something other than browsing the Internet for porn. But the trip to Tahiti to research a book on Paul Gauguin’s use of native girls may not survive scrutiny (unless artfully woven into a travel narrative).
So, with math skills unequipped to deal with numbers over ten, it may be prudent for the writer, in the unusual circumstance of his having earned money, to have his tax return prepared by a tax accountant. One who is willing to do the job in return for having his car washed.
Now that you have chosen the kind of creative writing you wish to do, and written it down as a reminder in case you start to drift off into doodling or worse, what gear do you need besides the stout eraser?
A computer. As mandated earlier in this lecture, this has to be the most important relationship in a writer’s life. Yet, and as incredible as it may seem to us today, much of our past literature was created without the aid of a computer. Writers such as Shakespeare, Samuel Johnson, and even Charles Dickens wrote what they did with no laptop other than the one made when they sat down. What they wrote was not by the grace of Bill Gates. So how did they do it and still produce very acceptable written work?
Examination of old manuscripts — from the Latin words for “hand” and “written” — reveals that all of this peerless material was written with pen and ink. Yes, they didn’t even have a ballpoint to chew. Writers had to dip their “pen” — often little more than a turkey feather renamed “quill” — into a bottle of murky liquid. Dozens of times a page. The quill had no delete button. This meant that the writer had to think before he wrote. Otherwise the page looked really messy, which is the main reason why most of the early writers were monks depending on divine guidance.
Now, some antiquarians argue that handwriting gave the writer the feel of the words he was using, the rhythm of a sentence, the concerto of the paragraph.
Twaddle! Writers were composing on the typewriter — a clackety device with no warning of misspellings — for years without loss of lyricism or other ill effect except the increase in alcoholism.
True, there is some clinical evidence that it is prudent to write a first draft in pencil, then transfer the text to the computer. Reason: the computer has been known to lose an entire novel. A critique, perhaps, but one that the writer didn’t ask for.
Most writers prefer to go straight to work on their computer, right after checking their email. (Reading email and feasting on spam —the gratuitous messaging from persons or humanoids to whom we haven’t been formally introduced — can occupy a writer fully until it is time for a coffee break).
The distraction of email, along with surfing the Internet, enables the writer to delay, or possibly avoid entirely, the serious work of composition. It is possible to email the same information to hundreds of people — family, friends, even total strangers — which is a level of market saturation the writer may never match with his other written work. His reward is, of course, not financial but the gratitude of the email recipients, who read it as an excuse for delaying or avoiding their own work.
It is conservatively estimated that email, worldwide, eliminates more millions of hours of useful toil than any recreation since the golf course.
It is normal to fake indignation at having our time wasted by persons to whom we aren’t related by blood or natural bonding. A writer may actually go straight from his email to creating a graphic scene of murder, or sadistic sex, with renewed zest.
Another reliable source of distraction is your printer. This device has come a long way since William Caxton, in fifteenth-century England, created a new source of typographical errors: printing. Today’s home printer has vastly increased the number of ways in which something can go wrong. It also vomits paper at a rate that is accelerating the deforestation of the planet. Most of these pages are blank, for reasons known only to the printer, and of course the printer repairman, who has replaced our other relationships.
As for your copier/fax machine, forget about sex — this is the only reproduction you can afford.
Now that you have defined what kind of writing you would like to do and bought the hardware necessary to this mission, where is the best place to perform the actual act of composition? Not everyone can afford the luxury of a private study guarded by a sign on the door: NO ADMISSION! GENIUS AT WORK!
If the writer is fortunate enough to have an actual desk in his home, with a bottom drawer to accommodate all amassed rejections, he has no excuse for using it only as a footrest. A chair that swivels in response to any interruption of work is optional.
Only very successful writers who can afford the vasectomy or hysterectomy to eliminate the possibility of intrusion by children can count on prolonged seclusion for intercourse with the Muse.
Locking yourself in the bathroom with your laptop is feasible only if other family members will respect your privacy and use a commode.
The outhouse is a prime location on which to put pencil to paper while waiting for the bowels to respond to the call of nature. It is impossible to estimate how many immortal lines have been generated in this austere accommodation. For all we know Hamlet’s gloomy reflection, “To be or not to be,” was inspired by Shakespeare’s sojourn in the bog.
If all else fails, the public library is another place where you can find a place to sit, though you may have to borrow a book from time to time to ward off a shirty librarian.
Okay, you have now decided what kind of creative writing you want to get it on with, you have collected the technical equipment needed to convey this to a waiting world, and you’ve secured a place to write. You are ready to commence the actual process of producing organized words.
Despite all the technological advances in creative writing since the ancient Egyptians chipped out obituary notices in royal tombs, it is still defined as art. It is not a science. The writer’s mind is constantly fighting off fact in favour of fancy. He is wide open to inspiration, that magical force that causes him to leap out of bed — regardless of company — to capture the divine afflatus ere it fly into oblivion. In writing.
A close examination of our literature reveals that most writing consists of words. The words used are the product of selection (otherwise, Noah Webster would be the greatest author of all time).
The writer selects words from his vocabulary. In fact, it is impossible to exaggerate the importance of vocabulary in creative writing. The writer’s vocabulary is like a nursing mother’s breast: the larger
