction and those who write it [with] entirely separate curriculums for each” (Rashid 2018). Formal literary theory, particularly in the guise of such “experimental” forms as “ficto-criticism”, often endeavours to subvert accepted narrative elements, such as plot, language and character, resulting in what Julienne van Loon has called “anti-narrative fiction” (2007), with the convoluted syntax of many post-modernist and structuralist theorists lampooned during the “theory wars” by Alan Sokal’s 1996 hoax or Philosophy and Literature’s Bad Writing Contest (1995–1998), which showcased its worst and most confounding excesses (Smith 1999), and suggested that theory (with, perhaps, the exception of a few, such as Terry Eagleton, Linda Hutcheon, Wayne Booth or Brian McHale) may not offer easily accessible or even readable insights into writing well. Even Emily McAvan, who argues writers need literary theory, acknowledges that “such writing [is] unlikely to engage much of an audience” (McAvan 2016). But while much theory seeks to analyse how writing works, and with its emphasis on the text (rather than the author) in understanding how to read, what does it actually tell us about how to write?

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

33

Textualist Atheism and the Death of the Author Although McAvan contends that literary theory enables novelists to elucidate complex ideas as well as achieve aesthetic brilliance, citing Don DeLillo, Thomas Pynchon, J. M. Coetzee. A. S. Byatt and David Foster Wallace, her argument that literary theory makes writers more original or better (2016) doesn’t address the problem of fiction before narratology and theory coalesced into disciplines in the 1970s. While one might interpret Dostoevsky through a theoretical lens, this doesn’t mean he was writing with literary theory in mind. Nor would—or should—anyone argue that the works of Dostoevsky, Tagore, Conrad, Shakespeare, the Brontës or any writer not using theory—especially if they’re writing outside Western culture or practices—is inferior to those who might, and “one doesn’t need to concern themselves with literary theory to write powerful literature” (Rashid 2018). And while a knowledge of narratology and literary theory may offer some writers ways of interrogating or subverting these rules, it counts for little if the writing it produces is unreadable or if nobody, especially those who want to write, reads it. The antagonism of many writers to theorists’ intellectual contortions and co-options is reflected by Chimamanda Adichie’s retort: “Postcolonial theory? I don’t know what it means. I think it’s something professors made up because they needed jobs” (quoted in Musila 2018). Despite McAvan proclaiming the work of “truly great novelists like [Elena] Ferrante” is a result of “a decent understanding of literary theory… made more refreshing by its knowledge of theory, not less so” (2016), Ferrante’s assertion that “I’m a storyteller. I’ve always been more interested in storytelling than in writing” (quoted in Donadio 2014) is, well, telling. Perhaps it’s due to Barthes’ provocation in Death of the Author that a “text is made of multiple writings, drawn from many cultures and entering into mutual relations of dialogue, parody, contestation, but there is one place where this multiplicity is focused and that place is the reader, not … the author” (1967) that those may have laboured alone for months, if not years, on their art find theory galling (pun intended), even as textualism’s “authorial atheism” may originate in Flaubert’s famous dictum that “an author in his book must be like God in the universe, present everywhere and visible nowhere” (Flaubert and Steegmuller 1980). Still, there’s something ironic—and hypocritical—that “the surface intentions of authors have been set out of bounds as inaccessible while unconscious intentions, though inaccessible to the artist, have become

34 

S. BADAMI

routine for theorists to decode” (Farrell 2018: 162), with the supposed subversion of the authority of the “dead white male author” resulting in the lionisation of the authority of the dead white male theorist. Living white male author Jonathan Franzen asserts theory confected a “literature of emergency” to resist absorption or co-option by “an all-absorbing, all-­ co-­opting System”. But, he argues: The problem with the literature of emergency is it doesn’t age well. As the decades pass, the postmodern program of formal experimentation as an act of resistance begins to seem seriously misconceived… To wrest the novel away from its original owner, the… reader, requires strenuous effort from theoreticians… And once literature and its criticism become co-dependent the fallacies set in… such as the Fallacy of the Stupid Reader, implicit in every modern ‘aesthetics of difficulty,’ wherein difficulty is a ‘strategy’ to protect art from co-optation… to ‘upset’ or ‘compel’ or ‘challenge’ or ‘subvert’ or ‘scar’ the unsuspecting reader… as if it were a virtue. (Franzen 2002)

It’s a reflection of theory’s decline that when Lucy Ives asked her students, including some seniors, if they knew who Derrida was, “they, to a person, did not” (2018). For Gabrielle Innes, “the literary theory classes I took hardly scratched the surface of its vast teachings and… a lot of the time just left me scratching my head… certainly it would make us better readers, and academics if that was what we wanted to become—but would it make us more capable writers? And if so, how?” (2016). After all, “no amount of theoretical flourishes and new coinings of genre can compensate readers for the lack of a good story and vivid characters” (Masson 2004: 11). Regarding my earlier point about learning, rather than being taught, how to write, the difference between the passive acceptance of prescribed rules and the active process of practice and experimentation (often, hopefully, resulting in the subversion or inversion of these rules) is the difference between craft and art. “Like most artforms”, Matt Haig says, “writing is part instinct and part craft” (quoted in Flood 2014). But how can anyone create art without understanding the principles of craft that underpin it?

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

35

Art and Craft This problem isn’t new. Nearly 60 years ago, John Fischer lamented “the almost-vanished art of writing” in the satirical polemic “Why Nobody Can’t Write Good”, featuring a recent young graduate “from one of the more expensive women’s colleges” looking for a job in publishing. Despite good grades, majoring in English, and having written “a little verse of her own”, she “couldn’t spell, or write a paragraph of coherent prose. Moreover, she was astonished that anybody expected her to do these things… what she wanted, she explained, was ‘to do something creative’” (Fischer 1962). Reflecting the difference between being taught and learning, many writers are as averse to the academy as they are to theory, with Lewis saying that “I would rather learn about the art than… teach it” (1982: 41). When I asked an acclaimed Australian writer (who doesn’t have a creative writing degree) for a reference to Goldsmiths she asked, “Why do you need to study how to write?” Nonetheless, many writers (like me) end up teaching creative writing, probably because it offers a marginally less uncertain living than writing. But for some, like Hanif Kureishi, a lot of students “just can’t tell a story… can you teach that? I don’t think you can” (quoted in Jones and Clark 2014). In response, Jeanette Winterson said that “my job is not to teach my students to write; my job is to explode language in their faces… to alter their relationship with language. The rest is up to them” (quoted in Flood 2014). But “if Nam Le hadn’t studied at Iowa, could he have written The Boat? If Kazuo Ishiguro hadn’t studied at East Anglia, would he still have produced The Remains of the Day? If Patrick Allington hadn’t done a PhD in creative writing at the University of Adelaide, might Figurehead not be with us? Are these better books because of the writers’ research and their supervisors’ guidance? And the answer remains the same: who knows?” (Broinowski 2016). As discussed elsewhere in this book, writers don’t write because they know the answer, but because they have a question, and they want to discover, in a journey towards uncertainty, something to explain of themselves and the world around them (cf Adelaide, Chap. 11). It’s another reason I prefer calling myself “a writer” as opposed to the magisterial “author”. I don’t have any answers: I’m just trying, in both my writing and my teaching, to ask better questions. Rather than “encouraging students to work in ficto-criticism, or overtly non-linear or anti-narrative fiction, as is more often done when bringing

36 

S. BADAMI

contemporary theory into the creative writing classroom”, van Loon describes how she sought to encourage her students to get better at writing stories that “actually demonstrated some understanding of those aspects of narrative fiction that coerce a reader to read on. What drives narrative? What makes reading compelling? How do good stories seduce us? And most importantly, how can you, or how do you, apply what you know about how narrative works when it comes to the construction of your own narrative fiction?” (2007).

Easy Answers, Hard Questions Such questions contrast with the definitive, if gnomic, pronouncements of theorists and writers’ rules. Perhaps aspiring writers seek such easy answers because writing isn’t just a “vocation of unhappiness” (Collins 1959) but of uncertainty: of completion, of publication, of acclaim, of readership, of income, of merit. Still, if what makes literature “literary” is not just the absence of answers or determinate meanings or resolution, but a tendency to outwit or confound such expectations (Garber 2011: 259–260), then it seems disingenuous to seek answers on how to write the kind of work that hopefully provokes such difficult questions. Correspondingly, while guides such as The Chicago Manual of Style (1906) or Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style (1959) offer practical means of writing more clearly and effectively, can they equip writers to tell better stories, rather than simply telling them better? Given narratology’s precedent in linguistics—seeking a structuralist formalisation of narrative “grammar” to identify, analyse and describe any narrative component or content—the links between language and story are intrinsic, even if textualism’s suspicion of the author is founded crucially on the mistrust of words, in which language, “alienated from its origins, purged of its human imperfections, its natural inadequacies, and, through the inadvertent agency of skilful authors, do[es] its best to eclipse its human source” (Farrell 2018: 138). Van Loon acknowledges the “usefulness” of the “elements of fiction” approach by Janet Burroway’s “standard MFA text” Writing Fiction (1982), and by others (such as discussing fiction-writing aspects and techniques such as character, point-of-view, dialogue, structure or plot and language), but argues this “is a useful but rather introverted approach… limited in that it assumes a certain kind of fiction to be the intended outcome” (2007). And “if you take ‘good writing’ as a matter of lucidity,

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

37

striking word combinations, evocative descriptions, inventive metaphors, smooth transitions and avoidance of word repetition, the level of [creative] writing has skyrocketed,” according to Batuman. “In technical terms, pretty much any MFA graduate leaves Stendhal in the dust. On the other hand, The Red and the Black is a book I actually want to read. This reflects, I believe, the counterintuitive but real disjuncture between good writing and good books” (2010).

Qualified Advice Nonetheless—Lorrie Moore’s hilarious “How to Become a Writer” (2002),1 Rainer Maria Rilke’s impassioned Letters to a Young Poet (1929),2 or Walter Benjamin’s lyrical “The Writer’s Technique in Thirteen Theses” (1928, 1979)3 aside—many writers’ rules for writing follow style guides in the production of text, rather than the development of narrative. Hemingway said the four main rules from The Kansas City Star style guide when he was a cadet “were the best rules I ever learned for the business of writing. I’ve never forgotten them. No man with any talent… can fail to write well if he abides with them” (quoted in Fisher 2007). They included: “use short sentences and first paragraphs; vigorous English (vivid, evocative, definitive language); be positive, not negative (say ‘affordable’ rather than ‘inexpensive’ or ‘confusing’ rather than ‘unclear’)” (Fisher 2007). Similarly, Kumar described how he came across a piece of paper with V. S. Naipaul’s “Rules for Beginners” on an Indian newsroom wall. Having been asked by its reporters if he could give them some basic suggestions for improving their writing, Naipaul offered similar rules, such as: not writing sentences longer than ten or twelve words; ensuring each sentence makes a clear statement that links to the one before it; and avoiding long words (“Even difficult ideas can be broken down into small words” [cited in Kumar 2015: 121]). Many writers’ emphasis on concreteness is at odds with theory’s abstractions and abstruseness. “Always go go for the concrete” instructs Naipaul (cited in Kumar 2015: loc. cit.). As does Chuck Palahniuk, calling for “specific sensory detail: action, smell, taste, sound, and feeling… thinking is abstract. Knowing and believing are intangible. Your story will always be stronger if you just show the physical actions and details of your characters and allow your reader to do the thinking and knowing” (2013). Rachel Cusk encourages students “to exteriorise their subjective world by fixing it to objects, instead of routing everything through the persona of Jane or

38 

S. BADAMI

John. For the reader, being trapped in the head of Jane or John, and dependent on them for every scrap of information, is the precise opposite of their own experience of existence” (2014). Ben Blatt’s popular 2017 book, Nabokov’s Favourite Word Is Mauve: The Literary Quirks and Oddities of Our Favourite Authors, applied statistical linguistic analysis to quantitatively parse the use of a number of parts of speech and literary devices, such as adverbs, exclamations, clichés, opening and closing sentences. Blatt consulted four reputable lists of twentieth-­ century English literature (the Library Journal, Koen Book Distributors, Modern Library and Radcliffe Publishing Course lists), all of which rank at least 100 works. From these, he aggregated a list of 15 “great” authors with a bibliography of 167 books, of which 37 were considered “great” by inclusion on at least 2 lists. These included Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Toni Morrison, James Joyce, George Orwell, D.  H. Lawrence, William Faulkner and Joseph Conrad—as well as others, such as Willa Cather, Sinclair Lewis or Edith Wharton, who aren’t as read as they once were, or Ayn Rand, who is, in my book, unreadable. If the first rule of writing is “show, don’t tell” (first popularised by Percy Lubbock in the influential—and contentious—Craft of Fiction (1921), and discussed at length in Booth’s The Rhetoric of Fiction (1961)), then the second must be “avoid adverbs”. As King admonished, “the road to hell is paved with adverbs” (2000). Blatt combined all 167 books and ranked them by adverbs per 10,000 words, then compared how many of these books by these “great” authors were considered “great” and “not so great” (such as William Faulkner’s widely acclaimed As I Lay Dying and the less-regarded Soldier’s Pay [2017: 20, 27]). Books with 0–49 adverbs per 10,000 words were considered great by critics 67  per cent of the time. Those in the 50–100 range considered great 29 per cent of the time, and those with more than 150 adverbs just 16 per cent of the time (Blatt 2017, pp. 14–19). While there was little difference between acclaimed books and bestsellers in terms of adverb usage, and while Hemingway, living up to his reputation, only wrote 80 adverbs per 10,000 words, J.  K. Rowling, who “seems to have never met [an adverb] she didn’t like” (King 2009) tallied 140 per 10,000, and the execrable Fifty Shades of Grey 155. But, Blatt acknowledges, “a statistical correlation, of course, does not imply causation” (2017: 35), especially given some writers, such as Charles Dickens, wrote 20 novels, while Jane Austen only wrote 6; one can hardly compare James Joyce’s Ulysses to Fitzgerald’s slender The Great Gatsby; and D. H. Lawrence, whose two most acclaimed

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

39

books (Sons and Lovers and Lady Chatterley’s Lover), used the most adverbs in his oeuvre. It isn’t just adverbs. Naipaul advised that “the beginner should avoid using adjectives, except those of colour, size and number. Use as few adverbs as possible” (cited in Kumar 2015: 122). C.  S. Lewis also disavowed them: “Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. Instead of telling us a thing was ‘terrible,’ describe it so we’ll be terrified. Don’t say it was ‘delightful’; make us say ‘delightful’ when we’ve read [it]… all those words are only saying to your reader, ‘Please will you do my job for me’” (1988: 64). Strunk and White counsel to “write with nouns and verbs, not with adjectives and adverbs … this is not to disparage adjectives and adverbs; they are indispensable parts of speech…however, it is nouns and verbs, not their assistants, that give good writing its toughness and colour” ((1979) 2000: 71–72). For fear of coming across all Blattian, it makes sense. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, it’s estimated that of the approximately 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words, with over 50  per cent nouns, 14  per cent verbs and 25  per cent adjectives (OED n.d.). If nouns and verbs constitute the majority of the lexicon, it makes sense to use them the most. Adverbs—like all over-description or exposition—“indicate insecurity” (King 2009), and I’d ask: if you can’t trust your reader, how can you expect them to suspend their disbelief? It’s reflected by the way many students confuse “show, don’t tell” with a plethora of descriptors, leaving their prose an impenetrable, pleonastic thicket which does neither. Kureishi said of his students, “they can write sentences but they don’t know how to make a story go from there all the way through to the end without people dying of boredom in between” (quoted in Jones and Clark 2014). Or confusion. The native English speaker’s vocabulary is estimated to be between 27,000 and 42,000 words (Brysbaert et al. 2016), of which we only use around 5000 in everyday speech, with only 2800 covering around 92 per cent of all the words most people might encounter or use in most film, television, magazines, newspapers, websites, books and so on (Browne et al. 2013). As such, Strunk and White recommend not putting “words not used orally… on paper” ((1979) 2000: 76). If vernacular and dialogue make fiction verisimilar—knowing characters only by the tone of their voices (Leonard 2001)—then when you recall the fiction that feels or

40 

S. BADAMI

sounds true, it’s often where people are talking, as if we were overhearing them (or, if they’re thinking or talking to themselves, as if we’re reading their thoughts). It’s not the only reason creative writing teachers are always exhorting their students to read their work aloud, and Strunk and White say a good, reliable ear is vital ((1979) 2000: 77). If you think about the relentless press of thoughts and words and lists and worries and dreams and hopes and regrets constantly running through your mind, how many descriptors are there?

The Golden Rules So, having examined such an array of theories and rules, what did my Golden Rules say? 1. A story should be a slice of life with a bend in it. If you write with a plot in mind, your characters may end up swallowed up or bent out of shape by it. Rather than “creating” your characters, simply install your (unseen) self in the corner and watch them, rather than trying to imagine them. You’ll find they DO a lot more this way, rather than THINKING so much. PLOT is what they DO.  If they do nothing and go nowhere, why should your reader care about them? 2. A story should start just after your reader thinks it’s meant to and end just before they want it to. If you write as if you just walked in on someone in the middle of an argument, no backstory’s necessary—your reader will work it out—just as we do in real life. This also means you don’t have to “tie everything up”—lack of resolution results in resonance. 3. Start with the problem. You don’t need to resolve the dramatic conflict in a story (sometimes you don’t need it at all) but if you have a problem, it should appear, like Chekhov’s gun, in the opening third. If it comes out of nowhere, your reader will resent you for tricking them. It doesn’t have to be explicitly explained—your reader will resent you for this too—but there should be sufficient signals for your reader to follow the problem back from the end. Ask yourself: how would you—and through you, your character—get out of it? They may not solve it—but what’s the consequence, and how does it affect or change them, and our perception of them?

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

41

4. It all comes down to character. If you observe your character closely, then you’ll find they act by themselves—you’ll just have to describe what they’re doing. This is when the story “writes itself”. If you really watch your character, you’ll find language and metaphor construct and arrange themselves naturally and organically, without being forced. Consider the “dialogue of gesture”. How does a character convey their emotions through holding a cup? Or looking out the window? It’s in the silence between words that readers can meet you halfway and imagine their own personal (and thus, more powerful) reactions, rather than being told HOW your character feels—or worse, WHY. If you concentrate on your character—without forcing it, without trying to construct them—they’ll reward you by speaking and acting in a manner true to themselves. If readers identify with your character, the rest is easy to get through—especially plot. 5. The best language is the language you never notice. Doesn’t really matter if you use adverbs (although you should try to cut them out wherever you can), doesn’t matter what style you write— but remember, especially in a short story, you don’t have a lot of time and space to convey a lot. So, the less you use to describe, the more you’ll have to show— strange and paradoxical though that seems. Being free with your character and letting them act as they like—and yet being more controlled with language and only giving away the bare minimum— gives your reader more imaginative space to imagine and you more space to tell more story. Too many words and too much description are nervous chatter, confusing the reader. The good writer spends more time removing words—the bad one just adds them. Although I’ve used the Golden Rules as the basis for creative writing classes and workshops for the last decade, I’d never really thought about them epistemologically, only technically. Reviewing them now, it appears I favoured a narratological approach to start the story, with language (the rule applicable to actually writing the story) prioritised procedurally. Yet I’m struck by how many of my rules unconsciously echo so many of those we’ve discussed.

42 

S. BADAMI

Just as Kumar would practice Naipaul’s rules for six months, echoing Ray Bradbury’s advice to write a short story a week (2001), I tested the Golden Rules empirically (although unlike Bradbury, I didn’t do this over a whole year) and wrote four short stories in four weeks. I recall the process of writing as fluent, the drafting quick, with only two or three drafts of each, few revisions for language, and none for plot. Keeping one eye on the characters and the other on the Golden Rules gave me a focus I hadn’t found in other abandoned drafts. Perhaps, it wasn’t that I followed the Golden Rules as much as they became a kind of writing exercise, which meant “the narrative [had] to find a way around it, like water has to flow around an obstacle, and the result is that the whole enterprise is given form” (Cusk 2014). But could it be that because I wasn’t worried about the language itself, I could spend more imaginative energy on simply telling the story? Samuel Beckett famously said he wrote in French because “it offered greater clarity and forced him to think more fundamentally, to write with greater economy” (quoted in Mitgang 1981). And by focusing on the characters as if I was simply watching them—the way I often do as I gaze at people on public transport, and in the street, and in bars or shops, or walking past half-lit windows on one of those sweet, lonely evenings in a faraway place, hearing snatches of songs in languages you can’t speak, smelling on the spangled breeze the aromas of meals you’ll never eat, and glimpsing, just for a moment, into rooms you’ll never enter, and lives you’ll never know outside your imagination—I found myself experiencing what Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has called “flow” (Csikszentmihalyi and Bar 1990), with the stories more or less “writing themselves”, just as the Golden Rules promised. Three of my stories were published and the first two continue to be anthologised in Australia and overseas. Considering I’d only published one story before, it seemed a validation of the Golden Rules, which, as I pointed out at the start of this chapter, I devised without any research or much thought. I wasn’t aware of Leonard’s, or King’s, or Atwood’s or anyone’s else’s rules, and Palahniuk’s and Grenville’s hadn’t been published yet. It’s easy to forget how much more limited the internet was at the start of the millennium; databases like JSTOR weren’t widely available; and most libraries were still undigitised, so you had to know what you were looking for to find it. To be honest, I’d have felt resorting to other writers telling me how to write was cheating, just as Graham Greene, E.  M. Forster and Virginia Woolf resisted Lubbock’s prescriptive

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

43

formalism. Like many writers, I write not so much because I think I have anything to say, but because I don’t want to be told, and though I don’t profess to being one, “the good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice” (Faulkner 1956)—even as they seem to keep giving it. So, how did I conceive my rules?

Theory, Practice, Reading and Writing I couldn’t tell you. It’s not just the passage of time or my failure to keep a notebook or writing journal (cf Falconer, Chap. 7). Re-reading the Golden Rules now is like re-reading early work and wondering how I ever managed to conceive that story or write that audaciously. There’s no doubt the many seminars I attended at Goldsmiths informed the rules, even if I can’t remember everything the writers said, but just as McAvan or Rashid assert we might unconsciously be influenced and informed by political and theoretical movements, could we also unconsciously “recognise” good writing because it’s practised by the great writers we read? While not all readers are writers, all writers should be readers, especially before they ever put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard). “To write is to practice, with particular intensity and attentiveness, the art of reading” (Sontag 2000). I was an inveterate reader before I started writing, and especially when I started writing, particularly in those halcyon days when smartphones hadn’t yet driven us to distraction and I hadn’t yet started reviewing, researching or marking. And although I’m also suspicious of any prescriptive canon, I did read many of the writers and books in Blatt’s lists. But what happens to readers when they become authors themselves, or when writers open another’s book? When and how does either their “readerness” or “authorialness” die? As they turn the cover of a book, the “death mask of the work” (Benjamin (1929) 1979: 65)? Or is that multiplicity regenerated and refracted through their writing, as it is in their reading? While I’d read in books that art is not easy, the mind repeats in its ignorance the vision of others. Perhaps I was “merely the black swan of trespass on alien waters” (McAuley and Stewart 1944, 2003), unconsciously or subliminally imitating the work of writers I’d read and admired. My own writing, from each draft to every subsequent publication, is a re-writing of everything that goes before it, writing itself is a palimpsest of those writers

44 

S. BADAMI

and writings influencing any writer. Besides, spending on my tuition the house deposit my wife and I had saved compelled me to write every day. While critics like Batuman, McAvan and Rashid may cast aspersions about the “vocational” focus of creative degrees more on writing and publishing than theory, what’s the point of knowing how to write, if you can’t actually write? Relying on reading books telling you how to write rather than reading those showing you what good writing is by virtue of their greatness recalls Geoff Dyer’s provocation: “how can you know anything about literature if all you’ve done is read books?” (2009: 102). You can read all the books you like about how to speak a language, but the only way you’ll achieve fluency is by reading books in that language—or better yet, by speaking it. And that means learning from your experiments and failures, and failing again, and again, until you fail better (Beckett 1983: 8), the way “the good writer spends more time removing words”. Perhaps that’s the unspoken Golden Rule beyond all that makes a writer a writer, as opposed to “someone who writes”: revision, re-writing it over and over until you can bear to re-read it. As Ishiguro told us at Goldsmiths, “it’s in between drafts that the writing reveals itself.” Cusk reminds us that “the desire to write comes easily; writing itself is technical and hard” (2014), and Kumar points out, “rules can never be a substitute for what a writer can learn, should learn, simply by sitting down and writing” (2015: 121), with Bradbury counselling to “write a hell of a lot of short stories… it doesn’t matter what the quality is to start, but at least you’re practicing” (2001). It won’t happen in a weekend workshop, or even years. That’s the uncertainty—and tantalising promise—of this magical endeavour. But while the Golden Rules might have been conceived by instinct, they could not have been realised without craft, or practice. It doesn’t have to be a “choice between theory and nothing” (McAvan 2016) or a question of “Theory, Ruining Everything or Not?” (Ives 2018), but given its antipathy to the author, it seems more students and practising writers question theory’s value in learning how to write (as opposed to understanding how to read). Perhaps it’s a question “of what is due to an undergraduate who wants to study art rather than… what is due in a peer-reviewed journal” (Ives 2018). In an inversion of the accepted pedagogical practice of teaching the theory before practically applying it, it might be more productive for students to learn the technical “basic”’ of the grammatical and usage “toolbox” before discussing complex narratological and theoretical concepts to ensure they can

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

45

communicate this complexity effectively and coherently. Ideas in fiction may engage a certain kind of reader, but real, authentic emotions and characters can move anyone. Van Loon only introduces theory to advanced students, using a combination of short fiction extracts, more accessible summaries of key narratological concepts, focus questions and writing exercises, based on key themes to encourage a deeper understanding and connection between the two, argues that “the synergy between thinking critically about a given aspect of narratology and the writing itself [is] the most crucial aspect of this curriculum’s success. The fresh shadow of the discussion of key critical ideas falls across the writer’s page” (2007). Perhaps. But as William James declared (in a quote often misattributed to Flaubert), “as a rule, we disbelieve all the facts and theories for which we have no use” (1896) anyway. And while writers should be “magpies, drawing on everything they possibly can to make their art” (McAvan 2016), it doesn’t mean they have to include everything: after all, perfection is not when there’s nothing left to add, but when there’s nothing left to take away (de Saint-Exupery 1984: 39). In the end, however creative writing pedagogy evolves, or whatever theories or practices it might incorporate, it’s all about the writing. While Strunk and White respond to a student asking (as they often do, especially when they haven’t started writing yet), “‘what if it comes natural to me to experiment rather than conform? What if I am a pioneer, or even a genius?’ Then be one. But do not forget that what might seem like pioneering may simply be evasion, or laziness—the disinclination to submit to discipline” ((1979) 2000: 84). As I discovered in applying the Golden Rules, it’s that discipline that paradoxically permits both technical mastery and creative freedom. Whatever theories or rules an aspiring writer might seek to inform their work, or a teacher might offer to help them improve their work, writers’ rules aren’t universal ones which they practise uniquely. They might be interesting to consider in interpreting their work, or informing ours, but they shouldn’t be uncritically incorporated into everyone’s practice or writing.4 Rather, “the more important lesson may lie in the attention to detail that [they] inspire… scrutinizing the effects of even… seemingly straightforward words in [one’s] work. It’s by noting the role of each word… that the greats are able to hone their writing. Ultimately, this may be what gives the words that remain on the page: their power to move us” (Blatt 2017: 118).

46 

S. BADAMI

In the end, I’m reminded of the advice that much wiser, much better writer generously gave me—along with the reference. “All you need to do to write well is to observe closely, listen carefully, live enthusiastically, read voraciously… and write, write, write every single day!” Adverbs aside, even Hemingway would agree with that. Surely?

Notes 1. Moore advises aspiring writers: “First, try to be something, anything else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/missionary. A movie/star kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age—say fourteen. Early critical disillusionment is necessary so that at fifteen you can write long haiku sentences about thwarted desire. It is a point, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables” (2002: 1116). 2. In which Rilke refused to critique the young poet-manque Kappus’s work, writing: “Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you—no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself” (1929). 3. “Never stop writing because you have run out of ideas. Literary honor requires that one break off only at an appointed moment (a mealtime, a meeting) or at the end of the work; do not write the conclusion of a work in your familiar study. You would not find the necessary courage there” ((1929) 1979: 65). 4. Even Strunk and White have their detractors, with grammarian Geoffrey Pullum dismissing them variously as “stupid… vice-like… miserable… and wrong” (2010), and fellow “prescriptionist” Henry Hitchings accused of “faulty reasoning” and pedantic snobbery (Acocella 2012).

References Acocella, J. 2012. The English Wars. The New Yorker, 7 May. Atwood, M. 2002. Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Bakhtin, M., and M.  Holquist. 1981. Discourse in the Novel. In The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays by M.  M. Bakhtin, 259–422. Austin: University of Texas Press. Barthes, R. 1967. The Death of the Author (La Morte d’Auteur). Aspen, Fall-­ Winter No. 5+6. Accessed 18 December 2020. https://www.ubu.com/aspen/ aspen5and6/threeEssays.html#barthes.

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

47

Batuman, E. 2010. Get a Real Degree. London Review of Books, 23 September, 32 (18). Beckett, S. 1983. Worstward Ho! 8. New York: Grove Press, Inc. Benjamin, W. (1929) 1979. Post No Bills: The Writer’s Technique in Thirteen Theses. In One-Way Street and Other Writings, trans. E. Jephcott and K. Shorter. London, UK: NLB. Blatt, B. 2017. Nabokov’s Favourite Word is Mauve: The Literary Quirks and Oddities of Our Most-loved Authors. London, UK: Simon & Schuster. Booth, W. 1961. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bradbury, R. 2001. Telling the Truth: Keynote of The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, sponsored by Point Loma Nazarene University. San Diego, CA: University of California Television (UCTV), April (2 May 2008). Accessed 16 December 2020. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_W-­ r7ABrMYU&feature=youtu.be. Broinowski, A. 2016. Creative Writing, Theoretically. Overland, 27 October. Accessed 10 December 2020. https://overland.org.au/2016/10/creative-­ writing-­theoretically/. Browne, C., B.  Culligan, and J.  Phillips. 2013. The New General Service List. Accessed 18 December 2020. http://www.newgeneralservicelist.org. Brysbaert, M., M. Stevens, P. Mandera, and E. Keuleers. 2016. How Many Words Do We Know? Practical Estimates of Vocabulary Size Dependent on Word Definition, the Degree of Language Input and the Participant’s Age. Frontiers in Psychology 7 (1116): 1–11. Burroway, J. 1982. Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Boston, MA: Little, Brown & Co, College Division. Campbell, J. 1949. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. New  York, NY: Pantheon Press/Princeton University Press. Collins, C. 1959. Georges Simenon, The Art of Fiction No. 9. The Paris Review, Issue 9, Summer. https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5020/the-artof-fiction-no-9-georges-simenon. Cron, L. 2016. Story Genius: How to Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste Three Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). New York, NY: Ten Speed Press. Csikszentmihalyi, M., and Y. Bar. 1990. Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York, NY: Harper & Row. Cusk, R. 2014. So You Want to Be a Writer. The Guardian, 15 March. De Saint-Exupery, A. (1939) 1984. Airman’s Odyssey, 39. Orlando, FL: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc. Disher, G. 2001. Writing Fiction: An Introduction to the Craft. Crow’s Nest: Allen & Unwin. Donadio, R. 2014. Writing has Always Been a Great Struggle for Me. The New York Times, 9 December.

48 

S. BADAMI

Dyer, G. 2009. Out of Sheer Rage: Wrestling with D H Lawrence. Edinburgh, UK: Canongate Books. Farrell, J. 2018. The Varieties of Authorial Intention: Literary Theory Beyond the Intentional Fallacy. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. Faulkner, W. 1956. William Faulkner, The Art of Fiction No. 12. The Paris Review, Spring (12). Fischer, J. 1962. Why Nobody Can’t Write Good. Harper’s Magazine, February: 20–26. Fisher, J. 2007. Of “Star Style” and a Reporter Named Hemingway. The Kansas City Star, 29 July. Flaubert, G., and F. Steegmuller. 1980. Letter to Louise Colet, 9 December 1852. In The Letters of Gustave Flaubert: 1830–1857. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Flood, A. 2014. Creative Writing Professor Hanif Kureishi Says Such Courses are “A Waste of Time”. The Guardian, 5 March. Franzen, J. 2002. Mr Difficult: William Gaddis and the Problem of Hard to Read Novels. The New  Yorker, 30 September. https://archives.newyorker.com/ newyorker/2002-09-30/flipbook/006/. Garber, V. 2011. The Use and Abuse of Literature. New York: Anchor Books. Grenville, K. 2010. The Writing Book: A Practical Guide for Fiction Writers. Crow’s Nest: Allen & Unwin. Hemingway, E. 1981. Letter to Maxwell Perkins, 1945. In Ernest Hemingway Selected Letters 1917–1961, ed. C. Baker. New York, NY: Charles Scribner’s Sons. Ingermanson, R., and P. Economy. 2009. Writing Fiction for Dummies. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons. Innes, G. 2016. Degrees of Debt: The Failure of Creative Writing Degrees, 18 October. Overland. Accessed 12 December 2020. https://overland.org. au/2016/10/degrees-­of-­debt-­the-­failure-­of-­creative-­writing-­courses/. Ives, L. 2018. After the Afterlife of Theory, May. The Baffler. Accessed 14 December 2020. https://thebaffler.com/salvos/after-the-afterlife-of-theory-ives. James, W. 1896. The Will to Believe. The New World, June. Jones, A., and N. Clark. 2014. The Independent Bath Literature Festival: Creative Writing Courses are a Waste of Time, Says Hanif Kureishi (Who Teaches One). The Independent, 3 March. King, S. 2000. Toolbox. In On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, 111–136. New York, NY: Scribner. ———. 2009. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix: Stephen King Review. Entertainment Weekly, 1 August. Accessed 12 December 2020. https://ew. com/books/2009/08/01/harry-­potter-­and-­order-­phoenix-­4/. Kumar, A. 2015. Chapter 13: Ten Rules for Writing. In Lunch with a Bigot, ed. A. Kumar, 119–124. Durham and London, UK: Duke University Press.

3  THE GOLDEN RULES 

49

———. 2020. Authors Distill Their Writing Advice to Just a Few Words. The New York Times, 7 August. Leonard, E. 2001. WRITERS ON WRITING; Easy on the Adverbs, Exclamation Points and Especially Hooptedoodle. The New York Times, 16 July: E1. Lewis, C. 1982. On Three Ways of Writing for Children. In On Stories, and Other Essays on Literature, ed. W. Hooper, 31–43. New York, NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. ———. 1988. Letter to Joan, 26 June 1956. In Letters to Children, ed. L. Dorsett and M. Lamp Mead, 63–64. New York, NY: Collier Books. Lubbock, P. 1921. The Craft of Fiction. London, UK: Jonathon Cape. Masson, S. 2004. Desperate for Some Great Stories. The Sydney Morning Herald, July 26: 11. Maugham, W.S. 1977. Maybe You Should Write a Book. By R. Daigh. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall. McAuley, J., and H. Stewart. 1944. Dürer: Innsbruck 1495. Angry Penguins, No. 6, Autumn, p. 8. https://www.austlit.edu.au/austlit/page/C230694. ———. 2003. Ern Malley The Official Website (archived), August. Accessed 20 December 2020. https://web.archive.org/web/20030815050636/http:// www.ernmalley.com/html/malley_poetry.html. McAvan, E. 2016. Writers Need Literary Theory, 16 October. Overland. Accessed 14 December 2020. https://overland.org.au/2016/10/writers-need-literarytheory/. McKee, R. 1997. Story: Substance, Structure, Style, and the Principles of Screenwriting. New York: Methuen. Mitgang, H. 1981. Book Ends: Beckett in Paris. The New York Times, 25 January: Section 7, p. 35. Moore, L. (1985) 2002. How to Be a Writer. In The Short Story and Its Writer: An Introduction to Short Fiction, A.  Charters, 6th ed., 1016–1021. Boston and New York: Bedford/St. Martin’s. Musila, G.A. 2018. Chimamanda Adichie: The Daughter of Postcolonial Theory. Al Jazeera, 4 February. Accessed 12 December 2020. https://www.aljazeera. com/opinions/2018/2/4/chimamanda-adichie-the-daughter-ofpostcolonial-theory. O’Toole, G. 2020. There are Three Rules for the Writing of a Novel, 6 May. Quote Investigator. Accessed 7 December 2020. https://quoteinvestigator. com/2013/05/06/three-­rules/#note-­6207-­1 Oxford English Dictionary. n.d. How Many Words are There in the English Language? Lexico. Accessed 18 December 2020. https://www.lexico.com/ explore/how-­many-­words-­are-­there-­in-­the-­english-­language Palahniuk, C. 2013. Nuts and Bolts: ‘Thought’ Verbs, 12 August. Lit Reactor. Accessed 11 December 2020 https://litreactor.com/essays/chuck-­palahniuk/ nuts-­and-­bolts-­%E2%80%9Cthought%E2%80%9D-­verbs.

50 

S. BADAMI

Pullum, H. 2010. The Land of the Free and the Elements of Style. English Today 26 (2, June): 34–44. Rashid, A. 2018. Should Fiction Writers Study Literary Theory? Kenyon Review, 31 May. Accessed 11 December 2020. https://kenyonreview.org/2018/05/ should-­fiction-­writers-­study-­literary-­theory/. Rilke, R. (1929) 1945. First Letter. Letters to a Young Poet [Briefe an einen jungen Dichter], Sidgwick and Jackson, London. Smith, D. 1999. When Ideas Get Lost in Bad Writing. The New York Times, 27 May: 25, 27. Sokal, A. 1996. Transgressing the Boundaries: Towards a Transformative Hermeneutics of Quantum Gravity. Social Text (46/47), Spring/ Summer: 217–252. Sontag, S. 2000. WRITERS ON WRITING; Directions: Write, Read, Rewrite. Repeat Steps 2 and 3 as Needed. The New  York Times, 18 December: E1. https://www.nytimes.com/2000/12/18/books/writers-on-writing-directions-write-read-rewrite-repeat-steps-2-and-3-as-needed.html. Storr, S. 2019. The Science of Storytelling. London: William Collins. Strunk, W., and E. White. (1979) 2000. The Elements of Style. 4th ed. Needham Heights, MA: Allyn & Bacon. The Guardian. 2007–2009. Writers’ Rooms. The Guardian. Accessed 7 December 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/books/series/writersrooms. ———. 2010. Ten Rules for Writing Fiction. The Guardian, 20 February. Todorov, T. 1969. Grammaire du Décaméron. The Hague, Netherlands: Mouton. University of Chicago Press. 1906. The Chicago Manual of Style. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. van Loon, J. 2007. Narrative Theory/Narrative Fiction. New Writing 4 (1): 18–25.

CHAPTER 4

Screenwriting Beyond the Paradigms: Creative Thinking and Script Development Craig Batty and Zara Waldeback

Introduction Through teaching, and later researching, screenwriting at university level from the early 2000s, we noticed that there were often very different pedagogic approaches than were offered in other forms of creative writing, such as prose, poetry and even playwriting. Screenwriting was—and largely still is—mostly situated within film and media departments, not creative writing or literature departments, and did not have the traditional focus on creativity that is more common in other forms of writing. Traditionally, screenwriting teaching, including its hundreds of ‘how to’ guides, has focused on structure, plotting, outlines and rewriting—satisfying the needs of industry from the get-go—whereas creative writing has more often started with a focus on character, description and expression, and the writer’s voice. All of these are essential skills and practices for a writer,

C. Batty (*) University of South Australia, Adelaide, SA, Australia e-mail: [email protected] Z. Waldeback Independent Researcher & Creativity Coach, Munka-Ljungby, Sweden © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_4

51

52 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

whatever the medium: fiction writing has a lot to learn from screenwriting, and screenwriting can learn a lot from poetry, prose and playwriting. While many writers, including some screenwriters, view structural paradigms (three-act structure, the Hero’s Journey, etc.) as restricting creativity, approached in a different way they can be highly inspiring tools to help writers be more effective, productive and original. And this is where the ‘dilemma’ of craft versus creativity starts to wreak havoc: can you be both, or do you have to subscribe to one way of thinking and working? For us, the two can not only go hand in hand, in fact, they must: a writer can be creative with craft, and they can use craft to encourage and cultivate creativity. As will be described below, screenwriters can benefit from thinking of themselves as ‘mode shifters’, embracing creative (associative) and critical (analytic) ways of working to achieve productive and original outcomes. As writer and actor John Cleese has said, ‘creativity is not a talent, it is a way of operating … we need to be in the open mode when pondering a problem but, once we come up with a solution we must switch to the closed mode to implement it’ (cited by Pringle and Sowden 2017, p. 17). Being a good screenwriter, then, means understanding how creativity and criticality intersect, and having a strong relationship with both modes of practice. This can shape the script development process in ways that assist the writer, their process and their resilience as much as the project itself. In this chapter, we outline some of these approaches and the ways that screenwriters can leverage them.

Creative Approaches to Screenwriting Traditionally, screenwriting has often been viewed as a mainly ‘mechanical’ form of writing, centring on structural architecture and craft skill; commercial and formulaic as opposed to organic and creative. Story conferences, script editing meetings and much script training focus on how to build a script rather than examine the process of growing the idea. Such seemingly ‘mechanical’ issues have their uses but have overshadowed other equally important aspects. Even the way in which screenwriting is taught focuses more on craft and rules than imagination and creativity. From our experiences of working in development, it has become clear that many scripts are well written, but often tell unexciting or over-familiar stories. It is our view that many of these problems arise because of a lack of attention to the creative rather than mechanical process in screenwriting development.

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

53

Fiction writers and poets often have a good understanding of the process that comes before (and sometimes during) the actual production of writing, the more nebulous time akin to daydreaming, drifting, experimenting and playing. It is the theme, story and emotion at the centre of a script which ensure its success, and the technical construction needs to be in service to this. Screenwriting is in danger of losing its heart if we do not reintroduce notions of creativity as essential, both in teaching and practice. Screenwriters need to actively engage with how to have ideas, what creative processes suit them, why they get stuck, why they commit to being a writer and how to discover what stories are right for them to tell. Most screenwriting guides offer variations of paradigms, principles, check lists and trouble-shooting exercises to manifest and enable the screenplay to come into being. These are very useful, but we also need to develop a range of different creative senses that enables and focuses the craft. The screenplay may be a form driven to a large extent by economic factors, and is more than other creative writing reliant upon technique, but that does not mean the screenwriter’s creativity should be ignored. In fact, it is one of the most powerful tools that will help a writer to become creative, productive and effective. While developing an innovative postgraduate degree in the UK, an MA in Creative Screenwriting, Zara actively worked to bring together screenwriting teaching approaches with those from poetry and fiction, and design an education drawing on the best of both worlds. Rather than keeping to a purely project-based focus—writers working on stand-alone short films, drama series, web series, feature films and so on—a practice-­ based focus was introduced as a core component of the programme. At the time, this was highly unusual within screenwriting teaching, and it also presents problems within academic contexts, as this type of creative focus cannot always be subject to traditional marking and evaluation criteria. Instead, the marking should be applied to the process—how a student has engaged with and come to understand the creative process, and how they have applied it to their work. For Zara, it was—and still is—hugely important to be able to make a case for including regular creative practice within a curriculum, even when it seems to not produce direct or immediate results. In the MA, a ‘Writers’ Gym’ was constructed, which comprised exercises to sit alongside the project-based modules. This was in fact the ethos that our second book together, The Creative Screenwriter: Exercises to Expand Your Craft (2012), was built on, encouraging writers to learn and develop through specific creative writing tasks.

54 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

It is still surprisingly rare in screenwriting teaching that time and energy is given to regular creative practice; that students and writers are taught how to work with words, rhythm, voice, scenes, visual storytelling, dialogue and worlds. This can be best achieved by participating in freestanding exercises with no seeming connection to a specific project, but which undoubtedly shape and improve the writer’s process. By liberating time to regular freestanding creative practice, screenwriters will become more adept, sustainable and impressive both in their work and their ability to navigate challenging processes, such as those brought about by the sometimes fraught, always complex, script development process (see Batty et al. 2018). It is vitally important that both screenwriting courses and writers themselves value this aspect of screenwriting—where craft becomes highly creative and creativity informs craft to make it more innovative and inventive. A further focus on creativity in the context of process, not just projects, will also help screenwriters to grow more effective, productive, reliable and confident. Learning more about how to work with the creative process is an essential investment as it gives great dividends over time, and will help writers to produce better project-based work.

Critical Approaches to Screenwriting When we wrote the first edition of our first book, Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches (2008), critical appraisal of screenwriting practice was still an emerging area. Between then and the book’s second edition in 2019, screenwriting studies had expanded exponentially, becoming an academic discipline in its own right (e.g., as opposed to a branch of screen studies). More recently, screenwriting practice studies and script development studies have both started to make their mark, bringing practice-based and practitioner-oriented knowledge into the academy in powerful ways. The range of work published in these areas, in books and, in particular, the Journal of Screenwriting, includes histories of screenwriting practice and industries (Price 2013; Maras 2009; Macdonald 2013), studies of particular screenwriters and screenwriting models (Redvall 2013; Nelmes 2014), specific aspects of screenwriting such as gender (Nelmes and Selbo 2015), psychology (Lee 2013), technology (Millard 2014), creative practice (Batty 2014) and PhDs (Lee et al. 2016; Batty et  al. 2017), and the theory and practice of script development (Batty and Taylor 2021).

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

55

From the point of view of a writer, this increase in research on screenwriting offers an interesting way of seeing creative practice through a critical lens. While some of this research might seem like an academic exercise, it can in fact be used to position the work and process of the screenwriter. This situatedness—historically, industrially, practically—can feed into the writer’s process, allowing them to see not only what they are doing and why they are doing it, but also how their work can be improved as a result. In short, this type of research ensures that screenwriters are not working in a vacuum—at least some of the time. While being creative and in the moment is essential, stepping back and looking at that work from an informed position—knowing what has come before, how the industry is operating, how the craft is working or not—can enrich the work and empower the writer’s decision-making. As such, critical approaches to screenwriting should not be seen as ancillary to practice, but rather be drawn upon and used throughout practice: before (ideas gathering, inspiration, development), during (screenplay writing and rewriting) and after (editing, viewing, reflecting).

Creative Thinking and Script Development Models The Mode Shifting Index, developed by Pringle and Sowden (2017), is a useful way of understanding the oscillations between creative and critical thinking that take place during the script development process; indeed, the oscillations that should take place to ensure a rich and productive experience. The study that led to this model included architects and architecture students, and physicians and medical students, as a way of determining how professionals and professionals-in-training drew on different mindsets while practising. The basic premise of this model is that Shifting between associative and analytic modes of thought appears to be a key thinking skill for creativity, enabling one to both generate and evaluate creative ideas […] awareness of shifting could be a learned skill that can be selectively increased within a context in which it is particularly useful to shift, that is when engaged in a creative endeavour. (Pringle and Sowden 2017, p. 17)

In other words, when the going gets tough, a practitioner can switch gear and draw on their learned knowledge in order to get through a problem. For a screenwriter, moving between creative freedom and critical

56 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

reflection can increase productivity and, hopefully, lead to better work. This is where practice and thinking combine: practice as a form of thinking and thinking as a form of practice. For Pringle and Sowden, ‘creativity requires generation of ideas that are then evaluated and honed for their intended purpose and that this hinges upon the ability to switch or shift between different modes of thinking’ (2017, p. 18). Creativity does not exist in a vacuum, and for creativity and originality to thrive, it must be subjected to evaluation and analysis: ‘idea generation can involve the analytic decomposition of an object or concept into subcomponents that are then associated in new ways with each other or additional objects/concepts to generate a new idea’ (Pringle and Sowden 2017, p.  18, our emphasis). Importantly, this practice of mode shifting should be seen as a balance that pivots, not a continuum that is linear. Operating the mechanism to allow such a pivot is an act of creativity, in so far as it represents a metacognitive awareness of what is needed and how it can be activated. Within this mode-shifting balance, then, the fulcrum is creativity itself— knowing when and how to shift gears in the context of what the project needs (reflective judgement). In terms of how this process works in practice, we can return to the idea of reflective thinking. Reflection is used widely in teaching, writers’ courses and personal processes (e.g., reflective journals), but what does it actually mean? It is more than looking at or looking back on to understand what happened or is happening; it is about having all the contextual information available to make an informed, reasoned decision about what has happened or is happening, and being aware of how that decision has come into being. We find this description of reflective judgement a very powerful one: Reflective thinkers consistently and comfortably use evidence and reason in support of their judgments. They argue that knowledge claims must be understood in relation to the context in which they were generated, but that they can be evaluated for their coherence and consistency with available information. Because new data of perspectives may emerge as knowledge is constructed and reconstructed, individuals using assumptions of reflective thinking remain open to reevaluating their conclusions and knowledge claims. (King and Kitchener 2004, p. 9)

In short, this is about having the right level of criticality to be able to make decisions, and in relation to screenwriting specifically, about oscillating

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

57

between creative (associative) and critical (analytic) thinking in order to see the bigger picture of the project (script) being developed. So how might this play out in the script development process? Treatments, step outlines, index cards and sequence outlines are all crucial tools of the development process, and part of becoming an experienced screenwriter is to learn which tool is appropriate at what time. This should be seen, then, not just as an industry mandate (e.g., we need a treatment), but in order to create an effective development process, embraced by the writer to help them navigate the script development process (e.g., writing a one-pager will help me to clarify thematic intentions). A key to understanding the life cycle of a script is to accept that however talented or experienced a writer may be, great scripts are never completed in a first draft—and so allowing creativity into the process can be rewarding as well as practical. Development is a natural part of bringing a script to life, and writers need time to unearth thoughts and feelings about a story to make it work on the page. It takes time for characters to emerge and plot to solidify, and so writing is a constant process of revision and exploration, shifting between creative (associative) and critical (analytic) thinking, sustained by constructive feedback and discussion from others in the process (leading to further reflective judgement). Creativity does not happen in a stand-alone moment. It is a constant motion of striving, thriving and surviving. It is therefore important for a writer to take time to contextualise their craft within existing creative processes that exist in the industry, and to consider how their personal creative process fits with what is expected, and how they can develop and enhance processes to get desired results. There is also great potential to innovate and experiment with script development models, based on more sophisticated perceptions of how creativity operates. Successful script development processes do not happen by themselves: they require attention and dedication, and at times deep systemic change. Many writers are used to working on their own and are not skilled enough in creative collaboration techniques. As this is becoming more requested and required in the industry, such as an increase in writers’ room models, it is important that writers spend time analysing and practising their prowess in this area. For example, narrative audio-visual media has in the last decade undergone huge changes in both production and distribution models, which clearly demonstrates that there is much possibility and promise in the use of screenwriting forms across media, not only in project types but also development processes.

58 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

Animation giant Pixar is one company that has actively invested in systems that engender and encourage creative processes. They initiated regular story meetings, called ‘Braintrust’, the role of which is to ‘push toward excellence and root out mediocrity’ (Catmull and Wallace 2014, p. 86). They view it as one of their most important traditions and a major part in ensuring continued success over the years. Early on, Pixar as a creative company made a decision to change the way it gave story notes. Instead of being prescriptive, where writers and directors are issued demands by producers, they see the main purpose of story meetings as finding the heart of the problem together, then allowing writers or directors to find their best solution. This creates an atmosphere of trust, honesty, respect and creative joy: We believe that ideas—and thus films—only become great when they are challenged and tested. In academia, peer review is the process by which professors are evaluated by others in their field. I like to think of the Braintrust as Pixar’s version of peer review, a forum that ensures we raise our game—not by being prescriptive but by offering candor and deep analysis. (Catmull and Wallace 2014, p. 93)

Pixar makes it clear to all employees that however brilliant or talented a writer or director, they will always need help: ‘People who take on complicated creative projects become lost at some point in the process. It is the nature of things … no matter how talented, organized or clear of vision’ (Catmull and Wallace 2014, p. 91). Story meetings such as these take the pressure off by normalising feedback and inviting an open space in which all comments and questions are heard. It acknowledges the creative process as a special set of circumstances that removes ego and focuses on story. Pixar’s dedication to deep analysis shows that it is possible to change the way scripts are developed, and challenge conventional dynamics between writers, producers and directors. Although strong traditions still exist within many parts of the screen industry, new possibilities for the creative process are emerging all the time. It is important for writers, directors, producers and financiers to continue to remain curious and involved in such opportunities.

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

59

Creative Thinking in Action In our book The Creative Screenwriter (Waldeback and Batty 2012), we constructed a wide range of specialised exercises to show how important it is to make time for general writing practice and improving technique—to facilitate the kind of mode shifting proposed by Pringle and Sowden. Our approach targets key skills for screenwriters as well as particular problem areas, from initial idea creation to visual storytelling, dialogue, pitching, working with worlds, writing treatments, developing plot and finding theme, to name a few. This way of developing scripts shows how possible it is to improve a writer’s ability and talent, not only ‘problem solve’ a specific project. It also demonstrates how much we learn about theory through participating in creative practice, developing a level of reflective judgement on a project that enables it to move forward in an informed way. Creativity seen from this perspective is not just something that happens to writers but is rather something writers are actively engaged in making happen. A process-focused approach to screenwriting helps writers to discover and collate a substantial toolbox that will help them engage more fully with script development, as well as become more resilient in a long-term career. This is particularly important for screenwriters, as they are required to engage much more with feedback and collaborative processes than fiction writers or poets, and without a sense of both the pitfalls and possibilities of the creative process, it is easy to become disheartened or disillusioned. By participating with creativity as a method, writers equip themselves with stamina and strength. It is still common in many areas of the industry for creativity to be viewed as something people are born with or are inherently talented at, rather than acknowledge that it can be practised and improved the same way as any skill, be it playing the saxophone, swimming or chess. By engaging in regular freestanding practice, writers become more adept at dealing with a wide variety of screenwriting and scene writing issues. This naturally builds a reservoir of diverse competence, making writers able to respond deftly to challenging situations in script projects. By training creative capabilities in a regular pressure-free environment, writers become more confident in dealing with problems. It also teaches us to trust our own abilities. When we comprehend how creativity works, we can find ways to work with its many different stages. Director Sally Potter (2013) once said of her own creative work, that she regards intuition as ‘high-speed knowledge’, where she is able to make instant

60 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

decisions based on the sum of all her previous learning and experience. For Pringle and Sowden (2017), Potter is able to shift modes deftly, accelerating through challenges by quickly understanding a situation and drawing on knowledge gained through many years of practice—creativity in action. It is important to build practices that help writers not only understand but trust the creative process. Very often writers will approach creativity— consciously or subconsciously—within a framework of lack. A common metaphor is that writing is like water held in a bucket—the more we scoop out, the less there is left. An arguably more apt metaphor is to see creativity as a tap—the more it is turned on, the more it flows. This alternative perspective moves the writer from a fear-based way of engaging with ideas to one that is trust-based. Working from such a position means writers are less likely to (subconsciously) hold back creative flow for fear it will somehow run dry. It is often highly effective to encourage writers to learn how to ‘turn the tap on’—our very approach with The Creative Screenwriter— as this encourages writing that is more adventurous, courageous and tenacious, knowing there are always many more good ideas just waiting to be found. By engaging in regular freestanding creative writing exercises, together with an oscillation between these and analysis/reflection, writers are also better prepared for dealing with writer’s block. Literally an obstruction in the flow of creativity, there are many excellent techniques that can prompt insight and restore inspiration. Once again embracing a combination of creative and critical thinking, it is vital to train oneself in understanding where and why the block originates, so that the most appropriate solution can be found. Writer’s block is one symptom with many underlying causes, and a range of remedies can be applied. A blockage can occur simply because we are not well-trained enough. Like a runner who has to stop and catch their breath after a few hundred metres, it is possible to run out of steam and assume there are no more ideas, when in actual fact it is merely a lack of practice. This kind of writer’s block can be remedied by taking time to regularly exercise basic building-block tools such as working with character, finding more plot ideas, testing other beginnings and endings, and learning to work with scene structure. A lack of creativity can also show itself in ideas that are not substantial or evocative enough. Writers may be writing plenty of material, but they, or the people reading the script, feel it is pedestrian, lacklustre or simply ‘good’ rather than great. In such cases, there are highly effective tools that can challenge a writer to go deeper and unearth more exciting ideas (such

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

61

as found in The Creative Screenwriter.) These techniques are usually quick and easy to use, and often aimed at changing the perspective—of the writer, of the scene or of the audience. Techniques such as working with opposites, switching the location of a scene, or working with silence and lying between characters can have dramatic effects not only on the writing (project) but also on the writer (process). Suddenly the writer allows themselves to step out of the box they have (maybe unknowingly) constructed for themselves. In doing so, they begin to become aware of the vast array of possibilities in a story. By daring to look beyond the obvious, the writer challenges their habits and expectations and allows an otherwise adequate idea to ignite and burst into brilliance. Another cause of writer’s block is more related to personal and emotional factors. For example, a writer may be coming to a part in the story which is very challenging for them to face or explore fully. Interestingly, this is often the reason why the story holds attraction in the first place— the aspect that longs to be seen and heard; the heart of the story that will play a key part in its theme. In such cases, the writer may need the support of a script or story editor to peel off the layers and see more clearly what lies at the heart of the story. When actively working with a process-based methodology, as opposed to purely project-based, it is important to acknowledge the many feelings that can manifest as self-sabotage. If handled well, with a high degree of reflective judgement, such potential hazards can be turned into creative opportunities. Rather than derailing the script process, they can serve to open up profound layers and release hidden gems in the story. In such a case, rather than working with a script editor, it might be useful for a writer to enlist the help of a story coach. Whereas a script editor casts a clear eye on the project, the story coach helps the writer devise and manage a potent, inspired process. Engaging a story coach helps a writer to make the best use of the energy and time they have, rather than waste it. Process-based work plays a big part in creativity, and though story coaches are not so well known or widely used in screenwriting, they can make a big difference in the life of a writer. A story coach will assist writers in facing creative fears, with an understanding of the creative stages inherent in the screenwriting process. Common issues that can threaten the creative process include making difficult decisions, making creative choices, making major changes in rewrites, losing material, daring to take risks, stepping into the unknown, getting lost and dealing with feedback They also include working creatively with

62 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

specific challenges of the industry, such as budget restrictions, time pressure, multiple writers on one project, repeated rewrites, creative collaboration, and the often low status of the writer. All these can have concrete effects on a screenwriter’s creative process, and a story coach helps the writer to embrace such struggles with insight and dexterity. Creative confidence is a huge issue for writers, not just in the beginning but over time, and it is important to remember that there are concrete resources available to build, boost and bolster it. A significant loss of confidence can occur when we make mistakes—or believe a mistake was made. Failure is a much-maligned and misunderstood aspect of creative practice. It is in fact not an error at all, but the very lifeblood of creativity. It is simply not possible to be creative without taking risks. In the leap of faith, we sometimes fall and sometimes land perfectly. It is not the fall itself that is the problem, but rather how we deal with it, and the surprises that lie in wait for us there. Like with much scientific research, it is often in the unexpected blunder and seeming misstep that great unexpected discoveries are made. We have to dare how to fail. We have to learn how to study failure and become aware of the new ideas that are cracked open by it. When a writer becomes familiar with the process of getting stuck or stressed by a certain aspect of development, they can more easily acknowledge it as a natural part of writing and learn to deal with it. This is in stark contrast to believing that something has gone wrong or that the writer is not good enough. By learning to accept troubles and seeming failures as part of every script, a writer can be well-­ prepared and stay calm under pressure. Writers can train themselves to become more forgiving of themselves and their projects, and in so doing stay open to the exciting possibilities the seeming mistake can offer. Beyond the ego lies the curious mind, and it is this, above all, that a writer needs to constantly cultivate. By analysing the creative screenwriting process and becoming more aware of its design, writers can be encouraged to write increasingly from a place of trust rather than a place of fear. The outdated role model of the writer as a tortured suffering genius can be replaced with the joy of creativity and an abundance of options. Play and playfulness can bring a huge amount of motivation, drive, energy and excellence to the creative process, and it is high time that this is incorporated into a writer’s daily schedule—as well as in screenwriting courses and development processes. Many companies have begun to incorporate spaces and systems that stimulate

4  SCREENWRITING BEYOND THE PARADIGMS: CREATIVE THINKING… 

63

creative playfulness, but it remains a challenge for academic institutions how to value and take it seriously within their teaching structures.

Conclusion Creativity is one of the key tools that a writer has to learn to appreciate. Coming to understand both creative writing techniques and the complexities of the creative process, a writer will equip themselves with fundamental knowledge that can help them move forward. This is especially important in screenwriting, where both time and money are often tight, and where it is tempting to work solely on projects rather than build and enhance one’s general creative craft and process. By focusing solely on a project-based practice, we hollow out the scripts and deplete creativity over time. Screenwriters need to construct a sustainable creative practice for themselves, where they do not just produce scripts but also reconnect to the joy of writing. In times of artistic drought, having a relationship with creativity helps to get the imagination moving and builds confidence by ensuring writers have the ability to do something about it. Writers can learn how to work with constraints in a creative manner, shifting between associative and analytic modes in an act of creativity, and by doing so build up their confidence and discover hidden magic. As screenwriters, we have to dedicate ourselves to working with words, cadence, imagery and imagination, and learn how to endure and enable our creative faculties. We believe that the more we engage with creativity in screenwriting—both for projects and for processes—the more exciting the stories will be, and the more fully fledged and flourishing writers will become.

References Batty, C., ed. 2014. Screenwriters and Screenwriting: Putting Practice into Context. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Batty, C., K.  Beaton, S.  Sculley, and S.  Taylor. 2017. The Screenwriting PhD: Creative Practice, Critical Theory and Contributing to Knowledge. TEXT: Journal of Writing and Writing Courses, special issue 44: 1–17. Batty, C., R. O’Meara, S. Taylor, H. Joyce, P. Burne, N. Maloney, M. Poole, and M.  Tofler. 2018. Script Development as a ‘Wicked Problem’. Journal of Screenwriting 9 (2): 153–174.

64 

C. BATTY AND Z. WALDEBACK

Batty, C., and S.  Taylor, eds. 2021. Script Development: Critical Approaches, Creative Practices, International Perspectives. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Batty, C., and Z. Waldeback. (2008) 2019. Writing for the Screen: Creative and Critical Approaches. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Catmull, E., and W. Wallace. 2014. Creativity, Inc.: Uncovering the Unseen Forces that Stand in the Way of True Inspiration. London: Transworld Publishers. King, P.M., and K.S. Kitchener. 2004. Reflective Judgement: Theory and Research on the Development of Epistemic Assumptions through Adulthood. Educational Psychologist 39 (1): 5–18. Lee, J. 2013. The Psychology of Screenwriting: Theory and Practice. London: Bloomsbury. Lee, S.J.S., A.M. Lomdahl, L. Sawtell, S. Sculley, and S. Taylor. 2016. Screenwriting and the Higher Degree by Research: Writing a Screenplay for a Creative Practice PhD. New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing 13 (1): 85–97. Macdonald, I.W. 2013. Screenwriting Poetics and the Screen Idea. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Maras, S. 2009. Screenwriting: History, Theory and Practice. London: Wallflower Press. Millard, K. 2014. Screenwriting in a Digital Era. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Nelmes, J. 2014. The Screenwriter in British Cinema. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Nelmes, J., and J. Selbo, eds. 2015. Women Screenwriters: An International Guide. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Potter, S. 2013. Live Appearance. International Bergman Week, Gotland, Sweden, 24–30 June. Price, S. 2013. A History of the Screenplay. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Pringle, A., and P.T.  Sowden. 2017. The Mode Shifting Index (MSI): A New Measure of the Creative Thinking Skill of Shifting between Associative and Analytic Thinking. Thinking Skills and Creativity 23: 17–28. Redvall, E.N. 2013. Writing and Producing Television Drama in Denmark: From The Kingdom to The Killing. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Waldeback, Z., and C. Batty. 2012. The Creative Screenwriter: Exercises to Expand Your Craft. London: Bloomsbury.

CHAPTER 5

Everything You Can Imagine Is Real: Worldbuilding, the Donnée and the Magic of Writing Claire Corbett

Backstage at the Aquarium …to a clear eye the smallest fact is a window through which the Infinite may be seen. Thomas Henry Huxley (1861, p. I)

We are being led down a ramp to what looks like a giant block of crystal. As the young blue-shirted ‘curator’, as the keepers are called in this aquarium, unlocks it and ushers us into a great grey cavern, I see it’s a door made of thick clear acrylic, the same substance holding back the tonnes of water in the huge aquarium tanks containing everything from reef fish to giant Queensland Groupers to hammerhead sharks. As the curator leads us around the edge of the huge ocean tank, past a rowboat tied to the edge of this internal concrete lagoon, lit only by spotlights beaming down into the water, I am thrilled to be soaking in the

C. Corbett (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_5

65

66 

C. CORBETT

reality of this place. I’m writing a novel set entirely inside a commercial aquarium and this backstage tour is gold, giving me the substrate my imagination needs. The aquarium in my novel is my creation but I want my imagination nourished by reality—what do the behind-the-scenes areas look like, what do the curators do? ‘Let’s see who’s in the dam,’ the curator says. The ‘dam’ is a small pool at the side of the main tank where stressed and bitey animals are sequestered for ‘time out’—today it’s Lochie the leopard shark. We hear splashing and a sleek blade of flesh flips up over the side of the ocean tank; the curator explains the huge but friendly 350 kg Smooth Rays are agitating for food. They know it is close to feeding time, which is impressive as not one stray photon of daylight infiltrates this place of concrete and chemicals. I file this away; I can now write convincingly about captive Smooth Rays, that they lobby for food the way your pet cat or dog does. Against the back wall, the Fish Food Preparation Area is set up with its banks of stainless steel freezers, sinks and counters. On the wall hangs a large whiteboard ruled into squares: rows for days of the week bisected by columns for each area of the aquarium and in each square a terse summary of the feeding routines: SUNDAY: 10 Kg x Sq 10 Kg x Shore Crab 50 Kg x Special Fish 50 Kg x Mussel (beards removed) POLE FEED: 50 x large shark vits. It is a revelation, a key image; here on this one surface is scribbled in black marker the ephemeral matrix of information on which the lives of thousands of creatures depend. Like most writers, I am enthralled by learning new and distinctive pieces of language, the codes, concepts and knowledge encapsulated in words and phrases specific to cultures, professions, trades, any specialised knowledge. One area requires 5x algae donut, which captivates me. I don’t know what an algae donut is but it sets my imagination working. Half an hour furnishes the location for my novel; thereafter I see with depth and detail this working, backstage area of the aquarium where the curators and creatures live out their real lives. I write the entire novel with that place in mind. I walk around in it, set scenes in it, create the characters who would work in such a place. This half hour seeds the donnée, the ‘given’ of the novel, the world its characters exist within and also create through their actions and practices. Just as importantly—because the aquarium is a complex, hierarchical institution, a site of commercial and scientific practices and knowledge, the tangible material expression of the discourse that, in Foucault’s term, it produces and which these people and creatures inhabit—walking around in

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

67

that material expression gives me clues to the discourse that’s produced it. ‘Discourse’ here denotes a historically contingent social system that produces knowledge and meaning. Discourse produces what Foucault calls ‘practices that systematically form the objects of which they speak’ (Foucault 1972, p. 69). This world is not just the cement and acrylic tanks, the roar of the air conditioning and water purifying, the doses of medicines and chemicals treating the animals and water, it’s the physical manifestation of all the knowledge, protocols and practices governing this world. Without a tour like this or some other research, I know these jobs, these spaces, these discourses, can’t be visualised or understood well enough to be written so that the reader is immersed. The places I’ve worked in and the research I’ve done for articles and novels on everything from NASA launches to special operations military have shown me that few writers can convincingly imagine other peoples’ professions (and discourses) out of whole cloth. It’s not so much that the research can’t be skipped—though it can’t—as that the research is essential for inspiring your imagination. The aim of this chapter is to lay out the whys and hows of worldbuilding, of immersing yourself in the donnée you are creating, in generating the magic of your writing. I discuss research as the first step in scaffolding your writer’s imagination and give examples of effective approaches to research, and why it is necessary (but not sufficient) even if, as Peter Carey says, you ‘throw 98% of your research away’ (Carey 1996). The role of such research, he adds, is to make what’s left, ‘the weird shit bulletproof’ (Carey 2010). I discuss shallow worldbuilding and the costs that exacts. More importantly, I show how the realities of your storyworld can be woven inseparably into character and point of view, so the reader is not aware of exposition, and the writer does not fall into the trap of meaningless invention for its own sake. This helps immerse the reader into a story rather than distract them. And if the reader is immersed, the story becomes a variety of real experience; our brains are encased in silence and darkness in our skulls, with only electrical signals from the outside world to interpret. ‘The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are stimulated’ (Paul 2012). Our brains are literally worldbuilding all the time from abstract information, which explains why decoding black marks on a page can lead to intense experiences, just as dreams can be among our most vivid life events.

68 

C. CORBETT

The Imagination of Nature Often, the imagination is not very imaginative: uninspired by reality, it may remain mired in flat stereotypes, as the many stale derivatives of epic fantasy show—for every The Lord of the Rings (Tolkien 1954–1955), there are dozens of variations on The Sword of Shannara (Brooks 1977). As physicist Richard Feynman says, ‘the imagination of nature is far, far greater than the imagination of man’ (Feynman 1998). Reality is much wilder and stranger than we can conceive—so we need to learn as much as possible for inspiration. What is worldbuilding, what is the donnée, and is it necessary to make the case for worldbuilding in fiction at all? Increasingly, it seems that it is. The world is changing so fast, and the pace of that change is accelerating, so that to write contemporary fiction now demands the same research and worldbuilding skills that were thought to be most important for fantasy, science fiction and historical fiction. Indeed, the broadest and most popular definition of the term ‘worldbuilding’, such as Wikipedia’s definition (quoting Hamilton 2009, pp. 8–9), refers only to imaginary worlds: ‘the process of constructing an imaginary world, sometimes associated with a whole fictional universe’. That construction can include developing imaginary coherent histories, geographies and ecologies. The more literary term for worldbuilding is the donnée, that which is given, the setting, times, society and culture in which our story takes place. In fact, realism and speculative fiction are equally harsh taskmasters when it comes to worldbuilding, and no style or genre absolves the writer of the effort of deep imagining. As Nabokov points out, all worlds are imaginary when you are writing them: ‘From my point of view, any outstanding work of art is a fantasy insofar as it reflects the unique world of a unique individual’ (Nabokov 1980a, p. 252). This is why writers’ worldviews can be so distinctive they become adjectives: Kafkaesque, Orwellian or Joycean. But even as our world continues to erupt in catastrophic change, there is a sense, at least in my experience and that of some other writers, that the worldbuilding, the donnée, of much contemporary writing is in danger of becoming less precise, or even not perceived at all by the writer and therefore less immersive for the reader. While giving a writing workshop in 2018, Irish short story writer Claire Keegan, on her first visit to Sydney, told us of her astonishment when travelling on the ferry from Manly to Circular Quay across the most

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

69

spectacular harbour in the world, that she was the only person looking at the sun on the water and the cliffs of North and South Head with the swell from the open ocean rolling through. Everyone else, she said, was looking at their phones (Keegan 2018). The implication for us as writers was clear. Pay attention. Pay attention to the world. And so we consider some necessary and simple steps towards immersive worldbuilding. These steps may be simple but they are not easy; they are part of the inescapable labour of writing. I have shown an example of the first step above: research. It’s indispensable and ideally ongoing all the time; as a writer, you are a voracious reader and want to learn as much as you can about the passions that drive you and inform your work.

Top Down and Bottom Up: From Concept to Story Mechanics to Sentence Here are a few examples of what goes wrong when the basics of worldbuilding are not considered by a writer. Critically, these problems arise at every level of a work, from the broadest themes and concepts (the origins of conflict, how the economy works, the physics of a magical system) to story mechanics (what do the characters eat? what is the timeframe of the action?) to character motivation (why did she admit that?) to sentence level (what is the light source in this scene?). Worldbuilding can be a bit like scripting, production design, continuity and cinematography in a film—you may not think much about them in a good film but you notice if they’re badly done, to the point you may be thrown out of the story. Worldbuilding is too often thought of in its broadest form, as the principles underlying a created world: its researched or imagined history, rules for training dragons and so on. Our world is so complex now, however, and changing so fast that most of what happens is a mystery except to those directly involved: modern life is too specialised to allow any shortcuts. Ian McEwen spent two years shadowing a neurosurgeon in order to write Saturday (2005), a novel whose protagonist is a neurosurgeon. You can’t invent what it is to be a lawyer, a politician, a scientist or even a modern-day farmer. Realism and the world of the present demand as much research, as much immersion, as any other genre. Not only will you have to understand how the world of your story works, you need enough general knowledge to think through the logical consequences of the framework and events in your story. This also means

70 

C. CORBETT

ensuring there aren’t omissions and absurdities so ridiculous that a thoughtful reader will want to throw the book across the room. We must believe the world operates in the way the writer shows us. This does not mean writers shouldn’t write impossible things: the best writers do this all the time. It just means that like Edward Lear, Italo Calvino, J.R.R. Tolkien, Junji Ito, Lewis Carroll or Tove Jansson, the worlds they create are compelling and believable on their own terms. A few examples of what can go wrong when a writer doesn’t think through a premise: if your world involves globe-spanning sandstorms that block the sun, then you’d better be able to explain how the society you’ve created grows food and what your characters eat. This is the kind of thing that makes an editor put a manuscript down permanently. If we can’t trust a writer to think through something as basic as food, then we don’t trust the soundness of the rest of the story either. Claire Keegan put this basic requirement very well: follow the money. If you know what the money is doing in your story, then you won’t go far wrong, at least in terms of plausibility (2018). Following the money means you know how your characters get enough to eat, what the sources of energy are and so on. As always, The Lord of the Rings is an outstanding model; Tolkien’s protagonists are vitally interested in food and he always lets the reader know what they eat, where they get food from, how long it will last and so on. As a reader, you may not be aware this is one reason the story feels real but it is so. Another story posited a post-apocalypse where all adults had vanished and the children left behind survived by growing vegetables in the gardens of their suburban homes. Free of the corrupt, ideologically brainwashed adults, the children grew up to be wholly good in a world unburdened by conflict. I suggested the author think more deeply about the real causes of war but their historical understanding was so bereft they couldn’t seem to grasp that struggle over ownership of limited material resources is the basis of conflict (what is the money doing in this story? oh, there isn’t any). They didn’t see that their ‘good’ child characters would be even more likely to fall victim to this stress now that there were no adults to do all the hard work. There aren’t any systems in any possible worlds, real or imagined, that function better with less effort and energy put into running them. At the level of story mechanics, no mention was made of how the children grew food without fertiliser, power or water, no mention was made of the effects of lack of vaccines or pharmaceuticals, and there was no

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

71

understanding that petrol no longer works after about two years in storage, so characters were driving around as they grew up; the characters became teenagers starting to think about sex with no mention of whether they were concerned about contraception and so on. Our lack of connection as a society to the basic realities of food and energy production and various types of work is painfully obvious in much contemporary writing. All of these problems then cause trouble at sentence level. If the premise of a story makes no sense, if the mechanics are not thought through, if the desires and drives of the characters don’t connect to anything real, then it’s impossible to write convincing and immersive sentences because at no point has anything been ‘seen’, deeply imagined by the writer. A writer once informed me, for example, that they were writing a fantasy because fantasy didn’t demand research; they could make everything up. This is unfortunately a widespread misconception. Fantasy demands more research and precision in its donnée and in the intensity of its author’s engagement to be convincing than any other form, precisely because it is asking us to see things we’ve never seen and know do not exist in our everyday world. What was interesting was that the lack showed at sentence level where comparatively little research or conceptualisation was needed, not just at the level of ideas. This writer had a good imagination but needed to buckle down to ‘seeing’, in precise detail, the world they were creating. This is the same approach as that demanded by realist fiction. At sentence level, this lack of seeing was shown by a scene in which characters broke into a factory at night. Aside from the implausibility of this particular type of factory being located in a small town, the writer had not shown us how the characters could see as they performed a break-and-­ enter into such a dangerous location at night. They weren’t even described as using the flashlights on their mobile phones; the light source had not been thought about because the writer was not seeing this scene at all. Neither was there any real description of this factory, no sense of place. It was just there so the characters could steal what they needed. In other words, the scene was vague, all telling, no showing. This kind of omission can be okay in first draft as long as the writer is aware that it’s an omission. It becomes part of series of killing blows if the writer doesn’t even realise what is missing. But in later drafts, scenes must be fully imagined and many writers describe this stage as entering a kind of zone or trance; I would call it a slightly altered state of consciousness in which you can ‘see’ with your eyes open. To get into this state can take hours of concentrated work; some

72 

C. CORBETT

writers use music to help with this. It’s easy to tell when fiction has not been written in this state; it’s thin, unconvincing, nowhere immersive. This kind of work is often described as ‘a quick read’ because the reader doesn’t have to make any effort to imagine, to construct the world of the story. After all, the writer didn’t. The cost of shallow worldbuilding is that readers don’t experience the story but just skim. They may not even be aware of why they are not gripped or moved. Even worse, failures of worldbuilding will often read like bias or prejudice as stereotypes are substituted for real understanding. If you don’t dive deep into your world, which you first have to create, neither can your reader. The first reader you have to convince is always yourself.

How Do You Know? Research and Beyond When asked whether he’d write a novel, acclaimed American short story writer Lee K.  Abbott said, ‘I don’t know enough to write a novel.… Think, for instance, about all Melville had to know to write Moby Dick’ (Abbott 2012). Ideally, as a writer you are reading broadly, researching and learning all the time. When a particular project starts taking shape, you will focus your research, however. In relation to The Aquarium, did I have to do a lot more research after that backstage tour? Of course. I read books on everything from free diving to swimming with sharks and whales, to exploring the depths of the oceans. I watched live feeds from major research aquariums such as Monterey Bay (the internet has ushered in a golden age of research; there is no excuse for not finding out what you need to know to inspire you). I watched YouTube videos uploaded by families of their day at SeaWorld, of their tours of backstage areas, so that I could get a strong feel for how all these big aquariums look and operate behind the scenes. I watched interviews with angry ex-employees describing their grief and guilt over the mistreatment of the animals. I attended a conference in Copenhagen on Mermaids and Modernity and listened to a paper by a real mermaid, that is, a woman working at the Paris Aquarium as a mermaid, who described physical details of what that was like, which I couldn’t have learned any other way.

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

73

For my second novel, Watch over Me, I already had the grounding of a lifetime’s fascination with war and had read hundreds of books on World War I and II, the Vietnam War and the Korean War. But my novel was to be about modern war, as well as aspects of every war that are eternal. I knew that for outsiders to get the details right about war and soldiers takes real effort. I had a lot that I wanted to say about war and its effect on civilians, especially women, and I wanted my soldiers to be living, breathing men who were, convincingly, warriors, with the experiences and worldviews that real soldiers have. One of the greatest things about being a writer is that you have licence to learn about everything and poke your nose in almost anywhere, and it’s surprising how easy it can be to gain access to what seem to be closed worlds, even as a student. As a much younger writer, when I’d only published maybe one or two pieces, I went to the big cat keepers at Taronga Zoo, and incredibly, they let me work with them for a week, feeding the big cats, shovelling lion dung, cleaning cages. It’s wonderful what people will let you do if you’re willing to work. By the time I wanted to write about modern war, I had written for a national magazine and I used that contact to get free press passes to defence and strategy conferences that would normally cost thousands of dollars to attend. I listened to presentations from the chiefs of the defence forces and high-ranking officers and academics from across the world’s militaries and strategic think tanks. I saw how the real business of the conferences took place during the coffee breaks when the salesmen from the huge arms manufacturers—Thales, Raytheon, ThyssenKrupp, Northrop Grumman—huddled with senior officers in corners. (And I put those names in just because as a writer I love such names; they summon a shiver of sympathetic magic: Raytheon! ThyssenKrupp!) All this, though important, was mostly a prologue to the real game. This was that after seeing my work published, soldiers and veterans felt I could be trusted and began to contact me privately on social media. These men were an invaluable resource; I turned to them with direct questions for my book and they answered from their lived experience: How would you terrify someone so badly, I asked an ex-Royal Marine privately, that they would piss themselves in front of you? This is not legal, he replied, but this is exactly how I’d do it. His answer made it into my novel. I was relieved and pleased when veterans told me not just that the book felt utterly real to them but—and here’s the real point—that it showed them things they did not know. One informant, a veteran of Afghanistan,

74 

C. CORBETT

told me the book had devastated him because it made him feel for the first time at gut level how terrifying he must have been to civilians, no matter his intentions to do good. I’m not congratulating the work on verisimilitude—mimesis was only one technique I used, not the aim of the work. My research was not intended simply to reproduce the experience of war, something many veterans understandably avoid. It was there to allow me to build on it to do what a novel should do, which is to perform a kind of alchemical transformation, bring an extra dimension of understanding, of feeling, that was not reportage. It was there to reveal a layer of meaning that sometimes escapes even those who’ve lived the experience until they read someone else’s words. The reaction that stunned me most was that of an older Chinese writer. He’d grown up during the Cultural Revolution and talked to me about being taken as a child with his whole village to watch executions. When he read the first chapter of the book, he said to me: How did you know? How did you know these things? That is what good research, allied with intense immersion in your own created world, can bring. This should give hope to writers that you can write powerfully about things outside your direct experience, indeed things that have never existed outside your own brain—if you put the work in. Finally, the role of research can best be explained by an image: if you’ve ever snorkelled over a healthy coral reef, then you will have been amazed by the complexity and vividness of the life swaying and swimming around you. But that profusion begins very simply and it needs a form, a substrate, to build on. Coral reefs can’t grow in a trackless waste of sand and water. They need something to anchor on; sometimes, it’s a shipwreck but it can be as unromantic as a grid of metal bars. That’s the role of your research in worldbuilding: it gives you the anchor points your imagination can build on. Without at least some facts, the imagination doesn’t take off. And when the coral growth is especially colourful and luxuriant, you may not see the framework supporting it at all.

Worldbuilding Traps and Techniques: Exposition, ‘Infodumping’ and ‘Incluing’ So, how do you immerse yourself and the reader in your world so that research and exposition don’t bulk there in the work like lumps in porridge?

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

75

Nabokov argues that a great writer has three facets—magic, story, lesson—and that of these, magic is the greatest: ‘but it is the enchanter in him that predominates and makes him a major writer’ (Nabokov 1980, p. 5). I propose that worldbuilding has a great deal to do with whether we experience magic in writing, with whether we will be enchanted. The evocation of the world of a story draws us in; we must on some level perceive this world, see it, hear it, inhale it. Probably the least effective and graceful approach, as a general rule, is to treat worldbuilding or the donnée as separate from other aspects of writing such as characterisation and dialogue. This can lead to clumsy direct exposition, often derided as ‘infodumping’, or what Margaret Atwood calls ‘the tour of the garbage disposal plant’ (Atwood 2010) and bricks of description that many readers will skip if it seems to be there for the writer to show off their powers. In the kind of writing Atwood is referring to, there will be a character who guides the protagonist around the brave new world they’ve encountered and tells them how their social, political and economic systems work (and how the garbage is dealt with). While especially rife in speculative fiction and historical fiction, infodumping can turn up in all forms and genres, often slightly disguised—rookie cop’s first day on the job, shown around by older and wiser colleague, and so on. There are exceptions to every rule, and skilful overt exposition can be a thrilling performance; I refer you to Neal ‘King of the Infodump’ Stephenson’s wonderful Seveneves (2015), wherein you can learn more about orbital mechanics than you’d imagined possible outside an astrophysics class and it’s an exhilarating ride. But mostly, the fashion now is that the reader should not even be aware the writer is worldbuilding. A favourite technique for avoiding clumsy exposition is indirect exposition; a contemporary term for this, ‘incluing’, is attributed to author Jo Walton, who defines it as ‘the process of scattering information seamlessly through the text, as opposed to stopping the story to impart the information’ (Walton 2010). Kipling has been credited with inventing indirect exposition, developing it to explain the unfamiliarities of colonial India to British readers—not coincidentally, he then went on to use this technique in the influential science fiction he wrote, such as With the Night Mail (1905), a story of transatlantic dirigible transport set in the year 2000 (Lerner 2017).

76 

C. CORBETT

Dispensing with exposition and description, however, is even worse than infodumping. It will leave a story short of Nabokov’s ‘magic’, with little ability to enchant. The key to make worldbuilding so integral to your story that readers (and editors) never even think of it as worldbuilding is to work through point of view. This demands deep understanding of point of view and of your characters and how they apprehend the world, an insight articulated perfectly by Nabokov: Let us take three types of men walking through the same landscape. Number One is a city man on a well-deserved vacation. Number Two is a professional botanist. Number Three is a local farmer. Number One, the city man, is what is called a realistic, commonsensical, matter-of-fact type: he sees trees as trees and knows from his map that the road he is following is a nice new road leading to Newton, where there is a nice eating place recommended to him by a friend in his office. The botanist looks around and sees his environment in the very exact terms of plant life, precise biological and classified units such as specific trees and grasses, flowers and ferns, and for him this is reality; to him the world of the stolid tourist (who cannot distinguish an oak from an elm) seems a fantastic, vague, dreamy, never-never world. (Nabokov 1980, p. 252)

Nabokov goes on then to describe the very different world of the farmer and of the myriad other realities that could exist in the same place—a hunter, a blind man with a dog, a girl who has run out of gas, a painter in quest of a sunset. In other words, each person, each character, carries with them an entirely different world, a different reality, shaped by their own desires, knowledge and motivations. Making worldbuilding a function of character and character a function of worldbuilding ensures that character drives plot, rather than plot driving character, and this will help create a satisfying whole that feels organic, as if it grew rather than was snapped together like pieces of Lego. Another approach is to ensure a piece of exposition is always doing more than one thing: for example, the use of news in Nineteen Eighty-­ Four. These infodumps are effective because the form of the sordid, unreliable broadcasts gives us more information about Oceania than the news content itself. Notice what Nabokov does in his example—he sets his characters walking through a landscape. He builds his world, and his character, at the same time, through action. He’s not sitting them at a desk describing

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

77

them thinking or having them look in a mirror. The key to integrating worldbuilding and character is, as much as possible, to show the character moving through and engaging with that world, so we see it through their eyes and know what they know. This integration is what we turn to now.

Why a Story Is a Journey One of the most venerable truisms in talking about writing and story is that a story is a journey, that it traces movement, has an arc. Many stories unfold as literal journeys, from The Odyssey to Kerouac’s On The Road and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, but there are also epic internal journeys that take place in restricted spaces such as The Metamorphosis. Gregor Samsa climbing the walls of his room travels further into strange realms than most characters. Why might the movement of a journey be so important in storytelling? It seems obvious in one way—a journey shows us change; things were like this and then Red Riding Hood strayed from the path, and these things happened as a result and now everything is different. Recent research in neuroscience claims that our brains did not evolve to help us think and feel and plan nor even to perceive sensations but to control movement. ‘Movement is the only way you have of affecting the world around you,’ argues neuroscientist Daniel Wolpert. This includes all the subtle muscular movements involved in speaking, writing and any other form of creation. He argues that when neuroscientists look at all the functions of the brain, such as perception, memory, the actions of neurotransmitters and so on, that they all make sense very differently when they are looked at as only existing for the sake of inspiring and controlling movement, because movement is the only way we can reach any goals in this world, satisfy drives for nourishment, connection, status, security and so on (Wolpert 2011). The clincher, as far as neuroscientists are concerned, is that living creatures that do not need to control movement, such as plants or adult sea squirts, do not have brains or central nervous systems. How does this relate to story? Well, if our complex brains evolved to control movement, then it makes sense that a story would be most meaningful when it includes a strong spatial awareness, a journey, moving through spaces, our internal environments mapping onto our physical ones.

78 

C. CORBETT

It’s remarkable how much easier it is to remember large amounts of information and detail when it is encoded in a story, especially a story that moves across a world studded with striking physical features: the forest, the path, the cottage, the palace, the dungeon, the treasure chamber in a fairy tale—or the heath, the drawing room, the ballroom, the theatre, the river, the slum, the club in a nineteenth-century novel. This is why maps are such a pleasurable feature of many stories and can be such potent story generators. Maps are not confined to epic quests—Nabokov sketched the layout of the Samsa flat better to diagram the effects of the story (Nabokov 1980, p. 257). And yet a great deal of contemporary writing seems to have been written in ‘no space’. Pages of dialogue unfold with no clue as to where it is taking place, what season or time it is, what movements characters make. Perhaps this reflects the depthlessness of time spent primarily on screens, the weightlessness of so many of our actions. For some writers, no matter the genre of their story, timelines, sketches and maps are indispensable worldbuilding tools to ensure they see how it all fits together. Some writers put together collages and scrapbooks of images to inspire them; Australian author Margo Lanagan uploaded three scrapbooks she made to inspire her Selkie novel Sea Hearts (2012) onto Flickr and quoted author Wendy Orr on their use: ‘But the best images of all are the ones that capture the mood you’re looking for for this story, that lead you into the emotions that your characters are feeling. It can be the colours of a sunset, the expression on a face… there are no rules. You’ll know when you find the images of the clues that’ll help you dive deeper and focus more sharply in the world you’ve created’ (Lanagan 2012). This relates powerfully to worldbuilding because it shows how you can bring your characters’ internal and external worlds together—the best way to create your world is by moving your character through it and have it reveal itself to them as only they can perceive it according to their own qualities and worldview as described by Nabokov. You illuminate both your character and your world; they can never be separate. One of the best examples of this is the opening chapter of Nineteen Eighty-Four: a careful study of it will teach you everything you need to know about worldbuilding and marrying indirect exposition or ‘incluing’ seamlessly with point of view. The first line, one of the most famous opening lines in English literature, is deceptively simple: ‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen’ (Orwell 1949, p. 6). It tells us precisely when we are (April, 13:00 hours or 1  p.m. but the 24

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

79

hour time reference instantly introduces unease, a sense of unhomeliness) and, how English, what the weather is like: bright, cold. The next sentence introduces Winston Smith, our protagonist and the rest of the chapter shows us the entire world of the novel—his flat, his workplace, his hatred of and longing for Julia, his fascination with O’Brien, and most of all his estrangement from his own self—entirely through his eyes. The journey in this chapter couldn’t be simpler or more mundane: we walk with Winston up the stairs to his flat, but it immerses us in his world. The fact the lift isn’t working and Winston is frail and unhealthy and Victory Gin tastes like acid tells us everything about what the money is doing in Nineteen Eighty-Four; the economy is bad and when we hear the propaganda about overfulfilment of the Ninth Three-Year Plan, we know his society is built on lies. Orwell makes every simile and metaphor work to build a coherent sense of the world: swallowing the gin is like ‘being hit on the back of the head with a rubber club’ (p. 10); even the pleasures are brutal, like something the Thought Police will do to you. Orwell builds the world of Nineteen Eighty-Four primarily through spinning us new-minted coins of evocative language: Big Brother, Thought Police, Hate Week, Newspeak, Ministry of Love. We don’t yet know what these things are but they are instantly terrifying. In my first novel, When We Have Wings, I had to build a world in which flying was possible and hopefully allow the reader to really feel it. In the pages shown here, my detective character, Zeke Fowler, who does not have wings, is driving to meet a client, Peter Chesshyre, who is a flier, the first one Zeke has ever met. As you can see from the marked-up pages, I’ve used this journey through space to establish the world of the city, often just through names such as Edge City, which suggests a slum. Zeke is journeying internally, both in time (he has flashbacks, trying to place where he’s heard Peter’s name before and in the process his memory furnishes us with some socio-political context) and in his understanding, as he travels. He realises that class is now expressed vertically, through flying, as well as on the plane of the City. Time is the main constraint in this scene and Zeke frets constantly as it escapes him: ‘It was nearly half past twelve. Shit.’ We feel the weather, hot, wet, monsoonal, we hear Taj, the car’s AI, and his snarky turn of phrase and by the end of the scene, we see that Peter and Zeke have an unexpected connection (Fig. 5.1). Every detail in these pages establishes character and story as well as worldbuilding (Corbett 2011, pp. 16–17).

80 

C. CORBETT

Fig. 5.1  Marked-up pages from When We Have Wings

This Is Your Brain on Fiction: Beyond Reality There are people who think that things that happen in fiction do not really happen. These people are wrong. Neil Gaiman (2017, p. 415)

The concreteness of Orwell’s language, the compound nouns he creates, leads us to the final point: what kind of writing gives rise to feelings and images so vivid that our brains process them as real experiences? The answer is that precise use of words stimulates the relevant parts of the brain—words such as ‘grasp’ and ‘kick’ light up not just the motor cortex but also the specific part of it responsible for those movements (Paul 2012). Write a sentence such as ‘the baking cookies smelled sweet’ and the language processing areas of your brain will work but the part dealing with smells remains dark. Write ‘the cookies smelled of cinnamon’ and that area lights up too. In this way, the difference between good writing and formulaic writing we can skim without having any real experience can now be shown by

5  EVERYTHING YOU CAN IMAGINE IS REAL: WORLDBUILDING… 

81

MRI scans. Whether you enjoy a specific story is subjective; whether it’s well-written can be assessed surprisingly objectively. One criterion is whether the words activate the relevant perceptual, emotional and motor regions of the brain. This relates strongly to worldbuilding because using specific sensual descriptors is key to this brain activation and thus to drawing your reader in. ‘Metaphors like “The singer had a velvet voice” and “He had leathery hands” roused the sensory cortex, while phrases matched for meaning, like “The singer had a pleasing voice” and “He had strong hands,” did not’ (Paul 2012). This is the difference, as Picasso says, between the ‘painters who transform the sun to a yellow spot’ as opposed to the ones ‘who with the help of their art and their intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun’ (qtd Eisenstein 1957, p. 127). And fiction has one killer feature, an extra that not even real life has: ‘novels go beyond simulating reality to give readers an experience unavailable off the page: the opportunity to enter fully into other people’s thoughts and feelings’ (Paul 2012). Readers—and of course writers who are always first and foremost readers—are the most fortunate people because there is no limit to the adventures they can pursue, the lives they can live. Our brains don’t necessarily distinguish between events that happened to us and those that happened to someone else, stories we’ve lived and stories we’ve read. ‘If something is there, you can only see it with your eyes open,’ writes Norton Juster in The Phantom Tollbooth, ‘but if it isn’t there, you can see it just as well with your eyes closed. That’s why imaginary things are often easier to see than real ones’ (Juster 1961, pp. 46–47).

References Abbott, Lee K. 2012. Interview. In Thrall to What’s Between the Margins, Chapter 16, 30 October. Accessed 10 January 2021. https://chapter16.org/ in-­thrall-­to-­whats-­between-­the-­margins/. Atwood, Margaret. 2010. BigThink, 28 September. Accessed 8 January 2021. https://bigthink.com/videos/big-­think-­interview-­with-­margaret-­atwood. Brooks, Terry. 1977. The Sword of Shannara. Random House. Carey, Peter. 1996. Interview. Bomb Magazine, 1 January. Accessed 20 Jan 2021. https://bombmagazine.org/articles/peter-­carey/. ———. 2010. Interview. Huffpost, 6 October. Accessed 10 January 2021. https:// bit.ly/3c6se96.

82 

C. CORBETT

Corbett, Claire. 2011. When We Have Wings. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Feynman, Richard. 1998. The Uncertainty of Science. The Meaning of It All: Thoughts of a Citizen Scientist, 17 May. Accessed 21 January 2021. https:// ar chive.nytimes.com/www.nytimes.com/books/first/f/feynman-­ meaning.html. Foucault, Michel. 1972 [1969]. Archaeology of Knowledge and the Discourse on Language (Trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith, 1972). University of Michigan and Pantheon Books. Gaiman, Neil. 2017. The View From the Cheap Seats: Selected Non Fiction, 415. New York: William Morrow & Company. Hamilton, John. 2009. You Write It: Science Fiction (qtd Wikipedia) Minnesota: ABDO Publishing. Huxley, Thomas H. 1861. On the Study of Zoology, I-para 29. Accessed 13 January 2021. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/2935/2935-­h/2935-­h.htm. Juster, Norton. 1961. The Phantom Tollbooth. New York: Random House. Keegan, Claire. 2018. Writing workshop presented at the University of Technology, Sydney. Lanagan, Margo. 2012. 11 February. Accessed 10 January 2021. http://amongamidwhile.blogspot.com/2012/02/selkies-­scrapbook-­1.html. Lerner, Fred. 2017. A Master of Our Art: Rudyard Kipling Considered as a Science Fiction Writer. Accessed 20 January 2021. https://fredlerner.org/Master.html. Nabokov, Vladimir. 1980a. Good Writers and Good Readers. In Lectures on Literature, ed. F. Bowers. New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. ———. 1980b. Franz Kafka: The Metamorphosis. In Lectures on Literature, ed. F. Bowers. New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Orwell, George. 1949. Nineteen Eighty-Four. Accessed 22 January 2021. https:// www.openrightslibrary.com/nineteen-­eighty-­four-­1984-­ebook/. Paul, A.M. 2012. Your Brain on Fiction. The New York Times, 17 March. Accessed 10 January 2021. https://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/18/opinion/sunday/the-­neuroscience-­of-­your-­brain-­on-­fiction.html. Picasso, Pablo. 1957. In Sergei Eisenstein. Film Form: The Film Sense. New York: Meridian Books. Walton, Jo. 2007. Accessed 20 January 2021. http://papersky.livejournal.com/324603.html. Walton, Jo. 2010. SF Reading Protocols Tor.Com Accessed 26 July 2021 h ­ ttps:// www.tor.com/2010/01/18/sf-reading-protocols/ Wolpert, Daniel. 2011. The Real Reason for Brains. TEDGlobal. Accessed 5 January 2021. https://www.ted.com/talks/daniel_wolpert_the_real_reason_for_brains.

CHAPTER 6

Adaptation: Essence, Originality and Radical Transformation Margot Nash

Introduction For screenwriters the idea of adapting an existing or ‘source’ text for the screen might seem a welcome relief from the challenges of the empty page, but adaptation can be deceptively difficult and time-consuming, even for the most experienced writers. Not only must the writer become familiar with the source text and then relinquish attachment to it, they must grasp its ‘essence’ and ‘translate’, or carry it across, into a new form. Salmon Rushdie suggests: a question of essence lies at the heart of the adaptive act: how to make a second version of a first thing, of a book, a film, a poem or of yourself, that is successfully its own, new thing and yet carries with it the essence, the spirit, the soul of the first thing. (Rushdie 2009, p. 4)

Where might this essence, or soul, manifest itself in the work to be adapted? Rushdie (2009) suggests it could be anywhere. It is perhaps the most M. Nash (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_6

83

84 

M. NASH

challenging thing for a screenwriter to locate, and only instinct and immersion in the source text will reveal its treasure. This chapter will explore a number of case studies and look at changes writers have made to a source text in order to make it uniquely their own, yet still retain its essence. Debbie Danielpour discusses how she teaches screenwriting through imitation and adaptation (Danielpour 2012). Initially screening a short genre film, she sets an assignment where students write a short screenplay imitating the original and incorporating the genre tropes it uses. This strategy removes the paralysis of the empty page and facilitates genre pedagogy, but students must also fulfil the following requirement: ‘the screenplay must reveal the student’s “signature” or unique twist on the genre’ (Danielpour 2012, p. 104). This offers students an opportunity to bring something original to the work and make it their own. Baz Luhrmann brought modern visual and linguistic references to his film Romeo and Juliet (Luhrmann 1996), creating an original work in the process. Andrea Arnold created a black Heathcliff when she adapted Wuthering Heights (Arnold 2011), layering racism as subtext and producing a new and original reading of a classic text. Faithfulness and reverence for the source text can stem from a desire to do the right thing by the author. This was my experience when attempting to adapt for the screen. Even though three different authors assured me I should make the adaptation my own, a part of me still didn’t want to upset them. Not one of these projects made it to the screen and while all filmmakers have unproduced scripts in their cupboards, I believe all three screenplays suffered from this misplaced fidelity to the book. Those who cling too fiercely to the old text, the thing to be adapted, the old ways, the past, are doomed to produce something that does not work, an unhappiness, an alienation, a quarrel, a failure, a loss (Rushdie 2009, p. 6). Godard once said provocatively that, if you faithfully want to film a book, then just put that book in front of the camera and turn the pages (Cordaiy 2003, p. 17). In the early days of Hollywood, this is exactly what they did. Films were often made from books and screenwriters relied heavily on narration and literal visual devices like wind blowing the opening pages or pages of a calendar to show time passing. In the early days of Hollywood, writers of adapted material ‘were paid less than writers of scripts that dealt with original ideas’ (Portnoy 1998, p.  4). The studio heads and producers believed the process of adaption was easier because the writer had all the story materials provided. However,

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

85

this attitude has changed; writers of adapted material make the same or even greater amounts of money for their scripts and… Studios have begun to accept that the adapting process may involve even more work than writing an original screenplay, because the scriptwriter may have to change entire characters and story incidents to make the script work within a dramatic context. (Portnoy 1998, p. 4)

Breaking Free of the Original French screenwriter Jean Claude Carrière, who famously adapted Joseph Kessel’s Belle de Jour for Buñuel, says: Yes, it takes longer when it is an adaptation because it always takes a good while, several weeks, before you are completely free of the book. You’re always somewhat a prisoner of the book, from the point of view of the scenario. If an author put something in that we want to omit, for example, he [sic] still had his reasons, so perhaps we should think about it, examine it, as much as we can, and that takes a lot of time. (Carrière in Weiss 1983, p. 9)

The average novel can take five or six hours to read, although most people will put it down and pick it up again later, but a feature film is usually watched in a single sitting and will take around one-and-a-half to two hours. How do screenwriters translate that story to fit into a new tighter form without losing its essence, its strength? What changes will need to be made to translate it into an audio-visual medium? What is essential? What can be removed? Most successful adaptations have involved a certain freedom or licence with the source text and this has involved taking risks. Rushdie (2009, p.  6) argues for ‘the need for ruthlessness with an extremely long original, combined with a determination to fillet out and preserve the essence’. Tim Roth, who adapted Alexander Stuart’s 1989 novel The War Zone for the screen, said they had to ‘perform an autopsy, chop it apart and find out what worked on the screen’ (Stuart 1999). In his introduction to the screenplay, Roth describes how the story, which was about incest and sexual abuse in an English family, was set in a popular holiday beach destination in the summer. Not wanting hot sweaty erotic bodies, they set the film in winter, the bleak, cold coastal landscape resonating visually and emotionally, and coldness-as-essence of incest translated, but not sensationalised, on the screen.

86 

M. NASH

The most frequent problem is abundance…. As a rule, when you’re adapting a novel to a film, you have to ask, What’s the short story of this novel? And then make certain fateful decisions. (Murch in Ondaatje 2002, p. 126)

Australian screenwriter Laura Jones, who adapted An Angel at my Table (Campion 1990) from Janet Frame’s autobiography, and Oscar and Lucinda (Armstrong 1997) from Peter Carey’s 1988 novel of the same name, advises reading and re-reading the book and then throwing it away. Empty it out, make space on the page but don’t be afraid of adding things. You start out by absorbing the book and feeling responsible. You start writing responsibly but then it tips from responsibility to the book to responsibility to the screenplay. (Jones 2011)

Jones says you need to have a deep respect for ‘the voice’ but you have to be like a detective in looking for ways to bring it to the screen. ‘Remember you can never ruin the book. The book stands as a separate thing’ (Jones 2011). An anecdote bearing the same sentiment is told by Michael Ondaatje in The Conversations (Ondaatje 2002, p. 126)

Re-visioning the Source Text Some adaptations have involved removing entire subplots or characters in order to condense the story. ‘Adaptations always change structure’ (Portnoy 1998, p. 1). In the case of Michael Ondaatje’s 1992 novel The English Patient, the main plot became a subplot and the subplot became the main plot. Many novels involve the inner thoughts of characters, which cannot be seen on the screen. While voiceover can work, it can also be clumsy and expositional. New characters are sometimes developed, so inner thoughts can be spoken to another person. A backstory associated with one character might be given to another character in order to enrich their characterisation, which is what happened in Animals (Hyde 2019), adapted by Emma Jane Unsworth from her 2014 novel, Animals. Greta Gerwig’s adaption of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (Gerwig 2019) changed the structure of the book through intercutting flashbacks with present-day sequences to focus the story on Jo’s ambition to be a writer. This allowed Gerwig to create a new ending where Jo, not unlike Sybilla in My Brilliant Career, chooses to pursue writing rather than marriage. In this version of Little Women, Gerwig cleverly pays homage to Alcott’s wishes:

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

87

Alcott hoped to make Jo a literary spinster, like herself. Yet she knew such an ending wouldn’t be accepted by audiences, whose conventional 19th century values dictated that a woman’s happy ending needed to include a wedding. (Nicolaou 2020)

For a modern audience, a young woman giving up a promising career as a writer in order to get married would not sit well with most Western twenty-first-century values. Gerwig’s solution was both an original twist and a metaphorical sleight of hand. Jo writes a book based on her story. While interested in the manuscript, Jo’s publisher insists the protagonist get married at the end. So, Jo writes an ending in which she marries Professor Bhaer—but she lives out a different ending entirely… blurring the lines between Jo March and her creator, Louisa May Alcott until Jo actually becomes Alcott. And, just like Alcott, Jo bypasses marriage and heads on a fast-track toward literary success. (Nicolaou 2020)

To change a much-loved classic like Little Women is to take a risk, but in locating the essence in Jo’s love of writing and determination to write her personal story, Gerwig firmly placed herself as writer/director into the text, making it her story too. ‘Yes. That’s me. That’s me in there’ (Martin 2019).

Certain Women (Reichardt 2016)—Case Study Alfred Hitchcock thought the nearest art form to the motion picture was the short story because, ‘It’s the only form when you ask the audience to sit down and read it in one sitting’ (Kitteredge and Krauzer 1979, p. 1). Many cinema classics have been adapted from short stories: 2001 A Space Odyssey (Kubrick 1968), All About Eve (Mankiewicz 1950), Brokeback Mountain (Lee 2006) and The Birds (Hitchcock 1963). Rashomon (Kurosawa 1950) was adapted from two short stories by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Certain Women was adapted by writer/director Kelly Reichardt from three unconnected short stories by the American writer Maile Meloy. The first two stories ‘Tome’ and ‘Native Stone’ appear in a collection of short stories called Half in Love and the third ‘Travis, B.’ appears in a different collection called Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It. All three stories are set in Montana. How did Reichardt choose the three stories and then fit them together into one film? Asked about the process she says:

88 

M. NASH

It was very hard. But she (Meloy) was really generous in letting me try different stories so I could get them to work together. It was a really long process…. She really ties characters to their environment. A lot of chores are involved, and a lot of moving from point A to point B—all things right up my alley. So I was just finding the way they could balance each other and work and sort of play off each other. That was a bit of a search…. (Reichardt in Wilkinson 2016)

Certain Women follows the lives of three working women all living in or near or passing through the small town of Livingstone in Montana. Surrounded by the snow-capped Absaroka Mountains and next to the Yellowstone River, it is a barren and majestic landscape and provides a thematic backdrop for the three stories. Reichardt describes Montana as ‘a combination of vast space and mountain ranges that really lock you in and surround you and isolate you… and I think that that changes the way you look at the world’ (Reichardt in Bunbury 2017). The three stories are told sequentially without intercutting, although there are some subtle overlaps where the characters interconnect, but do not meet. Reichardt says she ‘wasn’t really trying to connect them too strongly… it was just kind of about people who brush up against each other’ (Reichardt in Wilkinson 2016). Here we have a hint to the essence that all three stories share, for they are all about isolated and disconnected women who brush up against each other, without connecting, ‘certain women’ who want something more, something better from life (Fig. 6.1). Filmmaker and friend of Reichardt, Larry Fessenden, says there is ‘a quiet desperation in her characters both in Certain Women and all her other films, of people not quite connecting and feeling left behind by the system’ (Kohn 2016). In the opening scene of Certain Women, we meet small-town lawyer Laura (Laura Dern) getting dressed in a motel room at lunchtime. The frame is divided into two by the wall that divides her from her married lover, who is getting dressed in the bathroom. The division speaks to the essence of isolation, disconnection and the desire for something more and works visually as a metaphor to frame the film. The main plot in Laura’s story is a disgruntled client who doesn’t listen to her advice and ends up taking the law into his own hands. In the short story she thinks: ‘If I were a man I could explain the law and people would listen and say, “Okay.” It would be so restful.’ It’s a great line, but we cannot hear people’s thoughts in film. Reichardt gives Laura a married lover

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

89

Fig. 6.1  Lily Gladstone as Jamie in Certain Women (Reichardt 2016). (Photo by Jojo Whilden. Courtesy of IFC Films)

subplot for the film, which means she has someone to speak this thought to, and she does, albeit just as he is trying to break up with her. Sometimes, Reichardt lifts dialogue straight from the book, claiming in an interview that Meloy often wrote better dialogue than she could. ‘But even if a line is great on the page, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s adding something to a scene by being there. Everything is really revealed between the dialogue’ (Reichardt in Wilkinson 2016). The subplot of Laura’s married lover also connects her to the main character in the second story, Gina (Michelle Williams) for he is Gina’s husband. This interconnecting of the two stories creates subtext, for when we meet Gina and realise her husband is Laura’s lover, we know something that Gina doesn’t. Gina and her husband are city folk who have bought land near Livingstone and are planning to build their dream home on it. She has her heart set on buying a pile of sandstone blocks, lying unused in an elderly neighbour’s yard, because it is authentic native stone from the area. But when she and her husband offer to buy the stone, the old man shows signs of dementia and their attempts to connect with him falter. It is a difficult

90 

M. NASH

situation and her husband doesn’t help her, leaving her feeling isolated and undermined. The old man says they can have the stone, but she is tested by ‘the suspicion that by not sufficiently pressing the old man to take a payment, she and her husband have exploited his borderline dementia state’ (Bradshaw 2017). She says, ‘Someone else would have taken it anyway.’ Gina’s story is deceptively simple, but what interests Reichardt is not so much the plot as the landscape that encircles the characters and the small details of life that reveal the unspoken: Gina’s secret cigarette on her morning run; her miserable daughter glued to her phone waiting in the car; the silences between husband and wife; the weight of the sandstone blocks being loaded onto a truck as the old man watches from inside the house. The third story is about Jaime (Lily Gladstone), a solitary Native American ranch hand living alone on a ranch during the harsh Montana winter. Here the chores of daily life, feeding and caring for the horse, define her days. One lonely night she stumbles into a night class on school law that Beth (Kristen Stewart) is teaching. Unfortunately for Beth, she has misread the location of the class and must now drive four hours at night on icy roads, while trying to hold down her day job in Livingstone. For Jaime, meeting Beth and discovering new ideas in the class opens up a new world for her and she finds herself attracted to Beth. ‘I never knew a student had any rights.’ When another teacher takes over the class, Jaime drives all night to find Beth. She tries one of the law firms in town just as people are arriving for work and we see Laura, who now has a dog, arrive for work and head up the stairs behind Jamie, the two characters unknowingly ‘brushing up’ against each other. When Jaime does find Beth at a different law firm, she tries to explain why she has driven all night to find her. This heartbreaking moment is followed by a long and silent scene where Jamie, who has driven hundreds of miles on no sleep to see Beth, drives home, finally falling asleep at the wheel and drifting off the road and into a paddock where her truck finally comes to rest. Jaime’s story is adapted from a short story called Travis, B, which refers to Beth whose name is Beth Travis, but in the short story the Jaime character is a man called Chet. The radical decision to change the sex of the protagonist corrals Meloy’s tender and moving story into a narrative circle of women that includes the kind and struggling Beth. The events in the story remain much the same and Chet, like Jaime, is a Native American, but while Jamie is physically robust, Chet’s growth has

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

91

been stunted as a result of childhood polio, and he limps. There is an instinctive gentleness in the way Reichardt translates Chet’s disability and social isolation into Jamie’s shyness and repression of her lesbian sexuality. Both characters are introverted and lonely, but comfortable with the horses. He reads girlie magazines and worries he is too cut off from real life. Jaime watches a television programme on the adventures of space travel. They both decide to show their feelings for Beth by offering to take her to the diner after class on the back of their horse. Beth is a town girl, but she climbs up on the horse and puts her arms around Jaime, who proudly walks the horse to the diner through the snow with Beth on the back. It is a deeply moving scene that speaks to the depth of love and sharing they both offer Beth and the risk they are prepared to take to connect with her. Having the courage to re-vision the source text in such a radical way requires creativity and the ability to take risks—both things writers and filmmakers need to survive in a highly competitive industry. The film Adaptation (Jonze 2002) was a daring and original adaptation by Charlie Kaufman of Susan Orleans’ book The Orchid Thief. Kaufman writes himself in as the struggling screenwriter along with his more confident twin brother played by the same actor. Wrestling with the adaptation, Kaufman hears a voice saying, ‘Whittle it down to one thing and that one thing is what do I feel passionate about.’ It is good advice for it speaks to the essence of the film and the need for the writer to be true to it. The essence is what grabs the writer in the first place. It is what continues to intrigue them and fuel the writing process. A number of reviewers of Certain Women wrote about mystery, as if there were a puzzle to be solved or a murderer to be apprehended, but it is Reichardt’s ability to allow silences that reach under the surface of character, revealing the unspoken that makes her work so moving and her films so original. Meloy’s short stories are like that too and it is this essence, which resonates with Reichardt’s personal concerns that she remains true to.

Radical Transformations Previous adaptation examples have all made changes to a source text, some significant, but all are still clearly identifiable as adaptations of the original. In their introduction to Beyond Adaptation: Essays on Radical Transformations of Original Works, editors Phyllis Frus and Christy Williams suggest radical transformations can signify a complete break from

92 

M. NASH

the source text which, in some cases, becomes unrecognisable. They argue that some films do this so completely that they almost require another category. They call this ‘Radical Transformation’. Clueless (Heckerling 1995), for example, is a transformation of Jane Austin’s 1816 novel Emma (Frus and Williams 2010, p. 3). O Brother Where Art Thou? (Cohen and Cohen 2000) is credited as being ‘loosely based’ on Homer’s The Odyssey (even though the Cohen brothers admit they had never read it), but is clearly a radical transformation of Preston Sturges’ Depression-era Hollywood comedy Sullivan’s Travels (Sturges 1941). In Sturges’ film, a Hollywood director of shallow comedies wants to make a serious film based on a novel he has read called O Brother Where Art Thou? He decides to go on the road, dressed as a tramp in order to experience the sorrows of humanity. The title Sullivan’s Travels is a reference to the 1726 novel Gulliver’s Travels by satirist Jonathan Swift about another journey of self-discovery. Frus and Williams note the prevalence of fairy tales or fables in the essays on radical transformations they received. ‘Because fairy tales are frequently about metamorphosis and are often easily recognizable, they are popular sources for contemporary transformations’ (Frus and Williams 2010, p.  6). Nietzchka Keene’s adaptation of The Juniper Tree (Keene 1989), a Brothers Grimm fairy tale, reframes the story by making the protagonist a young woman instead of a young man. In the process, she radically transforms the narrative of the evil stepmother and wicked witch, offering a more complex and layered representation of women’s struggle to survive in a time when single women were often persecuted and killed as witches.

Fear Eats the Soul (Fassbinder 1974) a Case Study The story behind German filmmaker Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s radical transformation of Douglas Sirk’s Hollywood melodrama All That Heaven Allows (Sirk 1955) into Fear Eats the Soul (Fassbinder 1974) is a complex web of adaptation, transformation and inter-textual references. Rainer Werner Fassbinder was the enfant terrible of the German film revival of the 1970s. Rejecting Hollywood narrative films as politically reactionary, he made films that were experimental, political, low budget and raw. He worked fast and was enormously prolific. Fear Eats the Soul has been described as having ‘an intensity and maturity that qualify it to

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

93

stand among his masterpieces. It also has a tenderness that is almost unparalleled in the director’s work’ (Fujiwara 2014). Fassbinder encountered the films of German émigré director Douglas Sirk in the early 1970s. Sirk had been part of radical theatre in the Weimar republic, but had left Germany in 1937 as Hitler’s reign of terror grew, turning to directing films in both France and Holland before immigrating to America and changing his name from Detlef Sierck to Douglas Sirk. Initially offered B grade work in Hollywood, he eventually made his name directing a string of popular melodramas including Magnificent Obsession (Sirk 1954) and All That Heaven Allows (Sirk 1955). Both films starred Jane Wyman and Rock Hudson, and both depict the rigid moralism and hypocrisy of small-town America. All That Heaven Allows had such an impact on Fassbinder that he decided to adapt it for a German audience. Later in an interview, Fassbinder said: I was in danger of copying All That Heaven Allows… Later I tried to do a remake of what I’d seen in it. That was Fear Eats the Soul. But you mustn’t simply do something over again, just because you like it, you should tell your own story, using your film experience. (Fassbinder in Töteberg, M and Lensing 1992, p. 42)

Fassbinder’s radical transformation of All That Heaven Allows into Fear Eats the Soul was so complete that when Sirk’s wife watched it she failed to recognise it as an adaptation of her husband’s famous film (Töteberg and Lensing 1992, p. 42). What had Fassbinder ‘seen’ in Sirk’s film? What was the essence that captivated him? American filmmaker Todd Haynes suggests: Fassbinder was completely taken off guard by the direct tenderness… in these Sirk films… Tenderness. Human fragility. What Sirk did for Fassbinder, I think was show that you could be extremely simple and very direct with your narrative language in a movie, but show people suffering, show people you identify with not due to their free agency… but actually people who you identify with because of their captivity in rigid societies that we all share. (Haynes 2013)

All That Heaven Allows was adapted from a 1952 romance novel of the same name, written by American mother and son writing team, Edna and Harry Lee, and originally serialised in a women’s magazine. In it, a middle-­ class widow falls in love with a younger man who is her gardener. Her

94 

M. NASH

Fig. 6.2  Dustjacket images of All That Heaven Allows

children are outraged and the couple are cruelly ostracised by the townsfolk. She eventually gives him up only to realise what a mistake she has made. The book is set in small-town America in the 1950s, where the façade of the perfect post-war nuclear family masks a community rife with prejudice, spiteful gossip and a salacious fascination with forbidden sexual liaisons not uncommon in romance fiction (Fig. 6.2). Hollywood screenwriter Peg Fenwick wrote the screenplay, which Sirk found ‘rather impossible, but managed to restructure it during the shoot using the studio’s big budget to both film and edit the work exactly the way he wanted’ (Mulvey 2001). Jane Wyman was only 38 when she played Carey, the widow who finds herself ‘on the shelf’ in a world where men her own age are only interested in younger women. Rock Hudson was 29 when he played Ron the younger man she falls in love with. The title, All That Heaven Allows, appealed to Universal Studios who thought it sent a positive message, but Sirk considered it ironic—‘As far as I’m concerned, heaven is stingy’ (Sirk in Shivas 1979)—meaning it is about who is forbidden in heaven as much as who is allowed. To radically transform All That Heaven Allows, Fassbinder moved the story to Berlin, retaining the theme of a rigid small-minded community

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

95

and children refusing to accept their mother as a sexual creature. He retained the narrative of the older widow falling in love with a younger man from a different class, but his widow is a poor working-class cleaner and the man she falls in love with is an even poorer, black guest worker from Morocco. The age difference is even greater between the characters and Fassbinder introduces race to the mix, but the characters are so naïve and accepting of each other they are able to ignore society’s judgement of them until faced with its brutality. For Fassbinder ‘the simpler the story is the truer it is… if we’d made the character of Ali more complicated, the audience would have had a harder time dealing with the story’ (Töteberg and Lensing 1992, p. 11). Fassbinder simplifies it, makes its contrasts more extreme, turns it away from melodrama and toward fable, and intensifies its motive forces: the love of the couple and the oppression acting on them. And with his characteristic irony and bitterness, he shows that this oppression is just as necessary to the lovers as the love is. (Fujiwara 2014)

Fassbinder named the widow Emmi, and the younger man she falls in love with Ali, directly referencing his 1970 film The American Soldier, where a hotel chambermaid (played by Margarethe von Trotta) recounts the story of a Hamburg cleaning woman called Emmi, who meets Ali, a Turkish immigrant worker, in a bar, marries him, but is later found strangled, the imprint of the letter A from a signet ring on her throat (Fujiwara 2014). Fassbinder cast his Moroccan lover, El Hedi ben Salem, as Ali, making him a guest worker from Morocco. While the film takes a tragic turn, Fassbinder ends it with a sense of hope. The essence—‘direct tenderness’, between an unlikely couple in the midst of a rigid society’s judgement and cruelty— carried across from All That Heaven Allows into Fear Eats the Soul. An adaptation works best when it is a genuine transaction between the old and the new, carried out by persons who understand and care for both, who can help the thing adapted leap the gulf and shine again in a different light. (Rushdie 2009)

Far from Heaven (Haynes 2002) Thirty years later, queer filmmaker Todd Haynes reimagined All That Heaven Allows and Fear Eats the Soul into his own post-modern transformation of the story, Far from Heaven (Haynes 2002). Set in small-town

96 

M. NASH

America in the 1950s, the opening title sequence pays homage to Sirk with a long crane shot over suburban rooftops, that moves down to where Cathy (Julianne Moore) lives, directly imitating Sirk’s opening credit sequence in All That Heaven Allows. However, Cathy is not a literal widow, although she is an emotional one, for her salesman husband Frank (Denis Quaid) is absent most of the time and distant sexually when he is around. She too falls in love with the gardener, who is black, and the town is soon ablaze with cruel gossip about them, but the story’s repressed heart is with Frank, who is a closet homosexual, just as Rock Hudson was in the closet in Hollywood when he starred as the heterosexual heartthrob, Ron, in All That Heaven Allows.1 In reimagining the story, Haynes brings his own personal concerns as a gay man, just as Fassbinder, who was openly gay in Berlin in the 1970s, made films that echoed his personal concerns with prejudice, sexual repression and hypocrisy in Germany at the time. Fassbinder considered all his films to be personal on some level and all Sirk’s films ‘very individual and personal’ (Töteberg and Lensing 1992, p. 41). Sirk agreed: The most important thing for a filmmaker should be an image of his reality. When I see a Max Beckman, for instance, I know it can only be Beckman; an Emil Nolde is Nolde, and with Rainer I know it’s Rainer. He has an unforgettable signature, an unmistakable signature. (Töteberg and Lensing 1992, p. 42)

The Television Scene—Comparative Scene Analysis In Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows, Carey’s children implore her not to marry Ron and give up the family home, because it’s their home and they need it, so she bends to their demands and gives him up even though she loves him. On Christmas Eve, her daughter announces her engagement and her son reveals his plans to travel and study and suggests they sell the house, as it will be too big for just one person. Carey is deeply shocked and upset, realising that her sacrifice has ‘all been so pointless’. The doorbell interrupts and a television set is delivered for her as their present. The salesman says: ‘All you have to do is turn that dial and you have all the company you want, right there on the screen. Drama, comedy… life’s parade at your fingertips.’ We see Carey reflected in the screen, looking back at us in horror. In Fassbinder’s Fear Eats the Soul, Emmi announces her marriage to her children, who are stunned when they see Ali is not only much younger

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

97

than their mother, but also that he is black. One of her sons violently kicks the television set in and they leave calling her a whore and saying she can forget she has children. Emmi collapses on the couch in tears as Ali tries to comfort her. Fassbinder suggests: My story is set in a coarser more brutal world; the same story in Sirk’s film unfolds in small town America, where it works better. Yet the process of giving a television set instead of a man appears much more brutal against this background than the brutal act in my film. These are the sorts of little details where you can’t just imitate; you have to do an adaptation that fits the setting. (Fassbinder in Töteberg and Lensing 1992, p. 42)

In Haynes’ Far from Heaven, Cathy is interviewed for a women’s magazine as the perfect 1950s housewife sitting in front of her television set. Above it, a plaque says Mrs Magnatech, because Cathy and Frank have become emblematic of the perfect couple in Frank’s Magnatech corporate world. The brutal irony of the television set scene here positions Moore as a de facto widow innocently playing the lie of the perfect wife and mother. The interview is interrupted when Cathy sees a black man in her backyard and goes to investigate, discovering that he is the son of her previous gardener, who has recently died, and not an intruder. Cathy touches his arm to offer her condolences. Looking through the window, the local society editor is scandalised and Cathy’s black maid is similarly disapproving of his presence. Each of the three films in this complex web found an essence of human tenderness in the midst of society’s cruelty and rigidity, and each film has enjoyed success in its own right, yet all three films are radically different. What is essential? It is one of the great questions of life. It’s a question that crops up in other adaptations than artistic ones. The text is human society and the human self, in isolation or in groups, the essence to be preserved is a human essence. (Rushdie 2009)

Conclusion Exploring essence, originality and radical transformation in screenwriting adaptation practice reveals it is usually writer-directors, who find an essence in the source text that resonates with their own personal view of the world and then decide to pursue the project. They take creative risks in order to

98 

M. NASH

preserve that essence and successfully translate it across into a new form. Some films are the product of a radical transformation of the source text, requiring unusual ingenuity and self-knowledge on the part of the writer(s). Far from adaptation practice being simply derivative, it is revealed as requiring skill, daring and courage in order to unpick and restitch one thing into another, so it might be reborn in a new cinematic form and shine again in its own right.

Note 1. In 2018, Mark Griffin wrote a tell-all biography of Rock Hudson called All That Heaven Allows.

References 2001 a Space Odyssey. 1968. Motion Picture, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, United States. Adaptation. 2002. Motion Picture, Sony Pictures Releasing, United States. All About Eve. 1950. Motion Picture, 20th Century Fox, United States. All That Heaven Allows. 1955. Motion Picture, Universal Pictures, United States. The American Soldier. 1970. Motion Picture, The Criterion Collection, West Germany. An Angel at My Table. 1990. Motion Picture, Sharmill Films (Australia) Fine Line Features (US). Animals. 2019. Motion Picture, Bonsai Films, Australia. The Birds. 1963. Motion Picture, Universal Pictures, United States. Bradshaw, P. 2017. Certain Women Review—Quietly Mysterious Tale of Lives on the Edge. The Guardian, 3 March 2017. Accessed 7 November 2020. https:// www.theguardian.com/film/2017/mar/02/certain-­women-­review-­michelle-­ williams-­laura-­dern-­kristen-­stewart-­kelly-­reichardt. Brokeback Mountain. 2006. Motion Picture, Focus Features, United States. Bunbury, S. 2017. Kelly Reichardt’s Eye on America. Sydney Morning Herald, 19 April 2017. Accessed 24 November 2018. https://www.smh.com.au/entertainment/movies/kelly-­reichardts-­eye-­on-­america-­20170418-­gvmqfv.html. Certain Women. 2016. Motion Picture, IFC Films, United States. Clueless. 1995. Motion Picture, Paramount Pictures, United States. Cordaiy, H. 2003. Adaptation—The Craft of Screenwriting. Storyline, Issue 3 Winter 2003, Australian Writers’ Guild Ltd., p. 17. Danielpour, D. 2012. Imitation and Adaptation. Journal of Screenwriting 3 (1): 103–118. Far from Heaven. 2002. Motion Picture, Focus Features, United States.

6  ADAPTATION: ESSENCE, ORIGINALITY AND RADICAL TRANSFORMATION 

99

Fear Eats the Soul. 1974. Motion Picture, Filmverlag der Autoren GmbH & Co. Vertriebs KG, West Germany. Frus, P., and C.  Williams, eds. 2010. Forward to: Beyond Adaptation: Essays on Radical Transformations of Original Works, 3. Jefferson, NC and London: McFarland & Company, Inc. Fujiwara, C. 2014. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul: One Love, Two Oppressions. The Criterion Collection, 7 October 2014. Accessed 10 December 2020. https://www.criterion. com/current/posts/1067-­ali-­fear-­eats-­the-­soul-­one-­love-­two-­oppressions. Griffin, M. 2018. All That Heaven Allows—A biography of Rock Hudson. New York: Harper an imprint of Harper Collins Publishers. Haynes, T. 2013. Todd Haynes: From Fassbinder to Sirk and Back. Videorecording, You Tube, 20 November 2013. Accessed 7 December 2020. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=8ZTrOQL23XY. Jones, L. 2011. Personal communication Friday 29th July 2011, Sydney. The Juniper Tree. 1989. Motion Picture, Rhino Entertainment, United States. Kitteredge, W., and S.M.  Krauzer. 1979. Stories Into Film. Vol. 1. New  York: Harper Colophon Books; Harper & Row Publishers. Kohn, E. 2016. Kelly Reichardt Is One of the Best Filmmakers in America and We Don’t Appreciate Her Enough—NYFF. IndieWire, 3 October 2016. Accessed 24 November 2018. https://www.indiewire.com/2016/10/ kelly-­reichardt-­interview-­certain-­women-­kristen-­stewart-­1201732899/. Little Women. 2019. Motion Picture, Sony Pictures Releasing, United States. Magnificent Obsession. 1954. Motion Picture, Universal Pictures, United States. Michael, M. 1992. Michael Martin Speaks with Greta Gerwig on Her ‘Little Women’ Film Adaptation. NPR Movie Interview transcript 22 December 2019. Accessed 3 December 2020. https://www.npr.org/2019/12/22/790631863/ greta-­gerwig-­on-­her-­little-­women-­film-­adaptation. Mulvey, L. 2001 All That Heaven Allows. Film Essays. 18 June 2001. The Criterion Collection. Accessed 2 November 2012. https://www.criterion.com/current/ posts/96-­all-­that-­heaven-­allows. Nicolaou, E. 2020. Why Greta Gerwig’s Little Women Movie Radically Changed the Book’s Ending, 3 February 2020. Accessed 3 December 2020. https://www. oprahmag.com/entertainment/a30186941/little-­women-­ending/. O Brother Where Art Thou?. 2000. Motion Pictures, Universal Pictures and Buena Vista Pictures,United States. Ondaatje, M. 2002. The Conversations: Walter Murch and the Art of Editing Film, 126. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Oscar and Lucinda. 1997. Motion Picture, Fox Searchlight Pictures—20th Century Fox, UK and Australia. Portnoy, K. 1998. Screen Adaptation, a Scriptwriting Handbook, 4. Boston: Focal Press, an imprint of Elsevier. Rashomon. 1950. Motion Picture, RKO Pictures, Japan.

100 

M. NASH

Romeo and Juliet. 1996. Motion Picture, 20th Century Fox, United States. Rushdie, S. 2009. Lost in Translation. The Weekend Australian, Review 28–29 March, pp. 4–6. Shivas, M. 1979. Beyond the Mirror, a Profile of Douglas Sirk. BBC Documentary Criterion Collection, DVD extra courtesy BBC Worldwide. Stuart, A. 1999. The War Zone: Screenplay. Foreword by T. Roth. Dublin: Gill & Macmillan Ltd. Sullivan’s Travels. 1941. Motion Picture, Paramount Pictures, United States. Töteberg, M., and Lensing, L.A., eds. 1992. Reacting to What You Experience: Ernest Burkel Talks with Douglas Sirk and Rainer Werner Fassbinder. In The Anarchy of the Imagination, Interviews, Essays, Notes, 42. Baltimore and London: The John Hopkins University Press. Weiss, J. 1983. The Power to Imagine: An Interview with Jean Claude Carrière. Cineaste 13 (1): 6–11. Wilkinson, A. 2016. Kelly Reichardt Talks about Certain Women and Why She’ll Never Work with Oxen Again. Interview by Alissa Wilkinson, Vox, New  York, 18 October. Accessed 24 November 2018. https://www.vox. com/2016/10/18/13313104/kelly-­r eichardt-­i nterview-­kristen-­stewart-­ michelle-­williams-­laura-­dern-­certain-­women. Wuthering Heights. 2011. Motion Picture, Curzon Artificial Eye, UK.

PART II

Practical Challenges: Starting, Stopping and Failing

CHAPTER 7

The Writer’s Notebook Delia Falconer

A “placenta”. A “bed of detail”. A “seedbed”, a “second brain”, “a workshop for the writer’s soul”. A “fetish”, a “tip of the iceberg”, or “dry tinder”.1 The writer’s notebook is “not strictly a form or a genre” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. xiv), and yet, as a writer, I’m struck, when I look at other writers’ notebooks, by how we describe them in surprisingly consistent ways. A writer’s notebook is, typically, a fragmentary and ongoing collection of quotes from books read, observations from life, questions about process, statements of artistic vision, and snippets of voice anticipating new work. My own, fourteen so far, combine each of these elements and have done so, spontaneously, since I first began to publish my writing professionally in 1994. For me, as they are for many other writers, they are alternate working spaces to texts that must be finished. We prize their looseness, their generative and talismanic qualities as an alternative to the fulsome, enervating, and unappealing daily accounting of thoughts, feelings, and events in a diary. Although writers sometimes use the terms “journal” and “notebook” interchangeably, I am using “notebook” in this chapter to describe an ongoing working text distinguished by its piecemeal, intertextual openness, and spontaneity.

D. Falconer (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_7

103

104 

D. FALCONER

As a writer who has always kept notebooks, I’m fascinated by the contradictions they embody: spacious and uniquely open-ended and yet, over a writing lifetime, a compulsive discipline. Although they tend to emerge spontaneously as part of each writer’s individual practice and are usually kept in private, they are also a recognisable “form”, with surprisingly deep resemblances and roots that stretch back to the beginnings of writing as a self-conscious public practice. This quality of instability allows a notebook to inhabit a “hallowed ground between meditation and production” (Taussig 2011, p.  9). As Dustin Illingworth observes, the staid words “journal” and “notebook” mask the elegant violence of the notebook’s “interbred” and “inextricable” elements, which make it both “supremely meditative and utterly marginal” (Illingworth 2016). It is the place where we encounter the “immediate, provisional, and searching presence of the writer” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. xiv). My aim in this chapter is to think, as a writer, about the many contradictory functions notebooks serve in the lives of authors, drawing on a range of published writers’ notebooks and extracts and, especially, on writers’ descriptions of their notebooks’ importance to them in their writing lives. Why does this form, which is in some ways so old-fashioned, persist as such an enduring and originative part of so many writers’ practice, including my own? In her essay “On Keeping a Notebook”, Joan Didion famously describes keeping a diary, a factual record of what she has been doing or thinking, as a discipline that eludes her. “When I have tried dutifully to record a day’s events,” she writes, “boredom has so overcome me that the results are mysterious at best” (Didion 1974, p.  115). Her notebook, on the other hand, is “an indiscriminate and erratic assemblage with meaning only for its maker” (Didion 1974, p. 117). This private or coded quality, and the brevity of its entries (“‘That woman Estelle is partly the reason why George Sharp and I are separated today.’ Dirty crepe-de-Chine wrapper, hotel bar, Wilmington RR, 9:45 a.m. August Monday morning”; Didion 1974, p. 113) distinguishes it from the more polished or writerly journal “as structural conceit for binding together a series of graceful pensées” (Didion 1974, p. 117). Helen Garner also expresses a strong preference for the notebook over the diary, which she dismisses as a place to get rid of “something that’s making you unhappy” (Freeman 2016). Looking back at diaries she had written before 1980, she told writer John Freeman, she found “a consciousness that was repellent to me”. “I was ashamed of myself,” she said.

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

105

“I thought, Jesus, you’re such a whinger.” By contrast, she has described the small notebook she always carried with her as a repository of “little crumbs that I pick up from everywhere. Recipes. Titles. Things that I overhear in the street. Quotes from what I’m reading. Details of people’s appearance that I happen to notice. That kind of thing” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 61). Although she used separate notebooks for developing the five main characters of her novel The Children’s Bach, Garner distinguished these from her general notebook, which was both driven and joyfully purposeless. She kept this notebook “without any particular aim except that I can’t bear to let things get past me… Small things are so fascinating and precious that I can’t bear to let them go. So I write them down as they strike me” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 61). It was the repository for “that part of yourself which is not amenable to organisation or routine or even conscious control” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). Similar distinctions are made by the contemporary American poets in The Poet’s Notebook, each of whom has written a small introduction to the excerpts they have provided. Marvin Bell keeps a loose, associative workbook for his “prose spillover”; though he prefers to call it “journal” because the name sounds “helpless and private” in contrast to the “civic and civil” connotations of “notebook” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 3). In her black-and-red bound notebooks from the People’s Republic of China, Rita Dove records “anything interesting enough to stop me in my tracks”, which might include “the slump of a pair of shoulders in a crow, a newspaper entry, a recipe, ‘chewy’ words like ragamuffin or Maurice” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 13). J. D. McClatchy distinguishes between his notebook and journal as “recipe” and “plat du jour”, while expressing a preference for a third notebook, the “commonplace book” where he “scribbles consistently” as a “ledger of envies and delights” (Kuusisto et  al. 1995, p. 153). For Donald Justice, a notebook is “for jotting down unfinished ideas”. He speculates that there may even be a kind of idea that is a “notebook idea”. Such ideas “may in fact have their own charm, their own seductiveness, just as the fragments of unfinished poems sometimes do” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 110). Writers’ descriptions of the pleasures their notebooks offer are often contradictory. On the one hand, the notebook is a place of freedom and spontaneity—even to write “shit”, as writer and creative writing teacher Natalie Goldberg notes in her manual for writers, Writing Down the Bones (Goldberg 1986, p. 18). For John Cheever, the purpose of his journal (a strikingly polished set of observations, at least in its published form, which

106 

D. FALCONER

nevertheless exhibits notebook-like qualities of spontaneity and distance from world events) was to give voice to a shadow self he was unable to express, or could express only obliquely, in his fiction: “To disguise nothing, to conceal nothing, to write about those things that are closest to our painful search for self, jeopardized by a stranger in the post office, a half-­ seen face in a train window; to write about the continents and populations of our dreams, about love and death, good and evil, the end of the world” (Cheever 2010, pp. xvii–xviii). On the other hand, authors often describe being driven to keep a notebook. Like Garner, Didion confesses that her urge to write things down as they strike her is “compulsive”. “Keepers of private notebooks”, she observes, “are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss” (Didion 1974, p. 114). However, for some writers, the two forms—diary and notebook—are not always so distinct or necessarily opposed. Susan Sontag wrote about the diaries kept by other authors, such as Cesare Pavese and Albert Camus, in In Interpretation as well as keeping almost a hundred herself, using the terms journal, diary, and notebook interchangeably (Maunsell 2011, p. 4). She did not exclude diaristic functions from her journal, having developed early on a vision of it as a place of self-assessment and self-interrogation: and a kind of intellectual autobiography, in which a writer, over her career, could build up a persona. (She disliked Camus’s published Notebooks because they weren’t self-revelatory.) Yet Sontag’s own “diaries” were not the coherent daily chronicles the term might lead us to expect but “unusually multivalent texts” (Maunsell 2011, p. 2), consisting of the loose, staccato and heterogeneous entries that I am ascribing to notebooks: lists of slang and planned reading, excerpts from work she admired, titles for projects, scraps of memory, commands to herself, ideas for stories and even small moments of meta-reflection on the diary or journal form. She would note, significantly, that, while her journal recorded her actual, daily life it also “offers an alternative to it” (Sontag 2008, p. 167). As a writer, I observe with particular fascination Franz Kafka’s “failure” to erect a border early in his career between experiments with fictional prose and diaristic self-interrogation in his notebooks. He would set aside a second, separate notebook for more plainly fictional writing—but he couldn’t maintain the practice. Within a year, complex fragments of a fictional voice began to crop up next to his private musings on career and process; as if, one Kafka commentator notes, he needed to build up a “draught of transformation” within its pages that swept him on into

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

107

fiction before he could consciously register the boundary (Corngold 2004, p. 29). The writer’s notebook may not be a “genre”—yet it asserts itself as a necessary form as Kafka’s instincts take over. Mixing self-questioning and experiments with voice, it turns out to be very like other writers’ notebooks, which also seem to derive an intense creative energy from hybridity and impurity. Kafka himself would resolve: “I won’t give up the diary [notebook] again…I must hold on here, it is the only place I can.” The feeling of happiness the process gave him was “really something effervescent…that fills me completely with a light, pleasant quiver” (quoted in Corngold 2004, p. 19). * * * I have, I realise, never glimpsed the insides of my close writer friends’ journals; it felt strangely intimate, in the context of writing this chapter, even to ask a writer friend of twenty-five years if he kept one. I remember vividly when another friend showed me, in her study in Melbourne, a couple of her journal pages. Observations jotted in her strong hand lunged between images she had cut from magazines of a grinning Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, which she had kept to remind herself of an exaggerated rictus she felt was a historically original facial expression. Certainly, when I show a few pages of the notebooks I kept while writing my first novel in PowerPoint presentations to my Master’s students, I feel oddly exposed— and I would never show them pages of my general notebooks, with their strange enjambments of lines of prose that pop into my head, quotes and notes about what I have been reading, observations of acquaintances, and random thoughts. Unsurprisingly, then, it is actually quite difficult, without descending into the archives, to find writers’ notebooks in a raw state: even Helen Garner’s two recently published volumes of notebooks consist of curated extracts. In putting together this chapter, I have had to rely primarily on two publications: Making Stories, in which Australian writers discuss drafting their novels, while sometimes providing small from their notebooks, and The Poet’s Notebook; along, of course, with my own bound notebooks and other writing diaries (Word documents on my computer, organised by year), in which—in their mix of quotes, scraps of remembered speech and observation, and brief visions illuminating planned or future work—I find surprising, and often comforting, correspondences to those of these other writers.

108 

D. FALCONER

The utility and power of the notebook derives for many writers from the fact that it is private and never intended for publication. “I wrote these notes for myself only,” Lisel Museller remarks, “whether they are of value to anyone else, I can’t say” (Kuusisto et  al. 1995, p.  212). There are exceptions, of course. Sontag clearly envisaged her diaries as semi-public documents from an early age. Late in his life, according to his son in his Introduction to his father’s journals, John Cheever began to envisage publishing them and approached his family to seek their blessing; this may be why his notebook entries are remarkable for their coherence and lack of fragmentation, as if Cheever had this public audience in mind, at the very least unconsciously, throughout his writing life. In an Australian context, one can read, edited into published form, the notebooks of Murray Bail and Beverley Farmer, Bail’s a selection of terse observations and notes on reading translated from his shorthand working notebooks, and Farmer’s, reworked and incorporated into her autobiographical hybrid essay-novel A Body of Water, as the journal entries of a solitary writer over one year of her life. The question of whether the author at least unconsciously anticipates a readership beyond his or her own private use hovers constantly over the notebook and how it should be read, as it does over the diary. It troubled critic Roland Barthes throughout his career. In “Gide and His Journal” (first published in 1942), he worried over whether Gide’s private journal was coherent enough and of sufficient quality subsequently to be classified as a complete “Work”: could it stand on its own if one didn’t already have “an initial curiosity as to the man” (Barthes 2001a, p. 3)? Barthes also read Gide’s journal for what it revealed about the writer as public author: whether, for example, some development of theme was discernable in it that would throw light on Gide’s published work. Consequently, Barthes was inclined to take Gide at his word when he stated in his journal that he was only working on his books in order because he couldn’t write them all at once. For Barthes, this was evidence of the author’s fully formed genius. Yet if we were to look at the journal as a truly private working document, we might regard Gide’s statement as a convention that occurs repeatedly in writers’ notebooks: a strategic act of self-definition or incantatory exhortation that is strikingly different to the rendering of fact or feeling one might find in a diary, which the diarist records to in some way understand or move on. In writers’ notebooks, authors frequently and repeatedly attempt to articulate and make visible something about our own processes to ourselves. What we write about our work may not be “true”,

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

109

but aspirational: to misquote Didion, we tell ourselves stories in order to write. When Barthes turns his attention to his own journals in “Deliberation” (first published in 1979), he confesses—like Didion and Garner—that he cannot keep a diary. Yet he fares little better with a journal because, while he enjoys the initial spontaneity of writing “unfettered raw material” he finds, on rereading it, that the writing has “spoiled” like some delicate foodstuff that “becomes unappetising from one day to the next” (Barthes 2001b, p.  479). For Barthes his diary is disappointing because it defies classification or publishability. It fails precisely because he can’t escape an interiorised sense of writing for posterity and is haunted constantly by the question of whether it is “worth the trouble” (Barthes 2001b, p. 480 [his italics]). Nevertheless, the reasons he gives for his disappointment illuminate the ways in which journals can function positively for writers for whom they are an essential part of their private process, at a necessary remove from their polished or finished public texts. Without a public mission, Barthes writes, his journal is a “discourse” (a kind of written word according to a special code”) and not a text: it is an “Album” and not a “Work”. Its entries are interchangeable and “infinitely suppressible” (Barthes 2001b, p. 492 [his italics]). And yet for many writers, myself included, it is exactly this openness— this quality of being a “discourse”, or set of discourses, “without a mission” (Barthes 2001b, p. 492)—that is most valuable about the notebook. Thumbing idly through the notebook can be part of a ritual for jump-­ starting writing without the looming consciousness or necessity of the finished Work. For Rita Dove, “a small stack of notebooks is always at the ready for browsing”. The notebook is “the well I dip into for that first, clear drink” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 13). The notebook pages’ detachment from a finished work and from a defined writing self can spark creativity in a way that writing already committed to the Work might not. “From time to time I finger through [my notebooks],” Alice Fulton writes, “wondering, What did I mean by that?” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 65). This Album-like effect, which makes the notebook so attractive to leaf through, with its loosely tethered and recombinable elements, again helps distinguish its usefulness in contrast to a diary. In 1998, the French scholar of autobiography, Philippe Lejeune, issued a call-out to readers of the Magazine littéraire to write to him about their private dairies. Lejeune himself observed that the terms the forty-seven

110 

D. FALCONER

correspondents—“ordinary” citizens rather than writers—used to describe their diaries added up to a “sort of poem”: Breath—the breath of life—flowing water—island—sheltered harbour— mirror—shattered mosaic—way-markers—laboratory—spinal column— crutch—safety-railing—magic ritual—crooning chant, litany—pen-pusher’s occupation—message in a bottle—outlet—digestion—shitting—water-­ closet—cesspool—pus—masturbation—drug—cigarette—bomb—radioactivity—body—mummies—withered flowers—herbarium. (Lejeune 2009, p. 37)

If this is a “poem”, it’s one that degenerates into imagery of closure, corruption, and death. While one has to wonder whether correspondents’ self-selection from among readers of a literary journal or even certain aspects of the national temperament skewed Lejeune’s sample, it is fascinating to observe how strikingly different these often negative descriptions are from the professional writers’ descriptions of their notebooks with which I opened this essay. Around half of the correspondents characterised diary-keeping as a form of wasteful, even excretive activity. Many envisaged containment or closure in their metaphors (harbour, mirror, island, safety railing, message in a bottle) including the ultimate closure of desiccation or death (mummies, withered flowers, herbarium). By contrast, the professional writers’ metaphors for their notebooks suggest the notebook’s vital importance to us as a space (bed, kindling, nest, womb) that is creative, productive, potential, and ongoing, whose contents, under the right conditions, might burst into life or flame. * * * How do authors themselves account for the generative quality of the notebook? One key factor appears to be its capture of details in a way that not only allows them to be recalled but expanded or enlivened. Revisiting the gnomic three-line entry in her notebook that begins “‘That woman Estelle’…”, Didion traces the way in which it prompts (or at least seems to prompt) a rush of extraordinary extra detail. The location was a bar across from the Pennsylvania Railway station in Wilmington, Delaware, in 1960 or 1961. The woman in the crepe-de-chine wrapper, who had come down from her room above the bar for a beer, had separated from George that morning. The bartender was mopping the floor, a cat lay in a patch of

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

111

sunlight cast through the open door—while another girl at the end of the bar, Didion herself, was also separating from the man beside her because of another woman. That girl, Didion, who was heading to lunch in New  York, was wearing a plaid dress from Peck and Peck with its hem coming down. She was thinking about the empty nights ahead of her and wishing she had a safety pin and that she could talk to this other woman to “compare Estelles” (Didion 1974, p. 113). In Making Stories, Helen Garner similarly recalled how a brief description of a couple of “heavy guys” she used to see sitting in a Darlinghurst café allowed her to retrieve the mood that would imbue her story, “A Vigil” in her novel Cosmo Cosmolino (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). I, too, notice that small, sometimes even cryptic observations, written in my messy hand, bring a flood of associations that notes written on a screen do not, for reasons I suspect have to do with the body memory of writing freehand and the way they bring to mind the place in which they were written. Using a notebook, Garner said, was not about learning to be more observant, but about helping “to remember in detail what I notice” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). Trying to account for the “rush of memory” it could trigger, Garner suggested that the process “touches on what T.S.  Eliot might have meant when he talked about the ‘objective correlative’—an image or a detail that summons up in a rush a whole attendant mood, or vibe” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). This term was first coined by the American painter Washington Allston around 1840, but it was popularised by Eliot in a 1920 essay on Hamlet, in which he wrote that to conjure an emotion the artist needed to find an equivalent “set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion” (Eliot 1960, p. 6). The observations authors make in their notebooks are often terse and gnomic, such as those made by Murray Bail, between quotes from Pound, Wittgenstein, and Flaubert, in the journal he kept as a young man in London: “The smell of plumbers. Unlike anything above the earth” (Bail 1989, p.  21); “Morning toast and these English towns: unfortunately related” (Bail 1989, p.  16). They function a little like haikus, in whose three concise lines, Ross Gibson writes, “[e]ntire systems of reality are sketched quickly but exactly”, intensified on a page, and “poised to expand again in your mind”. The striking similarity of such notes, in their haiku-­ like brevity, across writers’ notebooks suggests that when we write like this we are putting to use, to some extent, a learned form of observation, which has developed, like the haiku, to use well-chosen details as a

112 

D. FALCONER

“startling trigger” to a mind “primed to receive what lies beneath the surface” (Gibson 2009). Authors take pains to define the notebook as more than a simple aide-­ mémoire, often remarking on how the notes recorded inside it produce a surplus, of associations—some of which might not have been apparent at the time. Author and anthropologist Michael Taussig describes in almost mystical terms the way his notebooks transform the everyday “into an underwater world in which things on the surface become transformed, rich, and strange. The notes in a notebook are what has been picked at and plundered from an underworld. They are of another order of reality altogether” (Taussig 2011, p.  4). In trying to distinguish the notebook’s “Phantom” quality from the diary, Taussig suggests that its form— “ungrammatical jottings and staccato burps and hiccups” (Taussig 2011, p. 11)—amplifies the shadow quality that Barthes was able to very occasionally find in the interstices of his diary. The notebook formalises the interstices of notation because it lies at the outer reaches of both language and order, representing “the chance pole of a collection, rather than the design pole” (Taussig 2011, p.  11). It is, almost impossibly, “all interstices”, “like having an unconscious without a conscious” (Taussig 2011, p. 11). The use of blank space is a self-conscious technique that formalises a generative casualness. “To keep these notes natural and useful to me,” wrote W. B. Yeats, “I must keep one note from leading on to another” (quoted in Taussig 2011, p. 11). I’ve come to realise that blank space in my notebooks carries energy, like the “chi” in Chinese painting: it’s as important as any written annotation. This form of notation both presupposes and performs a certain attitude to reality itself. Looking at her entry about Estelle, Didion writes that she has written it to remember—but “exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it?” (Didion 1974, p.  114). Similarly, she finds herself thinking of an entry about eating cracked crab on the day her father came home from Detroit in 1945, when she was ten. She was too young, she believes, to have been able to remember the crab. It must be an invention. “And yet it is precisely that fictitious crab”, she writes, “that makes me see that afternoon all over again, a home movie run all too often, the father bearing gifts, the child weeping, an exercise of family love or guilt. Or that is what it was to me” (Didion 1974, p. 115). For Didion, the detail recorded in her notebook seems to be less valuable for its verisimilitude than its ability to invoke, in film-­ maker Werner Herzog’s term, “ecstatic truth”: truth that is sometimes

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

113

“the enemy of the merely factual” (Herzog 2010, p. 1). It is the transformation of detail—its slippage from its origins in the real, or what Herzog would describe as “an illumination, an ecstatic flash” (Herzog 2010, p. 7)—that makes the notebook so generative. Too much detail, on the other hand, can be inimical to the creative process. In her interview for Making Stories, Garner described a shift in the way that she used and made notes as her practice matured. Early in her career, she felt a debt to recording exactly what happened in her notebooks and incorporating these notes into her fiction. Writing The Children’s Bach, she was “sort of hooked on detail—I mean anxiously and obsessively collecting detail to use”, but by the time the interview took place she didn’t feel any more “that I need to be so terribly exact, so precise in what I write down—like a good little girl taking neat dictation” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). By then, she had become better at using her notebook: “I’m more likely not to take a stab at the right note, so that when I read it afterwards the same note will sound again, and remind me of a whole sequence of events, or moods. I think I’m learning to trust myself more, and not to be so anxious about getting it right on the spot” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 62). The novelist Joan London described a similar process of evolution. “I used to have big heavy notebooks,” she told interviewer Charlotte Wood, in which she kept quotes or thoughts or ideas for narrative and characters, “and I used to write and write in them.” But now, she said, “I only want to catch them very lightly. I’ve got lighter and lighter. I get these notepads that you can buy for a dollar each. I’ve got pieces of paper…pinned up or stuck on the wall or lying in little stacks everywhere” (Wood 2016, p. 253). Like London, I also find myself writing increasingly often on single pieces of paper and leaving my notebooks on the shelf. For a notebook to be useful, it doesn’t even have to be opened and reread: the act having consigned thoughts and detail can be enough. For Garner, the process of having written something down, even years ago, fixes it in her mind so that one day it will pop into her mind “exactly when I need it” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 63). This suggests, again, that the notebook exists independently of any implied reader, as a process. When Wood observes that London doesn’t keep her notes carefully ordered, she answers: “No. I want them to be caught on the wing, not to be treasured.” She doesn’t reread her old notebooks because she wants to save her “main energy for the work” (Wood 2016, p. 253).

114 

D. FALCONER

For Taussig, the sheer existence of the notebook is “talismanic”. It is an “enchanted object”. “Simply knowing it is there”, he writes, “provides the armature of truth, of the ‘this happened’, which, like a rock climber’s crampons, allows you to scale great heights” (Taussig 2011, p.  9). His metaphor of “armature” (an open framework for a sculpture but also an organ such as thorns) is echoed by other writers who use similar images of scaffolding or platforming to describe their notebooks. It also suggests an empowering defensive quality about the way a notebook arms the writer to deal with the “real”. While the notebook is in some ways a mnemonic structure—supplying or consigning to memory memories in such a way that they are “activated” for their use in a potential work—it can also be considered as a kind of transitional form, a shaping structure for future work that supplies, while also blurring, the origin point in ways that allow further, more formal imaginative work to take place later. “I don’t invent a book out of thin air,” Garner told her interviewers in Making Stories. “I need … a bed of detail…before I can start to make something up” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p. 61). Nabokov offered a delightful description of the “force” that made him jot down “the correct names of things, or the inches and tints of things” in a book’s early stages, comparing it to the instinct that drives a bird to make its nest: “I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles” (Toffler 1964). “Working notebooks are reassuring,” Alice Fulton concurs, “because it’s easier to start from something rather than nothing” (Kuusisto et  al. 1995, p. 43). * * * Leafing through my own notebooks, which span twenty years, it is fascinating to see that a distinctive “style” of noticing, an aesthetic or ideological unity, present from the beginning. I listen for and record the same kinds of conversation—compressed, resonant, often comic—that I give to the characters in my books. (“I don’t want to sleep in a brush turkey nest!” an acquaintance says of sharing a bed with his overheating partner, invoking the dynamic of their relationship in a single exclamation). I also enjoy recording metaphors (“A cockatoo outside my window, clumsy as a flower”; “Fine insects threading the air”). Yet is this attentiveness something I bring to the notebook, a product of the aesthetic choices of my unconscious, or something that the notebook, as a discipline, brings out?

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

115

For all the lip service that we authors give to our notebooks as places where we can be spontaneous or uninhibited—to give vent, as the poet Anselm Hollo writes, to “indefensible utterances” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 89)—it is interesting to also consider the contradictory ways in which the notebook or journal operates as a technology of thought, which creates a professionally creative relationship to what the author reads, sees, and feels. One of the many strands you will often find in a notebook is its use as a “commonplace book”: a curated selection of quotes taken from reading. The term originated in the Renaissance, when school pupils were taught to select “passages of interest for the rhetorical turns of phrase, the dialectical arguments, or the factual information” they contained and to then copy them out in a notebook kept handy for the purpose, “grouping them under appropriate headings to facilitate later retrieval and use, notably in composing prose of [their] own” (Blair 1992, p. 541). Along with quotes, pupils were instructed to record “a wide range or realia or interesting bits of information sorted under appropriate subject headings according to the topics and themes addressed” (Blair 1992, p. 542). The practice spread widely through Renaissance Europe as the “Erasmian ideal of eloquence through copia rerum or abundance of material” (Blair 1992, p. 542). It is extraordinary to think that this term and the ideal it embodies have survived over four centuries. Shakespeare and Montaigne relied on commonplace books for their writing. In the eighteenth century, John Locke would popularise a new indexing system for the commonplace books educated people were still using to record and annotate readings (along with miscellaneous material from recipes to pressed flowers). E.  M. Forster would begin writing his Commonplace Book directly after the publication of A Passage to India, and it was, as one reviewer noted, “at least as much diary, journal, letter, workbook, notebook, as it is an anthology of useful suggestive passages” (Cole 1970, p. 276). In 1970, W. H. Auden would publish an alphabetically arranged collection of quotes as A Certain World, which he called a “sort of autobiography” (Cole 1970, p. 276). The commonplace book appears to fit Michel Foucault’s definition of a “technology of the self”. Such technologies “permit individuals to effect by their own means or with the help of others a certain number of operations on their own bodies and souls, thoughts, conduct, and way of being, so as to transform themselves in order to attain a certain state of happiness, purity, wisdom, perfection, or immortality” (Foucault et al. 1988, p. 18). Foucault offered as one example the hupomnemata kept by the ancient

116 

D. FALCONER

Greeks: account books, public registers, or individual notebooks, which served as memory aids. The crucial difference between these hupomnemata and intimate journals or accounts of spiritual experience was that they had no confessional intent to bring forth the depths of the writer’s soul. “[T]he intent is not to pursue the unspeakable, nor to reveal the hidden, nor to say the unsaid, but on the contrary to capture to already-said, to collect what one has managed to hear or read, and for a purpose that is nothing less than the shaping of the self” (Foucault 1997, p. 208). This reminds me again of Taussig’s resonant term “armature”. Keeping a notebook may help us to both form and “recognise” ourselves as writers with a distinct set of tastes through the exercise of professional—and professionalising—practice. As Garner notes, in Making Stories, “it shows you that even when you think you are idle, just walking around and gaping at the world, you are actually working quite hard” (Grenville and Woolfe 1993, p.  62). It is striking how often notebooks contain messages or exhortations from the writer to his or her public writing self. “This new writing: I want it to be an interweaving of visual images—more open, loose and rich, and free of angst,” Beverley Farmer wrote. “And if I keep a notebook this time as I go, it will grow side by side with the stories, like the placenta and the baby in the womb” (Farmer 1990, p. 3). While Cheever spent part of his time exploring his soul in his journal, we also find passages in which he summons future work through creative visualisation: “and I think now of the months that I have longed to write a story that will be fine, that will be singing, that will have in it all kinds of lights and pleasures” (Cheever 2010, p.  39), and “What I am determined to get away from are set pieces, closed things, shut paragraphs” (Cheever 2010, p. 96). Susan Sontag, in her journal, even listed her faults: “I have a wider range as a human being than as a writer. (With some writers it’s the opposite.) Only a fraction of me is available to be turned into art” (Sontag 2012, p. 9). My own entries are more likely to quote thoughts from other writers (“Only in bad novels do people do things for one reason”: Peter Carey) though occasionally I will give myself orders (“Keep it light!”) or set boringly practical tasks or programmes of self-improvement (“Keep reading fiction and short stories in the evening”). As Taussig’s description of the notebook as “fetish object” suggests, its power also derives from in its existence as an emotionally laden, physical object: Walter Benjamin’s blue book, for example, which, he wrote “has the same colours as a certain pretty Chinese porcelain: its blue glaze is in the leather, its white in the paper and its green in the stitching” (Taussig

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

117

2011, p. 6). It is striking how many authors, myself included, take great, and sometimes superstitious, pleasure in keeping bound notebooks rather than, or in addition to, computer files, even if we do most of our composing on a screen. While we might roll our eyes at the preciosity of author Bruce Chatwin’s notebook-keeping practice—his leather satchel, modelled on one owned by the French actor Jean-Louis Barrault and commissioned from an English saddler, contained his treasured carnets moleskins: black oilcloth-bound notebooks he would purchase every time he was in Paris from a papeterie in the Rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie—it is possible that the physical notebook also reinforces our identity, in public and private, as part of a writing tribe. One of the questions I used to be asked frequently, when conducting writing workshops, was what kind of notebook I used (I confess: handmade A4-size books from Florence, replaced by red-and-black Chinese notebooks). Yet I’ve noticed more recently that this excitement is more likely to adhere to discussions of writing software like Scrivener and Endnote. As much as writers’ notebooks, which tend to be kept over a long period, appear to offer the opportunity for free self-expression, they are also, at the same time, lifelong exercises of the art of living, which Michel Foucault noted had to be learned through “training of the self by oneself” (Foucault 2001, p. 144). Benjamin H Cheever, in his introduction to his father’s collected journals, would observe acutely that the miniature loose-­ leaf notebooks, which were workbooks for his fiction, “were also the workbooks for his life” (Cheever 2010, p. xix). * * * I have discussed these strands and functions separately. Yet I am certain, from my own experience, and from the way other writers describe their notebooks, that it is the way they sit next to and even contradict each other—along with the notebook’s spaces and juxtapositions—that make such rich, almost poetic documents. The writer’s notebook derives its greatest power, I suggest, from its wonderful impurity; on the competing impulses it channels and the productive energy these generate between them. Its “interchangeability”, which so troubled Barthes, makes it an oddly modern document, as well as one that is, in part, ancient and tenacious. Other parts seem to have anticipated the lyric forms of the present in which “creative work can be linked, manipulated, tagged, highlighted,

118 

D. FALCONER

bookmarked, translated, enlivened by other media, and sewn together in the universal media” (Shields 2010, p. 30). The elusive magic that the notebook performs is to create a form in which its contents can be both fragments of a recorded reality while also being excerpts from a potential and as-yet-unwritten work of the future. This constantly unsettled quality, moving between inside and outside of the notebook, may account for its ongoing energy: the magical “something else” that Taussig describes and so many of us feel. “[T]he thought of so many opposing impulses sleeping peacefully face-to-face when the book is shut”, as poet James Merrill observes, “remains oddly satisfying” (Kuusisto et al. 1995, p. 190). Acknowledgement  This chapter is a reworked version of an earlier essay, which appeared as Falconer, D. 2020, “The Uses and Enchantments of the Writer’s Notebook”, TEXT Journal of Writing and Writing Courses 24, 1 (April): 1018.

Note 1. The quotations at the beginning of this chapter are from, respectively: Farmer (1990, p. 3), Grenville Woolfe (1993, p. 61), Kuusisto et al. (1995, p. 121 (Kennedy) and 164 (Macdonald)), Sontag (2001, p. 41), Kuusisto et al. (1995, p. 13 (Dove) and 3 (Bell)); and Taussig (2011, p. 10).

References Auden, W.H. 1970. A Certain World: Commonplace Book. New  York: The Viking Press. Bail, M. 1989. Longhand: A Writer’s Notebook. Melbourne: McPhee Gribble. Barthes, R. 2001a. On Gide and His Journal. In A Barthes Reader, ed. S. Sontag, 3–17. New York: Hill and Wang. ———. 2001b. Deliberation. In A Barthes Reader, ed. S.  Sontag, 479–495. New York: Hill and Wang. Blair, A. 1992. Humanist Methods in Natural Philosophy: The Commonplace Book. Journal of the History of Ideas 53 (4): 541–551. Cheever, J. 2010. The Journals of John Cheever. London: Vintage. Cole, W. 1970. Speaking of Commonplace Books, The New York Times 3 May. Accessed 24 April 2020. https://www.nytimes.com/1970/05/03/archives/ speaking-of-commonplace-books-commonplace-books.html Corngold, S. 2004. Lambent Traces. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

7  THE WRITER’S NOTEBOOK 

119

Didion, J. 1974. On Keeping a Notebook. In Slouching Towards Bethlehem, ed. J. Didion. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux. Eliot, T.S. 1960. The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism. London: Methuen. Farmer, B. 1990. A Body of Water: A Year’s Notebook. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Forster, E.M. 1985. Commonplace Book. Edited by P. Gardener. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Foucault, M. 1997. Self Writing. In Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth, ed. P. Rabinow. New York: New Press. Foucault, M. 2001. Fearless Speech. Edited by J. Pearson. Los Angeles: Semiotexte. Foucault, M., L.H. Martin, H. Gutman, and P.H. Hutton, eds. 1988. Technologies of the Self: A Seminar with Michel Foucault. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Freeman, J. 2016. Helen Garner on Court, Burning Diaries, and the Violence of Love. Literary Hub, 27 September. Accessed 26 July 2019. https://lithub. com/helen-­garner-­on-­court-­burning-­diaries-­and-­the-­violence-­of-­love/. Gibson, R. 2009. Extractive Realism. Australian Humanities Review, 47. Accessed 27 August 2019. https://press-­files.anu.edu.au/downloads/press/p40881/ pdf/book.pdf#page=47. Goldberg, N. 1986. Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within. Boston: Shambhala. Grenville, K., and S.  Woolfe, eds. 1993. Making Stories: How Ten Australian Novels were Made. North Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Herzog, W. 2010. On the Absolute, the Sublime, and Ecstatic Truth. In Arion: A Journal of Humanities and the Classics, Third Series, 17, ed. M.  Weigel, vol. 3, 1–12. Illingworth, D. 2016. On the Journals of Famous Writers. Literary Hub, 19 July. Accessed 26 July 2019 https://lithub.com/on-the-journals-of-famouswriters/. Kuusisto, S., D. Tall, and D. Weiss, eds. 1995. The Poet’s Notebook: Excerpts from the Notebooks of Contemporary American Poets. New York: W. W. Norton. Lejeune, P. 2009. On Diary. Edited by J.D.  Popkin and J.  Rak and Trans. K. Durnin. A Biography Monograph published for the Biographical Research Centre by the University of Hawai-i Press. Maunsell, J.B. 2011. The Writer’s Diary as Device: The Making of Susan Sontag in Reborn: Early Diaries 1947–1963. Journal of Modern Literature 35 (1): 1–20. Shields, D. 2010. Reality Hunger: A Manifesto. London: Hamish Hamilton. Sontag, S. 2001. Against Interpretation. London: Vintage. ———. 2008. Reborn: Early Diaries 1947–1963. Edited by D.  Rieff. London: Hamish Hamilton. ———. 2012. As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks 1964–1980. Edited by D. Rieff. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

120 

D. FALCONER

Taussig, M. 2011. Fieldwork Notebooks/Feldforschungsnotizbücher. Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz. Toffler, A. 1964. Interview with Vladimir Nabokov. Playboy, January. Accessed 20 December 2020. http://reprints.longform.org/playboy-interview-vladimirnabokov. Wood, C. 2016. The Writers’ Room: Conversations about Writing. Sydney: Allen & Unwin.

CHAPTER 8

Prompting Creativity: Revisiting Aristotle’s Advice on Plot and Character Mark Rossiter

Introduction A beginning writer looking at a blank screen is immediately faced with decisions. Where to start? For some, the answer is simple: Ernest Hemingway, in A Moveable Feast, describes sitting before his typewriter searching for “one true sentence” (Hemingway 1964), that everything will go on from. Joan Didion, in an interview in The Paris Review, adds that once you’ve written that first sentence, you’re stuck with it. “Everything else is going to flow out of that sentence. And by the time you’ve laid down the first two sentences, your options are all gone” (Kuehl 1978). They both make it sound easy, but, as all writers know, finding the opening to a story can be difficult. Those first sentences have to engage, intrigue and animate further reading. As Peter Brooks says, “One could no doubt analyse the opening paragraph of most novels and emerge in each case with the image of a desire taking on shape, beginning to seek its

M. Rossiter (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_8

121

122 

M. ROSSITER

objects, beginning to develop a textual energetics” (Brooks 1992, p. 37). But how to begin? What elements constitute this textual energetics? How is it generated? Perhaps there’s an idea of a situation taken from lived experience, a news story, or speculation, answering a “what if” or simply a “how” question. Conversely, there might be a character type in mind, again either from life or from imagination. What would it be like to be X or Y? Both these approaches can be immensely productive and while we can also add other more vague ones, such as wanting to write a thriller or a love story, or to explore a politics or a mood, the first two approaches are arguably clearer and more focussed. Considering this pair in broad descriptive terms, the idea of a situation-­ based story can be expanded into something we can call “plot”. A set of circumstances, a sequence of events triggering an outcome, perhaps known at the time of writing or, in the case of an imagined idea, often unknown. How might this work out or what might be the impacts on participants? The second type, about what it might be like to be a particular type of person, we can simply call “character”. Having categorised our writing idea in one of these two ways, we can note there’s a clear dynamic between them. Which is better, writing using plot or writing about character? Of course, this is really a rhetorical question, since as Henry James noted, “What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character?” (James 2007, p. 470). Nevertheless, thinking about writing in binary terms can be valuable, as the following analysis and exercises will demonstrate. When asked which is better, plot or character, the majority of students usually say writing about character is preferable and more interesting. Plot on the other hand can be pedestrian and even mundane. The publishing industry has an opinion too. Plot-based stories are associated with genre writing, where lots of things happen but there isn’t much meaning, and writing around character is considered more literary and more meaningful: “genre fiction is plot-driven” and “literary fiction is character-focused” (NY Book Editors n.d.). This chapter won’t resolve that question but it will defend the plot-­ centric view, with the help of Greek philosopher Aristotle. Why does he feel plot is so important? What kind of plots are there and how can plot structure help our writing? While this means studying “theory”, it’s important to note that in terms of creative writing, theory means only one thing: how writing works and what can we learn from good writing, as

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

123

creative practitioners. The analysis and exercises here are intended not only to explore abstract notions but more importantly to assist a writer looking for, if not solutions, then at least supportive stimulation: prompts to creativity, kick-starting a stalled story, reworking one that feels flat, or perhaps triggering that one true opening sentence from which everything flows.

Theory In the classroom, and with some prompting, students asked to identify techniques and approaches available to the creative writer usually come up with around 25. These range from broad approaches such as genre and theme, to questions of settings, that is, time and place, down to matters of language, such as vernacular versus the more formal, as well as the use of rhythm, pace and poetics. More technical considerations like structure, point of view and tense also feature. Nevertheless, and as discussed above, plot and character are always picked out as the most important, with character usually foremost. Around 350 BCE, Aristotle wrote the Poetics, a short treatise on literary theory and the first of its kind in the Western canon, in which he identifies six elements in a writer’s toolkit. While he is talking about tragedy, theatrical drama with lines spoken in verse, his six toolkit items are surprisingly familiar: “plot, character, diction, thought, spectacle, song” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). Plot here is, as described earlier, “the arrangement of the actions”. Character, he says, allows us to “ascribe certain qualities to the agents” who carry out the actions. Diction means “the metrical arrangement of the words”, that is, language. Thought is reasoning or theme behind the text, and spectacle means action on the stage, a crowd scene, fighting or some special effect (as in contemporary movies). Lastly, song contrasts with diction, simply because Greek drama featured the chorus and the use of ensemble singing as a counterpoint to oration. Aristotle chooses the two writing elements, plot and character, as the most important, selecting plot as the preeminent: most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an action and of life, and life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now character determines men’s qualities, but it is by their actions that they are happy or the reverse. (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.)

124 

M. ROSSITER

So the advice is firm: plot is what matters in a story.1 Since life is being imitated and life is evidenced most clearly through action and events, then plot, being the presentation of action, is required. Aristotle provides an analogy with painting. “The most beautiful colours”, he says, “laid on confusedly, will not give as much pleasure as the chalk outline of a portrait” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). This is a provocative argument, not least because it doesn’t completely convince. Imagine living in a colourless world, the pro-character side argues. Yet the plotters respond: with no outlines, with no boundaries on where there is colour and where there’s none, the painting is an abstract blur, a mess. Indeed, Aristotle goes as far as to suggest character is not necessarily required in a story: “without action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). This can be seen in the Sophocles play Oedipus Rex that Aristotle refers to (although as we shall see, his use is to explain the difference between types of plot). This is the story of a young man, Oedipus, who is born to Queen Jocasta and King Laius of Thebes. They consult the soothsayer and are told the infant will grow up to murder his father and marry his mother, an unnatural crime that in turn will cause a plague, killing many more people. Laius and Jocasta make a decision: it is better for the newborn infant to die than greater harm result. In the event, although Oedipus is left abandoned on the mountainside to die, he is found by a shepherd and brought up by the king and queen of the neighbouring city, Corinth. Growing up, he hears rumours of his fate and after consulting the oracle leaves the people he believes are his parents to go to Thebes. On the road, he kills a stranger in an argument. He doesn’t know this is his real father. On ridding Thebes of the terror of the Sphinx, the young man becomes king and marries the widow Jocasta. The prophecy is borne out. In the ensuing plague that haunts the city, Oedipus finally discovers the truth when a messenger from Corinth comes to tell him his father is dead. The messenger reveals the fact that he’d been adopted. Oedipus realises then that it must have been Laius he killed, and his own mother he’s married. Distraught, he puts out his own eyes, condemning himself to wander as a blind beggar, a fate considered worse than death. The plot of Oedipus Rex delivers a powerful effect by virtue of the actions alone. At no point in my summary was any mention made of the character of any of the participants. Essentially, all were acting in what they thought was the general good. It is true that Laius and Jocasta’s decision to kill their own son is shocking, but given a belief in the power of

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

125

prophecy, and based on a utilitarian assessment, the decision can be seen as rational and well-intentioned. While readers may impute motives, predispositions and types to the characters, and the role of the chorus in Greek tragedy is often to provide qualitative commentary on character, Aristotle’s claim that, in the story itself, character is secondary to plot and even potentially superfluous is borne out. Plot alone can move us and as writers, we need to attend to its composition and nature. Continuing the discussion about plot, the Poetics examines structure. Specifically, Aristotle observes that stories, being imitations of an action, should be whole (or complete). Further: A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by causal necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is that which follows something as some other thing follows it. A well-constructed plot, therefore, must neither begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these principles. (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.)

This passage has been taken as being formulaic, even prescriptive. For many literary critics, the advice represents something of a limitation. In her fascinating exploration of narrative shapes, Meander, Spiral, Explode, Jane Alison inevitably critiques the Aristotelian beginning-middle-end pattern via the idea of a plotted arc: Rather than expecting the “soul” or animating shape of fiction to be a plotted arc, why not imagine other shapes? The arc makes sense for tragedy, but fiction can be wildly other. (Alison 2019, p. 15)

Alison’s suggestion, citing theorist John Gardner (p. 11) and critic Nigel Krauth (p. 18), is that alternative structures can provide rich creative possibilities. But a defence of Aristotle is in order here. This begins with the observation that any piece of text necessarily and whatever structural form it embodies has a beginning, being the first part we encounter. It has an end, the last part we read. And it has a middle, the part that joins the other two. Chronology may not be observed (meaning flashbacks may break linearity) and effects may be presented before their causes (in fact this can

126 

M. ROSSITER

often happen, e.g., the discovery of a crime scene from which the causes must be inferred later on). All that matters is that in terms of the function of narrative, introductory elements have the effect of leading us on, like the desire in Brooks’s textual energetics. Exactly how any piece of text takes us to another, or links in meaning or motive or simply aesthetic pleasure, is down to the writer first and then the reader. In a sense, this is the mystery of writing: there is no formula. But there is always a beginning, middle and end which, if they work together, provide and complete the “whole”. The only works that might not function this way are those that are sufficiently experimental as to abandon coherence and any kind of rational, inherent meaning. An example is the experimental writing of Gertrude Stein, which presents linguistic elements shorn of meaningful interconnection (at least to this reader). Would Tender Buttons be any different if the order of sentences or even phrases within sentences were different? Nickel, what is nickel, it is originally rid of a cover. The change in that is that red weakens an hour. The change has come. There is no search. But there is, there is that hope and that interpretation and sometime, surely any is unwelcome, sometime there is breath and there will be a sinecure and charming very charming is that clean and cleansing. Certainly glittering is handsome and convincing. There is no gratitude in mercy and in medicine. There can be breakages in Japanese. That is no programme. That is no colour chosen. It was chosen yesterday, that showed spitting and perhaps washing and polishing. It certainly showed no obligation and perhaps if borrowing is not natural there is some use in giving. (Stein 1914)

Aristotle’s beginning, middle, end advice is valuable even if almost all stories conform to it. The question is not then, does a story have a beginning, but instead, does the complete piece represent a “whole”? And since the theory provides an empirical tool to critique experimental writing like the above, where there seems to be no necessity that any sentence follow or precede any other and perhaps the only appreciation of the material is that it provides a radical and aesthetically satisfying unorthodox form, the analysis remains very valid. As a final consideration on the beginning-middle-end trope, the relationship between these parts of a text needs to satisfy Aristotle’s “causal necessity” but need not necessarily be chronological. This should allay a

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

127

lot of concern about the restrictiveness of the formula. “Beginning” doesn’t necessarily mean the first chronological events in a story. For example, Homer’s Odyssey begins in medias res with the experiences of Odysseus’s son, Telemachus, and we only hear about Odysseus’s earlier adventures, through his retrospective narration in books 5–12. Oedipus Rex also begins in medias res at the height of the plague on Thebes, long after the key early events of Oedipus’s life. He is told he must avenge the murder of Laius and he agrees, not realising that he himself is the murderer. The earlier events are told anachronistically through narrated flashbacks. Aristotle’s main use of Oedipus Rex is to illustrate a key distinction in the Poetics between two kinds of plot: simple and complex. In the simple plot, according to Aristotle, the “action […] is one and continuous” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). The flow of story is in one direction, without surprising turns. In contrast, the complex plot features recognition or reversal, or even better both together. Recognition is when a character goes through “a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between the persons” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.), for example when a character discovers something they didn’t know or hadn’t been told. Often this is through a letter or some other written form (giving the contents an objective materiality that enforces veracity), but of course it can be in any form. Reversal is “a change by which the action veers round to its opposite, subject always to our rule of probability or necessity” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). Often accompanying a moment of recognition, reversal sees a character’s actions change in some drastic way, giving the story new energy and momentum. Aristotle is clear: “recognition, combined with reversal, will produce either pity or fear; and actions producing these effects are those which, by our definition, tragedy represents” (Aristotle and Butcher n.d.). In Oedipus Rex, the arrival of the messenger from Corinth to inform Oedipus that his father is dead should make him unhappy. But misinterpreting his relief that he was not the cause of Polybus’s death (as per the prophecy), the messenger goes on to say that Polybus was in fact Oedipus’s adoptive father, and the whole truth becomes evident. Oedipus’s recognition of his own actions leads to a dramatic reversal as he punishes himself. As Aristotle says, reversal and recognition together produce either pity or fear in the mind of the reader. In the more general sense, they provide rich opportunities for the generation of empathetic emotion.

128 

M. ROSSITER

Many stories feature both recognition and reversal. For example, Mr Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth midway through Pride and Prejudice is a key turning point in the novel. In subsequent conversation, Darcy nervously enquires how it was received: “‘I knew,’ said he, ‘that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary’” (Austen 2006, p.  410). Elizabeth admits that it changed her opinion of him and began the removal of her prejudices against him. The recognition here is in Elizabeth’s shifting from ignorance to knowledge of Darcy’s true nature. The letter form allows for an independent and immutable vehicle for this knowledge, rather than Darcy’s initially brittle demeanour. Besides the recognition, there is a reversal of Elizabeth’s behaviour towards him, which although it takes most of the rest of the story to be completed is very much the point of the novel. Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch features a strong moment of recognition and reversal, when Boris reveals that the painting Theo believed he’d stolen from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and had felt guilty about all his life had been swapped by his best friend, Boris, when they were children. Boris proves this by showing Theo a photograph of the distinctive verso of the painting: “Believe me now?” [Boris] said, blowing a stream of smoke out the side of his mouth. The atoms in my head were spinning apart; the sparkle of the bump had already begun to turn, apprehension and disquiet moving in subtly like dark air before a thunderstorm. For a long, sombre moment we looked at each other: high chemical frequency, solitude to solitude, like two Tibetan monks on a mountaintop. Then I stood without a word and got my coat. (Tartt 2013, p. 624)

Theo recognises the misconception upon which his entire adult life has been based, triggering drug addiction, regret and deception. He also knows Boris was aware of the misunderstanding and that there were earlier opportunities for him to confess. It is the indisputable evidence of the photograph, the shock of recognition, that pushes Theo into the reversal of walking away wordlessly.

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

129

Example This section demonstrates how consideration of Aristotelian concepts can help fix stories that aren’t working. My story, “The Dogs”, published in Island literary journal, features a young man walking along the Moroccan coastline followed by a pair of dogs (Rossiter 2005, p. 118). It’s based on a real experience: a friend and I walked from Casablanca to Rabat, over four days, camping in sand dunes behind the beaches. On the second day, soon after leaving the industrial town of Mohammedia, we were followed at a distance by a pair of dogs, clearly strays. Soon, they caught up with us, trotting along, still at a distance. Sometimes they ran ahead, gambolling and playing on the sand. We tried to dissuade them by shouting, throwing sticks and so on. The dogs wouldn’t give up, even when we decided not to feed them. They accompanied us throughout the journey, amusing us during the day and warning us of approaching strangers at night. But when we reached our destination, the question of what do to with them arose. When I first wrote this story, I used only one person, the narrator, to increase the sense of vulnerability. But the first draft was dull, episodic, with only an awkward payoff at the end. There was little build-up to it, with no dramatic arc. Rendered chronologically, the story was flat, much like Aristotle’s simple plot with an A, B, C pattern: set-up, extended episodic exposition followed by short climactic resolution.2 Several discrete events occur and the reveal at the end was interesting but not affecting. In the end, I decided to reorder the story into a C, A, B shape. I began in medias res with the final scene in the outskirts of Rabat (section C). This beginning, rendered in the present tense, launches the story with an immediate sense of drama, and while revealing the end, does not explain anything. The opening lines read: I have lost sight of the sea now, and the fields and open spaces have given way to clusters of small houses separated by unpaved roads, ramshackle building sites and the occasional dry and dusty football pitch. The dogs are still following me, about thirty metres back, despite my best efforts to dissuade them. (Rossiter 2005, p. 118)

Now we have a desire (to dissuade the dogs) but no explanation as to why. Additionally, there’s a vague sense of threat. Plot tension is invoked, specifically the question: “why?”

130 

M. ROSSITER

The story then jumps back to the chronological beginning (A): the dogs appear and follow the narrator at a distance; he’s unhappy. Each mention of them is informed by that opening tension and this connects the episodic scenes, exactly as the relationship with the dogs builds. The dogs prove to be both entertaining and useful, their growls warding off strangers in the dark. This is the complication, section B. At the end of this section, we have a moment of recognition: Above me the inky sky was clear. I watched the bright stars twinkling and remembered the way the firelight had sparkled in the dogs’ eyes. With my companions nearby I had little to fear, and slept easily that night. (Rossiter 2005, p. 118)

Inevitably though, the story proceeds and the narrative resumes the present tense, ending the story with section B at the point where the final act begins. This time the reader knows what happens next, and the effect is far greater than it was with the simple A, B, C layout. Despite the reordering, we have Aristotelian wholeness, still with a beginning, middle and end, but not corresponding to a chronology. Presenting the final act at the beginning makes a dynamic frame for the story, allowing completeness that the episodic linear form failed to provide. Further, there is Aristotelian complexity in the plot. There’s recognition when the narrator begins to appreciate the presence of the dogs, but also later when he admits to himself there’s only one course of action available. And there’s reversal. First when his attitude towards the dogs changes and they become comrades on a journey and then the moment of breaking that bond. That point, the plot action, is given at the start of the story but without context. When the context is revealed, the full nature of the reversal is exposed.

Exercises This section provides some exercises creative writers can follow, whether they’re having difficulty getting started, have encountered a block or are unable to improve a finished draft. The outputs may themselves become the beginnings of new stories and the discipline of following set instructions might produce something new that wouldn’t have been written otherwise. This is how exercises work. Evaluation of the output can only be done by the reader, but it can be worth asking what has been learned from

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

131

each exercise. How do plot and character change a story? Or structure, or complexity? Additionally, the exercises may prompt creativity, both in the uncovering of new approaches to a story and also in the generation of new material that might go on to be stories in their own right. Plot Versus Character This exercise can be applied to an existing story or used to generate new ideas. If beginning a new story, then choose a simple scenario3 and just write a page. If an existing story, then choose an important scene or the opening pages. Either way, write a couple of fresh pages. But first, select either “plot mode” or “character mode”. The former restricts the writing to feature only events, meaning actions or dialogue. Adjectives describing material aspects of the world may be used, but no description of characters, and certainly no adverbs telling how actions are carried out. The third person is best here to avoid any narratorial opinion but the first person can be used as long as it’s only stating material facts and actions. Now, conversely, write the same scene in character mode, but this time allowing the narrator to provide information. Importantly, action-wise nothing happens in this mode, or specifically nothing that advances the story. The character, the situation, the setting all should be illuminated as vividly as possible. Consider using memory, senses, time, images. Make the writing as rich as possible, in contrast with the austerity of the earlier mode. Compare the results afterwards. Students often find the plot part of the exercise difficult and prefer the character one. Granted, these are academic exercises with artificial constraints, but it is these restrictions that provoke thought about how narrative itself works. Plot Structure Take one of the “plot mode” stories written earlier and examine the structure. Identify the three sections of the story as A, B, C. Can they be moved around to change the effect? Remember, whatever piece of writing comes first represents the beginning, but as discussed above, chronological order is not necessary. Consider starting the story in medias res, closer to or even at the height of the action. Perhaps also move the chronologically earlier section to later on, to be told through flashback or character narration. Then ponder, how much backstory is really needed? Does everything have to be explained? Sometimes an image or cryptic reference can allude

132 

M. ROSSITER

powerfully to backstory. In a novel, there’s plenty of time for depth that makes this less likely to be necessary, but in a short story, concision is always important. As part of the exercise, explore whether the story can be rebuilt with the same elements but in a more compelling order. Plot Complexity In this exercise, take the plot stories written earlier. Identify the turning points that Aristotle describes as being essential for complex plots, that is, moments of recognition and reversal that lead to emotional payoff for the reader. If there aren’t any, ask why not. Is the story too slight? Can it be made richer using these tools? And apply the same analysis to every story and every film or streaming show from now on. Are the plots complex? Where are the moments of recognition and reversal? Active and engaged reading is one of the best ways to develop an understanding of narrative, although it is what novelist and educator Jean Bedford calls “writing-­ related activity” (Bedford 2005), meaning the writing still has to be done!

Conclusion In this chapter, a small portion of the advice in Aristotle’s Poetics has been discussed and then applied to several examples as well as used to generate some exercises. The focus has been on plot and how its arrangement can change the impact of a story. Writing the exercises and considering the material here, it’s important for me to repeat what I’ve said to every class I’ve taught in the last ten years. In creative writing, people will offer many rules, such as “show don’t tell” and “write what you know”, but I’ve always told my students the following: “There are no rules in creative writing, except ‘does it work?’” (Rossiter 2011). Creative writers can do anything they want to do. Defy Aristotle or any other theorist! Do something no one else has ever done before. In fact, definitely try that. The only thing that matters is whether the story works, whether it elicits a response from the reader, bearing in mind that the first reader of a work is also the writer. If it does, and if the work is ready to be shown to others, choose people who are going through the same process of developing their writing. Ask them to give constructive but critical feedback. Not in the sense of “I don’t like it” but “this part doesn’t seem right, and here’s why”.

8  PROMPTING CREATIVITY: REVISITING ARISTOTLE’S ADVICE ON PLOT… 

133

Through receiving feedback and giving it to others, beginning writers each develop their own critical voice. A point will come when they can confidently tell for themselves what works. In the end, only the writer will be able to overcome a blank screen by finding out how to start a story or get a stalled one going, or discover what changes are needed to fix something that feels flat. And with any luck, the opening sentences will be there on the page and everything else will flow.

Notes 1. To reiterate: Aristotle is talking about tragedy, but as we’ll see, his advice applies to the nature of narrative itself, its structure and its mechanics. 2. This pattern can be contrasted with well-known dramatic structural forms such as Freytag’s Technik des Dramas, more commonly known as Freytag’s Pyramid, which describes five acts: “the introduction […] the rising action […] the climax […] the return […] the catastrophe” (Freytag 1900, p. 115), and Joseph Campbell’s monomyth or hero’s journey, whose 12 steps include  “The Call to Adventure […] The Road of Trials [...] Apotheosis […] The Crossing of the Return Threshold […] Freedom to Live” (Campbell 2004/1949, pp. vii–viii). 3. I do recommend you write your own scenarios, tuck them away and return to them later. Meantime, here are some my students have used: a person sees a reflection of themselves in a mirror or a window in the street; casually opening the car glove box; in a share house/hostel/prison; two people argue in a cinema/gallery/bistro; I think you’ve had enough; a goldfish bowl; alien incursion; sorry, it’s overcooked; are you positive?

References Alison, J. 2019. Meander, Spiral, Explode—Design and Pattern in Narrative. New York: Catapult. Aristotle, and S.H. Butcher. n.d. Poetics. MIT Internet Classics Archive. Accessed 6 January 2020. http://classics.mit.edu/Aristotle/poetics.1.1.html. Austen, J. 2006. The Complete Novels. New York: Penguin Books. Bedford, J. 2005. Workshop Analysis Lecture. Advanced Narrative. University of Technology, Sydney. Brooks, P. 1992. Reading for the Plot. Harvard: Harvard University Press. Campbell, J. 2004.  The Hero with a Thousand Faces.  Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1949). Freytag, G. 1900. Freytag’s Technique of the Drama (J. Elias, and M.A. MacEwan Trans., 3rd ed.). Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company.

134 

M. ROSSITER

Hemingway, E. 1964. A Moveable Feast. New York: Scribner. James, H. 2007. The Art of Fiction. In The Critical Tradition, ed. D.H. Richter, 464–475. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s. Kuehl, L. 1978. Joan Didion, The Art of Fiction No. 71. The Paris Review. Accessed 5 January 2021. http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/3439/ the-­art-­of-­fiction-­no-­71-­joan-­didion NY Book Editors. n.d. What is Literary Fiction? NY Book Editors. Accessed 6 January 2021. https://nybookeditors.com/2018/07/what-is-literaryfiction/ Rossiter, M. 2005. The Dogs. Island, 118–121. ———. 2011. Introductory Tutorial. Theory and Creative Writing. Sydney: University of Technology, Sydney. Stein, G. 1914. Tender Buttons. Project Gutenberg. Accessed 6 January 2021. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/15396/15396-­h/15396-­h.htm Tartt, D. 2013. The Goldfinch. London: Abacus.

CHAPTER 9

Trading Hours: Time, Order, and Narration in Lucky’s Andrew Pippos

Like generations of leaves, the lives of mortals —The Iliad Like leaves who could write a history of leaves the wind blows their ghosts to the ground —Alice Oswald, Memorial

I started work on my first novel with several aims in mind and many doubts and anxieties. What I will say about how I addressed those doubts and anxieties is that if the anxiety pertained to my life circumstances, say, or the possibility of rejection, I found this particular form of self-torture was never quieter than when I worked on the manuscript itself. The remaining doubts—about certain scenes, for example—required the necessary time and consideration and labour before such uncertainties, or most of them, might be put away.

A. Pippos (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_9

135

136 

A. PIPPOS

In what follows I am less concerned with the psychodrama of writing a novel and instead pay attention to the parallel process of a writer identifying their aims and making decisions. Among my earliest aims in Lucky’s (Pippos 2020) was to represent an Australian milieu, now obsolete, that fascinated me all my life. My first experience of community, of belonging, came from the time I spent as a child in the cafés run by members of my extended family. For much of the twentieth century, a common feature in the main streets of cities and towns were the cafés and milk bars run by first- or second-generation Greek migrants. The vast majority of these businesses have disappeared, and to me, the trajectory of the Greek-­ Australian café is complete, at least as a social hub for their rural or suburban or urban communities. The Greek-Australian café, as it was constituted in the early twentieth century, is no longer a popular style of restaurant. I wanted to write about the milieu with its plenitude in mind. My grandmother’s café was the frame through which I saw the world at an impressionable time of life; it was the place where I heard the stories that most affected me; it was an epicentre of narrative, of gossip and news and actual myth. And I wanted to write a novel that spanned several decades and generations. I intended to dramatise how people changed over the course of a life, and how a culture changed. At the outset, too, I knew the thematic content of Lucky’s. It would be about how people respond to failure and success. All these plans were in place before I’d written a word. I knew, as well, a few scenes I might write towards. Many aspects of the narrative changed during the course of writing Lucky’s, but the above aims remained constant and foremost. This chapter specifies the narration and structure of the novel and describes a number of principles that guided its design. Perhaps the greatest challenge of writing Lucky’s was to bring a sense of unity, of coherence, to a narrative that spans about 80 years. There are many storylines in the novel, but they are all connected, all contours of the one object. Lucky’s tells the story of the rise and fall of a restaurant franchise with a particular focus on the fortunes of a group of people who are related by blood, or who function like family for each other. Principally, the novel is about the changing fortunes of a man named Lucky, but it’s also about the people whose lives he shapes, and who shape him. In order to give a sufficient overview of the decision-making involved in the composition of Lucky’s, the following discussion gathers subject matter as varied as setting, narrative time, narration, character, and the novel’s system of cause and effect. I’ve discussed only the theorists who

9  TRADING HOURS: TIME, ORDER, AND NARRATION IN LUCKY’S 

137

influenced the way I thought about narration, time, and order during the writing of my first book. The plot of Lucky’s latches onto a number of different milieus, but the most important setting is what might be termed the Greek-Australian café. The café business, a once-removed relation of the Greek-American diners of New York, was a mixture of Greek, Anglo-Celtic, and American influences: Lucky’s embodies these influences in the figures of Achilles (Greek), Lucky (American), and Ian and Emily (English). During the twentieth century, such businesses were among the main vehicles for chain migration from Greece to Australia. Until 1890, Greeks were migrating in larger numbers to Australia than to the US, and many of these early migrants came from the islands of Ithaka, Kythera, and Kastellorizo (Tamis 2005, p. 33). The Asproyerakas family of the novel are Ithakan, and by 1913, by the time Achilles Asproyerakas arrived in Sydney, there were 600 shops run by Greek migrants in Australia, and 14 of these were cafés or other kinds of eating houses (2005, p. 37). By the 1930s, some cafés had begun to specialise in milkshakes and their owners restyled their businesses as milk bars: in 1937, there were some 4000 milk bars in Australia (Alexakis and Janiszewski 2016, p. 16). Cafés tended to be larger premises and feature more elaborate interior design than milk bars, although both types of business favoured the style of streamline moderne, a genre of American Art Deco. Leonard Janiszewski explains the reasoning for the art deco design: ‘Greek café proprietors recognised that the architectural aesthetic they desired for their business had to both entice people in and reflect part of what could be obtained inside’ (2016, p. 17). While cafés often incorporated milkshakes on their menus, they specialised in large meals, such as steak and mixed grills. Hot drinks were a minor item, unlike in the cafes we find today in Sydney and Melbourne. In Lucky’s we see the café institution in a number of contexts: first in the setting of the Café Achillion, and later the Lucky’s franchise, which reproduces the menu and art deco style of the Achillion. There was never a large franchise of Greek-owned cafés in Australia, although there were a number of families running cafés in different towns, typically under different business names. The idea of a fictional franchise was irresistible to me. The cafés all tended to look the same and offer similar food. And at several other points, the novel departs from historically accurate or realistic representation. The history of mass shootings in Australia does not include a mass murder inside a café. In terms of the novel’s relation to contemporary social realism, the novel might be seen as a form of exaggerated

138 

A. PIPPOS

realism, or hyperbolic realism, and at times we gesture towards myth— perhaps the most obvious allusion is the name of Lucky’s furious father-in-­ law, Achilles. I viewed this heightened realism as being of piece with the setting: in their pristine state, at least to my eyes, the cafés resembled the sets of television shows. Despite these inventions and inflations, one of my aims in writing Lucky’s was to reveal what these businesses were like to operate, to live behind, to patronise, and what they offered to Australian culture.

Causation, Time, Order My understanding of plot and causation at a fundamental level is informed by Gerard Genette: ‘As soon as there is an action or event, even a single one, there is a story because there is a transformation, a transition from an earlier state to a later and resultant state’ (Genette 1988, p. 19). The accumulation of these events—if attention is paid to their consequences—gives the writer their plot. Brian Richardson defines plot as the ‘representation of a causally related series of events’ (Richardson 1997, p.  105). While much of the novel follows a system of causation, the plot is scattered, and the order of chapters is non-chronological. The following section explains why I preferred such a structure. Prose fiction narratives cannot bear the full sum of facts about a life. No matter how much time a narrative novel seeks to convey, the writer is always presented with a set of questions: What should be dramatised, what should be summarised, and what should be gestured towards or left out altogether? Theme helped me approach this question. The novel’s primary task is to present how its characters experience and respond to failure and disappointment, and their responses complicate, I hope, these categories of achievement. One way of looking at Lucky’s is to see the novel as ranging back and forth through time and capturing, in each chapter and scene, across decades, the most significant failures, disappointments, and losses in the lives of Lucky, Emily, Achilles, Valia, Asquith, and Sophia—and dramatising also their response to these events. Such a system helps to unify the book and serves an elementary dramatic purpose: the characters are always kept wanting for something, always facing some obstacle, or assimilating the loss of some longed-for object or objective. Yet this focus on failure and success was not a strict principle in Lucky’s—the novel is not entirely a sequence of the uncommon and most consequential parts of a life. There are scenes of kitchen work, and travel, and moments when a

9  TRADING HOURS: TIME, ORDER, AND NARRATION IN LUCKY’S 

139

character reads a book or practices the clarinet. Quiet, common moments are useful for conveying a strong sense of each character’s interior life and thus managing and differentiating a large cast. Two key features of Lucky’s are its scattered chronology and its system of cause and effect. While the novel is non-chronological, the causal relationship between episodes is necessarily chronological. It could be argued that the order of chapters has to some degree obscured the line of causation. The narrator does not present the story chronologically because, among other reasons, that would mean the second-most important character did not appear until halfway through the novel. In short, the wrong events would be emphasised in a chronological form. Another sequence was required. The present structure of Lucky’s is intended to give readers an accurate sense, early on, of what kind of book they are reading. The novel is anchored by one timeline, set in 2002, a narrative strand to which we keep returning. There are also storylines set in 1946, 1957, 1965, 1971, and 1994. I view the novel as comprising several narrative lanes rather than being framed by a first narrative with subordinating flashbacks or analepses. By shifting about in time, as Lucky’s does in its present form, the novel attempts to set up a question in the reader’s mind: that is, how are all these episodes related? Full knowledge of their connection is delayed, but my intention is that the changes in setting and time frames, the multiple characters, create a sense of variation that could be surprising and keep the reader’s attention. I would need to offer a chronological summary of the entire novel’s events to make a case for the extent of causation in the novel, but I do not have the space for a full equation of the narrative. Instead, what follows below is an example of the relation between six key events—by no means the whole plot—which I hope underlines the causation that exists in the novel: (1) Lucky poses as Benny Goodman at a club in Sydney; (2) in the process he meets Valia Asproyerakas, his future wife, and Ian Asquith, who is also a fraud and will soon fall into disgrace because of a failed literary fabrication; (3) years later, Ian Asquith pays a thug to vandalise Lucky and Valia’s café, because Ian believes Lucky got away with his act of fraud while he, Asquith, did not; (4) the café burns down, killing Lucky’s sister-­ in-­law; (5) in a secret act of atonement, Ian gives Lucky a large sum of money; (6) Lucky then uses this gift to open three cafés, which grow into a franchise. The novel does include a few events that might be described as external causation—of a harsh world intruding on the lives of the main

140 

A. PIPPOS

characters—the Third of April, for example. But the central events in Lucky’s are the product of the characters’ flaws and desires, and these scenes have consequences that underpin the narrative. By scattering the plot, I have altered the reader’s apprehension of causality. Perhaps the connections between timelines are in the hands of readers somewhat more than they might be if the novel were arranged chronologically. I shuffled and shuffled the order until I was content with the way I was presenting the pieces of plot, until the sequence of chapters pleased me. * * * Seymour Chatman proposes the idea that there are two kinds of narratives: the narrative of resolution, and revealed plots. In the traditional narrative of resolution, ‘there is a sense of problem-solving … a ratiocinative or emotional teleology’ (Chatman 1978, p. 48). The resolution plot poses a question: ‘What will happen next?’ is the most basic of these questions. In the plot of revelation, which tends to be character-oriented, he argues the emphasis is elsewhere, ‘it is not that events are resolved (happily or tragically), but rather that a state of affairs is revealed’ (1978, p. 48). Chatman states a ‘strong sense of temporal order is more significant in resolved than in revealed plots. Development in the first instance is an unravelling; in the second, a displaying’ (1978, p. 48). As examples, Chatman offers the following: ‘Whether Elizabeth Bennet marries is a crucial matter, but not whether Clarissa Dalloway spends her time shopping or writing letters or daydreaming, since any one of these or other actions would correctly reveal her character and plight’ (1978, p. 48). Like many dualities, this model is perhaps too simple. I did find Chatman’s binary as a useful exercise in parameters, if not as a grand theory. Given his two alternatives, Lucky’s bends towards the resolution plot. It becomes a crucial matter whether Emily learns about her birth father’s involvement in the franchise, whether she makes something of the New Yorker commission, whether Lucky gets the money he needs to start a restaurant, whether Asquith gets away with the Bion fraud, whether Sophia can find a new job. There is, however, a revealed quality to the plot, though I argue it is most evident in the way the novel treats the primary milieu—that of the Greek-Australian café. A new public milieu is revealed. The process of becoming habituated to a new country, of an ill-­ defined and uncomfortable nationality somehow taking up space in a

9  TRADING HOURS: TIME, ORDER, AND NARRATION IN LUCKY’S 

141

character’s identity—these are the revealed plots underneath the resolution narratives that propel Lucky’s. To continue with the subject of order: the second chapter of the novel begins with an example of anachrony, what Genette terms ‘one of the traditional resources of literary narration’ (1980, p. 36). Emily arrives in Sydney and enters her hotel room, after which we move backwards in time, and learn the reasons why she has come to Sydney. Here, anachrony is purposed to wrap up the character in all her unfolding dramas and complications. From there, until the fifth chapter, the novel displays a tendency to shift temporal positions within each chapter, always in analepsis. Where the temporal positions change, I have often introduced a new narrative section, and these subsections are numbered (Nabokov uses the same device in many novels). This back and forth (which itself owes much to novels such as Glory and Laughter in the Dark) then eases in the fifth chapter with a largely chronological telling of Lucky’s first and only performance as Benny Goodman. Yet in the fifth chapter, there is a shift in the focal character from Lucky to Valia, which is soon followed by an analeptic movement that finds Valia in conversation with her father, Achilles. In these early chapters, the frequent shifts in time serve two purposes: they set up the characters’ personal histories, and they signal the novel’s relationship to the past. Lucky’s is acutely concerned with how the past affects the characters’ present. There are other ways I’ve tried to make the novel cohere. Foreshadowing is one technique. Another strategy is advance notice—a technique that Genette describes in Narrative Discourse. Rolf Lunden’s definition is the most concise: ‘(Advance notice) refers briefly to an event that will later be told in full’ (Lunden 1990, p.  75). As an example, Genette cites the advance notice that appears at the end of certain chapters in Madame Bovary, before the next chapter fully dramatises these events (the wedding chapter and the chapter in which Emma takes music lessons in Rouen are both given notice in a previous chapter) (1980, p. 75). The purpose of advance notice can be manifold: the strategy guides the reader through the text, offering signposts; notice may build suspense by raising a plot development or intrigue but leaving the matter temporarily unresolved or under-explained; advance notice may prepare the readers for events that, if unheralded, might seem incongruous or sudden or contrived. Notice can function as the connective tissue between the parts of a novel. In Lucky’s, advance notice is used to gradually introduce several events, including the sale of the franchise, the end of the title character’s marriage, and a

142 

A. PIPPOS

shooting at a restaurant. These are all relatively dramatic events with important consequences for the main characters, and notice is purposed to build some sense of mystery around these delayed scenes, to prevent these events appearing too sudden, or unbidden, wedged into place.

Narration and Time There is one narrator in Lucky’s and the form of narration, if we reach for a narratological label, is variable internal focalisation. The play of irony and mystery, the narrator’s knowledge of other minds, the impossibility of understanding between certain characters, the navigation of narrative time: these effects are among the reasons why I adopted a form of variable focalisation to tell the story. Genette describes the focaliser as ‘the character whose point of view orients the narrative perspective’ (1980, p.  186). In A Dictionary of Narratology, Gerald Prince defines internal focalisation: When such a position is locatable (in one character or another) and entails conceptual or perceptual restrictions (with what is presented being governed by one character’s or another’s perspective), the narrative is said to have internal focalisation …. (Prince 1987, p. 32)

Variable focalisation, according to Prince, is a ‘type of internal focalisation or point of view whereby different focalisers are used in turn to present different situations and events’ (1987, p. 101). The more narrative time a novel takes on, the more people a character like Lucky will encounter during the course of the story. Some of these characters will play a significant role in his life, and they must be understood, too. Variable focalisation became an important tool in the presentation of a large cast of characters. Emily and Lucky are dominant focal characters in Lucky’s, and the secondary focalisers are Asquith, Achilles, and Valia. The purpose of focalising most of the 2002 sections through Emily is that we do not have access, from her viewpoint, to the information that Lucky is determined to keep to himself, and in this way, the novel brings some charge to the mystery around the fact that Asquith’s seed money was a form of atonement and that Lucky was cheated and manoeuvred out of the franchise. Emily lives inside this mystery. In Sydney, she looks for remnants of her father; she searches for any details that might fill out the image of the parent figure in her mind. She wants to see where she comes from. She wants to better

9  TRADING HOURS: TIME, ORDER, AND NARRATION IN LUCKY’S 

143

comprehend her father and possibly love him. Whether he is worthy of her love is another matter. And the use of Emily as internal focaliser allows the novel to dramatise one of its minor themes: the difference between narrative non-fiction and fiction. In fiction we (the writer) have complete access to the fabula, to as much of the storyworld as we wish, whereas in narrative non-fiction the writer begins with an incomplete picture and to a greater extent depends on other people, on what they tell us in interviews, and on what the archive retains for our use. Such constraints are among the main obstacles that Emily faces; at almost every turn people lie to her (lying is a subtheme of the novel). Where she recognises or suspects Lucky’s statements to be false, she is still unable to discover what she considers the whole truth, which is available in full only to the reader. Lucky, who guards the truth of the franchise’s origins, is nevertheless unaware of why Asquith fabricated the Bion of Smyrna play. The Bion fraud is a fundamental part of the narrative in that it leads Asquith to strongly identify with Lucky, because the latter once posed as an artist, once pretended to be the person he could not become. When Asquith and Lucky’s fortunes diverge, this identification turns to resentment, which turns to revenge. Asquith’s fabrication of the Bion play is born out of a wound he carries from his education. Asquith expects to be elevated at university, to be made into person he wants to be—instead he is injured. He carries this injury into his adult life, and as a remedy, he fabricates a work of classical scholarship. Asquith’s later decisions (the arson, the gift, his suicide) have profound effects on other characters. In order to best dramatise the crucial points of his trajectory, to describe why he makes a series of catastrophic decisions, it has been necessary to use him as a focal character, first in a chapter about the Bion of Smyrna fabrication, and later, in part two of Lucky’s, in a subsection that describes why and how he expresses his frustrations in an act of violence against Lucky. Another character, Achilles, is a focaliser and again this is done in order to suitably convey why he behaves as wildly as he does. Achilles’ approach to life is clannish and provincial. He spends most of his life in Sydney but the place of his birth, the island he carries around with him, is Ithaka, where duelling and vendetta killings were still common deep into the nineteenth century (Gallant 2000, pp. 359–382). Achilles is motivated by what he believes are offences to his honour. His violent actions propel the second part of the novel, and one of the purposes of using Achilles as an occasional focaliser is to communicate how some of his seemingly impulsive behaviour is in fact deep-rooted and essential to his character and

144 

A. PIPPOS

heritage. While the bad actors in the novel may be deeply flawed, while some readers may regard them as pathetic people, they need to be understood because their actions have significant consequences. The novel drives their consciousness into the narrative in an attempt to better examine their choices. Genette describes three types of focalisation: zero, external, and internal. In my discussion of Lucky’s, I am mainly concerned with internal focalisation, although the novel does not purely employ this form of focalisation. In Narrative Discourse, Genette states that internal focalisation is ‘rarely applied in a totally rigorous way’ (1980, p. 192). Even if perfect internal focalisation were possible in heterodiegetic discourse, then it may well be an undesirable narrative mode: … the very principle of this narrative mode implies in all strictness that the focal character never be described or even referred to from the outside, and that his thoughts or perceptions never be analysed objectively by the narrator. (1980, p. 192)

As an example of this discontinuity, Genette cites two passages from Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma, one in which we see the scene from Fabrizio del Dongo’s eyes, and one in which we witness him, almost from above, as he mounts a horse. The opening paragraph of the second chapter of Lucky’s is internally focalised, and we view the streets of Sydney through Emily’s eyes, but after she checks into her hotel, we then slip from her point of view. The narrator relates a brief history of her marriage. Generally, as in this case, analepsis moves the focalisation closer to the zero position. We move in and out of the focaliser’s perspective, like turns of a zoom ring. Genette describes such shifts in focalisation as ‘alterations in mood’. One of the benefits of using a sliding scale of focalisation is that we can establish an objective, heterodiegetic narrative voice, and trust that they know everything about the storyworld, and we can balance this voice and its truths with the subjective experience of its characters. As Lucky’s moves through narrative time, I have tried to show how the characters have changed over the course of decades. The reader sees what has been important in the characters’ lives; we see how they carry their history. This chapter has been a broad discussion of time and order and narration. My preoccupation is with unity, with the chemistry between the part and the whole of the novel. The scattering of plot better activates the relationship between the parts and the whole than would, in this case, a

9  TRADING HOURS: TIME, ORDER, AND NARRATION IN LUCKY’S 

145

strictly chronological, saga-like telling. The fractured chronology of Lucky’s has been designed to close the space between the 80-odd years of time covered and offers a narrative that from the outset makes clear where the novel’s main interests reside (i.e., the lives of Emily and Lucky). The scattered plot novel can offer us new structures, and these structures have their own inherent drama, as parts of the novel become a whole, as narrative strands intersect. Lucky’s attempts to render the individual experience of its main characters over long periods of time, especially their systems of decision-making—in situ, in action, and as they see their own decisions in retrospect—and the systems of focalisation and the order of narrative time have been designed with these goals in mind. Lucky’s is also a novel that touches on how the zeitgeist affects our perception. It may be immediately apparent which contents of the novel address the present-day zeitgeist: for example, migration in a settler-colonial state; the effects of toxic masculinity; a mass shooting plays a role in the plot; so does the blurring of personal and professional relationships in the media. But the real locus of the novel addresses the past, the lost world of the Greek-Australian café, an early fixture of everyday multiculturalism. The social background of the novel is also important in my life. My extended family, cooks and servers, were the first people to tell me about Greek myths and literature. They retold the myths as if gossiping about people we all knew, or people they left behind in Ithaka. When the café was busy, after I’d peeled potatoes for chips, I would sit for hours in an overgrown olive tree in the yard behind the kitchen. We all have places like this—the setting where our imagination was formed. I suspect many novelists write their way back to that site, to the overgrown tree in the yard where they invented stories.

References Alexakis, Effy, and Leonard Janiszewski. 2016. Greek Cafés and Milk Bars of Australia. Canberra: Halstead Press. Chatman, Seymour. 1978. Story and Discourse: Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Gallant, Thomas W. 2000. Honor, Masculinity and Ritual Knife-fighting in Nineteenth Century Greece. The American Historical Review 105: 359–382. Genette, Gerard. 1980. Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ———. 1988. Narrative Discourse Revisited. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.

146 

A. PIPPOS

Lunden, Rolf. 1990. The United Stories of America: Studies in the Short Story Composite. Atlanta: Editions Rodopi. Pippos, Andrew. 2020. Lucky’s. Sydney: Picador. Prince, Gerald. 1987. Dictionary of Narratology. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Richardson, Brian. 1997. Unlikely Stories: Causality and the Nature of Modern. Narrative. Newark: University of Delaware Press. Tamis, Anastasios Myrodis. 2005. The Greeks in Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CHAPTER 10

Writing Without Frames Gregory Ferris

Everything I have accepted up to now as being absolutely true and assured, I have learned from or through the senses. But I have sometimes found that these senses played me false. It is prudent never to trust entirely those who have once deceived us…Thus what I thought I had seen with my eyes, I actually grasped solely with the faculty of judgment, which is in my mind. (—Descartes)

This chapter provides an overview or primer on immersive media, considerations, and opportunities and approaches that writers might consider when developing work for sensorial mediums. Let us start with a broadening of the term immersive. Immersive media is not solely related to a particular sense-experience or even specific technologies such as virtual reality; it encompasses various temporal technologies, historical, established, and emerging, that are, by definition experiential and sensorial. Some of these technologies have and will be fleeting—the push for higher frames rates (HFR) in filmmaking in the G. Ferris (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_10

147

148 

G. FERRIS

early 2010s by directors Peter Jackson and James Cameron was a short-­ lived attempt at cinematic immersion, rejected by the audience as making films look cheap, as though they were shot on videotape. Other technologies ebb and flow, in waves and cycles, for instance, stereoscopic (3D) immersion in cinema. Some of what follows in this chapter will still be applicable if such technologies come back in favour. Immersive media is also not ‘new media’, as narrative immersion techniques have existed for centuries. They are ‘sensorial’, in the audience’s relationship to the media, media that one ‘feels’ into, through the senses. The success of any such immersion, especially when concerning the story, needs to be there from the beginning, in the writing. It is, however, media that can work with all the senses—sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste— not just to tell a story to the audience, but to make the viewer (and sometimes user) physically engage, to interact, to navigate, with and through the story. These media types are anything but ‘new’, but the technologies that enable them, particularly concerning gestural interaction, are. Immersion has been used as a method for experiential storytelling for centuries, and many of the principles, tricks, and techniques are still in use in today’s immersive media. Media archaeology is full of examples of such ascendants of immersive media, from camera obscura to project live performance, to the trompe l’oeil. This art form combines the painted or a virtual representation of space with actual, physical environments. These immersive representations led to entertainment able to be transported from town to town, using portable panoramic paintings for mass entertainment. The popularity of these static painted panoramas led to the moving panorama fad of the mid-nineteenth-century-painted canvases on large spools that would scroll by the audience, often accompanied by narration and other theatrical elements: music, props, and so on, features that used to add the illusion of depth and parallax to the scene, to immerse the audience further. The physical movement in these works reflected the types of stories they presented, travelogues, biographies, and, in the case of Henry Box Brown, the story of his escape from slavery via the underground railroad (Ernest 2008). The development of more powerful lighting sources enabled new and more sophisticated effects in existing projection technologies. The use of multiple or stacked slides alongside multiple projectors during magic lantern performances (one of the principal ascendants of cinema) added the illusion of depth. The Pepper’s Ghost illusion, where a large sheet of glass is placed between the audience and the stage to reflect other staged elements, is a technique still in use in display technologies like the heads up display and the autocue.

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

149

Stereoscopic photography—the use of dual cameras spaced eye-width apart to create a 3D image—developed (pun intended) around the same time. For instance, techniques used—and movement through—multiple planes of action, foreground, midground, and background—still serve and inform contemporary immersion, in cinemas returning to the reuse of 3D1 to entice cinemagoers. The most recent revival of 3D occurred in the early 2010s, parallel to the rise of digital film, and saw filmmakers as revered as Martin Scorsese and Jean-Pierre Jeunet produce extraordinary cinematic immersion, in Hugo (2011) and The Young and Prodigious T.S. Spivet (2013), respectively.2 3D films’ continued popularity in territories like China continues to produce some extraordinary examples of cinematic immersion. Bi Gan’s feature Di qiu zui hou de ya wan (aka Long Day’s Journey into Night, 2018) unfolds like a dream and is effectively in two parts. The first half (in 2D) is a series of fragments of different periods that jump between each other through a mix of in-camera effects and editing, following the protagonist, Luo Hongwu, as he moves between the present search for his lost love and his memories of her and their relationship. The film’s last hour is presented as a single take (in 3D) that tracks through a series of stylised dreamscapes that echo and reflect elements of the first half of the film. The transition between dimensions occurs when the protagonist goes into a cinema to watch a movie. His putting on a pair of 3D glasses is our cue—as an audience—to don our own 3D glasses. This visual trigger is our direct connection to Luo Hongwu and the rest of the film. He becomes our game-like avatar for the rest of our film journey, into the dark, immersive underworld of his memories. Cinema has other refined techniques for immersion aside from stereoscopy. Cinematographers and directors often employ mise en scène techniques to add depth: camera movement, lens choice, depth of field, and multiple planes of action to spatially place the audience within a film. The invention and development of various surround sound technologies have further enhanced this sense of spatiality. The cinema experience has also long been a Petri dish for immersive experimentation,3 from the extending of cinema screens (Cinemascope, Cinerama, Imax) to the introduction of other, sensory experiences—from the olfactory, the release of odours during a screening (Smell-O-Vision, Odorama), to the use of low-frequency sound design to trigger the rumbling of cinema seats (Sensurround) in the 1970s, a pre-gaming system example of haptic or responsive immersion. The most notorious of these immersive cinematic experimenters was the American shock horror filmmaker William Castle, best known as a

150 

G. FERRIS

producer of Rosemary’s Baby (1968). For his film The Tingler (1959b), Castle attached vibrating motors (used to de-ice planes) under random cinema seats, triggered during suspenseful moments. During select screenings of House on Haunted Hill (1959a), Castle would float a skeleton (on wires) with glowing eyes above the audience during the film’s dramatic, final scenes. As mentioned earlier, all are versions of techniques used in writing and producing immersive works. Thankfully, the necessary tools for immersive writing already exist in the significant screenwriting applications, such as Final Draft or Celtx, albeit usually under gaming and virtual reality templates. These templates differ slightly from traditional screenplay formats. They contain elements specific to gameplay, such as interaction or narrative branching, where the audience or user may have an active choice in where they go and what they experience next. This does not mean that a traditional screenplay format does not work for immersive media. Much of the descriptives for immersive can be incorporated in action and parenthetical descriptions of such templates. I will discuss this further with one of my immersive works, Sympathetic Threads, later in the chapter. When discussing immersive media, the discussion often leads to notions in and around embodiment, where the audience is present in the experience as an active or passive participant. This is understandable, as a lot of immersive media, such as 360-video or virtual reality, is presented in the first person, that is, from the viewer or user’s point of view (POV). The assumption, therefore, is that these sorts of embodied experiences can be used empathetically, to evoke feelings of compassion for the subject in the viewer. Immersive filmmaker Chris Milk—in his 2015 TED Talk—refers explicitly to the medium of virtual reality as a kind of ‘empathy machine’. The term can be traced back to the short story ‘The Little Black Box’, by the American Science Fiction writer Philip K. Dick, where followers of the religious leader Wilbur Mercer can ‘live’ his experiences by grabbing the handles of a machine known as the ‘empathy box’, If you grip the handles, sir, you will… share his suffering, as you know, but that is not all. You will also participate in his… World-view’ is not the correct term. Ideology? No. […] No word will do, and that is the entire point. It cannot be described—it must be experienced. (Dick 1964)

These concepts around embodiment and empathy can be traced back further than Dick, hundreds and indeed thousands of years, with concepts of

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

151

embodiment and empathy in their current forms having parallels in German Romanticism’s ‘einfühlung’, the ability of the viewer to ‘feel into’, to become part of, to be embedded into, works of art, and indeed nature itself, and empathy, the notion of ‘walking in someone else’s shoes’, the saying oft-times attributed to the old Cherokee Indian proverb. These ideas of ‘feeling into’, of embodiment and empathy, of walking in someone else’s shoes, are key when talking about and developing immersive mediums and have often be used as an idea (or trope) in both literature and cinema, notably in the ‘mistaken identity’ or ‘body swap’ genres. Mark Twain’s Prince and the Pauper (1881), the inspiration for the Dan Aykroyd and Eddie Murphy vehicle Trading Places (1983), serves as a template for experiencing someone else’s point of view. Thomas Anstey Guthrie’s Vice Versa published a year after Twain’s novel features a father and son trading places through magic. It was made into a film in the 1940s by Peter Ustinov and became the inspiration for subsequent body swap films, most notably Disney’s Freaky Friday (1977). Whilst most of these works are usually played for comedy, the tropes have been used in more dramatic works, for instance, the John Woo 1997 thriller Face/Off, and more recently in the 2020 slasher film Freaky, where Vince Vaughn’s serial killer Blissfield magically swaps bodies with high school student Millie, played by Kathryn Newton. These two complementary yet distinct tropes, embodiment and empathy, have been a mainstay of recent immersive experiences, aided and abetted by advances in audiovisual and haptic technologies (especially in the second half of the 2010s) related to both 360-video and virtual reality production and audience experience. Improvements in resolutions of head-mounted displays, easy availability of experiential technologies (such as mobile phones), and continued refinements in immersive sound technologies can all be utilised to enhance the user’s embodiment. The directional spatialised audio in ambisonics, or binaural recording that mimics human hearing, and the surrounding environment have enhanced the ‘feeling into’ experience of the embodied, of one’s placement ‘within’ an environment. Chris Milk’s 360-video experience4 Clouds over Sidra (2015) is a 360-degree film about the Syrian refugee crisis. It places the viewer virtually in the Za’atari refugee camp. It follows 12-year-old Sidra, as she goes about her daily activities, from the family tent to football and school. Clouds was made in collaboration with the United Nations and premiered at the World Economic Forum in Davos, offering attendees some level of experience of what day-to-day life is in such environments, and has since

152 

G. FERRIS

become a meaningful education and fundraiser tool. A collaboration between visual effects company The Mill and The Guardian newspaper, 6x9 (2016) places the viewer in virtual solitary confinement, a virtual prisoner, if only for a few minutes. It uses a mix of narrative devices—voiceover interviews, visual effects, and immersive audio—to recreate the experience and raise awareness of the psychological effects of extended periods spent in such confined spaces. Notes on Blindness VR (2017) compliments the docudrama feature of the same name. Both works offer sensorial and physiological experiences of going blind, based upon Australian-born, English-­ based academic John Hull, and audio recordings he made during the period that he lost his sight. No one really runs away from anything. It’s like a private trap that holds us in like a prison. You know what I think? I think that we’re all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch…. Norman Bates in Psycho

When discussing 360-video and virtual reality, much is made of the sense of embodiment that is often associated with such forms of immersion. Still, there is much room to play with these concepts when developing one’s own immersive works. In immersive media, embodiment’s sensory experience is enhanced with technologies like virtual reality, virtual reality in the most real sense. It allows for a responsive, experiential interaction with a presented environment and narrative. Immersive media can also be platforms for constructing metaphorical story space, for new kinds of places that—whilst ephemerally immaterial—still carry spiritual and emotional weight. Only at the air, only at each other was a stereoscopic 360-video work I developed to challenge and play with established ideas around immersion and embodiment. It premiered at the Sydney Film Festival in 2017 as part of that festival’s Virtual Reality Hub. It is the first part of a trilogy of immersive media works made under the title Purgatorio—referencing Dante’s Inferno—which focuses on virtual reimaginings of three classic cinematic spaces that used motel rooms as metaphorical purgatorial states: Marion Crane’s room at the Bates Motel from Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), the Hotel de la Gloria from Antonioni’s The Passenger (1975), and the Hotel Earle from the Coen brothers film Barton Fink (1991). The second part of the trilogy, Passenger, will have its premiere in 2021. These cinematic works, much like Dante with his Purgatorio, present these

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

153

in-­between spaces as a metaphor for purgatory—the pause between a start and a destination—as an intermediate state between life and death. Purgatorio proposes the opposite state that 360-video and virtual reality can offer a state of disembodiment, of an out-of-body experience, a virtual purgatory. Only at the air… prototyped this out-of-body experience, with the point-of-view of Marion Cranes, post-death, as she floats out of her body, out of the bathroom into the main section of room one of the Bates motel. The work’s tracking and extrapolation are initially based on the close-up of Crane’s eye in the original film that tracks out and moves through to the bedroom. The immersive work floats off on its path, around the hotel room, before returning and going into Marion’s body. Only at the air, Only at each other is but one example of how immersive media can play with perception and embodiment and what the viewer/audience considers their point of view. Virtual presentations can break or remove the viewer’s physical reality through concepts and variations in, around, and of anthropomorphism, say through a character or witness that removed from the participant through perspective, either literally through scale, movement, simple haptics (vibration and external atmospherics), and sound, or metaphorically through a POV that plays with scale,5 race, sex, species or material, or corporeal existence. The 360-­ video films Miyubi (2017) and I Philip (2016) present the viewer’s point of view as that of a robot, the latter a robotic version of the aforementioned science fiction writer Phillip K. Dick. Science fiction is a genre that lends itself to immersive works, as do other genres such as fantasy and horror, and there are many examples of immersive works that play with those tropes in a 360-degree space, beyond those mentioned above. My 360-video drama Sympathetic Threads (2018) can be loosely placed in such categories, but I prefer to see it as extrapolated or speculative fiction. Much in the same way that Only at the Air, Only at Each Other extrapolates the events of Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) post-shower scene, Threads, funded through the 360 VISION: Virtual Reality/Augmented Reality Development Initiative from Create NSW, looked at the contemporary Australian political landscape to extrapolate one possible near future. Sympathetic Threads is a drama that follows the lives of several characters as they interact throughout an evening. It combines live-action, animation, and computer-generated elements to envelop and immerse the viewer in these characters’ interconnected lives. The narrative structure was partially inspired by the multi-narrative dramas of the late American filmmaker Robert Altman, the way he interconnected his characters over the duration of films like Nashville (1975) and Short Cuts (1993). This

154 

G. FERRIS

type of multi-planer polyphonic structure makes a perfect fit for immersive media and the associated virtual reality technologies. It also draws on my visual art practice working in the multi-stream, interactive, cinematic installation and my previous research and practice in and around virtual reality during my doctoral studies.6 The project deals with displacement ideas as a narrative device, both metaphorically and about the project’s medium, 360-video. It is written and designed to make use of the whole of the imaging stage—one could consider it as being similar to theatre in the round—that is, the narrative makes full use of the 360-degree immersive space of VR and uses image and audio cues to direct the attention of the viewer/user to points of interest around, the spherical plane of view, both of the ground plane— nadir—and of the sky—the zenith—to make the viewer work to get the narrative. As such, the screenplay makes effective use of descriptions, in action to give the reader an idea of the audiovisual staging: FADE IN: You are surrounded in blackness. You hear the sound of a large pair of wings (larger than any bird) flapping slowly, taking off, slowly increasing in speed, and you notice a streak of light that starts moving, up and across, into the distance, into the blackness, the trail of light dissipating… Another light appears… and another… the blackness becoming fractured by these ‘threads’ of light—the sound of trees rustling in a light breeze. A small round rock suddenly comes rushing through the air towards you, passing by and disappears into the blackness. SOUND CUES (wings crossing the soundscape, a series of water splashes leading up to a large splash at the end) DRAWS YOU TO AN AREA OF REMAINING BLACKNESS, as TEXT WAFTS IN SLOWLY, LIKE SMOKE… … a thousand fibres connect you with your fellow-men, and along those fibres, as along sympathetic threads, run your actions as causes, and return to you as effects. THE WORDS SWIRL AND BLOW AWAY AS IF ON THE BREEZE, except for ‘SYMPATHETIC THREADS’… THESE WORDS LINGER FOR A FEW SECONDS, BEFORE SLOWING FADING AWAY, ALONG WITH THE THREADS, PLUNGING YOU BACK INTO BLACKNESS… you hear footsteps off to one side… HANNAH   Dylan! Where are you?

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

  Over here…

155

DYLAN

FADE IN (TRANSITION IS MORE AKIN TO A PAIR OF EYES OPENING AS PER ACTION BELOW): EXT. WOLLI CREEK - JUST BEFORE DUSK

Image wipes from the centre of the screen as if a pair of eyes were opening. You are on the edge of a creek, surrounded by a canopy of Casuarina trees, seemingly weighed down by hundreds of flying foxes. Looking around— the viewer is drawn to these areas of the frame by ambisonic sound cues— the top of the treeline reveals you are in an urbanised environment. A series of apartment blocks off in the distance, a refinery and smokestacks in one area, another area revealing construction cranes, building works of some description. A distant passenger plane is taking off in one section of the sky, as another begins its descent elsewhere in the frame. A splash in the water draws your attention to DYLAN, male, late teens, dressed in a school uniform and blazer. DYLAN is sitting by the side of the creek, attempting—in vain—to skip stones. After a few attempts—an audio cue of footsteps on leaves draws the viewer’s attention—DYLAN turns and looks behind him, as HANNAH, female, also late teens, dressed as a waitress, emerges out of the bush. Cinema is frame, cinema is length of the lens, cinema is editing, the position of images that create time and space… Virtual reality, even when it’s visual, is exactly all what cinema is not. Alejandro G. Iñárritu

Whilst these particular examples prioritise the sight and sound experience, immersive media doesn’t necessarily disregard the other senses: touch, smell, and taste, through technologies such as haptics for touch and vibration, olfactory devices for smell, and thermoreceptors for climatic, environmental changes. The interactive VR experience Life of Us (2017), by Chris Milk, Aaron Koblin, and Pharrell Williams (composer), gives users/ interactors a short summation of evolution and the development of life on earth, starting with the anthropomorphised and cartoonish point-of-view of a microscopic protozoa. Through species, shape and scale, over the seven minutes running time the user evolves to tadpoles, dinosaurs, and apes through to humans—and through a process of extrapolation to beyond. Participants can interact (through a combination of visualisation,

156 

G. FERRIS

haptics, gestural movement, and voice triggers) with up to three other participants—in situ or remotely, that is, anywhere in the connected world—as part of the evolution/journey/experience. Alejandro G.  Iñárritu’s mixed reality installation CARNE y ARENA (Flesh and Sand) premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in 2017, situated in a large aircraft hangar. You are part of a group of migrants trying to cross the Mexican-US border when suddenly you are picked up and arrested by the border patrol. The work uses tactile production features to enhance the virtual. Participants carry large backpacks holding their virtual reality equipment, simulating the migrants’ own backpacks’ weight. The installation floor is covered in sand—the audience is barefoot as part of the experience—with actual heating and cooling effects controlled and triggered7 to the virtual events within the ‘story’. Large fans are triggered in response to a helicopter flying overhead, heating pads in the floor heat the sand beneath your feet—these elements are ‘scripted’ both as part of the narrative development and as part of the programming language deployed during the development of the work, in Carne’s instance the game engine Unity, and the various programming languages used by the application. The extended reality work Awavena (2018), by Lynette Wallworth, takes a similar multi-sensorial approach to immersive experience to create an experience that mixes spiritualism and natural science elements. The work is essentially in three parts or portals. Part one uses a mixed reality headset and suspends the user in a hanging chair. The viewer moves between real-world physical elements—presented via cameras at the front of the headset—that pass through to the viewer before they are transported (a mix of 360-video and spatialised environments) to the Amazon rainforest and the Yawanawa people, with the focus on Hushahu, the first-­ ever woman shaman of the people. This section also explores the use of traditional medicines, including those used to induce ‘vision-states’, and the flora of the Yawanawa forest through a mix of specialised lighting night-vision and Lidar8 technologies to capture and present these fluorescent plants and trees. Part two is a room-scale experience9 that recreates— via point cloud data—the forest locale at the centre of the work. Virtual butterflies float around as the user interacts with the virtual environment through movement, gesture, and the head-mounted display’s microphones picking up and triggering events through the user’s voice and breath. Part three is more of a reflective or passive experience. In collaboration with fragrance and skincare company Aesop, the user can experience a scent inspired by the tree and its resin whilst sipping herbal tea—in

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

157

Awavena, all senses are in play in support of the narrative: sight, sound, touch, taste, and smell, the work serving as an exemplar of how and what immersive media is capable of. Of course not all room-scale and larger immersive narratives and their scenes/environments need to use all of the senses, nor do they need to, in their—mostly—micro-narratives. The groundbreaking virtual reality experience Awake (2018), co-produced by Screen Australia and the studio StartVR (now Start Beyond), is an astonishingly immersive virtual reality film, set for the most part in a small living room. Still, it has many narrative parallels to Bi Gan’s Long Day’s Journey into Night—mentioned at the start of this chapter—as both jump backwards and forwards between memories and various dream/nightmare states. Awake combines highly realistic environments with volumetric performance capture where we, as a mostly passive10 and silent witness, explore the story of Harry, a man trapped in his past, in his dreams, and in his environment, including the wheelchair he inhabits for most of the narrative. The work plays not just with time but with scale as we journey with Harry and the realisation that there is more to Harry’s emotional state than lost love, in a work that rewards repeated experiencing. Challenges at the start of the new decade, particularly regarding the pandemic, will see changes in how some immersive works are made, exhibited, and experienced. Some of the physical technologies are impractical in shared immersive works, so the way we write and develop works will need to adapt to these changes. The festival experience of sharing headsets, handset controllers, and display spaces will change, as it will be impossible to ensure completely safe hygiene practices for multiple participants. Gestural control, the use of non-touch-based triggers, will become more prevalent, as will the use of technologies like the aforementioned Lidar, which allows for participants to use their own handheld devices as controllers—recent iterations of the iPhone and iPad incorporate in-built Lidar cameras for uses that include such control, as well as for other implementations like augmented reality. Such technology should be taken into account when developing immersive work in the future. We may also see a return to parallax barrier (autostereoscopic) technologies, the ability to display 3D images without the need for head-mounted displays or 3D glasses, including lenticular lenses and displays. Whatever technologies emerge in the coming years, immersive will continue to be an experimental medium and open for play by both established and new media makers. Opportunities for media makers to use game engines are endless; such engines open up the material to be seen in several

158 

G. FERRIS

screens and environments, from the passive to the interactive, from the traditional screen to the immersive experience. Like their software predecessors, game engines and the like offer the storyteller the ability to multi-channel, to layer, to offer multi-pathways, the non-linear, and more, on to interaction, randomisation, to easily use and reuse assets, and to develop complex scripts, both narrative and computer-­based, for immersion.

Notes 1. Alongside other mediums, including obviously virtual reality. 2. It is worth tracking down the screenplays for these films, to see how much of the descriptive action informs the cinematography and direction of these films. 3. Partly as a response to the rise and threat of other mediums, for instance, the rise of television in the 1950s. 4. In his TED Talk he gave in 2015 (How virtual reality can create the ultimate empathy machine), Milk refers to ‘Clouds…’ as a virtual reality experience. Given the work’s lack of user interaction, 360-video is more appropriate. 5. This play with scale has, of course, a long literary and moving image tradition, from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726) to Lewis Carrol’s Looking Glass (1865) and from Attack of the 50 Foot Woman (1958) to Honey I shrunk the Kids (1989). 6. Every time I leave the room: image, time, and metadata in off-screen space is available at http://unsworks.unsw.edu.au/fapi/datastream/ unsworks:11216/SOURCE01?view=true. 7. A common element for larger immersive experience, the effects triggered through DMX, the format commonly used for live stage production. 8. A camera technology that captures scenes based on their depth. 9. Like Carne, using a gaming VR system placed in a backpack. 10. The work does allow for some triggering of actions as the user explores the environments and the story, through the use of hand controllers, to progress the story.

References Altman, Robert. 1975. Nashville. Comedy, Drama, Music. ABC Entertainment, American Broadcasting Company (ABC), Paramount Pictures. ———. 1993. Short Cuts. Comedy, Drama. Fine Line Features, Spelling Films International, Avenue Pictures.

10  WRITING WITHOUT FRAMES 

159

Antonioni, Michelangelo. 1975. The Passenger. Drama, Thriller. Metro-Goldwyn-­ Mayer (MGM), Compagnia Cinematografica Champion, Les Films Concordia. Arora, Gabo, and Barry Pousman. 2015. Clouds Over Sidra. Short. VRSE.works. Castle, William. 1959a. House on Haunted Hill. Crime, Horror, Mystery. William Castle Productions. ———. 1959b. The Tingler. Horror. Columbia Pictures, William Castle Productions. Coen, Joel, and Ethan Coen. 1991. Barton Fink. Comedy, Drama, Thriller. Circle Films, Working Title Films. Dick, Philip K. 1964. Little Black Box. 1st ed. London: Orion Publishing Co. Digital Productions - Notes on Blindness - ARTE. 2017. Arte Webproductions. 12 September 2017. https://www.arte.tv/sites/webproductions/en/ notes-­on-­blindness/. Ernest, John. 2008. Narrative of the Life of Henry Box Brown, Written by Himself. Annotated ed. The University of North Carolina Press. Ferris, Gregory. 2018. Sympathetic Threads. https://youtu.be/MRkZJeblCxU Gan, Bi. 2018. Diqiu Zuihou de Yewan. Drama, Mystery. Beijing Herui FIlm Culture, CG Cinéma, Dangmai Films (Shanghai). Hitchcock, Alfred. 1960. Psycho. Horror, Mystery, Thriller. Shamley Productions. Jeunet, Jean-Pierre. 2013. The Young and Prodigious. T.S.  Spivet. Action, Adventure, Comedy, Drama, Family. Epithète Films, Tapioca Films, Filmarto. Lajeunesse, Félix. 2017. Miyubi. Short, Comedy. Felix & Paul Studios, Funny or Die, Oculus VR. Landis, John. 1983. Trading Places. Comedy. Cinema Group Ventures, Paramount Pictures. Life-of-Us. 2017. Accessed 25 January 2021. https://www.sundance.org/projects/life-­of-­us. Nelson, Gary. 1977. Freaky Friday. Comedy, Family, Fantasy. Walt Disney Productions. Panetta, Francesca, and Lindsay Poulton. 2016. 6x9. Short. Guardian News & Media. Polanski, Roman. 1968. Rosemary’s Baby. Drama, Horror. William Castle Productions. Scorsese, Martin. 2011. Hugo. Drama, Family, Fantasy, Mystery. Paramount Pictures, GK Films, Infinitum Nihil. Taylor, Martin. 2018. Awake Episode One. Drama. Start VR. Woo, John. 1997. Face/Off. Action, Crime, Sci-Fi, Thriller. Permut Presentations, Touchstone Pictures, Paramount Pictures.

CHAPTER 11

The Corrections: Succeeding at Failure in the Creative Process Debra Adelaide

Writers know that between the platonic ideal of the novel and the actual novel there is always the pesky self—vain, deluded, myopic, cowardly, compromised. That’s why writing is the craft that defies craftsmanship: craftsmanship alone will not make a novel great. —Zadie Smith

Introduction Writing about failure in creative writing—in anything—during the year of a global pandemic has somehow felt both relevant and not. Failure has dominated the narrative large and small, global and local; failure of a personal, political, medical, ethical and environmental nature swamps the news media. Many creative writers expressed to me a common feeling that descended somewhere between the beginning and end of March 2020, which was a crippling of creativity, and an abject inability to work on fiction

D. Adelaide (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_11

161

162 

D. ADELAIDE

in particular, when the world out there was the most bizarre fiction beyond all our imaginations. As one correspondent explained to me recently, ‘I have not even been able to READ fiction’. Yet that our heads were already overloaded with real fictions along with a sidelining of creativity has not meant that the hunger for art or creativity or narrative has diminished: things like the huge demand for Netflix content to the uplifting sight of community musical performances from tiny balconies attest to that. The subject of failure is now gaining traction, in both academic and popular cultures. In 2019, journalist and novelist Elizabeth Day published her book How to Fail, based on her successful podcast of the same name. Popular and unashamedly populist, this book concentrates on the lighter side of the topic with chapters such as ‘How to fail at dating’ or ‘How to fail at being Gwyneth Paltrow’ (Day 2019). Cultural historian Joe Moran’s recent book If You Should Fail also traverses popular culture but includes a discussion on failure in creative writing, focusing on the example of French novelist Marcel Proust (1871–1922), and employing an eerily apt metaphor to describe its inevitability: ‘Failure is the virus we hope never to catch, but it has too many strains for us to escape it indefinitely’ (Moran 2020, p. 7). In the corporate world, failure is big. The topic is embraced and explored from academics to self-help proponents to marketing gurus, with increasing enthusiasm: ‘How to Be a Successful Failure’ (Hillson 2010), ‘Failing Your Way to Success’ (Powers 2018), Fail More: Embrace, Learn and Adapt to Failure as a Way to Success (Wooditch 2019). Failing is now normalised, more than that—mandatory. Reading through just a handful of these titles makes one feel that there is something deeply amiss if one does not fail, on a regular basis. This is not news to any creative practitioner. While it is true that— Moran’s book aside—failure within the creative process rarely rates more than a passing thought, these passing thoughts are consistent. In the field of the performing arts, UK author Sarah Jane Bailes has made a significant contribution to the poetics of failure inspired by her own attempts to perform the plays of Samuel Beckett (Bailes 2011), who himself is much-­ quoted on the subject of failure; while across this book alone at least four other chapters have addressed the topic (Batty and Waldeback, Falconer, Joseph, and Nash), so embedded, so normal, it is within the process. I am concerned with pushing beyond the idea of failure as meaning something that does not work—in whatever context that might imply for the author—towards one that welcomes the act of failure as a creative force in and of itself. When I stop and think about all the works I have

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

163

completed and published, I am aware that every one of them has represented a long process of failure until completion of the work. Every single draft is a failure, a necessary one to further the work towards its ultimate state. But more than that, this is the work: the failure constitutes the work, rather than just forming a part of the process.

Creative Corrections We are familiar with the concept of learning from our mistakes, but can the process of failure be regarded as more than a lesson on the road to our writing success, and instead embraced as a creative process itself? One of Truman Capote’s many famous quotable quotes defines failure as an extra ingredient in the mix of success: ‘Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavour’ (Capote 1972). Like many witty and endearing quotes, this does not bear much scrutiny before dissolving into meaninglessness. Failure is hardly some sort of optional add-on, like a pinch of salt or chilli flakes, to enhance the success of some project or another (though sticking with the culinary metaphor, failure could be the flame under the pot without which nothing may be cooked). The idea of failure being more integral, more fundamental, in creativity is an elusive one, yet compelling. Roland Barthes writing on Flaubert and his extravagant failures of style—which induced daily agonising over single sentences of drafts of Madame Bovary which would then only be tossed away—presents a theory of ‘corrections’ in his discussion of the writing process of this author that I find useful (Barthes 1988). Whereas for other authors before (and still) corrections are arduous and incessant—though of course necessary—for Flaubert, style is suffering: ‘absolute suffering, infinite suffering, useless suffering’ (1988, p. 296). Alone in his study, his ‘pitiless sequestration’, Flaubert spends most of his time not at the desk (potent symbol of scholarly and creative production) but on the couch ‘stupefied’ by what has not worked. Barthes’s argument is that the object is not completion or consummation of the work, but the process itself, which by nature is thus ‘endless’. Ironically, what ultimately produces the novel Madame Bovary, regarded as the novel par excellence, if not for the author himself, for generations of writers and readers, is the focus away from completion or publication back onto the writing itself: ‘writing is the book’s goal’ (p. 297). According to Barthes, this is something far more than normal writerly dissatisfaction and perfectionism, but rather the result of a collapse within

164 

D. ADELAIDE

Flaubert of the usual ideas of form and content, to the extent that writing and thinking become one and the same (p. 297). The consequence of all this is what Barthes identifies as a ‘linguistics of corrections’ (similar to what Swiss linguist Henri Frei calls a ‘grammar of mistakes’) in which corrections ‘commit the writer to experiencing the structure of the language as a passion’ (p. 298). It barely needs noting that this passion in the case of Flaubert was extreme, and adhering to his slow and tortured approach is hardly advisable, yet the idea is a compelling one in terms of framing the act of failure as something more than just another step (or the ‘condiment’) in the overall creative writing process. Barthes might employ the jargon of linguistics but I think his identification of the three main forms of corrections—substitutive, diminutive and augmentative—chime with every writer. What we do when we are correcting, revising and redrafting is a combination of substituting words, phrases or punctuation for others; of cutting down or cutting out altogether; and of amplifying sections or sentences. Barthes has a great deal more to say about Flaubert’s corrections, much of it mind-bending for the untrained linguist, but the main conclusion is that for Flaubert the object and process towards that object is the sentence, rather than the novel. It is at once a unit of style, work and life, to the extent that ‘we might say that Flaubert has spent his life “making sentences”’ (pp. 302–303). Thus, what commences and continues as an endless failure of process ultimately produces even in translation perfectly wrought sentences, which ironically also express the failure of language, exquisitely described: Because libertine and venal lips had murmured such words to him, he believed but little in the candour of hers; exaggerated speeches hiding mediocre affections must be discounted; as if the fullness of the soul did not sometimes overflow in the emptiest of metaphors, since no one can ever give the exact measure of his needs, nor of his conceptions, nor of his sorrows; and since human speech is like a cracked tin kettle, on which we hammer out tunes to make bears dance when we long to move the stars. (Flaubert 1994, p. 146)

Completion What I believe is the opposite to this process of stylistic corrections is also a monumental process of failure that I offer with a cautionary tale, one that shall be familiar to many who have taught creative writing. This is

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

165

based on both a particular student of mine, as well as many students from over the years—I shall just call her ‘Student’—and her single-minded object was that of completion. Student had worked on a novel in her spare time for nearly ten years; indeed, she went to university to get help finishing the project. She had attended many literary festivals, completed several writing workshops and also belonged to a regular writing group. Student’s novel was a long historical tale spanning three generations, set in rural and urban Australia and encompassing both world wars. Student was a great planner, and in her home office, she used a small whiteboard to sketch out sections or chapters. She had also devised an ingenious Excel spreadsheet to show at a glance where characters were at, what chapters needed more work, and where there were still holes in the plot. Student was steady, hardworking and reliable: there was no doubting her commitment to her writing and this project, and after nearly completing her master’s degree, she was past the 100,000-word mark. But Student started to develop a sense of unease, which slowly became more pronounced, even though her writing group kept encouraging her to finish the novel and try and get it published, while an independent manuscript assessor advised she take it to an agent or publisher. Meanwhile, she followed my advice to cut this chapter here by a quarter or a third, or reduce two pages of dialogue to one half, or present alternating chapters in a first person voice, and continued to polish each chapter before submitting them for consultations, always in reference to the detailed plan she devised all those years back. Student’s natural instinct for revision meant constant amplification or augmentation of the text. Mine, I realised, was for condensation and excision—and thus the poor novel was caught between two extremes and possibly doomed. But there were other problems too: despite all her hard work, Student felt frustrated when her revised chapters did not seem to excite anyone, including herself, as much as she felt they ought. The feeling of unease developed. Worse, Student was starting to become bored with the novel. Entire Sunday afternoons were now spent revising early chapters she once thought were done with forever, and they seemed to get worse, not improve. That was when she could bear to go through them, because she now found she would often rather be cleaning out the fridge or weeding the garden or walking down to the local bar for a drink. By now, she spent more time organising and managing this novel, than actually writing it.

166 

D. ADELAIDE

Apart from boredom—and Student did not want to admit to anyone that she was bored with her own work, for what kind of admission was that, and what would that mean for the reader, the beloved object of all this long hard work?—the other big problem was the much darker and disturbing realisation that Student was a good but not great writer and might only ever be going through the motions. The final problem for Student was that the first part of the novel was in fact selected by one of those many mentoring schemes she applied for and went to a publisher who wanted to read the whole manuscript with a serious aim of publication. Student should have been thrilled at this, but the more she worked hard to complete it, the more she felt this distaste for the work. It was stale, flat. She felt almost a visceral repulsion. She could not bear to read a lot of it. She knew that it was not the best thing she could be writing, and worse— something else that filled her with dread—was the possibility that if she published this novel and it was successful, then she would be asked to write another, if not a sequel, at least one in the same vein, and she would be condemned to writing this sort of thing for the rest of her life. And was there any question of not proceeding to publication? Of course not: the master’s degree alone had cost north of $20,000; the novel had consumed more than ten years of her life; and while the publisher’s advance would be minimal, she had to justify somehow all that time and money. Student finally came to learn something vital about herself—that while writing is a bit of a mystery, there was no mystery in her process or approach to this work. She suspected now that she should have been less organised, not more. And she understood something else, something that is more confronting than anything but which she also knew was absolutely the truth: this was the novel that had taught her what to do and what not to do about novel writing. It should now be put away, its lessons absorbed, while she embarked on another project, something she had been rather guiltily writing, but with great pleasure, during the past few months. Student started to doubt herself very much. Soon she would accept that this doubt was good and necessary, but for the moment, it was a painful thing. The end of this story eludes me: Student might have gone the commercial road and made a decent living of it, or plugged through this no man’s land of despair and doubt and continued to write the next work, which was far more pleasurable and somehow felt a lot more honest. It was also a comic novel and, around the time of our final consultation, Student finally admitted that her historical novel was dull, dry and deadly

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

167

serious, and wondered why she had written that, when she knew that her most natural writing voice was a comic one? This was when Student felt most acutely that she was a failure, but when I felt her writing was about to blossom. She may have wasted a quarter of her life on something that would never bear fruit. As I saw it, her options were to lie in bed for weeks thinking about the awfulness of this, then give up writing altogether, or embrace this moment and examine why that previous work turned sour, and try doing something completely the opposite. I leave the cautionary tale there. But the main messages are that Student in focusing on the entire work, the bigger picture, and the holy grail of completion and publication, lost sight of all that should not have been said, or written; and that, for most of the writing life of this project, Student knew far too much. She was not open enough to the mystery of writing, so her novel could not go where her deeper imagination wanted and needed it to go. Hopefully, Ex-Student is now not planning that second novel quite as much and has dispensed with the spreadsheet. Hopefully, she is making more of a journey into the unknown and even occasionally allowing herself the useful if sometimes frightening pleasure of going to the desk without a single idea of what to write. Hopefully, she remembers what it was like when she learned violin years ago, that the first sounds were painful squawking noises, and that it was many months before she could produce a passable version of ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, and 12 years before she could participate in a performance of Bach’s Violin Concerto in A minor. She started playing at the age of nine and was old enough to understand that she would never produce anything tuneful for a long time, that she would have to fail many times over before she could do this. Why would it be any different for writing a long novel? The epigraph to this chapter is from an essay called ‘Fail Better’ in which Zadie Smith also commences with a cautionary tale, about a writer she calls Clive (Smith 2007). My invented student’s story is slightly similar to Clive’s, so much so that I was going to abandon it and refer only to Smith, but I can see they are both valid. Both examples prove a hard-won truth about the creative process: one always fails to write the novel or story or screenplay that one intended. Somehow, that remains doomed to the back of the mind, or to hover eternally between imagination and creativity, never realised. One only ever writes a version of one’s ideal work, and it is better and more imaginative than one could have hoped or planned at the outset.

168 

D. ADELAIDE

Rejection: Losing the Fight with One’s Own Imagination This is a very important concept to grasp, as it leads us into accepting rejection from within ourselves, and accepting this helps to deal with rejection from without. The novelist Ann Patchett explains her writing process by likening her novel-to-be, the one she has imagined and planned, to an invisible friend but one who is ‘omnipresent, evolving, thrilling’ (Patchett 2013, p.  24). Then she describes it as a butterfly, something incredibly beautiful but also fragile, which she plucks out of the air, presses down upon her desk, and kills. ‘The journey from the head to hand is perilous’, she says, and ‘lined with bodies’ (Patchett 2013, p. 25). I relate to this explanation very much. I have also been unable to describe the process from imagining the novel to writing the novel in anything but destructive imagery. For me, it is like the compelling magnificent story carefully carried around in my head for months or years that crumbles into a pile of dust and rubble on my desk the minute I attempt to write it. At some point, I do write this story or novel, but it is never the one I imagined, the one I desired (Adelaide 2019, pp. 110–111). Rejection, then, is part of the creative process. The very means by which a writer is transmitting that story from their mind onto paper, or from their dreams into their computer, involves a necessary, if usually unacknowledged, process of rejection. As one continues to write, the mind is correcting—sifting, selecting, discarding, adopting, and rejecting all sorts of possibilities for the story or poem or screenplay, whether it be a sentence, a scene, or just a semicolon in favour of a comma. This perhaps is what Barthes means when he describes Flaubert’s ‘linguistics of corrections’. Grappling with rejection is such an intimate part of the failure required to compose and complete any creative work that maybe it is not failure at all, simply art, something all writers must first acknowledge before they can achieve anything of significance. Anne Enright accepts this almost cheerfully: ‘Failure is easy. I do it every day, I have been doing it for years’; while Will Self, contributing to the same article, agrees: ‘I prize this sense of failure—embrace it even’ (‘Falling Short’ 2013). Nevertheless, understanding this does not necessarily mean that when others reject writers, this is invisible, or painless, as novelist and creative writing teacher Carmel Bird explains:

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

169

I sometimes hear students telling each other, by way of consolation, that the rejection slip is a rejection of the story, not of the writer. I dispute that. I say there is no way round the writer’s feeling of personal rejection. Your creation is rejected; you feel rejected; you are rejected. I think it is worth facing this fact rather than trying to pretend it isn’t a fact. (Bird 1988, p. 112)

Bird’s view is that it is better to acknowledge pain in order to cope with it, rather than pretend the pain is not there at all—a frank acceptance that writing exposes the self. If we hope to write, then we must expect to fail. If we are afraid of exposing ourselves, then the failure will be felt more keenly. There is no easy route, no painless approach. The ‘pitiless sequestration’ of the couch awaits us all.

Uncertainty Several years ago, I was wrestling with a challenge that had not presented itself before in my experience as a writer, which was the conversion of a short story, ‘The Sleepers in That Quiet Earth’ (Adelaide 2011), into a novel. The compulsion for this was entirely self-driven and still largely a mystery. All I knew was that well after this story was published (twice, in fact), aspects of it continued to haunt me, and my mind would not settle until I attempted to deal with it. Having barely thought about this, when students frequently asked me how I did it, I shrugged it off until I decided to reflect seriously on it and find out for myself. How did I write this novel based on a story, and could anything useful be learned from that? As I have written about this in detail (Adelaide 2019), I shall not repeat this by chapter and verse, however the following is a summary of the process. I achieved this by failing. Failing again and again, and even though by this stage of my writing career I understood all about failure—indeed embraced it and preached it as often as I could to others—that did not numb the pain. The process of producing this novel was as excruciating as every other. And in a sense, I had to destroy a perfectly good story in order to create the novel. (Or perhaps not, but I have not been brave enough to reread the story to find out.) My first failure was to expect that the original story could be chapter one of the planned novel, which ended up being called The Women’s Pages (Adelaide 2015). One could well mistake me for a total novice rather than the author of several novels and collections of fiction, for harbouring such a naïve assumption. Nevertheless so persistent was this delusion that I

170 

D. ADELAIDE

tried my hardest to implement this and only abandoned it when the sheer impracticality of doing so dawned upon me: this would mean the story would be published three times, in different books, which was unthinkable. The problem I encountered with Student is one of the commonest problems: knowing and understanding too much about the work being written, and about entire sections that have not yet been written (or worse, about what the story is ‘teaching’ readers). And yet, ‘In order to explore and explain our own mystery, we write. We write fiction. Writers really don’t create fiction because they know something; they create fiction because there is something they want to find out’ (Bird, pp.  46–47). Authors and other creative practitioners are certain about one thing only—the importance of uncertainty: ‘People who need certainty in their lives are less likely to make art that is risky, subversive, complicated, iffy, suggestive or spontaneous … Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable and all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art’ (Bayles and Orland 2001, p. 21); ‘Writing a work of fiction can be called a journey toward uncertainty. Henry James wrote that when he begins a novel he does not know and does not care how it will end. Joan Didion says she writes in order to find out what she thinks—if she knew already, there would be no need to write’ (Adams 2007, p. 8). Uncertainty is not a road connecting us to a tangible destination, the city or mountain on the map. It will lead us to more meandering failure, but also to the occasional success. In my case, the reason the original story persisted in haunting me was because of all the questions it raised. There was so much I still did not know about this story, and most of this focused on why the main character’s mother was absent—was she dead or missing?—and what on earth did Wuthering Heights have to do with a novel set in Sydney’s 1960s and the present day? My profound ignorance of all this, my complete lack of any certainty, my failure of the imagination, if you like, is what drove that same imagination to burrow deeper until I found answers to these questions. The story and the novel both concern a woman called Dove, who is a reluctant novelist in that she is a graphic designer but is somehow compelled to write as a consequence of re-­ reading Wuthering Heights to her adoptive dying mother, when her imagination starts sparking and then igniting. That character is not me, but I did share her frustrations and her failures. For example, at one point in the novel when Dove is confounded by the story, she shuts down her computer and goes for a walk. During this walk, she decides to revisit the

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

171

suburb in which she has set part of the story, and in doing so finally sees how to resolve what for her has been the trickiest part of the story. I did not walk this walk except in my imagination, but it was in sharing failures such as these I began to work through my own. All through the writing of this novel, I was aware it was largely about missing mothers, but I did not know why. I did not know this until I was more than two-thirds of the way through. When that became clear to me it was in a sudden flash of understanding, or perhaps of recognition, the sort that happens rarely in the writing process but is so potent one remembers it forever. I wrote joyfully in my notebook ‘Ellis is Dove’s mother’ using several exclamation marks. Now the novel began to make thematic sense as well as acquire a structure—Dove was writing her novel because she so desperately desired her birth mother that she was writing her into existence. I can still recall the surge of adrenaline in my chest when I understood all this, and how I had to get up from my desk and walk around, literally hugging the experience to myself. I felt extraordinarily empowered at this moment, like a queen or deity, as if a gift of gold, frankincense and myrrh had been handed to me in one thrilling moment. I had also introduced a section that I had written many years beforehand, which I assumed then belonged to some other novel. Again, I had no idea how it belonged but just felt, despite my supposedly better sense, that it did. Eight years previously I had written a structurally ambitious novel that involved endless juggling of time frames, and I had sworn that I would never do that again. Not only did I do it again, I did it with a deep sense of unease as it seemed I was smuggling into this new novel old material that didn’t really belong. However, I came to see that this was not fraudulent but rather a part of the mysterious process of constructing long-form fiction: the more I worked on integrating the two sections of the story, the historical and the contemporary, the more the connections cemented and I began to see that this was because it was indeed a long process that had been slowly percolating through my imagination. The fact that I wrote most of The Women’s Pages in a few months is irrelevant— it had been slowly composing itself in the back of my mind for many years. Perhaps the most spectacular failure amid this whole process related to the original start of a final draft (there were many) of the novel. I wrote what I thought was a clever opening chapter setting up a premise that consciously proffered the author as a construct, and the book as a scintillating post-modern exercise in reading. Not only did I write this, but I revised it extensively and included it when I submitted it for publication,

172 

D. ADELAIDE

all the while knowing that it was wrong. This opening chapter was self-­ conscious and self-congratulatory. It contradicted my belief that the reader needs to be thrown into the novel at the deep end. It was excruciating in every way. Of course, it had to go, and indeed it did, very quickly, even before I received the editor’s structural report. But I know that I also needed to write this chapter. I needed to fail because it was the only way to find the successful way into this novel. Finding the right terms to describe the turning point when all this became clear is difficult because the process of discarding that perfectly wrought yet useless chapter created a feeling of satisfaction that is hard to pin down. It was such a pure and intense feeling that I can believe that Flaubert’s obsessive, infinite erasures and rewritings were in fact a form of addiction. The precursor text for my story and novel is Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, which may be regarded as a failure, and indeed has generally been regarded as a deeply flawed work of genius from the time of its publication (Watson 1949). Emily’s sister Charlotte established this reading of the novel early on when she wrote the apologetic Preface to the novel’s second edition, published in 1850 a year after the author’s death: ‘Having formed these beings, she did not know what she had done’ (Brontë 1965, p. 39). The Preface commences with a declaration of the novel’s ‘faults’ and acknowledges its rude, strange and even repulsive elements (Brontë, p. 37). It is a difficult book, so much so that entire sections, such as the servant Joseph’s Yorkshire dialect, are almost impossible to read, while generations of critics have still not managed to explain away the singular character of Heathcliff. It is a novel that consistently inspires failure within its readers, and thus inspires continual re-readings. But as Zadie Smith says, ‘Readers fail writers just as often as writers fail readers … To become better readers and writers we have to ask of each other a little bit more’ (Smith 2007). I originally read Charlotte’s comments as patronising and believed in the mythology of Emily as a fierce, determined creature of eccentric habits and uncompromising views. Nineteenth-century middle-class readers perhaps required apologies for characters of inexplicable violence and stories of strange passions, but now I read these comments differently. Charlotte, herself almost as guilty of representing emotional and physical violence in fiction despite her criticisms, nevertheless also understood the fundamental fact of not-knowing: ‘the writer who possesses the creative gift owns something of which he is not always the master’ (Brontë, p. 40). Her sister

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

173

‘did not know what she had done’ not because she was an immature writer, or an amateur at the craft, but because she immersed herself fully into the mystery of the creative process. If Wuthering Heights is a failure, then it is one of great magnificence.

Failure of Language In a beginners’ writing workshop, a useful class exercise might be to ask students to write a page about their mother and then to ask them to write another page about their mother, but this time write it knowing that no one but they would read it. The final part of the exercise would be to ask them to consider the difference, and determine which would be better: more complex, more satisfying and of course more honest. The first attempt would doubtless be a failure—constrained, clichéd or wooden— perhaps because the authors had their mothers—the universal critic— peering over their shoulders at what they wrote. The mother is the one we wanted to please more than any other back when we were very young, the one who had to guide and correct us, so naturally we (mistakenly) think she is the one who only harped on about our failure. But we remember that failure, as well as the fear, and also the joy when we pleased her, when we got it right. Getting rid of the critic is vital but there are other perils. As Flaubert knew, failure is inbuilt to the entire process: the very language with which we work lets us down. How cruel that the only tools that we have, our words and sentences, are so flawed. As Viennese journalist and critic Karl Kraus has said: ‘My language is the universal whore, whom I have to make into a virgin’ (quoted in Alvarez 2005, p.  37). There is a great rocky mountain to be traversed and which we will stumble upon again and again before we reach that final destination of a complete story, memoir, screenplay, novel, poem. How can we surmount the terrible sense of failure that can crush us before we even start, as we look towards that mountain, let alone the failure that strands us mid-climb? Not to mention the fact that the only materials for the job are debased, worn and cracked? If I return to childhood for a moment I see myself aged eight or ten, in class. I am told to write a composition on what I did at the weekend. I know what I did—I had a great weekend, went to the zoo, attended a birthday party, ate pizza and drank Coke—but I cannot find a way to start. Fear of not knowing the start prevents me from starting. Failure has firmly established itself. Now that I am older, I understand that I will never know

174 

D. ADELAIDE

where the beginning of a story is and that the only thing to do is to commence with whatever is foremost in my mind. Sometimes that is a word or a phrase. Sometimes if I am lucky, it is a sentence. In the meantime I keep in mind Smith’s salutary advice regarding ‘the pesky self—vain, deluded, myopic, cowardly, compromised’ that always gets between the ideal and the actuality of whatever I aspire to write, and of course the inspiration from Flaubert, and many others since: to write a good sentence, something a little better than a tune to make bears dance.

References Adams, Glenda. 2007. Inspiring Creativity. Australian Author, December: 6–10. Adelaide, Debra. 2011. The Sleepers in that Quiet Earth. In Best Australian Stories 2011, ed. Cate Kennedy, 82–94. Melbourne: Black Inc. ———. 2015. The Women’s Pages. Sydney: Picador. ———. 2019. The Innocent Reader. Sydney: Picador. Alvarez, A. 2005. The Writer’s Voice. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Bailes, Sara Jane. 2011. Performance Theatre and the Poetics of Failure. New York: Routledge. Barthes, Roland. (1967) 1988. Flaubert and the Sentence. In A Barthes Reader, ed. Susan Sontag, 296–304. New York: Noonday Press. Bayles, David, and Ted Orland. 2001. Art & Fear: Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking. Santa Cruz, CA: The Image Continuum. Bird, Carmel. 1988. Dear Writer. Melbourne: McPhee Gribble. Brontë, Emily. (1847) 1965. Wuthering Heights. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Capote, Truman. 1972. Self Portrait. Reprinted in 2007. Portraits and Observations: The Essays of Truman Capote. New York: Random House. Day, Elizabeth. 2019. How to Fail. London: HarperCollins. ‘Falling Short: Seven Writers Reflect on Failure’. 2013. Guardian, 22 June. Accessed 19 November 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/ jun/22/falling-­short-­writers-­reflect-­failure. Flaubert, Gustave. (1857) 1994. Madame Bovary. Translated by Eleanor Marx-­ Aveling. Ware, Hertfordshire, UK: Wordsworth Classics. Hillson, David. 2010. How to Be a Successful Failure. Newton Square, PA: Project Management Institute. Accessed 22 December 2020. https://www.pmi.org/ learning/library/successful-­failure-­6813. Moran, Joe. 2020. If You Should Fail. London: Penguin. Patchett, Ann. 2013. This is the Story of a Happy Marriage. London: Bloomsbury. Powers, Anna. 2018. Failing Your Way to Success: Why Failure is a Crucial Ingredient for Success. Forbes, 30 April. Accessed 22 December 2020. https:// www.forbes.com/sites/annapowers/2018/04/30/failing-your-way-tosuccess-why-failure-is-a-crucial-ingredient-for-success/?sh=44062d266170.

11  THE CORRECTIONS: SUCCEEDING AT FAILURE IN THE CREATIVE… 

175

Smith, Zadie. 2007. Fail Better. Guardian, 13 January (link no longer available). Watson, Melvin R. 1949. “Wuthering Heights” and the Critics. The Trollopian 3 (4): 243–263. JSTOR. Accessed 4 January 2021. www.jstor.org/ stable/3044506. Wooditch, Bill. 2019. Fail More: Embrace, Learn, and Adapt to Failure as a Way to Success. New York: McGraw-Hill Educational.

PART III

Consolidating the Process: Success and Resilience

CHAPTER 12

Counting Coco Pops: On Constraint and Creativity Dave Drayton

Reading The term culinary biblioarcheology is a technical way to describe the act of trying to determine the cause and contents of stains found in the pages of books. A drop of beetroot juice fallen from a burger sometime in the summer of 2012 that bled through three pages of Édouard Levé’s Suicide. Whole chapters of Kate Jennings’s Snake turned brown in June 2009 when it was left opened and face down on the kitchen bench to mark my progress before the morning mug of coffee was knocked over and drunk by pages 23 through 31. Small bruise coloured fingerprints leaving a record of pages turned between mulberry-damp fingers as I re-read Vera Pavlova’s collected poems in English translation last October. The chalky yellowing of forgotten yolk pressed between the otherwise pristine pages of Kimiko Hahn’s The Narrow Road to the Interior. A teabag pulled from the mug in the summer of 2013 and left by accident on page 87 of Jane Rawson’s A Wrong Turn at the Office of Unmade Lists, darkening a passage

D. Drayton (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_12

179

180 

D. DRAYTON

that, eerily, contains the words “Earl Grey”. An uncertain array of sesame seeds that fall from the spine of Ben Marcus’ The Age of Wire & String, raining on the table top, remnants of a late night reading at McDonald’s in 2016. If I inherited my taste for words from my mother, I inherited from my father the habit of consuming them while I was eating. And if there wasn’t a book or magazine to hand, I could find myself just as engrossed in a box of cereal. When I had read it “cover to cover”—all sides and panels, including the bottom (a delicate task when the box still contained the poorly torn sheaf of plastic and a few thousand Coco Pops eager to fall out, that involved holding the box with both hands upright above my head and craning back my neck)—and there were still a few bowls worth of cereal left before any new reading material would arrive, I would find new ways to read it. My favourite of these was to place wagers with myself on the letter frequency on particular panels of the box, and to count these out before and during breakfast like a kindergarten Al-Kindi.1 After pouring out a bowlful of cereal, and before submerging it in milk, I would set the terms of the bet: That the front panel of the Coco Pops box, bearing the name of the cereal and copy extolling its chocolatey goodness, would feature the letter “O” more prominently than any other.

Then I would proceed to count the instances of the letter O on the front panel of the box, before running a quick tally of those that appeared at first glance to be less frequent, to confirm my suspicions. In the event that my anticipatory calculations were proved correct—that is, after counting and finding 32 Os, and only 24 Es, and 19 Cs and Ps apiece—I would reward myself with the equivalent number of Coco Pops, counting out the puffed grains on a table before swiping them into the bowl and adding milk. When these not-so-speculative speculations (the vowels, the C, the Ps) had been exhausted, I would turn to stranger stakes to prolong the cereal box’s usefulness as literary fodder: that there will be more Gs and Hs than Ws and Xs across the box as a whole, for instance. This extreme attentiveness to letter frequency, in retrospect, seems a little odd and I wonder now if this approach to reading was in any way informed by the speech therapy sessions I was undertaking around the same time to address a lisp. During the sessions, I would make my way through worksheets and exercises, identifying the shapes of letters on a

12  COUNTING COCO POPS: ON CONSTRAINT AND CREATIVITY 

181

page and repetitiously muttering sss like a snake in an attempt to get a better grasp on sibilants. On the trip there and back the car would carve out similar patterns as it made its way through a series of switchbacks, down deep into the lush green of Galston Gorge and across Tunks Creek Bridge, a little over an hour north of Sydney’s CBD, before making the serpentine ascent on the other side. As the years (and my taste in cereal) progressed, I continued to read over breakfast, and most other meals, and began to discover that I was not alone in my slightly odd approach to parsing prose. Over a bowl of Special K, it occurred to me that letter frequency was just as crucial for cruciverbalists as it was for my younger self analysing the panels of a Coco Pops box. While barefoot at the stove, bleary-eyed and stirring porridge, I had pause to ponder how people were counting on fingers and feet when composing metric poetry. So while I wasn’t reading with the aid of an abacus, I was understandably delighted years later still to discover over an unsubstantial and quintessentially undergraduate breakfast of caffeine and nicotine, while reading about the inspiration behind Matt Madden’s 99 Ways to Tell a Story: Exercises in Style, flecked with ash and on my lap, the existence of a group of what felt like like-minded individuals in the form of Oulipo. Founded in 1960 by Raymond Queneau and Francois Le Lionnais, the French collective’s name comes from a shortening of Ouvroir de littérature potentielle or “workshop for potential literature” in English (Motte 1986, p.  1). The Oulipo writes within constraints, varying in intricacy from sonnets to complex mathematical algorithms dictating sentence structure, syllable count and more, in an attempt to enquire into the possibilities of writing using self-imposed restrictive systems. Paradoxically, in restriction and constraint, oulipian thought sees not limitation but potential.

‘Riting One of the great benefits of writing experimentally for me is the framework; such an approach provides for evaluating what is produced. As someone with a proclivity for self-doubt and self-criticism, severe enough to render me entirely unproductive, attempting to reflect on and edit something I have written using metrics like whether or not it is “good” or “moving” is fraught and often unproductive. On the other hand, if I set out to write a text that does not use the letter E, or a sestina where each line is an anagram of the one before it, these offer clearly defined

182 

D. DRAYTON

objectives that I can measure my work against. More generally, I continue to write experimentally as I see no other way of writing. I think all writing is experimental, in that it is premised on an enquiry and the results are uncertain: Will this sonnet adequately express my love? Can I convey my inner thoughts and emotions in this diary entry? Will this strongly worded email, ending with Firm Regards, appear threatening enough that the overdue invoice will be paid? Take ten people and ask them to write an unforgettable poem, and you will in likelihood be met with enduring silence. Ask them to write a poem without the letter E and there they are at work already, pushed forward by curiosity and challenge. (Paul Fournel in Levin Becker 2012, p. 103)

I found in Writing Laboratory, a subject offered to undergraduate creative writing students at the University of Technology Sydney, the perfect forum for sharing these discoveries. The premise of the writing laboratory is to provide students who are nearing the end of their undergraduate studies an environment in which they can combine concepts and practice, where they are encouraged to play, innovate, experiment and (gloriously) fail. Tasking the 100-odd students gathered in a lecture hall to do just that proved Fournel’s point. There was some groaning, some disbelief—you want us to do what?—some recalcitrance and reluctance. And then flashes of brilliance as furiously scribbling students realised what they had unlocked and began to share their findings. I begin these lectures and similar workshops with a twist on the traditional meet and greet—we would be introduced to one another by way of autobiographical beaux présents composed on the spot. The beau présent, or “beautiful in-law” in English, is a poetic form that requires the writer only use the letters in the name of the poem’s subject. So we all fossick hopefully about in the far corners of our minds looking for a perhaps-forgotten middle name and write our monikers: DAVID NICHOLAS DRAYTON

Before isolating the available alphabet: ACDHILNORSTVY

Then composing our introductions:

Scantly a scholar, David did, still, try. An antsy vandal, a trash tycoon, this idiot — David. All chaotic vocal solo (no choir).

12  COUNTING COCO POPS: ON CONSTRAINT AND CREATIVITY 

183

Ice suitably broken, we turn to Queneau’s Exercises in Style for inspiration.2 Using as our source text (the literary dumbbell, as it were) Queneau’s original short story, or one of my own, or a story from the paper that morning, or the side of a cereal box—Coco Pops—we set to work. Rearranging the letters in the phrase Just like a chocolate Milkshake… Only Crunchy! alphabetically as: AAA CCCC EEE HHH II J KKK LLLL M NN OOO R SS TT UU YY

Then reworking it anagrammatically as:

Make a scholarly count honky, just like cliché.

Or performing a permutation to critique the accuracy of the claim: Only just like a crunchy chocolate milkshake.

Or removing a letter to make the meal seem a little meatier: Jus like a chocolate milkshake… only crunchy!

Or rendering it onomatopoeically: … 

CRUNCH!

pop

Or taking inspiration from Georges Perec3 to rewrite the phrase as a lipogram in E: Similar to a choccy malt… only crunchy!

Or transforming it by way of Jean Lescure’s S+74 method: Just like a choker millimetre… only crunchy!

Or writing a homovocalism, in which the order of the vowels is retained: Quiet at noon, a vegi and egg for lunch.

Or a homoconsonantism, where the order of the vowels remains embedded: Jest — Look! — chic loot milk sheik, an oily car on ice. Hey!

Or perhaps noticing that the addition of the Kellogg’s Coco Pops tag allows us to arrange the phrase so that it meets the syllabic requirements of the English-language haiku: Kellogg’s Coco Pops Just like a chocolate milk Shake… only crunchy!

Turning to the back of the box, one finds a mask of the Coco Pops monkey’s face, along with instructions for cutting it out and preparing it to be worn

184 

D. DRAYTON

(You will need: Safety Scissors; Glue or sticky tape; A ruler or ice-block sticks) as part of Coco’s Sleep Over Fun and games with snack time treats!, which encourages the morbidly curious Spoonerism of Gun & Fames. Next up some Search Engine Assisted Centos5—or Sea-Cs. Sticking with the box of Coco Pops, we’ll pop “Just like a…” into Google Video Search and curate our findings (courtesy of The Amity Affliction, Ariana Grande, Birdy, Bob Dylan, The Chainsmokers and Coldplay, The Cure, Jamiroquai, Kira Peace, Madonna, P!nk, Sly and the Family Stone, Tegan and Sara, and Three Days Grace): Hey, I’m just like you Just like a baby Just like heaven Like a prayer Just like a woman Just like you Just like me Just like a pill Just like a movie Just like magic Just like a river does something just like this Feels just like it should

Then we might move on to Waterfalls: a form developed from Michèle Métail’s Filigranes [Watermarks].6 Waterfalls present the accumulation of such watermarks so they may be gathered at the bottom of the fall, and a poem made in the plunge pool. The first step is to select the source word. Turning again to the cereal box before me, let’s take pop as an example. With our key word (POP) selected, the first stage is to gather a list of associated words or phrases: Snap Crackle &; sickle; up; fly; goes the weasel; music; song; bubblegum; top; corn; under; mom &; a squat; the question; eye; K; tart; art; culture; hole; gun; rivet; quiz; test; off; soda…

From these we can select the words to compose the plunge pool of the poem:

12  COUNTING COCO POPS: ON CONSTRAINT AND CREATIVITY 

  eye question art / & culture / & snap under the test

Before arranging the final poem: S G B S R N O U Q I A E B U V P S B A E L T T C T E R H G T Q A E U H U C M E I K W Z L E C Q E A O U T S R E E & E N S S L T T S U I I M N O O C U D N F K S E F L I R C E C U S M L O U S O T D P O M U A N R F G & E L Y T A H O O E P T L Y A E E A R R T G K T U N

eye question art

& culture & snap under the test

185

186 

D. DRAYTON

These examples may seem throwaway and frivolous, and some of them are, but that does not discount their usefulness as exercises, as a means to keeping writing fit and a way to produce something new and fresh, something that, in the words of Harry Mathews: “You wouldn’t normally say, or in a way that you would never have said it” (Mathews in Ashbery 1987). These smaller exercises and experiments might point to larger possibilities too—a phrase, image, character, or idea unlocked by the constraint that the writer can return to in more detail later. Years after being introduced to the beau présent during a workshop led by Oulipo president Paul Fournel in San Francisco, I had the idea to write one of these poems for each Australian prime minister, and this became my first collection, P(oe) Ms (Drayton 2017). It is encouraging, too, and speaks to the Oulipo’s generative and collaborative founding ethos, to see the way that students make these experiments their own, and later, make their own experiments. One student inspired by Anne Garréta’s Sphinx (2015) (an erotically charged novel in which the narrator’s gender remains ambiguous) experimented with a queer reading of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, using it as the framework for exploring the limitations of gendered language in an essay as patchwork, as fragmented as the material that inspires it. Another student experimented with the ways that the impacts of radiation may be rendered in text, asking: What if radiation caused the words we documented nuclear warfare with to disintegrate over time? The resulting suite of erasure poetry uses material from the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum to compose responses. Another student, inspired by choose-your-own-­adventure participatory fiction, experimented with a subversion of the true/good ending trope in the genre. The result was a CYOA epistolary story told via text message which made use of the interactive medium to reveal the dangers of being trapped in a manipulative and abusive relationship—the cycle continues ad  infinitum, the only way to “finish” the story is to make the courageous decision to leave. These students and others met their own enduring silences head on and asked a question, and in looking for the answer found more words than they could hope for, and strange and beautiful ways to arrange them.

12  COUNTING COCO POPS: ON CONSTRAINT AND CREATIVITY 

187

‘Rithmetic A few months ago, a couple of colleagues reached out and asked if I’d like to contribute a chapter to a book they were editing, bringing together different writers reflecting on their forms and practice. I was thrilled, pitched something about experimental writing and promptly forgot about it. As the deadline loomed I was terrified, unsure of where, even, to begin. The thought occurred—what if someone were to write a reflection on their own reading and writing practice, tracing the way that these two acts are intertwined and inform one another, from the earliest recollection one has (of eating cereal as a child) to the present moment, and mapped this reflection so that the number of words mirrored exactly the number of alphabetic characters on all four sides and eight flaps of a box of Coco Pops? That seemed like a promising experiment, so I gathered my materials (pad of gridded paper, pencil, box of Coco Pops) and set to work. Recording the data was not as simple as it might seem, and all sorts of obstacles and hurdles presented themselves—does the R in the Registered Trademark logo ® count as an R? Is that a zero or an uppercase O in the barcode sequence? Do I include the letters in the Nutrition Information index (6.9 g of protein in a serve with ½ cup of reduced fat milk)? Do I include in my catalogue the letters that appear on the shirt and hat of the monkey, or does their inclusion on apparel make them more logographic than alphabetic? Do I include partially obscured letters (e.g., the final O on the monkey’s shirt on the front of the box, or the partially missing “M” on the process control patches, ripped as a result of glue)? The data—which is compiled in the appendix—speaks for itself, but there are a few things that I think are worth highlighting in the context of this: • The total number of alphabetic characters on the box is 3271. • 3271 is a prime number. • H is the eighth letter of the alphabet and appears eight times on the front of the box, and across the top four panels. • The single most frequently occurring letter is E (337 times). • 337 is a prime number. • The total number of words in this chapter (excluding the title, abstract, keywords and footnotes, but inclusive of the list of sources that follows here) is 3271.

188 

D. DRAYTON

Appendix Letter

Front

Back

Right

Left

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z Total

14

27 3 47 7 52 9 8 13 22

114 12 46 26 126 21 70 36 100 5 16 39 53 79 73 26 3 90 62 105 35 20 8 3 26 5 1199

71 6 49 22 96 10 37 21 40 1 20 60 20 44 71 19 3 68 54 69 37 9 22 2 20 3 874

11 2 17 3 16 8 12 2 4 11 4 9 19 4

12 25 9 16 60 29

18 17 13 8 3 1 1 2

23 43 31 16 2 7

199

469

8

Top (x4) 19 7 11 16 35 13 10 8 18 7 18 4 22 31 9 20 18 24 6 1 9 2 1 309

Bottom (x4) 8 15 1 11 3 4 4 5 1 7 8 7 4 11 6 5 8 3 3 2 5 221

Total alphabetic characters: 3271

Notes 1. An Arab Muslim philosopher and polymath, Al-Kindi (801–873 AD) wrote a Manuscript on Deciphering Cryptographic Messages that introduced the concept of statistical inference and laid the foundation for further cryptanalysis. 2. Originally published in French as Exercices de style Queneau’s collection collates 100 tellings of the same short anecdote, the constraint or form of each

12  COUNTING COCO POPS: ON CONSTRAINT AND CREATIVITY 

189

providing a title for the exercise (Metaphorically, Logical Analysis, Past, Present, Passive, Noble, Couplets, etc.) (Queneau 2013). 3. Perec’s La disparition (translated into English by Gilbert Adair as A Void) is a noirish horror about the disappearance of the letter e, written without the letter e—an example of a lipogram or text written using the conscious suppression of one or more letters of the alphabet. 4. S here stands for substantif, or noun; the constraint involves replacing each noun in a given text with the seventh noun following it in a dictionary. Daniel Levin Becker notes: “Both the part of the speech and the number are naturally adjustable; a general version of the method is presented as M ± n (M for mot, or word)” (2012, p. 54). 5. A cento is a text composed entirely from lines or phrases taken from other works. 6. First published as La Bibliothèque Oulipienne #34 (1986), Métail’s Filigranes are monostich poems revolving around one word present only by association.

References Ashbery, J. 1987. A Conversation with Harry Mathews. Review of Contemporary Fiction 7 (3) Accessed 23 November 2020. https://www.dalkeyarchive. com/a-­conversation-­with-­harry-­mathews-­by-­john-­ashbery/. Drayton, Dave. 2017. P(oe)Ms: A Collection of Beaux Présents for Australian Prime Ministers. Melbourne: Rabbit. Garréta, Anne. 2015. Sphinx. Translated by Emma Ramadan. Dallas: Deep Vellum. Levin Becker, Daniel. 2012. Many Subtle Channels: In Praise of Potential Literature. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. Métail, Michèle. 1986. La Bibliothèque Oulipienne #34 (Filigranes). Paris: Oulipo. Motte, Warren. 1986. Oulipo: A Primer of Potential Literature. Lincoln and London: University of Nebraska Press. Queneau, Raymond. 2013. Exercises in Style. Translated by Barbara Wright. Surrey: Alma Classics.

CHAPTER 13

When Your Subjects Do Not Agree: An ‘Idiosyncratically Australian Perspective’ Sue Joseph

When I set out to interview Australian creative non-fiction writers in a bid to begin to formalise an Australian dialogue about the genre, it was as much about the nomenclature as the process. But I was met by what I have called an ‘idiosyncratically Australian perspective’ (Joseph 2011)—the response in Australia was polemical, to say the least. The three big hitters I felt I could rely on for comment did, but it wasn’t what I expected. Helen Garner (email 2010), David Marr (email 2010) and Chloe Hooper (email 2010) all refused my request for an interview, giving reasons that basically eviscerated the conceptual framework of my project. But instead of scrapping the original concept, I decided to use the Garner, Marr and Hooper anti-commentary as a launching pad for the entire undertaking. What eventuated is Behind the Text: Candid Conversations with Australian Creative Non-fiction Writers (Joseph 2016). This chapter looks at how the text navigates the framing of a concept that the majority of practitioners had never heard of or did not believe in. * * * S. Joseph (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_13

191

192 

S. JOSEPH

Reading the above evokes the avant-garde Beckett and his notorious quote from his penultimate text Worstward Ho. In it, he writes: ‘Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better’ (Beckett 1983, p. 7). The most startling thing about this quote, of course, is that his intention is not to inspire, as vernacular usage repeats, endlessly. Rather, in this fragmentary and disjointed novella—Beckett at his best/most frustrating—it is clear that his is not a motivational entreaty, but rather one of despair or surrender. He writes next: First the body. No. First the place. No. First both. Now either. Now the other. Sick of the either try the other. Sick of it back sick of the either. So on. Somehow on. Till sick of both. Throw up and go … Try again. Fail again. Better again. Or better worse. Fail worse again. Still worse again … Throw up for good. Go for good …. (Beckett 1983, p. 7)

Not such a strange place to begin this chapter, although—full disclosure— my forays never made me throw up. But I perhaps could have given up when Helen Garner said she was sick of talking about creative non-fiction; I probably should have given up when Chloe Hooper derisively told me: ‘As a term “creative non-fiction” seems slightly laughable, almost twee’; and I definitely should have thought about giving up when I received this from David Marr: ‘I’m not the least interested in whether or not there is a “defined group” of non-fiction writers in this country. Why should there be?’ But I didn’t. Spending years convincing journalism and creative writing students about perseverance and tenacity and persistence and doggedness, to give up is anathema to me. I clearly had to practise what I preach or render myself a hypocrite. Behind the Text—taking up a challenge of John Dale’s, of not having a text in the land with the term ‘creative non-fiction on the cover’ (see below)—was the research project I plunged into after completing my doctorate on sexuality secrets and when they become public property. There is a massive fail tale from that text also, but more about that later. During the doctorate, I interrogated ethical degrees of detachment within a long form journalism and/or creative non-fiction framework, globally as well as locally. What I discovered was a gap in scholarly writing on the subject in Australia, meaning I needed to look to the northern hemisphere academics to ground my doctoral work in their plentiful theory and commentary. And not just from their academics, but their

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

193

practitioners as well, seemingly nestling well within academic tagging and labelling of their craft. So, when the doctorate was done, I decided to find out why we are not as enamoured as our northern colleagues with naming and claiming a discrete group of creative non-fiction writers and writing. As British education scholar Amanda French writes: ‘… the ability to succeed and progress in higher education is viewed as the outcome of struggle and even failure, which are the natural products of exploration and experimentation’ (French 2018, p. 414). My failure to unearth a critical mass of discussion in my own country, around my own field, made me want to go searching. And as McDonald writes: ‘What seems important about the notion of failure is that it signals, in the broad sense, limits and transformation’ (McDonald 2003, p.  34). Which is certainly what happened at the beginning of my research tactic with Marr, Garner and Hooper; failure in triplicate. So how to turn all these negative, uninterested sentiments into a project worth doing? My constraints were simple and hardly academic—a mission to travel the country interviewing my favourite creative non-fiction writers, and discussing this field, the field of my choosing. I created a model: the umbrella term of creative non-fiction sitting at the top; below, the sub-genres: true crime writing; memoir; profile; essay; literary journalism; historical non-fiction; journal writing; food writing; travel writing; found poetry (non-fiction poetry); documemoir. I included literary journalism as a sub-genre, because in Australia, some of the leading proponents of this type of long form narrative may well be termed literary but definitely do not regard themselves as journalists, nor what they do as journalism. I hoped that after interviewing all my subjects, a unique Australian branding of this type of writing would emerge. Using the skillsets taught in creative non-fiction classes—narrative techniques of scene-setting, dialogue, journeying and describing spaces and places, personal reflection, interviewing, first-person usage and other perspectives—the final text is overtly meta. It was an attempt to discover a group of identifiable creative non-fiction writers in Australia; and if not, why not. Hence, approaching three of my favourites, first: Marr, Garner and Hooper. As I write in the Introduction to Behind the Text: ‘It was a fairly dismal beginning to my research’ (Joseph 2016, p. xv). And to be honest, it only improved slightly throughout the project with the discovery that Australian authors—or the ones I chose to speak to—had neither heard the term creative non-fiction, nor were interested in it. Summing up, apart from Doris Pilkington Garimara1 who clearly

194 

S. JOSEPH

knew how she was regarded and was proud of her own label, only 3 of my 11 subjects had really even thought about the genre of creative non-­ fiction: Margaret Simons, John Dale and Anna Goldsworthy, clearly because they work within the Australian academy. Kate Holden, Greg Malouf, Lucy Rushbrooke, Estelle Blackburn and David Leser were quite accepting of the label, although at the time, it was unknown to them. But Leser distinctly argued he thought it unnecessary. Both Paul McGeough and Greg Bearup saw themselves as journalists first—Bearup did concede there is a difference between writing daily journalism and long form journalism—so creative non-fiction was a non-­ starter with them both; and broaching the term literary journalism made the normally sceptical McGeough outright derisive. But perhaps I should go back to the beginning. * * * The first interview conducted is with celebrated journalist and author David Leser (author interview, 2009) known for his sweeping profiles in both Good Weekend and The Australian Women’s Weekly. Travelling to Byron Bay for this interview in early autumn was a joy, my love of Australian road trips instilled from a young age during perennial summer family holidays, outward bound from Sydney. When we broach the subject of his writing nestling into the genre of creative non-fiction, he is sharp: If it takes a couple of academics to put a couple of anthologies together to say “This is our literary tradition of creative non-fiction”, that can’t be a bad thing. As an Aussie we might think it is a bit wanky. It might seem sort of a bit too cerebral, but … I am not saying it is a bad thing … where I hesitate is, you know, the classification or the process of classification.

I push the point, conceding that he does not need his work classified but would he mind if it was? No I don’t mind … [but] I don’t need it at all. You know I am just living in Byron and trying to work out how to write this bloody book, and going through the agony of that, and also wondering what I should do. And ­wondering what you should do has nothing to do with seeing yourself as part of a category or classification. (Joseph 2016, pp. 48–49)

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

195

Next stop is author, columnist and memoirist Kate Holden in Melbourne. Our interview (author interview 2009) is in the suburb of Balaclava where she lived at the time. When I broach the topic of creative non-fiction with Holden, she says: The only thing about the word “creative” is it suggests imaginative and made up … and imaginative doesn’t necessarily have to have that connotation it just means you’re imagining your way into something. See, I’d almost use a word like “speculative” … something that is more engaged with the exploratory nature of that kind of non-fiction. I mean it’s just a type of non-­ fiction isn’t it; it’s just that it’s a particularly agile and plastic kind. But creative’s not bad. I don’t think creative is a bad term. (Joseph 2016, pp. 84–85)

When I ask her if she would mind recognition as an Australian creative non-fiction writer, she replies: ‘I would be delighted’ (p. 85). So, with some sharp talking and gentle arguing, I have two of my authors, sort of on board. While still in Melbourne, I track down author Lucy Rushbrooke (Malouf) and chef Greg Malouf (author interview 2009). Together, they have written and compiled beautiful hybrid texts of travel, memoir, food, history, geopolitics and childhood memories. Neither knows the term creative non-fiction and Malouf asks: ‘Does it matter what it is called?’ Rushbrooke says: I mean for us … it’s about the people, it’s the stories, it’s the sort of personal lives. And I think what I’m saying here about it being a product other than an expression of a culture, it’s sort of tied in with the thought that if you look at a culture, you can trace its history through the food. But that’s something that’s really important to both of us really but probably mainly more me because I’m the one that’s doing that side of the book. But you can tell people’s individual stories and their stories as being part of a social grouping and the context in terms of social history, ancient history, all proven, all through the ingredients and the dishes. (Joseph 2016, p. 212)

We speak together for hours and before we leave, they both agree they quite like the term creative non-fiction. ‘It makes us sound really good, doesn’t it?’ Rushbrooke asks Malouf. ‘Sounds great,’ he says (2016, p. 215). I feel this is possibly more to do with the content of their books than the craft; that perhaps writing about food does not seem somehow as earnest or worthy as what my other authors interrogate. But this is the book—Turquoise: A Chef’s Travels in Turkey (Malouf and Malouf

196 

S. JOSEPH

2007)—that actually made me cry, it was so beautiful. The design, the colours, the photography, not to mention the extraordinary rendering of history and knowledge which flows seamlessly in and around the recipes— they are really good. Returning to Melbourne a little under a month later, my next subject is journalist, author and academic Margaret Simons (author interview 2009). I am excited about this interview as I have read and followed Simons’ work, admiring it for many years. But she does not like the term creative non-fiction at all: ‘I hate that term … I don’t like that one, because it defines it by what it isn’t’ (Joseph 2016, p. 122). I brace myself and we dig in, for a deep discussion. ‘Well I don’t find it very interesting. I mean people have to have labels because they have to construct university courses in it. It’s not very interesting is it?’ (p. 122). I tend to agree with her, but rather, make no apologies for this fact—we must package and label, in order to deliver to students cogent skills; we must map logic against the labelling and replicate it, semester after semester. Simons’ argument is that the label is more to do with literary criticism, and is done after the fact of writing. Now, I am not sure I agree with that. There is a conscious decision to write either fiction or non-fiction when starting a new project, and techniques and methods available to write it. Surely, this goes to the heart of this discussion. And Simons is a trained journalist with investigative and interviewing skills, but she still needs to ponder her next text—fiction or non-fiction. Her argument is really a semantic one—she believes in the literary skills to write either form as the same. She concedes: I do think writing is a deeply mysterious process. Deeply mysterious. I couldn’t say I love the writing process, I love having written … I do love the research … I think the insider creative process is a very unusual and different space and it’s not like most people would imagine it to be really and most writers I talk to say the same thing. It is not glamorous—most of the time, it is torturous. (2016, p. 128)

This mention of ‘torture’ is repeated throughout nearly all my discussions with these authors—seemingly, the process of writing hurts. Once again I think of Beckett, this time in his 1953 text The Unnamable: ‘You must go on, I can’t go on, you must go on, I’ll go on ….Where I am, I don’t know, I‘ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on’ (Beckett 1958). He manages to wrap up well the feeling,

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

197

mid-text, when you are not even sure your toil is actually going to ‘work’, on several levels. But back to my authors. Paul McGeough, whose professional practice as globe-roaming correspondent is both manic and endless, possibly has not stopped still for long enough to consider labelling his form of writing. He says: I’ve never thought about it. Beyond journalist reporter, I’ve never tried to define myself … I think the product speaks for itself … I don’t think you get judged because you have categorised me as a literary journalist. I don’t know that I will necessary be judged broadly as a literary journalist. (Joseph 2016, p. 4)

The next time in the interview where we discuss categorisation, he makes me laugh—he sounds like so many journalists I have known in my career: … when you say are you a literary journalist, you think “Give me a fuckin break”, you know, because some people will never accept that journalism is an art; they will tell you it’s a craft. I think the sense amongst Australian journalists, if you dare to sit down on any bar stool in this country and say “Well actually I’m a literary journalist”, you’d get hit; so you wouldn’t do it. And I think there is also a badge of honour in being a journalist and to try and trick it up with other terminologies and to reposition or redefine yourself in a news room, I think you’d be laughed off the floor. (2016, p. 8)

I acknowledge this, having spent many years in newsrooms in the United Kingdom as well as Australia myself. His reflections are familiar. Like Simons, he is an investigative journalist where the newsroom experience is a challenging one. It breeds a particular type of culture, recognisable world-wide: a down to earth, deadline-driven culture where to care too much about your words is seen as a weakness, not a strength. Too time consuming. You just have to get on with it because the same deadline pressures circulate next shift and, in a 24/7 news cycle, never stops. Clearly by now, my defence of the umbrella term creative non-fiction, with literary journalism sitting as a sub-genre, is hanging by a thread. After travelling to Exmouth in Western Australia, the interview with Aboriginal elder Doris Pilkington-Garimara (author interview 2009) is a career highlight for me. She is mesmerising and evocative, and a master storyteller in the true tradition of her Martu culture. We sit for more than

198 

S. JOSEPH

five hours at her kitchen table, talking. But she does stand out amongst my interviewees as the one who truly felt defined and proud, albeit trying not to disappoint me when she does not agree with my terms creative non-­ fiction, literary journalism or long form narrative. She gently says: … I’ve been an indigenous or an Aboriginal writer for years. I’m honoured to carry that label because it’s what I’m known by overseas: the Aboriginal writer, or the Indigenous writer that’s from Australia. That’s me. (2016, p. 40)

As I write shortly after our interview in a journal article: ‘I could not, neither did I want to, argue with her’ (Joseph 2011). Her identification and pride in her labelling is profound—her pleasure in her achievements palpable. And for good reason. She was in the vanguard of Indigenous literature in this country, and maintaining her identity as part of the nomenclature is, I believe, more of a political impulse than anything else. After all, Pilkington-Garimara already has her community and as an elder of her community, is inspiring. Estelle Blackburn (author interview 2009) is all energy and laughter, but her writing into this field is obverse to her humour—righting the wrongful incarcerations of John Button and Darryl Beamish, both convicted of crimes carried out by the notorious West Australian serial killer Eric Edgar Cooke. When we discuss terminologies around her craft, she is self-effacing: I was amazed to find there are all these descriptions for it, all these words for it … I just chose it naturally thinking that’s the style I want to use. So only after that did I discover there’s this whole genre and it’s got various names and it is a particular style. It seemed the natural way for me to write this book to achieve what I wanted to achieve. But having read lots of books and seeing the ones that achieved what I wanted to achieve, I thought nobody’s going to read a dry old thesis by me about John Button. Nobody. So that’s when I came across Capote, and Norman Mailer as well, I thought that’s the style I need. That’s going to make people read it. I started as a straight journalist; started out at a newspaper … started as a straight journalist but now I’ve discovered that style, I much prefer it—I much prefer to bring things to life and make it interesting. (Joseph 2016, p. 172)

When Broken Lives was published, Blackburn was approached by Murdoch University to undertake a PhD. She accepted, resulting in her second book, The End of Innocence.

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

199

Yes, they told me they wanted me to write a PhD on how I wrote Broken Lives. They wanted to help legitimise this genre of non-fiction. So then I understood. There’s literary journalism, they’re trying to legitimise it as a genre; it just came absolutely naturally to me. I love it and that’s the way I write now. (Joseph 2016, p. 176)

Having interviewed Paul McGeough earlier in the year, I know that my interview with journalist Greg Bearup (author interview 2009) will no doubt go the same way—not that inclined to define himself within a specific field of writing, except journalism. How would I describe my writing? I’ve really never thought about this before … I suppose I’d just describe myself as a magazine feature writer… it’s hard for me to try and explain what I do; I mean, I just sort of do it … I don’t have that sort of academic description of what I do. … it’s the structure of the piece that makes …a different form of writing … journalism is sort of sprinting each day whereas this is sort of more 1,500 metre/5,000 metre sort of run … and a book is a marathon. I suppose that’s kind of what you do as a feature writer is that you’re trying to set a scene … I try and put the reader in a situation as if they’re in the room, sitting next to me … so they experience it too. So that they feel like they’re sitting there taking the ride with you. (Joseph 2016, pp. 142–143)

Clearly, Bearup does not regard himself as a member of a specific community of writers; long form or otherwise; creative non-fiction or literary journalist: ‘Look I don’t know. I mean I’m kind of not really up on what the label means anyway. I mean there’s just good writing and bad writing, isn’t there?’ (p. 163). Although Bearup ironically is a tad lost for words when trying to describe his writing, what he does clearly demonstrate is that he uses all the writing techniques employed by creative non-fiction writers, and gathered up by academics to teach as skillsets throughout the sector. My next interviewee is a colleague and a friend—and also my boss at the time at University of Technology Sydney (UTS)—writer and academic John Dale (author interview 2009). He comes straight to the point: ‘All creative non-fiction is—it’s just people who use fictional techniques to write factually. I don’t think that anyone in the street would know about creative non-fiction as a genre’ (p. 96). Of all the interviewees in the text, Dale is confident using the term—he taught creative non-fiction at UTS for more than a decade.

200 

S. JOSEPH

I think that creative non-fiction is a genre on its own but I think it’s only through universities that creative non-fiction has come to be regarded as a particular genre. I think it’s more for university and for students who want to write than it is for writers because with creative non-fiction really—I have never seen a book; there’s never been a book published that I know of in Australia that’s had on the back ‘creative non-fiction’. There’s no such thing in terms of a publisher, it’s either fiction or non-­ fiction or memoir or biography or … well, memoir’s a good example of creative non-fiction; I mean what’s a memoir other than something made up, really. You’re not telling me there’s any memoir that’s factual completely. Memoir actually means to me, you know, stretching the truth, really, as compared to a sort of biography which just seems more classical or conventional. (Joseph 2016, p. 97)

I do not agree with his ‘stretching the truth’ description. I see memoirists writing their truth, to the best of their ability, and with integrity. But when I teach memoir writing, I always insist that the author consider a disclaimer at the front, explaining that this is her memories and her perspective. Her story, so to speak. So not so much a ‘stretching of the truth’, but her truth. But at least we both know what we mean when talking about creative non-fiction. Concert pianist, academic and author Anna Goldsworthy (author interview 2014) is the final interview for Behind the Text. Landing in Adelaide is like flying through clouds of purple—the jacaranda season well under way at the time. It is easy to find her home, driving through this well-­planned grid city. She makes us coffee and we sit and chat. I ask her if she calls herself a memoirist, having written two. Her answer is self-deprecating. I don’t know what I am … somebody who likes making stuff, is what I call myself, probably. What I don’t like about calling myself a memoirist is it sounds terribly self-involved, which of course it is. Especially being a serial memoirist. It bothers me. Which is why I thought I might like to try fiction. But in some ways, I wonder whether I’m more drawn to creative non-fiction as a reader these days than I am to fiction … sometimes I think what’s the point of making all that stuff up when there’s so much interesting stuff that actually happens? (Joseph 2016, p. 237)

Finally, an interviewee happily uses the term creative non-fiction. But then, this:

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

201

There’s so many filters. To start with, I think all memoirs are part fiction. I think all fiction is inevitably part memoir. We’re going to write about what we know. So it’s a continuum. I truly believe it is a continuum. But I think even if you’re not compiling a memoir, as we know, people have multiple versions of their own truth. Which diverge even more, the further away you get from the thing you’re describing. So you’ve already got that going on … when you write the memoir, you make certain decisions about what you’re going to include and what you’re going to leave out, depending on the story that you’re trying to tell … I think some people might think that’s a terribly decadent or somehow corrupt concept because it should just be honest, truth making. But the worst memoirs are the ones in which people just open their mouth and tell us stuff because they remember it. That’s not what a good memoir is, I think. (Joseph 2016, pp. 237–238)

Goldsworthy seems more in the John Dale camp here, extending his view that memoir ‘stretches the truth’ by implying that individuals hold multiple truths about events in their lives; additionally, that some fictions also veer towards memoir. It is an interesting proposition and I am not surprised she takes the conversation into a more complex space—Goldsworthy has an impressive intellect and thinks deeply about everything before she speaks. But I also feel there is a self-consciousness or even surprise here that her two memoirs are so critically acclaimed; that to have three distinct careers—concert pianist academic and successful author—seems almost too much of a privilege for her to bear. But her considered musings and high achievements are grounded in discipline, and I believe them to speak for themselves. Not so much a privilege as years of painstaking hard work. * * * I mentioned another massive fail tale above, from an earlier text, Speaking Secrets (Joseph 2012). It actually goes back to my very first book, She’s My Wife, He’s Just Sex (Joseph 1997). This text came out of a desire to investigate a particular sexual practice of heterosexual identifying men who also have sex with men—I was writing an article in the early 1990s at the time for The Bulletin (ACP) about vectors to women of HIV and AIDS. I discovered an organisation of men called GAMMA—the Gay and Married Men’s Association. The group was deeply helpful until I was invited onto national, live television to discuss my text—with a request ‘to bring one of my men’. I rang GAMMA and was told the only one who could possibly do this was a particularly opinionated fellow but the most media savvy. I

202 

S. JOSEPH

contacted him—a psychologist and an academic researcher—and he agreed to come on the show, provided the interviewing was about his research and nothing about his personal life. I got an undertaking from the show that this would be the case. It wasn’t. All I can write here is that the interviewer eviscerated him, in a critically personal and moral attack. After the show, we parted company—he ashen-faced and monosyllabic, and me, feeling wretched and responsible. And the whole uncomfortable episode hovered in my mind, lingering for years, until I got the tentative idea to include him in my PhD research about sexual identity secrets. My aim was to give back to him his agency, to let him tell his own story, in his own words and own time. So I rang him and asked if he remembered me dragging him onto national television a few years earlier. He said he remembered, then said nothing. The silence hung in the air and I felt ‘like hanging up. Or running away. But as I teach my students when dealing with a difficult situation, persevere’ (Joseph 2012, p. 220). We did meet up and he allowed me to do the interview. And record it. And write my chapter, which was perhaps the most robust and evocative of the entire manuscript at the time. And then I sent it to him, awaiting his answer to consent to publication. I waited five months, then emailed him. He refused. It felt like an immense blow—an outright fail. So I tried to persuade him. To cajole him. To convince him. But then I heard myself, and stopped. For this was what my entire dissertation was about—giving agency to subjects. He graciously allowed me to use his chapter in my bound dissertation, but not for publication in book form. I named him Totga—‘The one that got away’—in the epilogue of Speaking Secrets and included this email from him: Thanks for your email and the opportunity to have a ‘final moment’ about this matter. I have thought about it many times since our last conversation but my answer must remain the same. The decision was made on a matter of principle. Unless I can perceive a clear justifiable rationale for me seeking further notoriety with regard to my sexual identity then it is appropriate that I do not seek it, as the unanticipated consequences can be too great. I have read through the chapter on a number of occasions and it continues to elicit an emotional reaction from me, which is a testament both to the nature of the story and the writing. It is a further reason though for me to resist further circulation of it at this stage as it increases the likelihood of further distribution and potential harms. I am quite happy for you to include some commentary in the preface of the book about my decision if that would be

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

203

helpful to you (the one that got away) and I look forward to an invitation to the launch. (2012, p. 225)

Throughout my career, I believe Totga taught me more than any other interview subject. He took back some of the power that media stripped away from him, particularly in that gruelling live interview on national television. And I wrote not in the preface but the epilogue: It is all about choice and control, and he demonstrates that while the story is of the utmost importance to a journalist, the person is more important. And I believe that this is the notion I have been grappling with my entire career … I have a mantra I tell my students—how I wish to ‘cripple’ them with ethics, so that at least they stop, when in the field, and take a moment to think of the implications of both their questions and their actions. To listen and respond with integrity and empathy … To re-represent what their subjects attempt to tell them with as much veracity and reliability and accuracy as they can possibly garner … I have to believe that this discussion has meant something to my students and perhaps, made some slight difference. (2012, p. 226)

Totga was the first one I invited to the book launch at UTS. He attended, and I talked about him, my secret subject, and what he taught me, in my launch speech. He came up to me at the end of the speech with tears in his eyes and hugged me. And through this failure to land my subject and include his narrative, he made me a better journalist and academic, definitely; perhaps even a better person. * * * Somehow this quest to discuss with Australian authors their process and create a community of writers acknowledging they are writing into the same field, even though most of them know little of the discourse before we meet, succeeds, but only through a failure of sorts. My mission to discover a community of like-minded writers fails but the exercise seemingly flourishes. As Power tells us of Beckett’s belief system: ‘Beckett came to believe failure was an essential part of any artist’s work, even as it remained their responsibility to try to succeed’ (Power 2016). It is almost metaacademics create names to structure courses and collate skillsets to teach students throughout the sector, just as I created Behind the Text, as a means of exploring what they think about our labelling. And even though

204 

S. JOSEPH

most had never heard of it, the text is now a book on shelves in stores, homes, libraries and creative writing classrooms. A book full of Australian authors’ thoughts and ideas about their craft; about their process; about their fears and their vulnerabilities as writers. A peek behind the scenes, into their studies and work spaces, sometimes into their homes, as they painstakingly serve up to us some of the most beautifully rendered stories of ourselves, in our times. Academia is a strange space. And in the writing of my own texts throughout the years, the one true echo of what all my authors talk about resounds—as a writer, you are alone and it is hard. There is no glamour in the process of writing, but there are common versions of insecurity and feelings of inadequacy; a reaching for an ending, when your deepest hope is shrouded in your deepest fear: is it good enough; have I failed? Each of my authors speaks of the writing space and process as one that is singular, solitary and stressful. Not one shows any burning interest in becoming or joining a community of ‘Australian creative non-fiction writers’; it simply serves no purpose to their process. It is clear that writing is a personal and isolated endeavour—perhaps in the negative, this is the community. But the community I was looking to identify, as an attendant to the ones I thought I identified in the northern hemisphere, is a construct of the academy. That is more than clear. And no doubt, the same is true in the northern hemisphere—just different questions asked and assembled. And perhaps it is somewhat easier in this country than in North America or the United Kingdom to use an idiosyncratic larrikin-type approach; to fob off a scholarly pursuit about the craft of writing as an entirely separate inquiry, with no impact whatsoever on process. And clearly, not even a marketing impulse, for it is rare to ever see the genre of creative non-­ fiction as a grouping within bookstores around the land. So the mission I begin fails. Yet in its place, something is created. Irvine asks us to: ‘Think of Samuel Beckett, who declared that his whole subject was failure, but he managed to reinvent both modernism and theatre while tucked away in obscurity. Not for nothing did his wife greet news of his Nobel prize as “catastrophe”’ (Irvine 2013). Some catastrophe, we may say. But that’s Beckett. Australian author Markus Zusak, while not a writer of creative non-­ fiction but fiction, says he knows failure well. At a Sydney TED Talk, he invokes Samuel Beckett, telling his audience:

13  WHEN YOUR SUBJECTS DO NOT AGREE: AN ‘IDIOSYNCRATICALLY… 

205

Every success I’ve ever had has come wrapped in a gift box of failure and just seems fitting because when you think about it, it wasn’t a great political leader or mathematician or scientist said “fail again fail better”; it was Samuel Beckett, one of the great writers in the writing pantheon … here’s the thing, everyone thinks that to be a writer you’ve got to have a great imagination. You don’t. You just have to have a lot of problems, and it’s getting around those problems that give you the power to imagine. You’ve got to imagine your way around them. (Zusak 2014)

A good place to stop writing. I particularly like Zusak’s ‘Every success I’ve ever had has come wrapped in a gift box of failure’. That’s Behind the Text, also. A ‘gift box of failure’. So, the take-out really is, do not think you have failed, when you so clearly feel you have. There is magic around responding to failure, and resilience in chasing your craft. In a tenacity and faith in your own work—in its value, somehow changed and stretched by your interview subjects, as you go. What is needed is a thick skin, belief in your argument, and bouts of good humour. Keep trying. Keep thinking. Keep writing. Keep imagining.

Note 1. Born July 1, 1937; died April 10, 2014.

References Beckett, Samuel. 1958. The Unnamable. New York: Grove Press Inc. ———. 1983. Worstward Ho. New York: Grove Press Inc. French, Amanda. 2018. ‘Fail Better’: Reconsidering the Role of Struggle and Failure in Academic Writing Development in Higher Education. Innovations in Education and Teaching International 55 (4): 408–416. https://doi.org/1 0.1080/14703297.2016.1251848. Irvine, Lindesay. 2013. What’s the Best Way to Kill a Novelist’s Passion for Writing? Success, The Guardian, November 5. https://www.theguardian.com/books/ booksblog/2013/nov/05/novelist-­passion-­writing-­failure-­success. Joseph, Sue. 1997. She’s My Wife, He’s Just Sex. Sydney: Australian Centre for Independent Journalism. ———. 2011. Australian Creative Non-fiction: Perspectives and Opinions. e-­journalist 11: 2. http://www.ejournalist.com.au/public_html/ejournalist_ v11n2.php.

206 

S. JOSEPH

———. 2012. Speaking Secrets: Sex and Sexuality as Public Property. Queensland: Alto Books. ———. 2016. Behind the Text: Candid Conversations with Australian Creative Non-fiction Writers. Melbourne: Hybrid Publishing. Malouf, Greg, and Lucy Malouf. 2007. Turquoise: A Chef’s Travels in Turkey. Melbourne: Hardie Grant. McDonald, Christie. 2003. What Fascinates Me. SubStance 32 (1): 33–35. Power, Chris. 2016. Samuel Beckett, the Maestro of Failure, The Guardian, July 7. https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2016/jul/07/samuelbeckett-the-maestro-of-failure. Zusak, Markus. 2014. The Failurist: Markus Zusak, TEDxSydney, June 14. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-­_8QIdm4hA

Interviews David Leser, personal interview, March 14, 2009 (Byron Bay). Kate Holden, personal interview, March 21, 2009 (Melbourne). Greg Malouf and Lucy Rushbrooke, personal interview, March 22, 2009 (Melbourne). Margaret Simons, personal interview, April 18, 2009 (Melbourne). Paul McGeough, personal interview, May 25, 2009 (Sydney). Doris Pilkington Garimara, personal interview, June 23, 2009 (Exmouth). Estelle Blackburn, personal interview, June 28, 2009 (Fremantle). Greg Bearup, personal interview, December 11, 2009 (Sydney). John Dale, personal interview, December 18, 2009 (Sydney). David Marr, email interview, January 13, 2010. Helen Garner, email interview, January 19, 2010. Chloe Hooper, email interview, January 25, 2010. Anna Goldsworthy, interview, November 5, 2014 (Adelaide).

CHAPTER 14

Critical Distance: Creative Writing as a Critic-Fan Liz Giuffre

Critics are the creative writers that are closest to the audience. They function as a bridge between the artist and their reception—at best providing a platform to what may have otherwise been drowned out in a sea of content-y noise; at worst, digging a trench so that the sea is encouraged to run rapidly. Oscar Wilde considered “The Critic as Artist”, calling criticism a work of “creation within a creation” (Wilde 2007, p. 983). Despite Oscar’s wisdom, the creative work of criticism, and of keeping critical distance while still being a fan, is still largely unexplored in creative writing circles. We often don’t think about the writer as a fan, but fandom creates a necessary bridge between worlds. Think of how often The Artist of the Moment is asked: “so, who are your influences?” It may be a hack question, but also a question that is repeated because the audience wants it answered. As Nick Hornby’s infamous critic/creator Rob Gordon proclaimed in High Fidelity, “what really matters is what you like, not what

L. Giuffre (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_14

207

208 

L. GIUFFRE

you are like” (Hornby 1995, p. 117). Of course, popular culture academics have taken this sentiment and solidified it in terms of identity politics and presentation. As Lawrence Grossberg famously wrote that fans “gives authority” to, and “invest in” the artists and the art they follow, “letting the object of such investments speak for and as him or herself” (Grossberg 1992, p. 59). When we wear a band T-shirt, carry a book proudly in public, or use art as an online avatar, we are saying “this thing I am a fan of speak for me, I’ll let this thing tell you who I am instead of me having to spell it out”. Artists and audiences have a bond that is vital and multifaceted. Both sides use art to make sense of the world. Both sides invest emotionally as well as financially—placing faith in the other to be there to “catch” them at the highs and lows of life. This relationship has been demonstrated again as COVID-19 has ravaged the world, as through badly lit streaming video, still, we have persisted. It may seem like the creative industries have been some of the hardest hit by lockdowns and shutdowns, but artists and their fans have continued to connect. We may have no money and no way to be physically in the same room, but the urge remains. We still need each other. Fandom, creativity and critical writing might seem to be in a conflict at first, but the relationship between these is vital. Fans take art extremely seriously, and despite popularist stereotypes of the fan as a “blind completest” or “uncritical consumer of everything an artist has ever created” (again, think some of the figures in Hornby’s High Fidelity), fans in the real world are extremely difficult to please. Fans are emotionally invested in art in a way a mere consumer or general audience member is not—and with that investment comes the ability to gain, but also the ability to lose. As I have written elsewhere in relation to popular music fandom, there are two opposed sides to fandom, or “fandom” and “anti-fandom”; because “to assert the quality of a particular piece of music or musician one must also be able to recognize the lack of quality in other pieces or musicians in comparison” (Giuffre 2014, p.  52). This act of recognition is as much creative as it is guttural. The fan must make connections between artworks and their experiences, finding ways to make sense of them. Fans know as much about art as the artist who makes it—in many cases, they know more. The artist creates and often then moves on to the next piece—while the fan absorbs, revisits and often (literally) repeats over the years in many different contexts.

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

209

Critic-Fans as Critical Creative Writers The ability to recontextualise art makes the fan, and by extension, the critic-fan, an extremely valuable creative writer. The critic-fan provides a platform for engagement with and for art—working literally as part of media forms like popular and trade press—but also providing platforms of recommendation and connection. Especially in the post-streaming age, where there is much more easily accessible content available than a person could ever hope to engage with in one lifetime—how does the fan choose what to watch? What to listen to? What to love? Spotify, Amazon, Netflix and the rest try to persuade with “if you liked this…” algorithms, but the machines can’t guess our whims. They can’t predict that we will love something because it reminds us doomed romance we entered into anyway, or hate something else because it “just sounds too polished”. Algorithms can’t choose a playlist or reading list based on the feelings that a fan can create—or predict that we may need to re-listen, re-read or re-­ watch multiple times to really “get” what we need to. They use patterns of the past to predict future behaviour—which is well and good, but doesn’t allow for beautiful, creative anomalies that appear in every fan’s collection. The crime fan with a sneaky rom-com paperback; the country music fan with a punk LP or two in the stack. One of the most iconic critics, Lester Bangs, was certainly not a maker of music (a musician), but few would disregard his place in the broader musical landscape. Importantly, his critical integrity and his authority were tied to his fandom. As Jones and Featherly explained in a collection on the relationship between popular music and the press, Bangs was, simply, a fan … more than any other popular-music critic, Bangs summoned authenticity from within himself … his writing resonated not because of any claims he made for the authenticity of the music he wrote about, but because of the authenticity he evoked by interacting with experiences similar to the popular-music audience. (Jones and Featherly 2002, pp. 34, 35)

This connection between participation, popular music and fandom is not just the realm of professional fans such as Bangs writing in a pre-digital environment, but as Kibby (2006) observed, it is a connection that has been maintained through technological and industrial change. Online forums allow fans with a range of creative skills and ambitions to engage

210 

L. GIUFFRE

with each other and their art, sometimes creating a sense where “fans retain a belief in the bonds between themselves and the performers” (Kibby 2006, p. 296), but more often just a bond between others in fan communities. These acts of writing, of criticism, be it as unpolished as a review or a comment on a social media page, are creative in nature. Of course, many are largely unpolished (few people would call a standard YouTube comment a “creative masterpiece”), but the impulse to engage, to compose a reply, to SAY something and have it be heard, is creative nonetheless. Not all fans are able to express their opinions in public, and certainly, those who write professionally as critics are reasonably expected to wield some influence over the experiences of other fans. The success of someone like Bangs demonstrates how the honing of the craft of writing about music is a skill that takes time, energy and commitment to creative engagement. As the iconic music writer Robert Christgau put it, “writing about music is writing first” (Christgau 2005, p. 415)—so the good critical (creative) writer needs to know their craft too. This is how critics and their comments sometimes become as famous, or infamous, as some of their topics. For example, when television critic Clive James died, few obituaries were able to resist quoting his review of a young Arnold Schwarzenegger on screen—“like a brown condom of walnuts”. As one of James’ successors, Charlie Brooker, wrote, the critic’s creativity far outshone that of his subject, creating something much more interesting that anything Schwarzenegger had actually done himself. James’ review also raised the bar for what creative criticism could and should be in itself—“Every TV column I ever wrote consists of me trying and failing to write anything as explosively funny as [James’ Schwarzengger comment]” (Brooker 2012).

Creativity Versus Criticism—Is It a Battle? Critical writing about music, or critical writing about any art for that matter, is a form of creative writing with a specific purpose. At its most basic level, it is a process of mediating—mediating between formats (so in case of music criticism, e.g., between sonic and visual texts), as well as mediating between artistic and fan experiences and discourses. The task of mediating, while also creating something else, does include with it a necessary a particular “tension”, as Brennan beautifully explored in relation to musicians and their critics (Brennan 2006). To summarise very briefly, it means

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

211

the critic and creative have a bit of a power play for dominance—whose word is the final word about what was being said? The phrase “Dancing About Architecture” has often been used as a shorthand to consider the apparent tension between critics and creatives. It has an unclear origin, having been attributed to a variety of authors including Thelonious Monk (Batson 2005, p. 68), Frank Zappa (Jenkins 2004, p. xxi), Laurie Anderson (Angus 1995, p. 94) and Elvis Costello (Cooper 1997, p. 105) (Brennan 2006, p. 231). However, none of these sources specify where, when, or in what context the comment was recorded. Even when Dancing About Architecture has been used as the title of a study, the attribution of an author remains vague, with the saying cited as a “legendary quote variously attributed” (Klein 2005, p. 1), or “a famous aphorism among both amateurs and professionals in contemporary pop music criticism, though nobody really knows who is to be given credit for formulating it” (Mottier 2009, p. 127). Meanwhile, whole conferences and subsequent writings have been dedicated to the tension between the artist and critic, such as the “Terpsichorean Architecture” event organised by Australian scholar Tony Mitchell in 2009 at University of Technology Sydney, and subsequently published as a special issue of Portal in 2011 (Mitchell 2011). There is at least one verifiable source for the “Dancing About Architecture” quote, a 1983 interview with Elvis Costello in UK magazine Musician.1 The 1983 interview with Costello was Musician’s cover story and appeared as a question and answer dialogue between Costello and journalist Timothy White. During the course of the interview, Costello and White discussed a variety of issues, and in the prelude to the interview, White provides a summary of Costello’s career to-date, noting that the artist arrived for the interview “open, vulnerable—and unescorted— exhibit[ing] an easy poise leavened with an engaging self-deprecation” (White 1983, p. 47). White even goes as far as to include details of what Costello ate during their exchange, a device used to provide something of an insight into Costello the person as well as Costello the musician. The question that prompted Costello’s Dancing About Architecture comment was relatively specific, referencing the musician’s previous treatment by the press. White asked, “Do you have any bitterness about the manner in which you’ve been treated by the press, whether it be the Bonnie Bramlett—Ray Charles incident and your resultant mea culpas or your overall reticence of the recent past?” (1983, p.  52).2 In response, Costello said,

212 

L. GIUFFRE

No, but I eventually was concerned with explaining myself, and I do feel that I did so in that case … Framing all the great music out there only drags down its immediacy. The songs are lyrics, not speeches, and they’re tunes, not paintings. Writing about music is like dancing about architecture—it’s a really stupid thing to want to do. (Costello quoted by White 1983, p. 52— emphasis and punctuation as original)

For Costello, Dancing About Architecture is an explanation of his personal displeasure with the discourse surrounding the musical text. He sees critical writing as merely “framing” music, an act that “drags down [music’s] immediacy”. However, in the context of this article, Dancing About Architecture appears to be an expression of a personal preference rather than (as it is often represented) an unprompted attack on writing about music generally. Interestingly, there’s a provocation from White that makes Costello “jump”. We are left unclear about whether Costello is displeased with writing about music generally (and therefore, the pantomime of press interviewing he’s currently part of); of the writing about his past behaviour, or something else entirely. His follow up, “a stupid thing to want to do” can also be taken as an attack on the non-musician writer— are we, by extension “stupid” for wanting to express ourselves in this way? I include this in-depth exchange between the critic and artist, and the fan-critic (White) and artist (Costello) to show the clear relationship beyond what has now become an infamous turn of phrase. Was it Costello’s creativity that made him say the “Dancing about Architecture” line? Was it White’s creativity that prompted it, and then framed it in an accessible way as part of the final written critical piece? For me it is the relationship between them that has borne something new—there is critical distance but also creative engagement. And both of these appear on both sides (as Costello holds back, and as White opens up). The exchange between the artist and fan is happening formally and in public here—but it happens informally, domestically, in the everyday exchanges I mentioned earlier. Choosing which T-shirt to wear for this particular day, or which song to circulate on social media this particular moment—these critical, and creative, choices are exchanges in creativity. Interestingly, these creative (fan) choices are displayed by fans from a variety of ages, genres and stages. At the moment, my toddler insists on wearing clothes that are branded with three different franchises she likes, all at once. While this could just be a display of toddler-eclecticism, it is also a display of her creativity, as she explores what she thinks can easily “mix” to best make her happy: a David

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

213

Bowie T-shirt, Peppa Pig pants, Bluey shoes and a hat branded with the Souths Football team. The mixing of influences, often previously widely thought to conflict, is how some of the greatest artists have made their marks. The entire Post-Modern period would be nothing without this type of (at times) free creative engagement, nor would remix culture/s.

So What Does All of This Mean for the Creative Writer Who Is (or Wants to Be) a Critic? Moving from being a fan to being a critic (and critic-fan) is both extremely easy and extremely difficult. On one hand, there has never been an easier time to make and share content. Fan fiction in a variety of forms, and forums, is formally and informally circulated globally online. And increasingly, despite pesky barriers like copyright laws and paywalls, it seems that “formal gatekeepers” like producers, editors and talent scouts are looking to fan-critic creative writers to find “the next big thing”. There are many examples of this, but easy “go tos” include the Pride and Prejudice to Bridget Jones empire that was built by Helen Fielding (Pyrhönen 2012), the Fifty Shades of Grey/Twilight fan fiction relationship (Brennan and Large 2014) or the “wibbly wobbly timey whimey” generation succession of fan fiction writers who come professional writers who have appeared on the formal roster for iconic British television series Doctor Who (Marlow 2009). Critics, as opposed to fans, need to meet an external set of expectations. Most obviously, these expectations come from commercial requirements of the publication outlet. To put it another way, the critic-fan needs to consider who the publisher thinks is reading their work, and what they think they will expect accordingly. This can include demographic and style, genre, but also the unfortunate reality of commercial interests. This is not to say, however, that the critic-fan writer should ever write something that is untrue as a result of the commercial environment. Never, and I repeat, never, should the writer say something is good or bad for any reason other than they genuinely believe that to be the case. And even then, the critic-fan’s role is not to be judge on a good/bad absolute binary, but rather, to guide the reader by providing enough information to come to their own taste conclusions. Your role is always to be translator and mediator between the artist and audience.

214 

L. GIUFFRE

The critic-fan needs to be careful not to patronise or talk down to their reader. It’s not up to you to tell your audience how to have taste (or rather, what taste they should prefer), but instead to describe the ingredients with enough detail that the reader can decide for themselves if they will likely enjoy the meal or not. The appeal of the critic-fan’s writing, then, is the way they entertain and inspire the reader rather than instructing them. And these processes are where creative description is important. For example, when reviewing a new musician, you could say this person’s music is “good” or bad”. However “Good” or “Bad” makes for a pretty bland review, and it also creates a binary whereby the reader needs to agree or not while also being tied up in a value judgement about their own preferences. The person who agrees this is “good music” is, by extension, also a “good person” and “good judge”. However, the reverse is also true, and this is particularly dangerous if writing for a commercial publication—do you really want to alienate readers by telling them they are “bad” if their taste differs from that of the critic? And really, unless the judgement can be made in absolute terms—such as the recording was faulty in some way or the performance hideously out of tune—then who’s really to decide what gets to be “good” or “bad”? In art taste, “good” or “bad” is really is in the eye and ear of the beholder anyway—one person’s “out of tune” is another person’s “post punk experimental”. Just being a little bit more nuanced with description can really elevate the critic-fan and their creativity writing. For example, if I was to say that a new musician “sounds like Cliff Richard”, I am still allowing for value judgement but value then falls solely on the reader. What I’m really saying is “If you like Cliff, then, dear reader, you’re likely to like this new artist too (or at least, be interested in it hearing it)”. And again, the opposite is true—I am also saying: “if Cliffs’s not your cup of tea, then likely this won’t be either”. Importantly, I’m not saying it’s right or wrong to like Cliff, but rather, leaving it up to the reader to insert their own preferences into the review in order to come to their own conclusions. Of course, if the reader doesn’t have any idea who Cliff is, the review will mean nothing to them, nor will they have gained any insight into the new artist either. This is where knowing your audience and choosing your mediation tools wisely is important. A “classic rock” popular music publication could assume readers with that knowledge, while a more generalist publication may not. In the case of the later, a different set of analogies makes more sense, describing musical elements, instruments, pace or perhaps even contexts for listening—“this singer would provide a good soundtrack to a

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

215

lazy, dozy afternoon spent at your parents’ house”, perhaps. Again, this description leaves it up to the reader to decide if this is a scenario (and music) they’d now like to pursue or not. The more creative (and interesting) critic-fan will dig deeper than a simple comparison. And the creativity comes from a wider imaginative palette. What does it really mean to “sound like Cliff Richard”? Does it mean something that sounds like it’s somehow out of its time (or is of a particular time)? Does it mean it’s got a certain type of masculinity? Or a certain type of sonic quality (1950s-ish in its pop production, but if you get to The Beatles, you’ve gone too far). And further, is one, or all of those descriptions, all there is to the new artist? Is there something more contemporary about it? Does it have a pop sound that’s more bouncy and hooky in a different way—perhaps drawing on different themes to the “boy meets girl, boy tends to get girl” simplicity of Cliff. Is it more “Single Ladies” than “Living Doll”? All of a sudden, this new artist could be “Cliff Richard meets Beyonce”. Now THAT is a mixture that would make a reader curious, if nothing else. It’s not telling a reader whether or not they will (or should) like something, but giving them enough tools, and sparking their interest enough, that they’ll at least consider it. The leaving of a little for the reader is of upmost importance. By the time the critic-fan moves onto narrative reviewing like film, fiction or comedy, it is even more important. A reviewer who gives away the “twist” to a crime story or the punchline to a comedy show won’t be asked back again. These tactics are called “spoilers” for a reason. In short, the critic-fan’s creativity comes to the fore with description. In order to review, interview or engage with someone else’s work, you are needing to understand the discourse they are working in as well as the discourse of the audience, and then you need to be able to describe what art using tools that will “work” in that context. That’s not to say that you have to use the same tools, in the same way, that others have used before, though. When writing about new art, often the creative critic-fan’s role is to providing a bridge between the old and new and create new or hybrid language. The “sound like” analogy used above is an easy but reliable example, and the creativity comes from how far afield these comparisons can meaningfully be made. For example, does a new female folk artist only have the quality of other women in her genre? Or is there something raw or nuanced about her that is similar to a man singing in metal, say? My “Cliff Richard meets Beyonce” example is probably just walking the line of plausibility, but it does make the reader stop and think (and maybe even

216 

L. GIUFFRE

go on and create or re-listen to something in their back catalogue). To go back to Clive James and his Arnold Schwarzenegger description—the creativity is in the wonderfully absurdity of putting together the “walnuts” and “condom”. As bizarre as it is, somehow, the description does create a mental image not that different to Arnie’s ripping (if not probably pretty useless) muscles in his hey-day.

How I Approach Creative Writing Work as a Critic-Fan I have been a critic-fan for over 20 years. My fandom literally got my started, beginning with writing reviews of Baby Sitters Club books when I was big enough to be allowed to use my dad’s manual typewriter (and old enough to need to be given a task to occupy me for a couple of hours). My first actual publication came through the then-very-new avenue of online music writing, specifically the Oz Music Project—a pioneering place for Australian music and arts writing run for much more love than money. The site is now archived at the National Film and Sound Archive’s Internet collections, Pandora and Trove (https://webarchive.nla.gov.au/ tep/36937). My first review was just a CD in my own collection, and about what I liked. However, as any creative writer soon realises, there’s more needed than adjectives, and critical writing requires description that gives the reader detail to make up their own minds. From here, I was finally commissioned properly for the ABC’s then-­ new online portal, Fly. Its aim was to engage young people with the national broadcaster, so again, the idea was to write creatively to convey a message, but with a target of young people and their experience. Here I wrote “The Short Person’s Guide to Seeing a Rock Star” (Giuffre 2002), a review of live music literally written from my vantage point. Most important here was not the artist and the set they played, but rather the way I experienced it. As a then young woman in her early 20s and five foot one (150ish cms) tall (ish), my position in that crowd was a vulnerable one. Places like music venues were not (and are still not) designed to accommodate people like me—stages set too high, speaker stacks placed at an elevation that doesn’t work and a crowd culture that for the most part literally took me over as groups of tall men moved and danced in heavy packs. I was extremely fortunate to have never been hurt in that context, although my review was about how to make others around me aware of

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

217

my presence by not looking out for me, but looking down. The creativity came from having to make light of the situation, convincing those who may have not noticed me at the gig to keep an eye out next time. And of course, like any good critical piece, I had to find the universal in my personal experience. I was not the only young woman, or shorter person in the crowd. How to speak too, and for, those people too. It’s still one of the pieces I’m the most proud of in terms of its honesty but also its appeal and reach—it was a pleasure to write. Now it only lives via the Internet archive Wayback Machine—a problem with critical writing is that it is often still thought of as too “of its moment” to be preserved properly. Over the years, I have written as a critic-fan for a variety of commercial, community and public service media outlets in print and online, and all have required a creative approach. The crowded nature and speed of online outlets makes creative writing particularly important, because the bored reader (or editor) can swiftly click away. On the other hand, the interested can quickly “like”, “share”, “add” or the writer’s best friend— “comment”. A critic-fan’s role is particularly difficult for pieces that have clearly defined expectations—such as writing obituaries. An obit requires reflection and general overview, but also something new to leave the reader with a sense of what’s “different” about the tribute in this particular publication, from this particular perspective. And for added pressure, obituaries tend to have to be written very quickly. Even if the person has been very sick for a long time or is very old (like rumours of the BBC’s obituary “ready list”), the task of actually putting on obituary together remains harrowing. One of the first obituaries I was asked to write was for Lou Reed for academic/journalist website The Conversation, Australian edition (Giuffre 2013). The request came at 7.30 a.m. for a 9 a.m. deadline on the same day. By then the international media had already written and published much about the artist, so the challenge was to write something from an Australian point of view, and quickly. Failing that, to do a round of what had already been said, and somehow add what had been missed. To meet the challenge I made a list of the “big hitters” already out there (international papers and their accounts), linking to and quoting these rather than trying to compete. I then went to my own fandom to look for the gaps— not just of Reed (I can admit now that I was always a generalist rather than passionate fan)—so I drew on my broader fandom to help. Here I built on fandom again—finding, and then citing, the “unlikely” fans that Reed had—including Australian/New Zealand musical icon Neil Finn who left

218 

L. GIUFFRE

a small but beautiful comment on Twitter about remembering Lou’s music and “silently spinning” an album on his studio player. This also led me to consider other people’s takes on Lou, specifically other musicians’ work via cover versions. As well as being an angle no one else had taken, it took me into territory I knew well (I had written an entire MA on cover versions—60,000 words of qualification and preparation!) I still wrote about Lou and his legacy, but this perspective let me take a creative position—including perhaps “less known” but important contributions he made to cross-generational music like his influence on U2 at the height of their Zoo TV work, as well his infiltration into the most generalist of general music fans, a cover of “Perfect Day” by competition-winning darling Susan Boyle.

A Final Note on Critical Writing, Fandom and the Problem of Gender and Identity As I write this, I am aware of a problem. The most iconic examples of both criticism and art that come easily to mind are that of men, particularly straight white men approaching middle age. While some of my best friends fall into this category, this narrowness of perspective and output is a problem. It is a problem because of the perspective these reviewers and writers hold, and by extension then, the types of perspectives of their readers they can reasonably represent. A classic example of this is the cliché of the middle-aged white man who dismisses a “pop boy band” because the songs are “too focused on teenaged relationships”. Or, the middle-aged male film reviewer who dismisses a romantic comedy for being “too focused on a female protagonist”. These examples are deliberately exaggerated, but they also still exist. Jessica Hoppers book The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic, published only in 2015, demonstrates this with its title alone. Beyond these age-based and gender examples, of course race, class, ablism and other forms of lived diverse experience is also left out when the pool of dominant critic-fans is so, well, relatively un-diverse. As published in the Hollywood Reporter in 2018, “82 percent of reviews in 2017 were written by white critics, and 77.8 percent by men” (Sun 2018), a statistic that starkly shows how the dominance of certain critical viewpoints (and critic-fans). The big problem with this is appeal—if only a small “type” of audience is being represented as

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

219

critics, then how is the important work of mediation and representation happening for the rest of us? The “problem” of diversity is a huge one in many places, with varying types of recent attempts to address it. Fairfax publications (owners of The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age) in Australia held a competition to attract new critics to write across their news outlets. However, when all five places were awarded to two white writers, two of the winners resigned. In a joint statement Bec Kavanagh and Jack Callil were quoted as saying: Our resignation is not due to any pressure on us from these writers or the community, who have been incredibly supportive of our individual writing, but because we stand with them and support their call for change. We are complicit in the problem. We advocate publicly for diversity, but it was taken us too long to act upon these ideas. Privilege allows us to take the time to talk to each other, and to learn, but it also demands that we do what we can to effect meaningful change. (Kavanagh and Callil in Rigby 2020)

In response to the resignation, the Fairfax publications re-opened the positions saying it would be “considering the previous applicants as well as seeking to ensure the roles are posted more widely to encourage a greater diversity of applicants” (Farmer in Rigby 2020: online). While it remains to be seen what “success” such a public discourse around diversity in professional criticism has actually been, it is promising to see that there is at least an acknowledgement of the problem in this way. Public displays like those displayed above also may serve to inspire the aspiring critic-fan, and creative writer more generally. Although there is not yet a diversity of critical perspectives really shown in mainstream media, hopefully these show that there is a good reason to persist. Creativity is again important, as is the relationship between fandom and criticism. The passion that fandom brings should serve to drive the writer—providing fuel to write at all, and when likely, at first, the outcome isn’t very good. However, persistence and practice, as well as a creative consideration of who might be listening/reading and what they want to hear/see will help. “New” media forms may also offer opportunities—for example, podcast series like Song Exploder (Hiway 2014–2021) and Dolly Parton’s America (Abumrad and Oliaee 2019) have taken the relatively established forms of in-depth interviewing and combined it with ornate attention to audio detail and cultural contexts. Further, emerging series like The Ladies Guide to Dude Cinema (Charlwood and Jae 2019–2021)

220 

L. GIUFFRE

take a simple comedic idea and combine with genuine criticism—however, the comedy and criticism combine as the conventions (and expectations) of both are challenged by flipping generic expectations of the critic and audience.

Notes 1. This source has also been cited by Goodwin (1993, p.  1) and Brackett (2000, p. 157), and I have been able to obtain a copy of the article according to their specifications which I will reference during this article. 2. This refers to an incident a few years previous to the interview where Costello was alleged to have made some racist comments about the named musicians.

References Abumrad, Jad, and Shima Oliaee. 2019. Dolly Parton’s America. WNYC Studios. Accessed 15 January 2021. https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/ dolly-­partons-­america. Angus, Ian. 1995. Inscription or Horizon: A Postmodern Civilizing Effect? In After Postmodernism: Reconstructing Ideology Critique, ed. H.  Simons and M. Bilig, 79–100. London: Sage. Batson, Charles R. 2005. Dance, Desire and Anxiety in early Twentieth Century French Theater: Playing Identities. Farnham: Ashgate. Brackett, David. 2000. Interpreting Popular Music. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Brennan, Matt. 2006. The Rough Guide to Critics: Musicians Discuss the Role of the Music Press. Popular Music 25 (2): 221–234. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0261143006000870. Brennan, Joseph, and David Large. 2014. ‘Let’s Get a Bit of Context’: Fifty Shades and the Phenomenon of ‘Pulling to Publish’ in Twilight Fan Fiction. Media International Australia 152 (1): 27–39. https://doi.org/10.117 7/1329878X1415200105. Brooker, Charlie. 2012. Thank God for Clive James. The Guardian, 25 July 2012. Accessed 14 January 2021. https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/jun/24/thank-­god-­for-­clive-­james. Charlwood, Bec, and Alex Jae. 2021. The Ladies Guide to Dude Cinema. The Sanspants Podcast Network. Accessed 14 January 2021. https://www.sanspantsradio.com/podcasts/ladies-­guide-­to-­dude-­cinema/. Christgau, Robert. 2005. Writing about Music Is Writing First. Popular Music 24 (3): 415–421.

14  CRITICAL DISTANCE: CREATIVE WRITING AS A CRITIC-FAN 

221

Cooper, B. Lee. 1997. It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me: Reflections on the Evolution of Popular Music and Rock Scholarship. Popular Music and Society 21 (1): 101–108. Giuffre, Liz. 2002. The Short Person’s Guide to Seeing a Rockstar. Fly Portal— Fly Spray. ABC Online, originally 14 January 2002. Accessed 26 January 2021. https://web.archive.org/web/20020211023136/http://www.abc.net.au/ fly/flyspray/columns/s458059.htm. ———. 2013. The Art of Rock Remembrance: RIP Lou Reed. The Conversation Australia, originally 28 October 2013. Accessed 26 January 2021. https:// theconversation.com/the-­art-­of-­rock-­remembrance-­rip-­lou-­reed-­19602. ———. 2014. Antifans and Music Snobs: The Other Side of Popular Music Appeal. In Ashgate Research Companion to Fan Cultures, ed. Linda Duits, Stijn Reijnders, and Koos Zwaan, 49–62. Farnham: Ashgate. Goodwin, Andrew. 1993. Dancing in the Distraction Factory: Music Television and Popular Culture. London: Routledge. Grossberg, Lawrence. 1992. The Affective Sensibility of Fandom. In The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media, ed. L.A. Lewis, 50–65. New York: Routledge. Hiway, Hrishikesh. 2021. Song Exploder. Accessed 21 January 2021. https:// songexploder.net/about. Hopper, Jessica. 2015. The First Collection of Criticism by a Living Female Rock Critic. Sydney: Featherproof and New South Books. Hornby, Nick. 1995. High Fidelity. London: Penguin Books. Jenkins, Todd. 2004. Free Jazz and Free Improvisation: An Encyclopedia. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Jones, Steve, and Kevin Featherly. 2002. Re-viewing Rock Writing. In Pop Music and the Press, ed. Steve Jones, 19–40. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Kibby, Marjorie. 2006. Home on the Page: A Virtual Place of Music Community. In The Popular Music Studies Reader, ed. Andy Bennett, Barry Shank, and Jason Toynbee, 295–305. Oxon: Routledge. Klein, Bethany. 2005. Dancing About Architecture: Popular Music Criticism and the Negotiation of Authenticity. Popular Communication 3 (1): 1–20. Marlow, Christopher. 2009. The Folding Text: Doctor Who, Adaptation and Fan Fiction. In Adaptation in Contemporary Culture: Textual Infidelities, ed. Rachel Carroll, 46–60. London: Continuum. Mitchell, Tony. 2011. Terpsichorean Architecture: Editor’s Introduction. In PORTAL Journal of Multidisciplinary International Studies, 8(1). Terpsichorean Architecture Special Issue, guest edited by Tony Mitchell, 1–16. ISSN: 1449-2490. Accessed 11 January 2021. http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/ojs/ index.php/portal. Mottier, Valentin. 2009. Talking about Music Is Like Dancing about Architecture: Artspeak and Pop Music. Language and Communication 29 (2): 127–132.

222 

L. GIUFFRE

Pyrhönen, Heta. 2012. Bridget Jones’s Diary: A Case Study of Austen Fan Fiction. In Turning Points: Concepts and Narratives of Change in Literature and Other Media, ed. Ansgar Nünning and Kai Marcel Sicks, 371–386. Boston: De Gruyter. Rigby, Brittney. 2020. Sydney Morning Herald and the Age Re-advertise for Critics after Two Resign Over Diversity. Mumbrella, 24 June 20. Accessed 15 January 2021. https://mumbrella.com.au/sydney-­morning-­herald-­and-­the-­ age-­re-­advertise-­for-­critics-­after-­two-­resign-­over-­diversity-­concerns-­632201. Sun, Rebecca. 2018. Film Critics Even Less Diverse Than Films, Study Finds. The Hollywood Reporter, 11 June 2018. Accessed 15 January 2021. https://www. hollywoodreporter.com/news/film-­critics-­diverse-­films-­study-­finds-­1118659. White, Timothy. 1983. A Man Out of Time Beats the Clock: An Interview with Elvis Costello. Musician 60: 44–53. Wilde, Oscar. 2007. Collected Works of Oscar Wilde: The Plays, Poems, the Stories and Essays Including De Profundis. London: Wordsworth Library Collection.

CHAPTER 15

Art, Design and Communicating the Story: The Cover of Coach Fitz Tom Lee

Scholarship analysing book covers has most commonly been the purview of semioticians of different stripes (Genette 1997; Salmani and Eghtesad 2015; Sonzogni 2011), book designers (Boom 2013; Birdsall 2004; Mendelsund 2014; Mendelsund and Alworth 2020; Baines and Pearson 2005) and design academics (Sadokierski 2016, 2019; Haslam 2006; Drew and Sternberger 2005), all of which bring distinctive and valuable perspectives to their objects of analysis. What is typically missing from such perspectives, however, is a felt account of how the constructed text and cover relate from the perspective of the author. Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Clothing of Books (2017), which reflects on the author’s feelings and thoughts about the covers for her books, is perhaps the exception in this regard. Lahiri’s account does not, however, focus on the role of the author in designing a cover and the related interactions between author, designer, illustrator and publishers in transforming an image. This to some extent ought to be expected, as the responsibilities of creative writers with regard to the making of their work are often—though not always—limited to the

T. Lee (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_15

223

224 

T. LEE

textual dimension, particularly concerning commercially crucial elements such as book covers. The account that follows, by contrast, provides a multidimensional insight into the power of an image in shaping a literary work across both textual dimensions of the narrative and the paratextual dimension of the cover. In addition to interpreting how images contribute to systems of meaning, as is typical in semiotic approaches, this chapter aims to tell the story of how a certain strand of visionary thinking is produced and transformed in the process of publishing a work of narrative fiction. The image in this instance exists in multiple interconnected instances, each with different levels of force and vivacity concerning explicit visual information: as the book cover of the novel, Coach Fitz; as the painting used in the design of the cover; as the brief given to the painter for the purpose of the book cover; as a photograph that in part inspired the brief for both the painter and the fictional character whose name is also the title of the novel; as the fictional character, Coach Fitz, within the narrative; as a memory of “the friend”, a real-life character, also the subject of the original photograph, who also inspired Coach Fitz the character; and as a memory of the persona adopted by “the friend”, or rather, the dialogue between the friend and one of the present authors that emerged as a consequence of the personas adopted by each—which also inspired the fictional character, Coach Fitz. The image, of course, exists beyond these specific iterations too, not as an essence or point of origin, but as a source of potential, contingent on future imaginings and realisations. In describing the content of and relationships between multiple iterations of the image, this chapter aims to give equal weight both to the stable details of the specific image and its capacity to be realised differently—its capability to be transformed. As is evident based on the sequence of different image instances described above, the relationship between real and fictionalised image, whether visual or textual, is poorly understood if pronounced distinctions between the two are emphasised: the photograph of “the friend” might in some sense have more documentary or evidential freight than a written description in a work of fiction, however, the personal significance of this photograph is in part contingent on a fictional persona, evoked in the comic relationship between two friends and performed in the photographic image. Without this fictional persona, realised in informal modes of spoken dialogue, the specific importance of the photograph is significantly altered. In this sense, there are not fictional entities on one side of

15  ART, DESIGN AND COMMUNICATING THE STORY: THE COVER… 

225

a great divide and non-fictional entities on the other. Rather, there are different visual and rhetorical gestures, each given richness by the diversity of performative contexts they enlist for the purpose of expression. The story told in this chapter comes from a relatively unique perspective when considered alongside other scholarly approaches to the analysis of book covers in particular and of literary texts in general. The most obvious aspect of this uniqueness relates to the fact that I’m also the author of the work of fiction being analysed. Furthermore, I played an important role in conceiving and commissioning the book cover, arguably the most conspicuous and memorable context for the specific image that is analysed in this chapter. While authors are typically consulted and may play a role in the design of the book cover, it is less common for them to have such an active role, as evidenced in the account below. The value of such a perspective has more to do with expanding the scope for what is included in the analysis of texts, rather than an argument for the importance of authorial intent. What this relatively unique perspective affords is an expanded terrain for considering the life of an image as (1) something that exists as a source of potency, or visionary potential, before a work of fiction is written; (2) something that exists in a dialogue of transformation with the author while writing and editing the work; (3) something that exists afterwards when further collaborators are engaged in the creation of the book and in particular the design of the cover; (4) and lastly in the present context, as it is examined once again, on this occasion in a critical reflection on the creation of the book. The analysis of how images exist in the perceptual life and creative practice of fiction writers is given expanded scope in such an approach to analysis, though it is not an analysis that is unique in kind, inaccessible to literary critics who are not the authors of the work they analyse. * * * It is difficult to pinpoint when, exactly, I first had the idea for an image to use on the book cover of Coach Fitz (Fig. 15.1). But occur the idea did, so forcefully, in fact, that when the editor asked “think about what the cover might look like” I responded immediately with a description “I was thinking of that flapping yellow legionnaire’s cap and the partial view of an Australian bush landscape, perhaps in watercolour”. The specification of the medium of watercolour, in addition to the content of the image,

226 

T. LEE

Fig. 15.1  Original cover image for Coach Fitz

should not be overlooked in this instance. This suggests that, in addition to the medium independent visual information in my mind, the image already in some sense existed in a proto-illustrative-proto-design. The specification of watercolour was intended to complement the naïve, deliberately unironic, yet highly self-aware tone of the writing and central protagonist. The cap had been one of those evocative details that seemed to bring the character to life in the writing process; something that, in the words of Ford Madox Ford, enabled the author to “get a character in” (cited in Wood 2008). Close to the beginning of the novel, the narrator is waiting in a park for his new coach, whom he is yet to meet:

15  ART, DESIGN AND COMMUNICATING THE STORY: THE COVER… 

227

In the distance, about seventy or so metres off, I saw a figure running towards me. She was about five foot nine or ten, with short, very slightly bowed legs, a strikingly long torso and a compact, relaxed running style. I bent down to do up a lace and when I next stood the figure was almost upon me. She wore a floppy yellow légionnaire’s cap, dark-blue lightweight shorts covered in pilling and a yellow t-shirt also covered in pilling. Tom, she extended a hand, top spot, scanning the surrounds with approval. Her unevenly cut, red-tinged hair was flecked with globules of unrubbed-in sunscreen, particularly around the ears, and bits of leaf matter and sand clinging to her forehead. (2018, 5)

The hat is referred to in the narrative on four other occasions, and it indexes the changing relationships between the narrator and his coach, which are the defining dramatic element of the narrative: “We set off at a relaxed pace down the steps, the cape of Coach Fitz’s hat flapping lightly as she ran” (18); “The sand was noticeably softer than Manly or Freshwater and we ploughed on up the beach with a light tailwind and Coach’s hat flapping” (38); “I knew as soon as I saw Coach Fitz waiting with Morgan and Graham in her yellow legionnaire’s cap, blue shorts and cotton shearer’s singlet, that today might not go as smoothly as I’d imagined” (205). “We started at the stairs and took the route down, across the grassy field into the cool damp of the lower park. My first run through the park with Coach Fitz was on my mind, the memory of her yellow cap, now a tattered flag, flapping in the breeze” (212). The hat has metaphorical and characterological relationships with multiple different levels of the narrative: like flags, the cap is an identification marker for the coach and announces her presence in a manner that is more expressive than standard baseball caps; relatedly, the cap, particularly its rear flap, catches the breeze and thereby expresses movement, particularly the movement of a body through a landscape, which is also central to the narrative; the cap is also suggestive of a cape, which evokes the notion of a superhero, and the coach is for the narrator, initially at least, a sort of superhuman figure—albeit of a comic variety. Lastly, the cap is also a crucial part of the comic dimension of coach’s character. As opposed to their original military purposes, in everyday contexts and popular culture, legionnaires’ caps have a ready propensity to evoke both gaucheness and wackiness, along with naïve irreverence (see, e.g., ABC Triple J cohost and comedians Matt and Alex’s satirical music video “Je Suis Legionnaire”). This attitudinal and tonal mixing was

228 

T. LEE

certainly the case concerning Coach Fitz. In a sense, her character was built around the cap. Characters in works of fiction, and indeed in visual art forms such as film, comics and painting, are at once the cumulative outcome of constellations of important details and something more. That “something more” is often identified as spirit or essence, or indeed simply the word “character” itself, meaning: something that is beyond the reductive powers of analysis. Character is everything that makes something distinctive. It would, however, be misguided to assume that some mystical notion of inner truth is masked by the secondary qualities of characters, such as yellow legionnaires’ caps. All aspects of characters have a partial existence. No single impression allows readers to capture an essence in a totalising glance. There are only different perspectives, offered by different things and events, which are more or less generative with regard to the insight they offer into a character. The harder an event or thing or attribute is to vary, the more important it is with regard to the creation of a character. In this sense, one might ask: if the hat were blue, how much difference would that make? Or: if the hat were a standard baseball cap, without the flap, what difference would that make? What about no hat at all? To some extent, these endlessly expansive questions as to the most or least important aspects of a character are determined by finite, practical considerations related to the format, genre and practice of writers, editors and book designers. For example, even though it might be the defining feature of a character, it’s impossible to put the voice of a character on the cover of a book. Book covers deal in impressions, and a range of practical considerations inform the selection and design of images. In this regard, one advantage of the hat, when compared to a face, is that it features relatively low levels of visual information. The hat at once remains ambiguous enough for the reader to project their fantasies onto and specific enough to conjure a personality. The hat is in this sense like a Rorschach inkblot, deliberately designed to offer suggestive, rather than overt visual details, thereby allowing room for the imagination. The hat is an abstraction that affords an insight of increased scope and intensity into the character for whom it acts as an index. The relationship between the hat and the character is in some sense analogous to the relationship between the written narrative and cover itself, which acts as an index or what literary theorist Gerard Genette (1997) calls a “threshold of interpretation” for the inner dimension that it at once obscures and reveals.

15  ART, DESIGN AND COMMUNICATING THE STORY: THE COVER… 

229

The cap was one of the important features included in the brief given to the illustrator for the book cover. New considerations as to the particular quality of the representation of the cap emerged in the process of designing the cover. As evident in the extended email exchange between the editors (E1 + E2), the illustrator (I), the designer (D) and the author (A), consideration of the image as book cover brought into focus a range of subtleties associated with visual design and its relationship to the narrative: A to E1 + E2: I’ve also had a crack at a description below and sourced a painting that I’d like to use. I convinced my partner to paint something based on a rough brief. I really like the result and am interested to hear what you think. It’s great to have something that is so intimately connected with the story and I think the aesthetic and the mood of the book go together nicely, in addition to the content. The image I’ve included is just a photo from my phone. Please don’t feel uncomfortable telling me if you think it is not suited. E2 to A: ….and I like I’s illustration. Let me talk with E1 and D about it and we’ll think about if it will work as a cover. A to E1 + E2: Just an update on the painting. I’ve attached another shot (from my iPhone) of the now complete painting. A to E1: This looks good! We’ll put it past our designer, see what he comes up with. E2 to A: Really good talking yesterday. We’ve been having further deliberations about the cover and I wanted to send a couple of options along. I’ve attached the two working options that we’ve come down to. The first is with the full image—which requires quite a bold text treatment given the strength of the image. I like what…our designer, has come up with, but it’s been hard to get the text and image to work together, so there’s perhaps a bit of a struggle between the two elements here. The second is a more minimalist version, and we’re coming to think it’s a stronger one. Taking out the background seems to make for a stronger composition and for a more unusual and interesting cover. Nb. the cutting out of the image is very rough at this stage and we’d clean it up

230 

T. LEE

A to I: I to A: A to I: A to E2:



E2 to A:

and smooth it out. We could perhaps look at possibilities with colours too. Could you have a look and see what you think? Feel free to call if you’d like to talk this over. Good news on the whole! Do you have a preference [regarding the covers] yourself? Hey, looking good! I think I actually like the first, more bold option, but It’s hard for me to say what suits the story best, what do you think? I liked the first too, will mount a soft defence. I looked at both covers before reading your text and settled on the first as my favourite. Reading your rationale it makes sense in terms of a more striking and direct communication. However, the white background creates an odd void effect and it loses some of the landscape detail and the immersion of the runner within this, which communicates an essential aspect of the narrative. I like the type used in the first version too, but appreciate it is very irritating when non-book designers quibble and assert their opinions on type. Overall my preference is for the first. I don’t want to be one of these authors who is overly stubborn about these things so go with what you and the team nut out and there will be no begrudging it from my end. Sorry to be unhelpful. Thanks for your quick feedback on this—and for your very thoughtful and diplomatic approach to it! (Not at all unhelpful.) I’ve been discussing it more with E1 and D, as well as others here. We’re quite strongly inclined to go with the cutout version—mostly because we’re not sure how clearly the idea of the immersion within the environment will come across to someone who doesn’t know the work, and I worry that the whimsical nature of the landscape is rather different in tone to the very detailed and fine-­ grained idea of fauna and place you’ve written into the book. But more importantly, I think we all feel that as a cover, the iconic quality of the figure alone will give a more forceful and intriguing promotion of the book, in bookstores and elsewhere. I felt when I saw that version it

15  ART, DESIGN AND COMMUNICATING THE STORY: THE COVER… 



A to E2: A to I: I to A:

231

came into focus, where the different layers weren’t quite gelling as a cover with the full image. That said, we all like the painting—we were discussing the idea of doing something like printing the full image in the inside cover, perhaps the inside back cover. There’s a publisher I like (I think it’s New  York Review of Books) that does thumbnail pictures of full uncropped images in a bottom corner of the back cover, and something like that could be an option. But I like the idea of the inside a little more since it would give a bit more room. Something to discuss further. With the cutout version, we can play with the text colour to integrate it a little more—I agree that it’s a bit stark at the moment, but some finessing will bring it together. Anyway, that’s our inclination. I hope it’s okay with you – and I hope not too disappointing. That’s great… I’m sold! They went with the other version but persuasively argued. Haha good try! I guess they know what they’re doing.

A range of different technical, interpretive and speculative considerations transform the quality of the image in this particular context. These include considerations of the visual style of the image in relation to the mood or tone of the narrative; the relationship between text and image on the book cover; the relationship between foreground and background, figure and field; processes and outcomes of visual abstraction (the making explicit of an outline of the image); the visual style of the different covers as autonomous, aesthetic elements (bold, minimalist, whimsical, fine-­grained, stark, etc.); consideration of the image as interpreted by different hypothetical audiences (those who have read and haven’t read the book); consideration of the image in particular contexts (in bookstores). These considerations are largely irrelevant, or at least distantly implicit, in comparison to the life of the image as something that inspires the written narrative, something that is then expressed in writing, and, to a lesser extent, the verbal brief given to the illustrator for the cover design. As the author of the work of fiction, in this instance I showed an instinctive fidelity to the relationship between the image and the narrative, whereas the publishers and designer are also concerned with how the image will appear to “someone who doesn’t know the work” and the particular spatial environment of the bookstore where encounters between

232 

T. LEE

prospective readers and the book cover are likely to occur. While the image is in some sense the same image or images to which the author refers in the fictional work or the brief given to the illustrator, it is also different, on account of a range of different actors, disciplinary knowledges and hypothetical contexts that have been engaged in determining its purpose. The commercial concerns of the publishers, the disciplinary perspective of design and the genre of the book cover bring to light manifold different nuances to the image, the previous force and vivacity of which had been largely contingent on the visionary potential of the image for the author. The process of abstraction, whereby the image of the hat-covered head is isolated from the landscape elements present in the illustration, is said to increase the visual intensity of the image and its “iconic quality” to audiences who do not share the subjective history of the author. The image has become something that will be seen at scale by an audience who will judge its quality in isolation from the narrative, at least to some degree. What does this account tell us about the relationship between written narrative and the image? Or between the paratextual elements specific to a printed book and the invariant elements of a story that persist across different formats? It tells us: that images both persist and change depending on whose hands and eyes they are in; that the visual and the textual are enfolded in each other and either can to varying degrees be made explicit in connection with the other depending on the efforts of other actors; that there are different kinds of relationships between narrative and book cover, some where the cover is relatively autonomous in relation to the narrative, others where the cover is imagined to be an expression of the tone or voice of the narrative (these relationships can exist simultaneously in response to the same work). This is not a comprehensive or generalisable account of how images and narrative work, nor how the relation between narrative and book cover work, nor the relationship between author, editors, designer and illustrator. It is one example of what is possible. Hopefully, in this sense, it enriches the cumulative understanding of the different ways in which authors conceive and create their works, particularly with regard to the role of visionary images associated with longer narrative works, and how such images lead lives that are at once related to and autonomous from the source of potential that might be tempting to name as their origin.

15  ART, DESIGN AND COMMUNICATING THE STORY: THE COVER… 

233

References Baines, P., and D. Pearson. 2005. Penguin by Design: A Cover Story 1935–2005. London: Penguin Press. Birdsall, D. 2004. Notes on Book Design. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Boom, I. 2013. The Architecture of the Book. Eindhoven: Lecturis. Drew, N., and P. Sternberger. 2005. By Its Cover: Modern American Book Cover Design. New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Genette, G. 1997. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. New  York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Haslam, A. 2006. Book Design. London: Laurence King. Lahiri, J. 2017. The Clothing of Books. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Lee, T. 2018. Coach Fitz. Artarmon, Sydney: Giramondo. Mendelsund, P. 2014. Cover. Brooklyn, NY: PowerHouse Books. Mendelsund, P., and D.J. Alworth. 2020. The Look of the Book: Jackets, Covers, and Art at the Edges of Literature. Berkeley: Ten Speed Press. Sadokierski, Z. 2016. From Paratext to Primary Text: New Opportunities for Designers with Print-On-Demand Publishing. Logos (Lithuania) 27 (1): 22–30. ———. 2019. Beyond the Codex: Book Design in the Digital Age. In Publishing and Culture, ed. D.  Baker, D.L.  Brien, and J.  Webb, 169–183. Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Salmani, B., and Z.  Eghtesad. 2015. An Intersemiotic Approach Towards Translation of Cover Designs in Retranslated Classic Novels. Theory and Practice in Language Studies 5 (6): 1185–1191. Sonzogni, M. 2011. Re-covered Rose: A Case Study in Book Cover Design as Intersemiotic Translation. Vol. 74. Philadelphia: John Benjamins Publishing. Wood, J. 2008. A Life of Their Own: James Wood Studies Character. The Guardian, January 27. https://www.theguardian.com/books/ 2008/jan/26/3.

CHAPTER 16

Behrouz Boochani: Writing as Resilience and Resistance Mark Isaacs

Introduction Behrouz Boochani is a Kurdish writer and cultural activist who fled Iran in 2013. He flew to Indonesia and from there he travelled with 60 other people by boat to Australia where he intended to seek asylum. Behrouz’s boat was intercepted en route and taken by the Australian Navy to an immigration detention centre on Christmas Island, an Australian territory in the Indian Ocean (Boochani 2020c). Between July 2013 and November 2019, Behrouz Boochani spent 2269 days in Australia’s offshore detention regime (Doherty 2019b). For the majority of that time he was exiled on Manus Island in Papua New Guinea (PNG). During that time he became a correspondent for the Guardian Australia, shot a film on his mobile phone titled Chauka, Please Tell Us the Time, wrote and published the award-winning autobiographical novel, No Friend But The Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison and became a well-loved and respected global literary figure.

M. Isaacs (*) University of Technology Sydney, Ultimo, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3_16

235

236 

M. ISAACS

While the life and achievements of Behrouz Boochani are remarkable and the challenges he faced were by no means common pitfalls for every writer, there is much we can learn about resilience and resistance from his story.

Cultural Activism in Ilam Truth be told, I am a child of war. Yes, I was born during war. Under the thunder of warplanes. Alongside tanks. In the face of bombs. Breathing gunpowder. Among dead bodies. (Boochani 2018, p. 257)

Behrouz was born in the Ilam province of Iran in 1983, in the midst of the Iran-Iraq war, which was fought largely in his Kurdish homeland in western Iran. When Saddam Hussein invaded Iran to prevent Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini from exporting the 1979 Iranian Revolution movement to Shia-majority Iraq, the Kurds were caught in the middle. It was a war that “devastated” families and “incinerated” Behrouz’s homeland (Boochani 2018, p. 257). “The war wasn’t our war,” Behrouz (2018, p. 259) writes. He and his kinsmen fled their land of forests and rivers and waterfalls and ancient chants and found asylum in the cliffs and caves of the mountains. Do the Kurds have any friends other than the mountains? (Boochani 2018, p. 259)

The armed Kurdistani independence forces known as the Peshmerga fought against both Iran and Iraq. Behrouz was just a child when, after eight years, the war ended in 1988. As a young man, Behrouz was educated as a political scientist at the Tarbiat Modares University in Tehran where he learned about the history of the Kurdish political movement in Iran (Doherty 2015). The Kurds are a significant minority group in Iran with an estimated population of 12 million people (between 15 and 17 per cent of the population of Iran) and the country’s leaders have long held fears that they may attempt to secede (Amnesty International 2008). This fear has motivated ongoing repression of Kurdish social, political and cultural rights, and their economic aspirations (Amnesty International 2008). Ilam is one of four Kurdish provinces of Iran. Behrouz says that the Kurdish in Ilam province are a minority within the Kurdish minority of

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

237

Iran because they are Shia Muslims while most Kurds in Iran are Sunni (2020b). This separation from the majority of Kurds in Iran led to the steady assimilation of Ilam Kurds into Farsi culture and to the decline of Kurdish language use in the region as Farsi slowly became the dominant tongue. As a young man, Behrouz was witnessing the death of the Kurdish language, culture and identity in the “deeply colonised” province of Ilam (2020b). Because of this, he believes the people of Ilam province, himself included, were also separated from the Kurdish political movement in Iran (2020b). During his university years, Behrouz began to engage with Kurdish identity and politics. He started writing for the student newspaper and he became a member of the National Union of Kurdish Students (Doherty 2015). He also became a member of the Kurdish Democratic Party, an outlawed political group which fought for a federated Iran in which Kurdistan would become an autonomous state (Doherty 2015; Boochani 2020b). Despite his interest in politics, Behrouz was observing culture loss and so he invested his time in resisting assimilation (2020b). After he graduated, he began working in Ilam teaching Kurdish language, music and culture, fighting to keep the culture and the language alive. He also began writing about Kurdish culture for a Kurdish-language magazine called Werya in Ilam and worked as a freelance writer contributing to Kurdish publications outside Iran (Doherty 2015; Boochani 2020b). A Kurdish writer advocating for the preservation of Kurdish culture “was seen as a threat by Iranian hard-liners”, and it was only a matter of time before Behrouz drew the attention of a dictatorial regime which suppressed minority rights and freedom of expression (Boochani 2020c). Working as a writer or journalist in Iran is particularly dangerous. According to Reporters Without Borders (RSF), Iran has been one of the world’s most repressive countries for journalists for the past 40 years (Reporters Without Borders 2020). In 2020, RSF ranked Iran’s freedom of press 173rd out of 180 countries around the world. Journalists are subjected to intimidation, arbitrary arrest, unfair trials and long jail sentences. At least 860 journalists and citizen-journalists have been imprisoned or executed since 1979 (Reporters Without Borders 2020). The Iranian Writers Association (IWA), which was established in 1968 to defend freedom of expression and resist censorship by the Iranian state, has been declared illegal and its members have endured ongoing persecution including arrest, imprisonment and assassination (PEN Sydney 2020). According to recently imprisoned IWA member, Baktash Abtin, “In a

238 

M. ISAACS

country like Iran, death is very cheap for intellectuals, freedom loving people and those who fight for freedom of expression” (PEN Sydney 2020). While Behrouz acknowledges the work of the IWA, he believes that the struggle is even more complex for Kurdish writers and activists who are fighting against not only censorship of their writing, but also censorship of their language. They are writing to keep their language alive and, in this context, Behrouz believes his work was an act of resistance (2020b). When there is a project to take your language and replace it with the Farsi, when they do that and you are teaching the people to respect the language, you are not only doing some work about language, you are not only doing cultural activities, you are doing political activities. It is completely a political act and you are resisting. You are resisting because the system [is] designed to take your identity and you are struggling with that. (2020b)

By participating in the above activities, Behrouz was joining an ethnic political movement which had long been persecuted by the Iranian state. In a 2008 investigation, Amnesty International reported that Kurdish human rights defenders, community activists and journalists faced arbitrary arrest and prosecution, were arrested as prisoners of conscience, were tortured, condemned in grossly unfair trials and faced the death penalty. The report included the story of Farzad Kamangar, a Kurdish teacher who was arrested in 2006 and detained in the infamous Evin Prison where he was repeatedly and systematically tortured over a period of two years prior to being executed by the state (Amnesty International 2008). Behrouz and his colleagues at Werya only published a few articles about Kurdish culture until the state took action against them. In 2011, Behrouz was detained and interrogated by Iran’s Sepah, a powerful paramilitary intelligence agency. During that interrogation, he signed a declaration under duress that he would no longer write about Kurdish autonomy (Doherty 2015). Despite this, he continued to contribute to the magazine, and in 2013, Sepah raided the Ilam offices of Werya and arrested 11 of his colleagues (Doherty 2015). Behrouz, who was in Tehran at the time, published news of his colleagues’ detention which spread globally (Doherty 2015). Behrouz became a target. “I was being followed and surveilled, and I went into hiding. The pressure was relentless; I had no choice but to flee Iran” (Boochani 2020c). It was with freedom in mind that Behrouz fled to Indonesia on his way to Australia. “I thought if I can publish my ideas in a free country then I

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

239

can help my people. I thought that Australia was free. I thought that in Australia I could write freely” (Doherty 2015).

Writing from Manus Prison The mountains, the waves / The chain of mountain ranges / The waves, the mountain ranges… / The boat is a wreck / Split down the centre / Caught in the whirlpool of waves / Calls for help / The rescue boat is nearing / Its sails are resting over the centre of the sky / Screams for help / Help… (Boochani 2018, p. 253)

On 23 May 2013, Behrouz Boochani fled west Iran and flew to Indonesia. From there, he travelled to Australia by boat, but his boat was intercepted by the Australian Navy and taken to Christmas Island (Boochani 2020c). That same week Kevin Rudd, the then Prime Minister of Australia, announced that asylum seekers coming to Australia by boat would never be allowed to settle in Australia and would be forcibly deported to PNG and Nauru (Siegel 2013). One month later, on 27 August 2013, Behrouz and hundreds of other refugees were banished to “a remote prison in the middle of a silent ocean” which was a former naval base in Manus Island, PNG (Boochani 2020c). Behrouz entered a “decrepit and filthy prison”, an enormous cage deep in the heart of the jungle (Boochani 2018, p. 111, 2020c). Behrouz and his fellow refugee prisoners had become part of a colonial system of control which Behrouz called The Kyriarchal System.1 The basic aim of the Kyriarchal System was to return the refugee prisoners “to the land from which they came” (Boochani 2018, p. 165). The purpose of the prison was to break the spirit of the prisoners so they would give up resisting, surrender and accept refoulement (Boochani 2018, p. 165).2 In order to do this, the government banished the refugees to a purposefully under-­ resourced prison on a distant island for an indefinite period of time and

240 

M. ISAACS

subjected them to severe and oppressive conditions and treatment to destroy their hope and their sense of humanity. In Manus, Behrouz was introduced to an environment of intense heat and humidity where “even the fans [were] burning with the heat” (Boochani 2018, p. 106). The prisoners were locked inside fenced enclosures, guarded by Australian security personnel, and were not allowed out. They slept in bunk beds in overcrowded, dirty dormitories; there was a mix of nationalities, ethnicities, religions and language groups. “The prison is like a zoo full of animals of different colours and scents” (Boochani 2018, p. 122). The toilet complex was a cultivation lab for algae; occupants were forced to stand up to their ankles in urine when using the bathroom (Boochani 2018, p. 160). Every week, more people were tossed into the prison “like sheep to a slaughterhouse” (Boochani 2018, p. 122). Prisoners waited in line for food for hours in the baking hot sun. Those who refused to wait, like Behrouz sometimes did, starved through the night (Boochani 2018, p. 107). Prisoners were only allowed to communicate with the outside world using telephones and computers provided by the prison, which had poor connections and limited capacity. The rules of the prison were pedantic, often nonsensical; designed to frustrate and antagonise the prisoners and strip them of their independence. The rules were enforced by employees of G4S, a security company that Behrouz refers to as “Bastards Security Company” (Boochani 2018, p.  141). Medical supplies were limited and medical care was negligent. In one well-­ documented case, Hamid Kehazaei, aged 24, died of a treatable foot infection when Australian bureaucrats in Canberra refused to transfer him from prison for proper medical care (Doherty 2018). Boat numbers replaced prisoners’ names. Behrouz was known as MEG045. This was one of the more transparent attempts to dismantle the prisoners’ sense of identity and humanity. Isolation, boredom and the endless monotony of unchanging routine drove the prisoners to the edge of insanity (Boochani 2018, pp. 126–127). Self-harm and suicide attempts became regular occurrences. The refugees were imprisoned in Manus, yet they were never tried in a criminal court and they had no access to legal recourse. Behrouz likens the futile predicament of the prisoners to Kafka’s The Trial (Zable 2018). With no time limit on their banishment, prisoners could either wait indefinitely for their circumstances to change, return to the persecution from which they fled or kill themselves. Or they could revolt. “The [Manus prison] system welcomes violence and creates a

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

241

situation so that the prisoners … move toward violence and enact violence” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018). Any resistance against the system was brutally suppressed by the contractors and local police. In February 2014, local police entered the centre in response to a prisoner protest and attacked the refugees, injuring more than 70 asylum seekers including one man who was shot and another who had his throat cut (Davidson et al. 2014). Dozens of individuals laid out on the floor / The ground covered in blood / Men all over the place with crushed bodies / Men all over the place with smashed bones /. (Boochani 2018, p. 353)

Reza Barati, aged 23, was repeatedly hit over the head by a local security guard wielding a large wooden, nailed stick (Tlozek 2016). While Reza lay on the ground, a group of 10–15 local and Australian guards wearing boots kicked him in the head and stomach (Brewster and Richards 2014). One of the local guards lifted a big rock above his head and threw it down hard on top of Reza’s head. Reza did not survive his injuries. The Australian government later lied about the circumstances of his death (Farrell 2014). Behrouz wrote that this ensured “no-one will ever again risk even contemplating the possibility of challenging the Kyriarchal System” (2018, p. 353). Except that wasn’t exactly true. In the midst of this immense suffering, a brotherhood formed between the prisoners, a bond of collective trauma. Behrouz says this motivated him and others to act on behalf of all the prisoners (Boochani 2018, p. 125). Behrouz found a non-violent way to resist the system. He decided to write, hoping that documenting these atrocities would not only help his fellow prisoners but might also help save his own sanity. I think that the best way to fight against the system … is not to follow the logical outcome which is violence, but instead … free yourself from the system so that you do not replicate violence. (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018)

Behrouz obtained a smuggled mobile phone in the black market trade between prisoners and local Manusian workers and he began writing (Zable 2018; Boochani 2018, p.  145). He wrote poetry, prose, news

242 

M. ISAACS

reports and short stories. He interviewed prisoners, wrote open letters to the Australian people, and messages to politicians, ministers and world leaders (Boochani 2017). He documented daily life inside the prison and he searched for a way to transmit his words to the rest of the world. Refugee advocate Janet Galbraith was the first Australian to connect with Behrouz on social media. They became friends and Galbraith later introduced him to Australian writer Arnold Zable (Zable 2018). Behrouz’s network of support slowly expanded. In 2016, he began contributing to the Guardian Australia as a correspondent, as well as publishing stories with various other publications such as the Saturday Paper, the Huffington Post and the Financial Times (Boochani 2017). He wanted the Australian people to understand what the Australian government was doing on Manus and Nauru. He wanted them to see how barbaric the system was and he wanted the policy to change (Zable 2018). In the detention centre environment, any act of writing was resistance. Behrouz says that “even thinking about writing is an act of resistance” (2020a). Behrouz had limited access to email and electricity and he was wary of security guards who might confiscate his phone. It was difficult to find a Kurdish translator (2020a). Instead, he wrote his articles in Farsi on his phone and transmitted them by text message to Moones Mansoubi and Omid Tofighian, interpreters in Australia, to be translated into English. For someone who had worked for the preservation of the Kurdish language in Iran, indeed fled his country because of it, this might seem odd; however, Behrouz says he is not an enemy of Farsi—“Farsi is a beautiful language” (2020a)—and writing in Farsi was more practical in terms of finding translators. The rigours of detention stifled creativity and work ethic. Behrouz lacked privacy which made it difficult to focus on his writing. He compared writing in detention to working on a busy street full of distractions (2020a). He wasn’t just working as a writer, he was a human rights activist, collaborating with organisations, news networks and people. He was also a prisoner and he had to look after his own health. All of these distractions meant that he couldn’t fully focus on his writing. Sometimes he was too tired to file. Sometimes he was too hungry. He became gaunt, skeletal, as the now-iconic photographs of him demonstrated (see Figs. 16.1, 16.2 and 16.3). The then deputy editor of the Guardian Australia, Will Woodward, wrote that Behrouz’s moods swung from “a wild, garrulous mania to black and shiftless depression” (Boochani 2017).

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

243

Fig. 16.1  Behrouz Boochani smoking a cigarette, Manus Prison (2017); photo credit: Mark Isaacs

Despite these significant challenges, Behrouz felt best when he worked, when he had a purpose, “a task to fill the limitless hours of his ongoing incarceration”. When he was writing, he felt “completely free” (Zable 2018). At times, he worked tirelessly, some days for 16 hours. “I am a journalist,” he told the Guardian Australia in an interview. “I am still a journalist in this place. This is my work, my duty” (Doherty 2015). It was more than just a duty, though. Behrouz survived because he exercised his creativity in opposition to a system that tried to crush his spirit (Manne 2018). “I knew that I had to do it to survive. I knew that I could expose this system through these words … I could get back my identity through writing this book and not allowing this system to reduce me to a number” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018). At that time, Australian journalists were barred from entering Manus Prison, and the Australian Border Force Act 2015 introduced secrecy

244 

M. ISAACS

Fig. 16.2  Behrouz Boochani writing on his mobile phone, Manus Prison, 2017; photo credit: Mark Isaacs

provisions which essentially criminalised whistle-blowers from divulging “protected information” gained during employment in offshore detention centres (ABC News 2016). The penalty for doing so was two years in prison. This made Behrouz’s first-hand accounts from prison invaluable reportage from behind the Australian government’s iron curtain and he slowly began to receive recognition for his work. Will Woodward wrote that Behrouz “offered the most visible, trusted testimony” (Boochani 2017), and in 2017 Behrouz received an Amnesty International Australia Media Award for his work (Amnesty International Australia 2017). In 2016, he produced the documentary film, Chauka, Please Tell Us the Time, with the help of his friend and co-director in the Netherlands, Arash Sarvestani (Stoakes 2020). Behrouz shot the film inside Manus Prison on his mobile phone. It took six months to film and was shown at the London and Sydney film festivals. Behrouz describes the film as his most important work while in Manus because it told the story of the colonised indigenous people of Manus, a story he relates to as a colonised Kurd (Stoakes 2020;

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

245

Fig. 16.3  Behrouz Boochani, Archibald prize finalist by Angus McDonald

Boochani 2020b). He also created a play with a director in Iran which was titled Manus and was performed in Iran and in Bangladesh (Stoakes 2020). And then in 2018, he published, No Friend But The Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison. Over a period of roughly one and a half years, Behrouz wrote the book on his phone and sent it via text messages to his translators Moones Mansoubi and Omid Tofighian. Mansoubi sorted the texts into chapters on his instructions. Mansoubi then emailed Tofighian the PDFs— “each chapter was one long text message of between about 9,000 and 17,000 words” (Tofighian 2018).

246 

M. ISAACS

I don’t remember exactly when I started to write the first words but I remember that I thought my writing of this time was like a mission and duty … to make readers aware of this prison camp. (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018)

Behrouz and Tofighian communicated frequently via WhatsApp regarding the translations and the style. Tofighian (2018) says the book was a literary experiment combining political commentary, historical account, philosophical and psychoanalytic examinations, and folklore from various traditions which created a unique style that Tofighian called “horrific surrealism”. According to Tofighian (2018), the shared goal from the start was to expose one central aspect of the detention regime: systematic torture. Behrouz adopted a literary style better to express the realities of detention, believing that his years of reporting from Manus had failed to make the public understand just how barbaric the system was. “…that’s why I shifted my work to literature: to take the readers into the camp. To live with us. To feel people, you know, to understand the system” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Stoakes 2020). Many of the characters were symbolic representations of people or behaviours in detention and were given monikers instead of names. Maysam the Whore, for example, resisted the system through theatre, satire, humour and performance. Behrouz says Maysam’s playing with the rules caused “a rupture in the system so that violence is no longer the logical outcome” (Zable 2018). He also believed that literary language would make the book more accessible to readers from around the world and from future historical periods. “I wrote this book so that it extends beyond geographical bounds and generational imaginaries” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018). In the book, he refused to adhere to the language of the Australian government and instead created his own terminology. For instance, he called his place of detention Manus Prison rather than use the government’s obfuscating term, “processing centre”. “In all of these works, I [revealed] a picture of innocent people, exactly the opposite of the picture that was created by the government: they say, ‘They are criminal,’ I say no, they are innocent, they are human” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Stoakes 2020). The Kyriarchal System mentioned in the book laid the groundwork for a more detailed, critical analysis of Australia’s “border-industrial complex”, which Behrouz and Omid Tofighian called Manus Prison Theory. Behrouz argues that Australia’s modern offshore detention system, its

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

247

exiling of undesirable people to faraway lands, is a modern interpretation of The White Australia policy (Boochani 2020c). Although the prison was located in PNG, it was managed and operated by Australian politicians, bureaucrats and contractors. This meant the Australian government could control the prisoners, “but not be held responsible for the horrors that were visited upon us” (Boochani 2020c). Author Arnold Zable describes it as a modern-day “penal system” which strips the prisoners of hope, of agency and of humanity (Zable 2018). The system prevents people from knowing about the lived experience of the refugee prisoner and the atrocities committed against them. Behrouz’s writing challenged that system by expressing the previously suppressed insider account of the refugee prisoner. “All of these works are an act of resistance, to keep your dignity as a human and to feel power in front of the system,” says Behrouz (Stoakes 2020). When Behrouz left Iran, he was 29 years old, which he says is a very young age for a writer 2020b. His years in Iran were his formative writing years when he was beginning to develop a voice and a style, one of resistance against the state. In Manus, Behrouz struggled to retain his identity as a person and as a human. This was the same struggle he faced in Iran. In both scenarios, Behrouz faced a colonial system and mentality in which he was the marginalised subject. In Manus, his writing was an attempt to take back power and shine a light on the abuses the Australian government was trying to hide. “Resistance is the soul of this book … an act of creativity, which challenges the destructive power of the prison” (Behrouz Boochani cited in Zable 2018). When Behrouz was exiled to Manus Island, he told the guards he was a writer and they laughed. “It was an act of humiliation” that motivated him to keep writing from prison (Behrouz Boochani cited in Guardian News 2019). He created a romanticised image of himself as a novelist in a remote prison which helped him to uphold his dignity and keep his identity as a human being. Just as he was persecuted in Iran for his resistance writing, Behrouz believes he was targeted in Manus for his journalism. He did not publish any writing under his real name for more than two years in Manus because he was scared that the authorities would punish him. Behrouz feared that guards would attack him in his room and he even suspected that they might kill him like they did Reza Barati (Zable 2018). His phone was confiscated twice and he was twice placed in Chauka—the solitary confinement block made from shipping containers (Tofighian 2018). He was also jailed for eight days inside Lorengau prison before

248 

M. ISAACS

being released without charge after reporting on hunger strikes. During this incident, Behrouz was taken away by the mobile squad, a notorious paramilitary police unit which is “allegedly responsible for rapes, murders and other serious human rights abuses” and funded by Australia’s immigration department “to secure the Manus Island detention centre” (Flanagan 2017). “The only crime I committed in their view was reporting. This was the only reason I was given for my imprisonment when I came out of the prison. I was asked to stop my activities,” Behrouz stated (Doherty 2015). Acclaimed Australian author, Richard Flanagan, wrote that “Behrouz Boochani was targeted for one reason and one reason only: he has been the voice of truth speaking from the appalling reality of the Pacific lagers”; he suggests that Behrouz was being purposefully silenced by the Australian government (Flanagan 2017). “His courage over the four years of his internment in the face of the horror of Manus—a hell of repression, cruelty, and violence—has been of the highest order,” Flanagan writes. “Behrouz Boochani kept on smuggling out his messages of despair in the hope we would listen. It’s time we did” (Flanagan 2017). When authoritarian governments imprison writers, what they are really trying to do is imprison ideas. But Behrouz’s writing reached the Australian public and eventually freed him creatively and literally.

Victory No Friend But The Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison became a global literary success and in 2019 was awarded both of Australia’s richest literary prizes, the Victorian Prize for Literature and the Victorian Premier’s Prize for Nonfiction. This was a remarkable achievement for a writer imprisoned in Manus Island who is not an Australian citizen. In his video acceptance speech sent from Manus, Behrouz claimed the book and the literary awards “as a victory against a system that is designed to take our humanity” (Zable 2018). It is a victory, not only for us, but for literature and art. And above all, it is a victory for humanity. A victory for human being, human dignity. A victory against a system that has never recognised us as human beings. It is a victory against a system that has reduced us to numbers. This is a beautiful moment. Let us all rejoice tonight in the power of literature. (Behrouz Boochani cited in Guardian News 2019)

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

249

After years of struggle, for Behrouz this victory proved that words still have the power to challenge inhuman systems and structures. Indeed, the success of Behrouz’s work allowed him to travel the world, albeit digitally, through his words and by giving interviews on his phone and eventually this success helped him to physically escape from Manus. After spending six years in exile, Behrouz was invited to participate in the 2019 WORD Christchurch Festival in New Zealand which meant that he could legally apply for a visitor’s visa to that country and leave PNG (Australian Story 2020). Even so, there was every chance he could be caught trying to escape and denied permission to leave the country. Thankfully, nothing went wrong and Behrouz made it to New Zealand. When news of his newfound freedom reached Australia, there was an outpouring of jubilation. He truly had become an adored public figure and he had survived. Confirmation of this was seen when in December 2020 his arresting portrait by artist Angus McDonald won the People’s Choice in the Archibald Award for portraiture, Australia’s most prestigious art prize. “So much of Behrouz’s life is about searching for a place where he belongs, where he’s safe, where he can express himself, where he can write what he wants, where he can think what he wants, where he can say what he wants to say. Everywhere he turned, he couldn’t find that freedom, but he just kept looking,” said Ben Doherty, journalist at the Guardian Australia (Australian Story 2020). Behrouz, of course, was relieved to arrive in New Zealand. “I was running for a long time. When I say running, I mean struggling, fighting. It was the first time I said that, oh, this story at least finished for me” (Australian Story 2020). And while he still thinks of the men he knew in Manus who are not yet free from the Australian government’s iron grip on their lives and their future, he can at least be happy that Manus Prison was declared illegal by PNG in 2016 and closed in October 2017 (Boochani 2018, p. 357). No one is in Manus now, it is finished. (Behrouz Boochani cited in Stoakes 2020)

Behrouz’s story is an extraordinary example of the power of writing as an act of resistance and the resilience needed from the author to assume the challenge. Not only has his work been a brave stance against authoritarian and oppressive regimes, it was integral to his very survival. This is his life work and even though he has now found a peaceful home, it is clear Behrouz will not stop fighting for the rights of others.

250 

M. ISAACS

It is like a duty, a responsibility, as a citizen in my future, to care about human rights. I will continue to work on this issue, because it is my life, I cannot walk away from my own life, my own experience. And Manus was my experience. (Behrouz Boochani cited in Doherty 2019a)

Acknowledgement  Thank you to Behrouz Boochani for graciously offering his time to work with me on this chapter. His work ensures that the horrors of Manus Island will not be forgotten and that the politicians responsible will be remembered as monsters. Behrouz’s work will no doubt join the famous canon of writings from prison alongside Nelson Mandela, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Oscar Wilde, Pramoedya Ananta Toer and Primo Levi.

Notes 1. Kyriarchy is a feminist theory formulated by Harvard theologian Elisabeth Schussler Fiorenza which describes interconnected and intersectional social systems of domination, oppression and submission. 2. Refoulement is the return of persons seeking asylum to a country where they face persecution.

References ABC News. 2016. What Are the Secrecy Provisions of the Border Force Act? ABC, 27 July. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-­07-­27/ what-­are-­the-­secrecy-­provisions-­of-­the-­border-­force-­act/7663608. Amnesty International. 2008. Iran: Human Rights Abuses Against the Kurdish Minority. Amnesty International Publications. Accessed 15 October 2020. https://www.amnesty.org/download/Documents/MDE130882008 ENGLISH.pdf. Amnesty International Australia. 2017. Winners of the 2017 Amnesty International Australia Media Awards Announced. Accessed 21 October 2020. https://www.amnesty.org.au/winners-­2017-­amnesty-­international­australia-­media-­awards-­announced/. Australian Story. 2020. The Great Escape. ABC, 7 September. Accessed 20 September 2020. https://www.abc.net.au/austory/the-­great-­escape/12626448. Boochani, Behrouz. 2017. “This Is Hell Out Here”: How Behrouz Boochani’s Diaries Expose Australia’s Refugee Shame. Guardian Australia, 4 December. Accessed 16 October 2020. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/09/20/opinion/australia-­white-­supremacy-­refugees.html?smid=tw-­share.

16  BEHROUZ BOOCHANI: WRITING AS RESILIENCE AND RESISTANCE 

251

———. 2018. No Friend but the Mountains: Writing from Manus Prison. Picador by Pan Macmillan Australia. ———. 2020a. Interview between Mark Isaacs and Behrouz Boochani.  27 October 2020. ———. 2020b.  Interview between Mark Isaacs and  Behrouz Boochani. 14 October 2020. ———. 2020c. ‘White Australia’ Policy Lives on in Immigrant Detention. The New  York Times, 20 September. Accessed 14 October 2020. https://www. nytimes.com/2020/09/20/opinion/australia-­white-­supremacy-­r efugees. html?smid=tw-­share. Brewster, Kerry, and Deb Richards. 2014. Manus Island Riot: Asylum Seeker Speaks of Witnessing Reza Berati’s Death. ABC, 5 April. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-­04-­04/manus-­island-­asylum-­ seekers-­witness-­statements-­reza-­berati-­death/5367118?nw=0. Davidson, Helen, Nick Evershed, and Oliver Laughland. 2014. Manus Island Riot: Interactive Timeline. Guardian Australia, 28 February. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/world/datablog/interactive/2014/feb/28/manus-­island-­riot-­timeline. Doherty, Ben. 2015. Day of the Imprisoned Writer: Behrouz Boochani— Detained on Manus Island. Guardian Australia, 15 November. Accessed 17 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/nov/15/ day-­of-­the-­imprisoned-­writer-­behrouz-­bouchani-­detained-­on-­manus-­island. ———. 2018. Hamid Kehazaei: Australia Responsible for “Preventable” Death of Asylum Seeker. Guardian Australia, 30 July. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/australia-­news/2018/jul/30/death-­asylum-­ seeker-­hamid-­kehazaei-­preventable-­coroner-­says. ———. 2019a. Behrouz Boochani, Brutalised But Not Beaten by Manus, Says Simply: ‘I Did My Best’. Guardian Australia, 16 November. Accessed 14 December 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/nov/16/ behrouz-­boochani-­manus-­says-­simply-­i-­did-­my-­best. ———. 2019b. A Long Flight to Freedom: How Refugee Behrouz Boochani Finally Left His Island Jail Behind. Guardian Australia, 14 November. Accessed 17 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/australia-­news/2019/ nov/14/a-­long-­flight-­to-­freedom-­how-­r efugee-­behrouz-­boochani-­finally-­ left-­his-­island-­jail-­behind. Farrell, Paul. 2014. Scott Morrison Contradicts First Account of Manus Island Unrest. Guardian Australia, 23 February. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2014/feb/23/scott-­m orrison-­ contradicts-­account-­manus-­island-­unrest. Flanagan, Richard. 2017. ‘Australia Built a Hell for Refugees on Manus. The Shame Will Outlive Us All.’ The Guardian Australia, 24 November. Accessed

252 

M. ISAACS

21 October 2020. https://www.theguardian.com/australia-­news/2017/ nov/24/the-­shame-­of-­the-­evil-­being-­done-­on-­manus-­will-­outlive-­us-­all. Guardian News. 2019. “A Victory for Humanity”: Behrouz Boochani’s Literary Prize Speech in Full. 31 January. Accessed 21 October 2020. https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=5h-­AlVaFLvQ&feature=youtu.be. Manne, Robert. 2018. No Friend But the Mountains Review: Behrouz Boochani’s Poetic and Vital Memoir. The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 August. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://web.archive.org/web/20181030122031/https:// www.smh.com.au/entertainment/books/no-­f riend-­b ut-­t he-­m ountains-­ review-­behrouz-­boochanis-­poetic-­and-­vital-­memoir-­20180801-­h13fuu.html. PEN Sydney. 2020. Three Iranian Writers Face Imprisonment. Accessed 15 October 2020. https://pen.org.au/blogs/news/three-­members-­of-­the-­iranian-­ writers-­association-­iwa-­who-­are-­facing-­immediate-­imprisonment-­in-­iran. Reporters Without Borders. 2020. Iran. Accessed 15 October 2020. https://rsf. org/en/iran. Siegel, Matt. 2013. Australia Adopts Tough Measures to Curb Asylum Seekers. The New  York Times, 19 July. Accessed 16 October 2020. https://www. nytimes.com/2013/07/20/world/asia/australia-­adopts-­tough-­measures-­to-­ curb-­asylum-­seekers.html. Stoakes, Emanuel. 2020. Hope Is a Complicated Concept: An Interview with Behrouz Boochani. LA Review of Books, 18 January. Accessed 19 October 2020. https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/hope-is-a-complicated-concept-aninterview-with-behrouz-boochani/. Tlozek, Eric. 2016. Reza Barati Death: Two Men Jailed Over 2014 Murder of Asylum Seeker at Manus Island Detention Centre. ABC, 19 April. Accessed 20 October 2020. https://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-­04-­19/ reza-­barati-­death-­two-­men-­sentenced-­to-­10-­years-­over-­murder/7338928. Tofighian, Omid. 2018. Truth to Power: My Time Translating Behrouz Boochani’s Masterpiece. The Conversation, 5 November. Accessed 20 October 2020. https:// web.archive.org/web/20181105214100/https://theconversation.com/ truth-­to-­power-­my-­time-­translating-­behrouz-­boochanis-­masterpiece-­101589. Zable, Arnold. 2018. Australia’s Barbaric Policy Confronted by Boochani’s Prison Memoir. The Sydney Morning Herald. Australia, 25 August. Accessed 17 October 2020. https://www.smh.com.au/national/australia-­s-­barbaric-­ policy-­c onfronted-­b y-­b oochani-­s -­p rison-­m emoir-­2 0180821-­p 4zyt7. html?js-­chunk-­not-­found-­refresh=true.

Index1

A Aboriginal writers, 198 Academia, 25, 58, 204 Adaptation, 5, 7, 83–98 Advice, 14, 31, 37–40, 42, 43, 46, 46n2, 88, 91, 121–133, 165, 174 Aesthetics, 33, 34, 114, 126, 137, 229, 231 Ambisonics, 151, 155 Anachrony, 141 Analogy, 124, 215 Analysis, 5, 8, 11, 32, 38, 56, 58, 60, 96–97, 122, 123, 126, 132, 223, 225, 228, 246 Animation, 58, 153 Application of constraints, 10 Approaches to creativity, 6, 10, 52–54, 60, 131 Aristotle, 8, 31, 121–133 Art, 6, 9, 10, 33–36, 43–45, 68, 81, 87, 116, 117, 137, 148, 151,

154, 162, 168, 170, 184, 185, 197, 208–210, 214–216, 218, 223–232, 248, 249 Arts journalism, 197 Asylum seeker, 11, 239, 241 Audience, 31, 32, 61, 87, 93, 95, 108, 147–151, 153, 156, 204, 207–209, 213–215, 218, 220, 231, 232 Australian writers, 35, 107, 242 Author, 5, 10, 11, 14, 15, 22, 24, 30, 32–34, 36, 38, 43, 44, 70, 71, 75, 78, 84, 85, 104, 106, 108, 110–112, 115, 117, 162, 163, 169–173, 193–201, 203, 204, 211, 223–226, 229–232, 248, 249 Autobiographical writing, 15 Autobiography, 15, 86, 106, 109

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2021 D. Adelaide, S. Attfield (eds.), Creative Writing Practice, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-73674-3

253

254 

INDEX

B Beau présent, 182, 186 Boochani, Behrouz, 11, 12, 235–250 Book cover, 10, 11, 223–225, 228, 229, 231, 232 reviews, 9 C Cause and effect, 136, 139 Censorship, 237, 238 Challenges, 3–5, 11, 21, 24, 34, 58, 60–63, 83, 136, 152, 157, 169, 182, 192, 217, 236, 243, 247, 249 Character, 3, 7, 8, 14–17, 19, 29, 30, 32, 34, 36, 37, 39–42, 45, 51, 57, 60, 61, 66, 67, 69–71, 75–79, 85, 86, 88–91, 95, 105, 113, 114, 121–133, 136, 138–145, 153, 165, 170, 172, 186, 187, 224, 226–228, 246 motivation, 69 Chronology, 125, 130, 139, 145 Cinema, 23, 87, 133n3, 148–151, 155 Coherence, 56, 108, 126, 136 Collaborative process, 11, 59 Community, 6, 15, 17, 19, 94, 136, 162, 198, 199, 203, 204, 210, 217, 219, 238 Completion, 36, 163–167 Composition, 125, 136, 173, 229 Conceptual elements, 10 Confidence, 15, 20, 62, 63 Constraints, 9, 10, 63, 79, 131, 143, 179–187, 193 Construction, 36, 53, 68, 155 Contemporary fiction, 68 Context, 54–56, 79, 85, 107, 108, 130, 137, 162, 187, 195, 208,

211, 212, 214–216, 219, 225, 227, 231, 232, 238 Covid-19, 9, 11, 18, 208 Craft, 4, 12, 29, 34–36, 44, 52–55, 57, 63, 173, 193, 195, 197, 198, 204, 205, 210 Creative corrections, 163–164 freedom, 45, 55 non-fiction, 10, 191–200, 204 practice, 3–5, 9, 53–55, 59, 62, 63, 225 problems, 4, 52, 53, 55, 59 process, 6, 9, 53, 54, 57–63, 113, 161–174, 196 screenwriting, 53, 62 thinking, 51–63 writers, 3, 6, 8, 11, 123, 130, 132, 161, 207, 209–210, 213–216, 219, 223 writing courses, 30, 32 writing pedagogy, 45 writing teaching, 31 Critical distance, 207–220 Critical reflection, 55, 225 Critic as fan, 10 Criticism, 5, 34, 172, 196, 207, 210–213, 218–220 Cultural activism, 236–239 D Description, 17, 24, 30, 37, 41, 51, 56, 71, 75, 76, 104, 105, 110, 111, 114, 116, 131, 150, 154, 155, 198–200, 214–216, 224, 225, 229 Design, 8, 11, 53, 62, 69, 112, 136, 137, 149, 196, 223–232 Detail, 7, 14, 21, 25, 37, 45, 66, 71–73, 78, 79, 90, 97, 103, 105, 110, 111, 113, 114, 142, 169,

 INDEX 

186, 211, 214, 216, 219, 224, 226, 228, 230 Dialogue, 30, 33, 36, 39, 41, 54, 59, 75, 78, 89, 131, 165, 191, 193, 211, 224, 225 Diary, 103, 104, 106–109, 112, 115, 182 Digital notebook, 8 Disappointment, 10, 109, 138 Discourse, 32, 66, 67, 109, 144, 203, 210, 212, 215, 219 Diversity, 219, 225 Donnée, 7, 65–81 Draft/drafting, 3, 9, 21, 22, 42–44, 57, 71, 107, 129, 130, 163, 171 E Editing, 30, 52, 55, 149, 155, 187, 225 Embodiment, 150–153 Empathy, 150, 151, 158n4, 203 Essence, 83–98, 224, 228 Ethical dilemmas, 17, 20 Ethics, 6, 13–25, 203, 242 Exhibiting, 9 Experiential storytelling, 148 Experiment, 6, 20, 44, 45, 57, 106, 107, 182, 186, 187, 246 Exposition, 39, 67, 78, 129 Expression, 24, 51, 66, 67, 78, 107, 195, 212, 225, 232, 237, 238 F Failure, 7, 9, 10, 43, 44, 62, 72, 84, 106, 136, 138, 161–174, 193, 203–205 Fandom, 207–209, 216–220 Fan fiction, 213 Fantasy, 7, 68, 71, 153 Farsi, 237, 238, 242 Feedback, 57–59, 61, 132, 133

255

Fiction, 4–8, 11, 14, 30, 32, 33, 35, 36, 39, 45, 52, 53, 59, 68, 71, 72, 75, 80–81, 94, 106, 107, 113, 116, 117, 122, 125, 138, 143, 153, 161, 162, 169–172, 186, 196, 200, 201, 204, 215, 224, 225, 228, 231 Fictional persona, 224 Film, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10, 39, 51, 53, 58, 69, 83–89, 91–98, 132, 148–153, 156, 157, 158n2, 215, 218, 228, 235, 244 Focalisation, 142, 144, 145 Foreshadowing, 141 Form, 4, 5, 9, 12, 16, 20, 22, 32, 42, 51–53, 56, 57, 67, 69, 71, 74, 77, 83, 85, 87, 98, 103–108, 110–112, 114, 116–118, 126–128, 130, 133n2, 135, 137, 139, 142, 144, 151, 152, 164, 172, 181, 182, 184, 187, 188n2, 192–194, 196–199, 202, 209, 210, 213, 218, 219 Frames, 9, 88, 130, 136, 139, 147–158 Freedom, 85, 105, 237, 238, 249 G Gender, 14, 18, 54, 186, 218–220 Genre, 4, 5, 7, 20, 30, 34, 68, 69, 75, 78, 84, 103, 107, 122, 123, 137, 151, 153, 186, 191, 194, 198–200, 204, 212, 213, 215, 228, 232 Golden Rules, 6, 29–46 Greek café, 137 H Haptic immersion, 149 Historical fiction, 68, 75

256 

INDEX

History, 7–9, 54, 68, 69, 137, 141, 144, 195, 196, 232, 236 Hollywood melodrama, 7, 92 Human rights, 238, 242, 248, 250 I Identity, 14, 16, 22, 117, 141, 198, 202, 208, 218–220, 237, 238, 240, 243, 247 Illustration, 9, 122, 229, 232 Image, 5, 10, 11, 66, 74, 78, 80, 94, 96, 107, 111, 114, 116, 121, 131, 142, 149, 154, 155, 157, 158n5, 158n6, 186, 216, 223–226, 228, 229, 231, 232, 247 Imagery, 21, 29, 63, 110, 168 Imaginary worlds, 68 Imagination, 7, 42, 52, 63, 66–69, 71, 74, 122, 145, 162, 167–171, 205, 228 Imitation, 84, 123, 125 Immersion, 69, 74, 84, 147–149, 152, 158, 230 Immersive approaches, 9 Immersive media, 147, 148, 150, 152–155, 157 Incluing, 74–78 Increased creativity, 10 Industry, 5, 51, 54, 55, 57–59, 62, 91, 122, 208 Inspiration, 4, 11, 55, 60, 68, 151, 174, 181, 183 Interpretation, 32, 106, 126, 247 Interviewing, 193, 196, 202, 212, 219 Iran, 235–239, 242, 245, 247 Irony, 95, 97, 142

J Journalism, 192–194, 197, 199, 247 Journal-keeping, 4 Journey, 11, 35, 77–80, 92, 129, 130, 133n2, 149, 156, 157, 167, 168, 170 K Knowledge, 6, 22, 33, 54–56, 59, 60, 63, 66, 67, 69, 76, 127, 128, 139, 142, 196, 214, 232 Kurdish identity, 237 L Language, 20, 21, 29, 32, 35–37, 41, 42, 44, 66, 79, 80, 93, 112, 123, 156, 164, 173–174, 183, 186, 215, 237, 238, 240, 242, 246 Layering, 7, 84 Learning, 17, 30–31, 34, 35, 44, 54, 60, 62, 66, 72, 111, 113, 163 Liminal, 22 Literary experiment, 246 journalism, 193, 194, 197–199 precedent, 31 theory, 6, 32–34, 123 Long-form fiction, 4, 171 M Magazine, 39, 73, 91, 93, 97, 107, 180, 199, 211, 237, 238 Magic, 63, 65–81, 110, 118, 148, 151, 205 Manuscript, 70, 87, 135, 165, 166, 202 Manus Island, 11, 235, 239, 247, 248

 INDEX 

Meaning, 18, 32, 36, 67, 74, 81, 94, 104, 122, 125, 126, 131, 132, 162, 192, 224, 228 Memoir, 11, 15, 173, 193, 195, 200, 201 Memory, 21, 22, 24, 77, 79, 106, 111, 114, 116, 131, 149, 157, 195, 200, 224, 227 Metafictional role, 11 Metaphor, 30, 37, 41, 60, 79, 81, 88, 110, 114, 153, 162–164 Meta text, 193 Milieu, 136, 137, 140 Mise en scène, 149 Mode Shifting Index (MSI), 55 Multiculturalism, 145 Multiple timelines, 8 Multi-screens, 9 Multi-sensorial, 156 Music reviewing, 214 Mystery, 31, 69, 91, 126, 142, 166, 167, 169, 170, 173 N Narrative, 3–5, 11, 31, 32, 36, 37, 42, 90, 92, 93, 95, 113, 125, 126, 130–132, 133n1, 136, 138–145, 148, 150, 152–154, 156–158, 193, 198, 203, 215, 224, 227–232 audio-visual media, 57 order, 145 time, 7, 8, 136, 142, 144, 145 Narratology, 6, 31, 33, 36, 45 Nature, 4, 11, 58, 68–69, 125, 128, 130, 133n1, 151, 161, 163, 195, 202, 210, 217, 230 Non-fiction, 7, 143, 192, 193, 195, 196, 199, 200 Non-linear chronologies, 8 Notation, 112

257

Notebooks, 5, 8, 25, 43, 103–118, 171 Notes, 58, 92, 105–108, 111–113, 116, 122, 189n4, 218–220 Novel, 5, 8, 9, 11, 30, 31, 34, 38, 66, 67, 69, 72–74, 78, 79, 81, 85, 86, 92, 93, 105, 107, 111, 116, 121, 128, 132, 135–145, 151, 163–173, 186, 224, 226, 235 O Observations, 103, 105, 107, 108, 111, 125 Offshore detention, 235, 244, 246 Originality, 56, 83–98 Oulipo, 10, 181, 186 P Panoramic screens, 9 Paratextual elements, 232 Participation, 209 Pedagogy, 45, 84 Perseverance, 10, 192 Perspective, 24, 25, 56, 59–61, 142, 144, 153, 191–205, 217–219, 223, 225, 228, 232 Philosophy, 11 Photograph, 128, 224, 242 Pitching, 59 Place, 5, 7, 17, 21, 33, 42, 55, 61, 62, 66–68, 71, 73, 76–79, 91, 104–107, 111, 113–115, 123, 136, 142, 143, 145, 149, 151, 152, 180, 192, 193, 204, 205, 209, 216, 219, 230, 243, 246, 249 Plot, 3, 8, 29, 32, 36, 40–42, 57, 59, 60, 76, 86, 88, 90, 121–133, 137–141, 144, 145, 165

258 

INDEX

Poem, 14, 16, 17, 19–25, 83, 105, 110, 168, 173, 179, 182, 184–186, 189n6 Poetry, 3–6, 11, 13–25, 51–53, 181, 186, 193, 241 Point of view (POV), 36, 55, 67, 76, 78, 85, 123, 142, 144, 150, 151, 153, 155, 217 Potential, 6, 8, 10, 13, 15, 21, 57, 61, 110, 114, 118, 181, 202, 224, 225, 232 Practice-based focus, 53 Problems, 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, 15, 19, 33–35, 40, 52, 53, 55, 58, 59, 62, 69, 71, 86, 165, 166, 170, 205, 217–220 Problem-solving, 4, 140 Process, 3, 6–12, 20, 21, 34, 42, 52–63, 68, 75, 79, 80, 84, 85, 87, 88, 91, 92, 97, 103, 106–109, 111, 113, 132, 136, 139, 140, 155, 161–174, 187, 191, 194, 196, 203, 204, 210, 214, 224, 226, 229, 231, 232 Productivity, 56 Professional writing, 103 Protagonist, 69, 70, 75, 79, 87, 90, 92, 149, 218, 226 Public texts, 109 Publishability, 109 Publishers, 87, 165, 166, 200, 213, 223, 231, 232 Q Questions, 4–6, 10, 17, 23, 31, 35–37, 44, 45, 58, 73, 83, 97, 103, 108, 109, 117, 122, 123, 126, 129, 138–140, 166, 170, 184–186, 203, 204, 207, 211, 228

R Radical transformation, 83–98 Readers, 4, 5, 7, 10–12, 14, 17–22, 31–34, 36–41, 43, 45, 67–70, 72–76, 79, 81, 109, 110, 113, 125–127, 130, 132, 139–141, 143, 144, 154, 163, 166, 170, 172, 199, 200, 213–218, 228, 232, 246 Reading practice, 19 Realism, 13–25, 68, 69, 137, 138 Reality, 20, 66–68, 71, 76, 80–81, 96, 111, 112, 118, 153, 156, 157, 213, 246, 248 Recognition, 127, 128, 130, 132, 171, 195, 208, 244 Reflection, 16, 18, 34, 56, 60, 133n3, 187, 193, 197, 217, 225 Reflective judgement, 56, 57, 59, 61 Refugee, 10, 11, 151, 239–242, 247 Rejection, 9, 135, 168–169 Reportage, 7, 74, 244 Representation, 14–17, 21, 24, 92, 137, 138, 148, 219, 229, 246 Research, 3, 7, 29, 31, 35, 42, 55, 62, 67–69, 71, 74, 77, 154, 192, 193, 196, 202 Resilience, 10, 11, 52, 205, 235–250 Resolution, 36, 40, 129, 140, 141, 151 Restriction, 62, 131, 142, 181 Reviewing, 41, 43, 214, 215 Revision, 7, 42, 44, 57, 91, 165 Rhetorical devices, 31 Risk, 6, 14, 15, 18, 61, 62, 85, 87, 91, 97, 241 Rules, 6, 24, 29–31, 33, 34, 36–38, 40–45, 52, 69, 75, 78, 86, 125, 127, 132, 240, 246

 INDEX 

S Satire, 246 Science fiction, 7, 68, 75, 153 Screenplay, 3–5, 53, 55, 84–86, 94, 150, 154, 158n2, 167, 168, 173 Screen production, 9 Screenwriters, 6, 9, 52–55, 57, 59, 62, 63, 83–86, 91, 94 Screenwriting practice studies, 54 Script, 4, 52, 53, 57–63, 84, 85, 158 development, 51–63 Selection, 108, 115, 228 Self-imposed constraints, 10 Sentence structure, 181 Setting, 7, 14, 19, 68, 97, 123, 131, 136–139, 145, 171 Short story, 3, 5, 7, 9, 29, 41, 42, 44, 68, 72, 86–88, 90, 91, 116, 132, 150, 169, 183, 242 Sirk, Douglas, 7, 92–94, 96, 97 Situatedness, 55 Slam poetry, 6 Social poetics, 20 Society, 7, 21, 68, 70, 71, 79, 93, 95, 97 Source text, 7, 83–87, 91, 92, 97, 98, 183 Spatiality, 149 Speculative fiction, 7, 68, 75, 153 Spoken word, 6 Spontaneity, 103, 105, 106, 109 Stereoscopic, 148, 149, 152 Story coach, 61, 62 as journey, 77–80 mechanics, 69–72 Storytelling, 9, 31, 33, 54, 59, 77, 148 Structure, 4, 5, 8, 12, 17, 20, 36, 51, 52, 60, 63, 86, 114, 122, 123, 125, 131–132, 133n1, 136, 138,

259

139, 145, 153, 154, 164, 171, 199, 203, 249 Students, 4–6, 8, 13, 14, 16, 25, 29–31, 34–36, 39, 40, 44, 45, 53–55, 73, 84, 90, 107, 122, 123, 131, 132, 133n3, 151, 165–167, 169, 170, 173, 182, 186, 192, 196, 200, 202, 203, 237 Style, 31, 41, 68, 114, 136, 137, 163, 164, 198, 213, 227, 231, 246, 247 guides, 37 Subverting rules, 33 Success, 9, 10, 30, 45, 53, 58, 87, 97, 136, 138, 148, 163, 170, 205, 210, 219, 248, 249 T Teaching, 4, 16, 25, 31, 34, 35, 44, 51, 53, 54, 56, 63, 90, 170, 237, 238 Technical developments, 9 Technique, 10, 20, 36, 53, 57, 59–61, 63, 74–77, 112, 123, 141, 148–150, 193, 196, 199 Terminology, 197, 198, 246 Theory, 4, 6, 8, 20, 31–37, 40, 43–46, 54, 59, 122–128, 140, 163, 192, 250n1 3-D, 9 Tools, 21, 24, 52, 53, 57, 60, 63, 78, 126, 132, 142, 150, 152, 173, 214, 215 Transformation, 74, 83–98, 113, 138, 193, 225 Treatments, 57, 59, 211, 229, 240 Truth, 7, 19, 113, 114, 124, 127, 143, 144, 166, 167, 200, 201, 228, 236, 248

260 

INDEX

U Uncertainty, 35, 36, 44, 135, 169–173 V Verisimilitude, 74, 113 Video installation, 9 Virtual reality, 147, 150–157, 158n1, 158n4 Visual aspects, 11 Visual style, 231 Voice, 12, 31, 39, 51, 54, 86, 91, 103, 106, 107, 133, 144, 156, 165, 167, 228, 232, 247, 248 W War, 70, 73, 74, 165, 236 Waterfalls, 184, 236 Words, 6, 10–12, 21, 36–41, 44, 45, 54, 55, 63, 66, 71, 74, 76, 80,

81, 104, 105, 107–109, 123, 128, 136, 150, 154, 164, 165, 173, 174, 180, 184, 186, 187, 189n4, 189n6, 195, 197–199, 202, 211, 218, 226, 228, 243, 245, 246, 249 Working-class experience, 14, 17, 20, 22 poet, 19 poetry, 6, 16, 18, 19 Worldbuilding, 7, 65–81, 242 Writer’s block, 30, 60, 61 Writing exercises, 5, 8, 42, 45, 60 life, 30, 108, 167 practice, 4–6, 9, 11, 24, 29, 31, 59, 187 process, 8, 9, 12, 20, 91, 163, 164, 168, 171, 196, 226 as resistance, 235–250