Thoughts on Writing Styles and Taste

I went to the library yesterday, the East branch here in East Nashville. And I finally, finally became a member. I learned that I got $10 of free printing credit every month, which, had I become a member when I first came here, would have saved me possibly $5 or so, and I would be $5 richer in my life today. Ah! I finally got the card, because I need more books. I need books, and I need experiments. I want to read things that I wouldn’t ordinarily read, I want to take gambles, and explore, but I don’t have the money to just buy these things. I also don’t want to own them anyway. My bookshelf is already now quite full from McKay’s trips, full of used books. I’m happy to have almost every book I’ve got.

Yesterday I went to the library in search of The Firm, by John Grisham, which Stephen King talks about in his book On Writing. I was talking to my grandpa about the Hoopla app, the library apps where you can read things digitally for free, as long as you have a library membership—and it was that that really made me want to sign up. I tried online, it didn’t work for some reason, and I went to the library. Finally got my membership, took only a second, got a card, and walked out with three books. None of them were The Firm, but I could go and get it today from the other branch not much farther down the street. One was a Stephen King book called Holly.

You can see how Stephen King writes so many books, and long ones. I understand. He knows how to embellish. He knows how to paint a picture. He knows how to work in details, so many small, delicate details, how to create characters, how to bring them to life, how to describe a scene, all of these things. He has that so dialed in. You know he can just crank that out, muscle memory, that practice. And it’s good. I feel like I could read his writing about anything, whatever he decides to write about, because you just like the way he writes. And he actually does say in On Writing that for him, the plot is not important. He’s figuring it out as he goes. What that means then is that the writing is the engine, right? His writing is the engine, and he’s building it as he goes. Therefore he’s enjoying every line he writes. There’s movement in every line, he’s building it as he goes. That makes sense to me.

At the library, I went for two books just based on their look and what they seemed to be about. I took them home and was eager to crack them open, see what the pages held. This was totally exploratory reading.

The first book, I made it about five pages in. I might have made it seven. The subject matter was fine—a modern take on old Grimm fairy tales, but I didn’t like the writing. I could tell that it was good writing, high-level, intelligent. But it was clunky and jarring for me. I was trying to figure out why it was, and I read a bit of it aloud to see if that would help. It was a strange mix of short and snappy, and then with (to me) esoteric vocab interlaced. Somehow that combination was jarring and displeasing for me. That’s all I can say about it because I didn’t really try to analyze it, but that’s what happened. I didn’t want to keep going, even though I was somewhat interested in the story. Actually, I don’t think I was that interested either, because I didn’t care for a fable at that time, and it was also kind of meta, a modern commentary. It wasn’t really sucking me in.

What’s interesting is that this book was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. And I could tell it was definitely “a good book”. It just wasn’t for me, and especially I didn’t particularly like the writing style. At least not in that moment.

It reminded me of Dune, which Parker had wanted me to read. I tried to read Dune, I was interested in the story, but I didn’t like the way it was written. It bothered me. I thought again, it was jarring, I didn’t like the descriptions, and I didn’t like the dialouge, etc. I just didn’t find it right, to me.

I suppose that doesn’t happen to me often because I know my tastes and I know what I like, and I go for things that I generally know I’ll like. But I did get the Artemis Fowl series, the first few books from McKay’s, and felt similarly about it. The writing was not to my taste, even though I was interested in the story.

I wish someone could explain why to me. I would like to know the subtle reasons why. I could probably dial in some theories if I tried. One theory is that I don’t seem to care much for short and abrupt, and you may not be so surprised to hear based on my prolific use of commas and “ands”. The flow is important to me, the rhythm. The Artemis Fowl was quite short and abrupt, generally. Lots of periods and sentences that started with “And.” Such as, “She flew to the moon. And she didn’t have a parachute.”

You may say something Hemingway, but Hemingway has a rhythm and flow that I like. He also is very conscious of it, and he will explode out into long sentences, surprising you and varying the pacing. He knows what he’s doing. So, simply saying that I don’t like “short and abrupt” is not quite right. I think the better word is “jarring” or “stilted”. To say that the rhythm or flow is not right for me.

I am also attracted to certain words, I think. There are so many words, of course, but there are still so many that people can probably have their styles in the words they use.

JK Rowling uses “surreptitiously”. She uses “roared”, “furtive”, “nursing”, “twinkling”. Now, those are words I like.

King used this phrase, in Holly, about some middle school boys, “sprawled out” on the ground, “slurping up” their milkshakes. It was something like “the boys were sprawled out on the grass, slurping up their shakes.” I read that last night, and I remember that I did have a kind of physical reaction to those words.

I didn’t like this combination of words, in the sense that I would never write them. But I almost did, because I knew that it was good, and stylistic. It just wasn’t for me, I think the movements of the mouth that you have to make when you say “sprawl” and “slurp”. I like the word sprawl, I don’t really like the word slurp. And then together, and plus “shakes”. “Sprawling out and slurping up your shakes.” I don’t really like that. But I appreciate it. It’s strong. And you know Stephen King likes it. (I kind of do like it.)

I had read Harry Potter as an American, and with American English. But after I watched an interview with her, I started to read the books in her voice, with an English accent. And suddenly, it changed everything. I could see then why she was/is so attracted to certain words. I already thought the writing was great, fun, and flowing, but when I started to read/think of it in her voice, with her accent, suddenly it was even better. I thought of all of the characters in English voices, and they all really started to pop.

Such as the word “surreptitiously”. If you say that a Midwestern American, it sounds pretty terrible. That’s probably why we don’t use it. (At least, I don’t use it, and don’t know anyone who does.) When you say it as JK Rowling though, in British English, it sounds amazing. It flows and rolls, and is suddenly, incredibly fun to say.

Parker has been watching climbing videos, of these guys in London, and in one of the videos they said “mortifying”. It sounded great. In Midwestern American, “mortifying” does not sound that great. It sounds a little clunky. But in British English, “mortifying” sounds pretty amazing. Like “surreptitiously”.

Another word that I’ve just thought of: rancor. Say “rancor” in American English. Not sexy. Say “rancor” in British English. Sounds amazing.

The second book that I had gotten on a whim from the library, was much more engaging for me. It was funny and was flowing, and catching my interest. I liked the writing—it was the subject matter that was not for me. And that’s not surprising, because it was about a shopaholic wife who moves with her husband to LA and finds herself in famous circles, wanting to be a stylist for a famous actor. It was that kind of thing. I’m clearly not the target audience, no. It wasn’t meant for me. But I thought, why can’t I still enjoy it? Because I had thought that maybe I would, as I like antics, humor, and social commentary, etc. I think part of the deal as to why I didn’t want to keep going is that, unless there was some real great twist, and everything turns out to be an illusion or something, I knew from the beginning what the story was going to be about, and I personally didn’t care that much. It’s not a story I’m really interested in, even though I could tell it was going to be funny and entertaining.

After trying out those two books, I picked up the first Harry Potter book, just to see how it compared, and if I was just being biased or judgmental, whatever, based on my mood. But no—I was immediately sucked in. I liked the writing, I liked the flow and pacing. And already, I could see the seeds that were being planted, from those first paragraphs, the hints that were dropped, the story that was before us, about a strange world, about mysterious characters, evil… all of that. I could see how that pulled me in, me personally. Why that was something that I wanted to read.

Then, I moved on to Holly, Stephen King. And right away, I was interested. It was gruesome actually, and dark. As Stephen King often is, right? I have only actually read Misery, and that was a long time ago. But it was pulling me in. I wanted to know what was happening to this man, kind of, even though you knew it was some classic criminal-murderer-type stuff. I enjoyed his writing, his portrayal of characters, descriptions, etc. His voice. That’s what it is. His voice. And then, I was interested. What’s going on here? I want to know more. And so, this one, it pulled me in. The content is a little dark for me, not much whimsy in the tale, and crime stories are not my go-to, but I like the writing, and I want to see what happens. I want to study the master. I read about 100 pages last night.

Benjamin The Donkey

Last night I read a story called Yugao, from my Anthology of Japanese Literature. Yugao was a chapter of the great Japanese masterpiece called Genji Monogatari, which is usually (always?) translated into English as The Tale of Genji. It is considered to be Japan’s greatest work of literature, and it was written all the way back in the 11th century. Think about that, people. That’s 1000 years ago. 1000 years ago, and it slaps. And I was thinking, are there any books that we still read in Western literature that are that old? I thought of The Canterbury Tales and Shakespeare stuff, but I don’t actually know when they were written. I’m going to guess 15th century. Shall we Google it? (Shakespeare, 16th century, The Canterbury Tales end of 14th century.) Don Quixote, another old Western classic, 16th century. We have Beowulf, and Beowulf is older, between 600-1000 CE. From what I just read last night in The Tale of Genji, Beowulf is really primitive in comparison. Beowulf also slaps though.

All I really wanted to say here is that Yugao was riveting and compelling, and that maybe we should be including The Tale of Genji on our lists of greatest works of literature, and I want to read the whole book.

I dismantled more Chinese Privet this morning. I needed something to get me activated, give me some enthusiasm. Seek, and ye shall find. Every time I look, I find more of it in my yard. I now have an enormous pile of trunks and branches in the driveway.

Last night I read that snippet of The Tale of Genji, but a few nights ago I read Animal Farm. You know, in high school I believe I really did say, in my English class, when we were discussing the book, or at least I definitely thought this, because it has now been ringing in my ears, I remember thinking, “Maybe this book doesn’t have a political message. Maybe there is no symbolism. Maybe he just wanted to write about animals.” Well, high school me was not very smart. At least, I didn’t know much about the world and the machinations and movements of societies. I also remember that I thought Old Man and The Sea was boring, and could not understand how this was a celebrated work of literature. I’ve also recently read that, and of course just like with Animal Farm, feel very differently about it now, but that’s how it goes. We are not always ready for what the books have to tell us, and especially I’m sure when the books are about life, and living, and you’re young and still don’t know much about that. But I read Animal Farm, after attempting again like every single night for the last month, it feels like, to try and go to sleep before midnight, and after attempting this and again laying in bed with my mind whirring, fully awake, for an hour, I opened it up, and I read it all the way through. I have gotten into the habit of testing out books, because I have picked up so many classics from an amazing used goods store here in Nashville called MacKays’s, and when I’m looking for something to read I will just grab one that I have laying around and start reading, and if it grabs me I’ll keep reading, and if not I’ll put it down and plan to come back to it when I’m ready for it. So I just picked up Animal Farm to take a little looksie, and then I didn’t put it back down until I was done. This little book that I had thougth really nothing of in high school, hit me harder this time around.

The thing about Animal Farm is that, after I was done with it, I felt very disturbed. I was disturbed, I can say, because unfortunately, it was way, way too easy to draw parallels between what happened on that farm (I mean some countries right now are fully fledged Napoleon farms, North Korea, China, Russia), and what’s happening in many countries around the world, but most unfortunately, with what’s happening here in America. In such plain and simple language, Orwell shows exactly how a population is tricked or cowed into loyalty to a ruler, the steps by which that ruler is able to establish complete control, and how it ultimately descends into conditions that are just as bad if not worse than any the animals on the farm had experienced before their revolution, in hopes of achieving a more equal and fair society. All of the mechanisms, subtle and not so subtle, the gradual degrees in which the population is subjugated, duped, placated, or cowed, until they are completely subservient to the regime, and the single ruler above all.

In the days since reading it, there’s been one character who’s stayed with me, who I’ve been thinking about, and that’s Benjamin, the donkey. Benjamin is the character that really got to me, because Benjamin is exactly who I don’t want to be. Most of the animals on the farm can’t quite grasp what’s happening, the meaning of the events that are taking place, the inevitable outcomes of decisions that are being made. They may not understand at all, or they may have some reservations about changes that they can’t quite express, but their concerns are either relieved by Squealer’s sweet, compelling, and manipulative words, or they are forced into silence by Napoleon’s dogs, or they are steamrolled by the sheep, and never given the chance for public discourse. Some of the animals eventually draw lines in the sand, when pushed too far, but at that point Napoleon (the pig, ruler) has solidified his power, and has the military/police force at his command (in the form of dogs that he bred for the role), and so he can deal with them via force. A few of the other pigs are aware, and dissent, and as they are threats, are killed. Benjamin doesn’t object, doesn’t dissent, but Benjamin is aware. He knows what’s up. Benjamin is old, Benjamin is smart, Benjamin has been around for a long time, and Benjamin is cynical. His expectations are low, and he is not passionate. So, Benjamin is something like an outsider, politically, or inert. He’s not involved, does not lean one way or the other, does not offer any opinions, does not rock the boat. Benjamin is not ignorant, however – he is intelligent, he sees, he understands. He simply chooses passivity. Benjamin cares about one thing, he has no allegance to anything other than his friend, the workhorse, Boxer, and so the only time we see Benjamin show any real emotion or move to action is when Boxer is being taken to his death. Benjamin is so exasperated by the other animals’ stupidity, that they can’t understand that Boxer is not really being taken to the vet, but instead has been sold to the “knacker” to become glue, and so upset that he’s losing Boxer, that he actually does something, and shouts at the all, hey, you dumbasses, that cart says “horse killer” on it, he’s not going to the vet!!!!!! And of course they all try to save Boxer then and fail, and Benjamin goes back to being a passive bystander, now without his best friend, Boxer.

This is why Benjamin has stuck with me. Benjamin is passive, and it costs him his best friend. It probably costs him his happiness too. He’s cynical, and sad. And even though he tries to keep out of affairs and makes no waves, he cannot get out unscathed. The hens die, some of them, because they refuse to lay more eggs for the regime. Their defiance costs them their lives. The pigs die, some of them, because they voice their dissent at the meetings. Benjamin doesn’t die, because he doesn’t dissent – but he still suffers, and he suffers doubly because he loses Boxer, and because he has to live with a cynical, hopeless worldview to justify living his life of inaction.

That begs the question – would you rather resist, risking death for the cause, or would you rather comply, and live (possibly, because Boxer complied, and still he died for it), and suffer? I don’t think that Benjamin ever felt compelled to resist, though, because Benjamin didn’t care one way or the other. I think Benjamin did not really have a belief that things could be any better, as he says, which actually can be perfectly summed up by the words of a cynical friend of mine, “Life sucks, then you die.” Benjamin had no reason to act, because he didn’t think it would matter, whether Napoleon was the ruler, whether a human was the ruler, or whether Snowball, who could have potentially have been a much better ruler for their new society, was the ruler. In Benjamin’s eyes none of it mattered, because life would still suck, life would still be hard, that that was just how life was.

There were other politically inactive, politically indifferent characters, but they weren’t as aware as Benjamin. Benjamin was indifferent, inactive due to his cynicism. Moses, the raven, also didn’t care who ruled the farm, but that was because he had Sugarcandy Mountain. He was a problem for the pigs in the beginning, because while they were trying to fill the other animals’ heads with ideas about their political systems and designs for the society (which they called, Animalism), Moses was out here telling everyone about Sugarcandy Mountain, and how great Sugarcandy Mountain was, this magical place that you went when you died, and got all the sugar you ever wanted. Moses had religion. He was not interested in the movements of the animals or their society. He was outside of it. (Or, possibly, Moses himself didn’t believe in Sugarcandy Mountain, but both governments, Mr. Jones’s and Napoleon’s found his preaching useful, and so they would treat him well.) Moses was useful to Napoleon later though, I think, when things had gotten so bad that he couldn’t give them much else to work for in terms of hope, so if they couldn’t believe in a good life on the farm anymore, they could at least believe in Sugarcandy Mountain. There was the cat, who just didn’t care about anything at all, (classic cat stereotype) and there was Mollie, the white mare, who just wanted to eat sugar and have ribbons in her hair. She wanted an easy life. She didn’t care about politics, but she liked the way she was treated by Mr. Jones, because she got sugar and ribbons, so for her the previous order was just fine, and in the new one she couldn’t have her sugar and ribbons, so she went to another farm where she could.

I don’t want to be a Benjamin.