of a dire left-wing administration then led by Gordon Brown and the dismal ‘Mad Hattie’ Harman. The book explained to me why so many people in the United Kingdom were so unhappy with the administration. The parallels between the book and the administration were uncanny.
We sometimes forget that ‘rules’ on writing, including grammar, are man-made and not handed down from on high. I tend to fully agree (rather than agree fully) with Raymond Chandler’s perspective on one matter in particular, which he related in a letter to his publisher:
Would you convey my compliments to the purist who reads your proofs and tell him or her that I write in a sort of broken-down patois which is something like the way a Swiss waiter talks, and that when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so it will stay split.
letter to Edward Weeks, 18 January 1947
I greatly admire Raymond Chandler’s books. He wrote one of my favourite sentences in modern (post Twain) American literature:
It was a blonde, a blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window.
Farewell, My Lovely (1940)
I wish I’d written that. Along with many of the Mark Twain lines in Appendix 1.
Aspiring writers are often given the advice to ‘write about what you know’. I think the advice is terrible, especially when it comes from writers. The sentiment reflects the idea that people don’t have the necessary authority to write about subjects they’re not familiar with. I shudder to think how many authors have abandoned promising book projects in the light of such advice.
Most fiction – most good fiction, at least – wouldn’t pass the test. A number of genres wouldn’t exist, including science fiction and much of the fantasy genre. Does JK Rowling write about ‘what she knows’? No. 16 years after bashing out the first Harry Potter book on an old manual typewriter, she’s now worth over £600 million.
Much non-fiction, for that matter, isn’t written by writers about ‘what they know’. It’s created by writers seeking to understand complex subjects in the absence of satisfactory books; writers seeking to shed light on topics about which they – and hopefully their target readers – wish to learn more.
Because you’ve bought this book it’s likely that you’ve read books giving advice on writing. I’ve read a number of them myself, and I am often surprised at how prescriptive they are. The underlying premises of most of these books seem to be:
1.I’m a successful writer.
2.I’m presenting the principles behind my writing.
3.If you adopt these principles, you’ll be a successful writer too.
On the basis that nobody ever became a millionaire after reading books with titles such as How to Become a Millionaire, let’s challenge this model. Let’s start with Stephen King, possibly the world’s best-selling fiction writer, and his book On Writing, published in 2000. In June 1999 King was hit by a van while he was walking along the shoulder of a country road in Maine. Six operations were required to save his life and return him to a semblance of physical normality. When he returned to writing it was to write On Writing. 11 years after publication the book remains a bestseller in its genre, and with good reason. But you won’t be able to write like Stephen King after reading the book. The best you’ll be able to do is imitate him by obeying some or all of his guidance, which is a different thing altogether. And you won’t enjoy writing that way.
Iain Banks is one of my favourite British authors, and his approach to writing couldn’t be more different that Stephen King’s. Let’s start with plotting. Stephen King claims not to know the ending of his books before embarking on the writing, and he has an interesting rationale for adopting this approach. If he doesn’t know how the book is going to end – while he’s writing it – then nor can his readers. I suspect it also makes the writing process far more interesting for him. Iain Banks takes a completely different approach and spends a great deal of time on detailed plotting through to the end, before the bulk writing commences. Neither approach is right or wrong. They’re simply approaches which suit these individual writers. They also differ on the matter of characterisation. Stephen King’s success is often attributed to his skilled characterisation, while Iain Banks goes in for relatively little characterisation.
There’s a good reason for being selective about taking advice on writing. Let’s say that you slavishly follow Stephen King’s advice. You’ll then be in the company of all the writers who are doing likewise. How many? 1,000? 10,000? 100,000? Who knows? But I can see from the sales ranking of On Writing on Amazon that it’s still selling well, ten years after publication. Why would you want to compete head on with even 1,000 writers writing under the same guidance? What satisfaction could there possibly be in that?
I imagine many of those writers have written numerous books in the style of Stephen King and are puzzled by their lack of success. You could probably spot them by their haunted expressions. I’d rather be distinctive and enjoy the writing process. That way, even if my books don’t sell, I’d at least have enjoyed writing them.
Amid much advice King tells us that ‘the adverb is not your friend’, and continues:
Adverbs . . . are words that modify verbs, adjectives, or other adverbs. They’re the ones that usually end in –ly. Adverbs, like the passive voice, seem to have been created with the timid writer in mind. [Author’s note: ironically, and rather sadly, the timid writer – after reading King’s advice – will thereafter cease to use adverbs.] With the passive voice, the writer usually expresses fear of not being taken seriously; it is the voice of little boys wearing shoepolish moustaches and little girls clumping around in Mommy’s high heels. With adverbs, the writer usually tells us he or she is afraid he / she isn’t expressing himself / herself clearly, that he or she is not getting the point or the picture across.
King proceeds to back his thesis with examples of dialogue where the adverbs add little or nothing. But could it be that King is simply not adept at using adverbs, and is therefore disinclined to use them? He advocates having the spoken words explain the emotion or emotions that the speaker is feeling. Well, at least in the country I live in – England – people often don’t put their emotions into the words they employ. Life can be altogether more pleasant as a result. An English writer will naturally use adverbs to convey the emotions associated with the spoken word.
It’s time to bring in one of my favourite authors of his generation, George Orwell. Let’s look at a few unrelated lines picked off random pages of his 1949 masterpiece Nineteen Eighty-Four.
‘The past is more important,’ agreed O’Brien gravely.
Winston looked up at him. ‘In the place where there is no darkness?’ he said hesitantly.
‘These things happen,’ he began vaguely.
‘Smith?’ said the woman. ‘Thass funny. My name’s Smith too. Why,’ she added sentimentally, ‘I might be your mother!’
It’s a good thing Orwell didn’t take heed of anyone’s views on adverbs associated with dialogue. In a bookstore the other day I chanced upon How to Write a Blockbuster, a book written by Helen Corner and Lee Weatherly. My wild hunch is that Lee Weatherly is of the female persuasion, given the books published under the name. Anyway, they give the same advice as Stephen King on adverbs. Marvellous. The book’s readers won’t be writing dialogue like I shall. I plan to use plenty of adverbs in my first work of fiction.
Flick
