I remember walking back from work one time and seeing a dad and his son reunited.
Most days that mountain of paperwork whittles me down so that I never take the time to look around me. I just bow my head on the subway and scuttle along the sidewalk back to my kids. Today though, the block of flats I normally pass by had the ambience of cars and occasional clatter punctured by a gruff cry of "Champ!"
I jumped at this and wheeled round in the direction of the bellowing man. Who wouldn't? Something so loud yet simultaneously friendly-sounding in New York would be shocking to any native.
A large man across the street had made an attempt to embrace a young gentleman in the door frame. The former was in a crumpled tweed suit, which I was suddenly glad I wasn't too close to. I knew some people who wore similar clothes. They tended not to be people you wanted to hang out around. The gentleman was in casual wear, some simple suit trousers and a tank top. He was fit too. Roughly between 19 or 20. He'd clearly kept himself as neat as he could on what little he had.
Despite the contrast, I knew they were Father and Son.
Maybe that's why I stayed and saw more than I should.
The large man stumbled backwards. I thought maybe the gentleman had pushed him back, but he didn't seem to move a muscle. The sun was low in the sky behind me, so I could see him clearly. His lip had curled a little and his brow was held low. I'd only seen a look like that once before: when my wife had walked out.
"It's been too long champ! How the rubbish are you lad?"
A pause.
"Are... You are well I take it."
The ambience of New York life passing them by was his answer.
The large man was stammering now, but the words still came out as a half shout. "Sti-Still plugging away at the off... office I don't doub-t!"
"I'm at College dad." The words came out like the biting disapproval of a lecturer correcting a mistake. I winced.
"Hah... Well you could have fool-f... fooled me! I... uh..." He paused. I realised he was swaying on the spot, and at that point I almost felt sick. I knew this was a train wreck in motion, but I stood glued. An unsettling need for spectacle had taken hold.
After a while, the large one spoke again. His grasp of speech seemed to be slipping. "Lll-look son... I uh... I know-w that... LAST time... last time wasn't eggs-eggactly the... hmm... the best time. But come on!" He clapped the gentleman on the shoulder. "We can't let a few... ARSEwipes ruin wh-wha-what we have!"
The gentleman slapped the large ones hand off his shoulder. Just a slap, but it sent him nearly stumbling off the side of the steps. "You still don't get it do you?"
"Well!" The large one started booming again. He seemed to be better at speaking when he was the only one who could be heard. "You think I need your approval? You think I need your ungrateful arse to be who I am? Fuck you! You'll be sorry you illegitimate pencil pushing son of a hooker!"
"Goodbye father."
The door slammed, leaving the poor son of a bitch and I alone in the street. The light was dying fast, and I was almost ashamed of myself for leaving my kids at home for so long.
"What are you looking at?" he jeered at me, and now I could see his eyes were bloodshot, and his beard had flecks of... stuff in it. "You gonna have a joke about me with your two-faced wanker friends? I should come over there and... just fuck off will you?!"
I looked down at myself and saw the two small splashes on the stone pavement. I had shed some tears for these two poor souls. I knew there wasn't a damn thing I could do. That would be the last time that this kid would ever see his father.
Monday, 24 February 2014
Cheever’s narratives rarely end ‘happily ever after’. Why might a writer choose to make their characters suffer?
I had a debate a while ago with one of the students I'm living with, about where realism's (and by extension, suffering's) place was in fiction. He was of the position that fiction should be about escapism and positivity, and that too much negativity was needless. I tried to reason that sometimes a story needed to involve suffering for the sake of realism, to which he replied along the lines of "we don't need that kind of realism in fiction, that's what reality's for."
I relinquished the argument after that, since I could not adequately retort, but after thinking about it the next day, I realised the flaw in that line of reasoning.
Reality is for being in pain is it?
Reality is for losing a relationship with ones father due to his alcoholism (as in Cheever's Reunion)?
Reality is for being consumed by the horrors of the cosmos despite trying to use their power for good (e.g. Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné series of stories)?
I have constantly held that stories are a method by which we understand ourselves and the world around us. This can be seen from the mythology of ancient civilisations, which created Gods to explain the forces of nature and reflect our own flawed, temperamental image, to the TV dramas of today which create parallel worlds where people mirroring ourselves are brought to tears on a weekly basis.
We cannot go out and experience every piece of suffering reality has to offer, neither can we turn our heads from all the suffering and live in flights of fancy.
So what do we do? We use the power of fiction. We create characters who experience agony, and by reading, we follow their path down the road of pain, embracing the feeling of it, and hopefully we come to rationalise it.
Fiction can simply be a form of escape, but it can also help us face the cage.
I relinquished the argument after that, since I could not adequately retort, but after thinking about it the next day, I realised the flaw in that line of reasoning.
Reality is for being in pain is it?
Reality is for losing a relationship with ones father due to his alcoholism (as in Cheever's Reunion)?
Reality is for being consumed by the horrors of the cosmos despite trying to use their power for good (e.g. Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné series of stories)?
I have constantly held that stories are a method by which we understand ourselves and the world around us. This can be seen from the mythology of ancient civilisations, which created Gods to explain the forces of nature and reflect our own flawed, temperamental image, to the TV dramas of today which create parallel worlds where people mirroring ourselves are brought to tears on a weekly basis.
We cannot go out and experience every piece of suffering reality has to offer, neither can we turn our heads from all the suffering and live in flights of fancy.
So what do we do? We use the power of fiction. We create characters who experience agony, and by reading, we follow their path down the road of pain, embracing the feeling of it, and hopefully we come to rationalise it.
Fiction can simply be a form of escape, but it can also help us face the cage.
Tuesday, 18 February 2014
Is your writing your ‘letter to the world?’ Why? How?
I cannot go as far as to say my writing is for the entire world, and I wouldn't describe it as something so frigid and serious sounding as a 'letter'.
Thinking about this question, I can't help but reflect on Emily Dickinson's writing, and how her situation supposedly shaped her poetic voice.
Because of her particularly idiosyncratic style, only about 1% of the 1,775 known poems she wrote were ever published. Publishers would demand re-edits that detracted from what she was attempting to portray, and there's little doubt that a fair few of her poems would raise an eyebrow of concern, e.g. 324, which criticises the need to go to church in order to be saved. Considering her heavily Christian surroundings, this would have been considered scandalous.
We can conclude that this was not very much of a deterrent for her work, and if 709 is anything to go by, it acted more as inspiration:
Thinking about this question, I can't help but reflect on Emily Dickinson's writing, and how her situation supposedly shaped her poetic voice.
Because of her particularly idiosyncratic style, only about 1% of the 1,775 known poems she wrote were ever published. Publishers would demand re-edits that detracted from what she was attempting to portray, and there's little doubt that a fair few of her poems would raise an eyebrow of concern, e.g. 324, which criticises the need to go to church in order to be saved. Considering her heavily Christian surroundings, this would have been considered scandalous.
We can conclude that this was not very much of a deterrent for her work, and if 709 is anything to go by, it acted more as inspiration:
Publication - is the Auction
Of the Mind of Man -
Poverty - be justifying
For so foul a thing
It wouldn't seem like she was writing for the public interest (as the phrase 'letter to the world' would suggest). It seems to be more about allowing her creativity to occupy a place within the world. After all, what is creativity if it is not manifested in some way?
I liken my own creative efforts to this. If I had to come up with a metaphor to describe it, I'd call my work a sort of platter submitted for the approval of those around me. Any 'message' could be considered a 'fortune cookie' on the side. A bonus to the bulk of the meal. Make of it what you will, but don't feel like I expect you to meditate upon it.
I suddenly feel really hungry for some Chinese food...
Tuesday, 11 February 2014
A protagonist that embodies the flaws and weaknesses of the writer distracts the reader from the narrative itself? Agree/disagree?
I would have to say no.
A protagonist in a work of fiction is normally used as a catalyst for the dramatic thesis of a piece of fiction. They will either be the embodiment of the thesis, or they can realise a lesson at the end of a journey (literal or figurative).
Often though, especially in more adult literature, the protagonist will not necessarily realise anything themselves, and the dramatic thesis of the piece is left for the audience to decipher from the events that transpire, and how the hero reacts to them. This can be seen in John Cheever's The Country Husband, in which our 'hero' Francis Weed constantly seems to be about to experience a life-changing event: a plane crash, a reunion with an exiled lady, a doomed romance with a young girl, a divorce, and being arrested. These events however seem to either be resolved before they really begin, or no one cares at all.
In this story, Francis can be interpreted as a representation of Cheever's early-middle-aged state (published in 1954, so he would have been around 42 years old), living in the suburbs and being exposed to the conformity bred by this way of life. Whether this is true or not doesn't matter in this instance, since the message of the piece remains the same, and the characters detached, strained mentality serves to drive the point home.
A writer worth their salt will apply their own flaws onto a character to serve the narrative. A struggle is far easier to write about in an engaging way when it is personal to the writer.
A protagonist in a work of fiction is normally used as a catalyst for the dramatic thesis of a piece of fiction. They will either be the embodiment of the thesis, or they can realise a lesson at the end of a journey (literal or figurative).
Often though, especially in more adult literature, the protagonist will not necessarily realise anything themselves, and the dramatic thesis of the piece is left for the audience to decipher from the events that transpire, and how the hero reacts to them. This can be seen in John Cheever's The Country Husband, in which our 'hero' Francis Weed constantly seems to be about to experience a life-changing event: a plane crash, a reunion with an exiled lady, a doomed romance with a young girl, a divorce, and being arrested. These events however seem to either be resolved before they really begin, or no one cares at all.
In this story, Francis can be interpreted as a representation of Cheever's early-middle-aged state (published in 1954, so he would have been around 42 years old), living in the suburbs and being exposed to the conformity bred by this way of life. Whether this is true or not doesn't matter in this instance, since the message of the piece remains the same, and the characters detached, strained mentality serves to drive the point home.
A writer worth their salt will apply their own flaws onto a character to serve the narrative. A struggle is far easier to write about in an engaging way when it is personal to the writer.
Monday, 3 February 2014
John Cheever wrote many short stories in what was referred to as the 'New Yorker style'. Why might a writer have a style? What is your writing style and why?
The former question's fairly simple to answer. The latter, maybe not so much, considering ones perception of their creation is almost always skewed.
The most fundamental and important reason for adopting a style is one that lies at the heart of our society: something those in business would call a Unique Selling Point (USP), something that satisfies an itch in its audience so that they keep coming back.
In the case of Mr Cheever, I get the feeling that his USP is a certain accessibility. The Lexis is simple, but still carries a depth of meaning: e.g. "for Lawrence it would be an easy step from the coast of Portugal to the tyranny in Spain" (taken from Goodbye My Brother). Here the character's pessimism is conveyed through a simple metaphor, and all one needs to understand it is to have some knowledge of world news at the time of this story's initial publication. It's through aspects like this that his stories become enjoyable even for the common man. One doesn't need a Shakespearian upbringing, or a life spent in reading. All they need is eyes, a civilised life, and half a brain.
Plus there's nothing like calling a character a "son of a bitch" to break down pretences!
It is a similar wish for honesty and accessibility that I try (keyword being 'try') to fulfil with my own writing. I have no sovereign right to a reader's attention, so I should not attempt to make them work too hard to enjoy what I write.
The most fundamental and important reason for adopting a style is one that lies at the heart of our society: something those in business would call a Unique Selling Point (USP), something that satisfies an itch in its audience so that they keep coming back.
In the case of Mr Cheever, I get the feeling that his USP is a certain accessibility. The Lexis is simple, but still carries a depth of meaning: e.g. "for Lawrence it would be an easy step from the coast of Portugal to the tyranny in Spain" (taken from Goodbye My Brother). Here the character's pessimism is conveyed through a simple metaphor, and all one needs to understand it is to have some knowledge of world news at the time of this story's initial publication. It's through aspects like this that his stories become enjoyable even for the common man. One doesn't need a Shakespearian upbringing, or a life spent in reading. All they need is eyes, a civilised life, and half a brain.
Plus there's nothing like calling a character a "son of a bitch" to break down pretences!
It is a similar wish for honesty and accessibility that I try (keyword being 'try') to fulfil with my own writing. I have no sovereign right to a reader's attention, so I should not attempt to make them work too hard to enjoy what I write.
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