The past couple of weeks I've been reading Samuel R. Delany's book About Writing, a book that collects a number of essays and letters that Delany wrote over the past 30 years on the subject of writing fiction. Although he first broaches it in his introduction, a concept Delany returns to again and again throughout the book is what he sees as the differences between good writing and talented writing.
Though they have things in common, good writing and talented writing are not the same (Delany, 4).
He goes on to define good writing as the basics of what we learn in English classes in High School and College: good grammar, avoiding passive voice, creating uncluttered sentence, varying sentence structure, precise word choice, etc. Good writing as he defines it is a skill, a learned craft that functions appropriately in writing forms like journalism, academic research papers, criticism, and---although Delany doesn't mention it---blogs.
Talented writing, on the other hand, uses those skills and rules and moves them into another realm. Delany says:
Good writing is clear. Talented writing is energetic (Delany, 6).
Good writing avoids errors. Talented writing makes things happen in the reader's mind---vividly, forcefully---...(Delany, 6).
Talented writing also "uses specifics and avoids generalities---generalities that his or her specifics suggest (Delany, 7). In other words, metaphors and symbols.
Delany continues by providing examples to show how talented writing uses lyrical phrases and powerful descriptions to deliver new insights to the reader. This form of writing, talented writing, is what's required to create fiction. Or, at least, fiction that stretches beyond simple entertainment and warrants thorough, careful, multiple readings.
It makes sense, though. Writing that really stops me, that forces me to read it more carefully and pay attention to what it's doing often comes through beautiful, precise descriptions and details. These details make you pause and visualize the world the author creates and even think about things in a new way. That level of writing is a very special. all too rare skill.
The good news is that while Delany indicates talented writing is more difficult to achieve, he at no point states that it can't be learned. Through careful reading of the masters, through thorough editing and a lot of hard work it's a skill that's possible to learn, although more difficult than learning how to create good writing.
I guess there's hope for me yet.
Excelsior
Showing posts with label Samuel Delany. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Samuel Delany. Show all posts
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Review: Dark Reflections by Samuel Delany
I almost decided not to write review of any kind for Samuel Delany's most recent novel, Dark Reflections. Not because I didn't like it---I loved it. But it came out about a year ago and received pretty favorable reviews in both the Washington Post and the New York Times. But the more I dug around for opinions on the book the less I found. Review mags like Rain Taxi, which usually do a good job at picking out works like this, pretty much ignored it. And with the exception of a thoughtful review by Steven Shaviro, most of the comments online are by sf fans who are peeved that it's not an sf novel.
In short, the novel is a biographical portrait of Arnold Hawley, a gay, black poet living in NY City. It's structure is mildly experimental; the novel is broken into three sections, each exploring a different period of his life and moving backwards in time. Each section could easily work as a strong novella, but together they create a moving image of a unique man.
The opening section focuses on his late adult life. Although I could paraphrase it for you, it's probably best to have it laid out in Delany's own words:
In 1987's rainy October, when squirrels stopped, stared, then sprinted along the bench-backs away from the kids with the earrings, combat boots, and dog collars, who for more than fifteen years now had been hanging out in Tompkins Square Park, Arnold's sixth book of poems, Beleaguered Fields, won the Alfred Proctor Prize---an award given once every three years that concerned a small circle of New York poets and men and women of letters. In the late afternoon of the day he received the news, as he walked home through the park, a wind gusted among the wet leaves, for moments making a rising roar, like the cheer of thousands.....Arnold smiled....acknowledging playfully the world's recognition. (3)
The Proctor Prize allows Arnold to quit the civil servant job he hates and take a teaching position at a small college---where he happily works with a small cut in salary. The section moves forward to his retirement years later, and we see Arnold struggle with the odd hypocrisies of the publishing world when he's asked to write a blurb for a young up-and-coming poet putting out work he doesn't respect.
The second section focuses on Arnold's life in his thirties, and his brief marriage to a suicidal homeless woman. The third section moves back further to his late twenties and his early days in college fighting with the realization that he's gay. We see some powerful scenes where he's disturbingly attracted to a well hung but mentally challenged man. Against all better judgement Arnold follows his desire into a run down section of New York, but when he's finally given the opportunity to explore his sexuality he runs away.
Although poetry isn't quite the focus with these other two sections, writing is still a vital part of the story. He meets his wife while writing a poem on a park bench, and we see some lovely moments of his life when he's inspired to write. Much of his daily struggle centers around finding that balance between making a living and following his dream to publish brilliant poems. Arnold is a man who lives, breathes and loves poetry and, although Arnold is very different from Delany, it's hard not to think of Delany himself at these moments.
As much as sex is a part of this novel, Arnold is confoundingly asexual. A number of Delany's books, Hogg especially, are noted for their strong pornographic scenes. Dark Reflections features pimps graphically pitching their wares, poetic descriptions of homo-erotic photography, and a number of other bizarre situations. The moments he gets closest to experiencing sex, something outlandish occurs that puts an end to it: his wife commits suicide, he thinks he's caught in a blackmail scheme, etc, etc. And while we know as readers that Arnold has had sex, we never actually see him having sex. This seems important to the novel somehow, although I'm not quite smart enough to figure out exactly why.
One thing at the novel's core is how Arnold continually explores his identity as a gay, black poet and questions what it means. He's a black man who enjoys country music, and gay man who doesn't pursue sex, and a poet who explores themes beyond the normal bounds of what it means to black and gay. It makes Arnold more than a character; it makes him a human dreaming the dream to be what he can despite the obstacles thrown in front of him. It's this thread of the novel that ties it together, makes everything work, and brings what's probably Delany's most accessible novel in years.
Tor or any other major SF publisher would likely pull a dumptruck full of money to Delany's home if he ever broke down and wrote the SF novel fans of Babel-17 and Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand clamor for. Instead what we get is the novel Delany wanted to write, and a beautiful one it is.
Excelsior
In short, the novel is a biographical portrait of Arnold Hawley, a gay, black poet living in NY City. It's structure is mildly experimental; the novel is broken into three sections, each exploring a different period of his life and moving backwards in time. Each section could easily work as a strong novella, but together they create a moving image of a unique man.
The opening section focuses on his late adult life. Although I could paraphrase it for you, it's probably best to have it laid out in Delany's own words:
In 1987's rainy October, when squirrels stopped, stared, then sprinted along the bench-backs away from the kids with the earrings, combat boots, and dog collars, who for more than fifteen years now had been hanging out in Tompkins Square Park, Arnold's sixth book of poems, Beleaguered Fields, won the Alfred Proctor Prize---an award given once every three years that concerned a small circle of New York poets and men and women of letters. In the late afternoon of the day he received the news, as he walked home through the park, a wind gusted among the wet leaves, for moments making a rising roar, like the cheer of thousands.....Arnold smiled....acknowledging playfully the world's recognition. (3)
The Proctor Prize allows Arnold to quit the civil servant job he hates and take a teaching position at a small college---where he happily works with a small cut in salary. The section moves forward to his retirement years later, and we see Arnold struggle with the odd hypocrisies of the publishing world when he's asked to write a blurb for a young up-and-coming poet putting out work he doesn't respect.
The second section focuses on Arnold's life in his thirties, and his brief marriage to a suicidal homeless woman. The third section moves back further to his late twenties and his early days in college fighting with the realization that he's gay. We see some powerful scenes where he's disturbingly attracted to a well hung but mentally challenged man. Against all better judgement Arnold follows his desire into a run down section of New York, but when he's finally given the opportunity to explore his sexuality he runs away.
Although poetry isn't quite the focus with these other two sections, writing is still a vital part of the story. He meets his wife while writing a poem on a park bench, and we see some lovely moments of his life when he's inspired to write. Much of his daily struggle centers around finding that balance between making a living and following his dream to publish brilliant poems. Arnold is a man who lives, breathes and loves poetry and, although Arnold is very different from Delany, it's hard not to think of Delany himself at these moments.
As much as sex is a part of this novel, Arnold is confoundingly asexual. A number of Delany's books, Hogg especially, are noted for their strong pornographic scenes. Dark Reflections features pimps graphically pitching their wares, poetic descriptions of homo-erotic photography, and a number of other bizarre situations. The moments he gets closest to experiencing sex, something outlandish occurs that puts an end to it: his wife commits suicide, he thinks he's caught in a blackmail scheme, etc, etc. And while we know as readers that Arnold has had sex, we never actually see him having sex. This seems important to the novel somehow, although I'm not quite smart enough to figure out exactly why.
One thing at the novel's core is how Arnold continually explores his identity as a gay, black poet and questions what it means. He's a black man who enjoys country music, and gay man who doesn't pursue sex, and a poet who explores themes beyond the normal bounds of what it means to black and gay. It makes Arnold more than a character; it makes him a human dreaming the dream to be what he can despite the obstacles thrown in front of him. It's this thread of the novel that ties it together, makes everything work, and brings what's probably Delany's most accessible novel in years.
Tor or any other major SF publisher would likely pull a dumptruck full of money to Delany's home if he ever broke down and wrote the SF novel fans of Babel-17 and Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand clamor for. Instead what we get is the novel Delany wanted to write, and a beautiful one it is.
Excelsior
Friday, June 01, 2007
New Samuel Delany
Author/critic Steven Shaviro has a review for the latest by Samuel Delany, a novel called Dark Reflections. It actually sounds like his best work in some time. I doubt the library I work for will get it, so I'll probably crack open my wallet for this one. Dalany's worth it, though. Even on a grad student's "salary".
Excelsior
Excelsior
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