I have been challenged by Finn Harvor to answer some questions about the state of things in the publishing world, and in the novel in general, a challenge I won't take up in its entirety. The main reason is that I'm not qualified to talk about the publishing industry; I have no first-hand experience of it. (I'm talking about fiction here, not EFL publishing.) I can only repeat what I've read in articles and other blogs. My main concern is the novel itself — how to write it and how to read it. As far as the latter is concerned, so many have been written, in so many languages, that I can't possibly hope to skim the surface. I have so many unread books in my own library that if I could manage to read one a week, I would need more than thirty years. I still buy books even though I know I already have more than I will ever be able to read in my lifetime. It's hard, then, for me to get too worried about the state of things.
I won't get into what a novel is for me and what I want from it, mainly because I'm not interested in persuading anyone that it is the way. But for me this is something fixed (even though it's exciting when a writer comes along and writes one in a very different way, and seems to reinvent the novel). It is a kind of ideal. And by that I mean that if the novel changes in such a way that it no longer offers me what I want, then I will have no problem with turning my back on its future. As I said, I already have enough to me keep me busy for the rest of my life, and there are many great works I haven't even bought, let alone read. So publishing for me is not an end in itself. My main concern as a writer is to write the kind of book I like, or the kind of book I'd like to read but which hasn't been written yet. For me, writing is a long process of discovery and surprise, which is why I could never write a novel that had already been tightly plotted out beforehand. I enjoy the sense of not knowing exactly where it's going. If I lost that, I would never be able to maintain my interest in writing. I'd simply give up. Even if the prospect of publication were ensured, it would be too much of a chore. My point, then, is that, although I would love to be a successful novelist, I would only want to be so on my terms. If those terms were not accepted by any publisher, I'd either give up or publish it myself. For this reason, I would also prefer to be published by a small publisher whose vision of literature I shared than with a big publisher whose main concern is to sell a blockbuster (the kind of book I don't read anyway). I had begun another post, and have left some comments on Harvor's blog, with some objections to his "manifesto", but have since thought better of it. I will only respond on a personal level and try to account for why the kind of writing he is advocating offers me no enjoyment at all.
* * * * *
A couple of months ago, I watched Apocalypse Now for the first time in years, and I was struck again by something that occurred to me when I first read Heart of Darkness. (I had seen the film first.)
For me, the most fundamental difference between the two works is how they approach Kurtz. Both the book and the film create a strong sense of anticipation; you hear a lot about him, for a long time, before you see him, and he begins to grow in your imagination. But in the film, when we finally see Kurtz, it's someone who pontificates, whereas in the book he remains relatively silent. Brando's semi-improvised speeches have an anticlimactic effect. They are, for the most part, a combination of the pretentious and pedestrian. (Anyone who has seen Hearts of Darkness, the documentary, cannot envy Coppolla having to salvage something from the two weeks he worked with Brando. Perhaps the now-classic line, "I swallowed a bug!" could have been left in the film without detracting from it much.)
Conrad, though, knew what he was doing, and had his Kurtz keep his mouth shut. No one knows — except Marlowe, who tells you that you simply had to be there — what Kurtz experienced. But we see the result, and we get this final judgement: "The horror!" Our imagination must work on the material to justify the unquestionable result: Kurtz's state at the end of the book. And the imagination cannot fail to convince itself. If it does, you try again, or say, "I can't imagine, but it must have been horrible if it had such an effect."
The film, however invites the viewer to say, "I'm not convinced that those experiences would lead to this." We can even fail to be impressed with the result. This is because film as a medium must show. The novel has access to the interior world of its characters, and film is a direct, simultaneous representation of the exterior world.
(Of course, there are exceptions to this. Ironically, Apocalypse Now fails where it tries to show the interior — if Coppolla had left more to the imagination, it would have worked — and Heart of Darkness succeeds because it avoids delving first-hand into Kurtz's inner life.)
To have access to the interior world of its characters in such a way, a film must use some kind technique like the voice-over or have the actor think aloud. When voice-over is used too often, critics often complain that the film is using the technique as a crutch, to compensate for what it has not been able to do in the language and with the methods of film. It's using methods that are not visual and therefore not best suited to the medium.
I don't want to sound rigid in my expectations. I'm not. I'm well aware that novels can deal almost entirely with appearances. Robbes-Grillet comes to mind, and then there's this curious example:
The temperature is in the nineties, and the boulevard is absolutely empty.
Lower down, the inky water of a canal reaches in a straight line. Midway between two locks is barge full of timber. On the bank, two rows of barrels.
Beyond the canal, between houses separated by workyards, a huge, cloudless, tropical sky. Under the throbbing sun, white facades, slate roofs, and granite quays hurt the eyes. An obscure distant murmur rises in the hot air. All seems drugged by the Sunday peace and the sadness of summer days.
Two men appear.
In his "Notes on an Unfinished Novel", John Fowles made this comment:
Here (the opening four paragraphs of a novel) is a flagrant bit of writing for the cinema. The man has obviously spent too much time on film scripts and can now think only of his movie sale. [...] It first appeared on March 25, 1881. The writer's name is Flaubert. All I have done to his novel Bouvard et Pecuchet is to transpose its past historic into the present.
I recommend the essay to anyone interested in the question of the two media. You can find it in his Wormholes.
* * * * *
My main objection is with Harvor's notion of vividness in writing. "Less is more vivid" says the header on his blog. He has also rightly said that we get more mileage out of Jack Nicholson raising his eyebrow and sighing than we can with some dialogue. Robert De Niro once said that such a gesture was worth an entire page of script. The irony, of course, is that these examples serve to reduce the script, to do away with the cumbersome, less effective written word in the visual medium of film. Both are examples of an immediate vividness that writing cannot aspire to.
A writer, however, can try to create the vivid image. Some may write, "Jack smirked ironically", but this is hardly vivid. A vivid image is always impressed upon us. In this example, the reader needs to have a clear idea beforehand of what an ironic smirk looks like and then to consult this image quickly. This is a considerable amount of imaginative work on the part of the reader, more even than the writer was prepared to do. A careful, attentive and imaginative reader, however, is quite likely to lose patience here, to demand more from a writer. The reader who does not lose patience is the one who does not consult an image, but simply takes in the ironic smirk as a mere fact, as a bit of information, and moves on. Reader and writer are doing a small but equal amount of imaginative work.
If the writer had described the raising of an eyebrow, the crooked smile, the sideways glance, the brief puff of breath out of the nose (all the while never resorting to the word "ironic"), then a vivid image perhaps would have been created. (I can't speak for the success of an off-hand attempt.) The reader would see it clearly. They might not understand it as ironic, but that's a risk all writers must take.
Grumpy Old Bookman made some good observations in this post:
But you see, while the literati despise cliches, the truth is that, in certain contexts, they serve a useful purpose. You and I, being sophisticated folk, probably would not use a phrase such as 'avoid like the plague' in writing; and maybe not in conversation. But to many readers/listeners, such a phrase communicates an idea instantly and effectively.
Instant and effective communication is what commercial fiction is all about. And to criticise an artefact for being eminently suitable for its purpose seems to me to be unreasonable.
Ditto for 'cardboard characters'. Which might more fairly be described as broadbrush, or well defined characters. And ditto for repetitions of key facts. Modern readers, as I keep on saying, are not reading their books for two hours at a stretch in a peaceful environment. They read commercial novels, in particular, in snatched moments, on crowded trains. Giving such readers a few reminders of key facts is not a practice which is deserving of criticism. On the contrary.
The democratic, interactive sounding "We are all directors now" overlooks the fact that readers don't want to be directors. They want the writer to be the director. Some of them want the sort of chunks of ready-made information that the Grumpy Old Bookman talks about, which can be quickly processed with little effort, and others want sharper, more discrete details that can be put together and interpreted.
When Harvor writes
NEVILLE: [nervously, clearly wanting to say something more] Sure. Let's go for coffee. I'd like that.
or
PAUL: Oh. Okay. Thanks. [beat] Did the person say who they were?
JENNIFER: [without significance] Your dad.
PAUL: Oh. Great. [Sighs] Okay. I’ll be there in a sec.
JENNIFER: [cheerfully] Bye!
or
PAUL’S FATHER: [astounded] Tomorrow?! But this is important!
PAUL: Well, okay, if it’s so important, what is it?
PAUL’S FATHER: [dramatically] I can’t say.
this is not vivid. It does not invite the reader to create a vivid image. It is lazy writing. At times it is cartoonish:
ASIAN FRIEND: She not like you, Luis.
LUIS, THE HANDSOME MEXICAN GUY: [astounded by the suggestion] Not like?!
The "direction" is so superfluous even the comic-book punctuation explains it. In general, the directions are trying to do something the dialogue itself can handle. Another example:
PAUL: [to Jennifer] Where is it?
JENNIFER: What?
PAUL: The phone.
JENNIFER: Oh. Right here. [She indicates a phone mere inches away from her.]
When the secretary says "Right here", we don't need to be told that she points to the telephone on her desk. We understand that it's close. Otherwise she would have said, "Over there."
And sometimes, as with "without significance", they're simply perplexing.
I believe I've known Finn for a long enough time to say that if he'd seen it himself in a block of prose, in a conventional or traditional piece of fiction, he would agree.
One could say that the problem lies with the practioner. Surely there's room in the screenplay novel for more vivid description? There is, but then we are turning back to the methods already used in the novel. The reader who is willing to do the work to properly read a carefully written piece of fiction has no need to turn to the screenplay novel (unless it contains advantages I can't see). The only thing that changes is the way we write the dialogue.
Check out Finn Harvor's blog, http://screen-novel.blogspot.com, and read his novel here, and decide for yourselves.
That’s a lot of words to say “show, don’t tell”.
The Flaubert thing is brilliant though. If Fowles had written more stuff like that, he wouldn’t be the tedious fucking bore to wade through that he is.
Yeah, it is a lot of words. The problem is, I had planned a more in-depth post, touching on various things, then simplified it, but still wanted to keep some of the older parts. Plus, I'm responding to several things Harvor has written on his blog, without actually referring to them.
You’re entitled to criticize the screenplay-novel form (and my writing) as much as you like. And there’s a lot here that I’d like to respond to later. But you’re missing an essential point — and an important one. I never challenged you to write an essay on the screenplay-novel. Instead I wrote:
“I hope you’ll respond to a challenge of my own: write an essay explaining how you think an emerging novelist is supposed to both write work that is artistically uncompromising but also able to sell well enough to allow continued artistic activity over the long term.”
You need to think a little more carefully about why you’re reacting to the idea of a novel in the form of a screenplay so defensively.
All right, I summarised what I perceived your challenge to be, based on numerous things you’ve addressed on your blog. The title of the post is deceptive, I admit, and I’ll change it to something else. But I’ve also made it clear that the challenge didn’t interest me. It’s pointless: nothing artistically uncompromising is going to sell well, except in freak circumstances. The answer would involve changing most readers’ habits, society in general, maybe even the world.
I’m not reacting defensively. No doubt you’ll find people interested in this thing, but I can’t read it. If I discussed the reasons why I don’t like it, it was mainly to take you up on the claim that it’s vivid writing.
I find nothing in it of intrinsic value. I asked you to explain its artistic merits, without reference to publishing, and you sort of did, but you still didn’t explain much. If you want, I can explain what I see as the merits of regular prose, the traditional novel, whatever you want to call it. I won’t discuss how people’s imaginations have changed. (Ever notice how it’s always other people’s imaginations that have changed? No one ever says they themselves can’t read Don Quixote, for example, because they watch too much TV or film.) I’ll talk about what I think is good and bad writing, plain and simple.
That’s what I was expecting from you. The closest you came to it was when you were talking about what you called the social novel, and other alternatives to the screenplay-novel.
Thomas, your blog looks great. There is a lot here to keep us all thinking, and that’s what we need more of. I have linked to you on my site, and I hope you will keep taking part in my literary challenges. Keep up the good work. Shameless.
“All right, I summarised what I perceived your challenge to be, based on numerous things you’ve addressed on your blog.”
You can do better than that. The challenge was clearly worded, and “perceiving” it to be about the blog’s posts in general is a misreading on your part.
A little context is important here: you were the one who originally issued a challenge. I answered it. And then I issued a challenge of my own. But instead of answering it, you’ve changed the topic from how a writer is to write artistically accomplished novels in the current publishing climate to an attack on my work.( Incidentally, stating “I’m not qualified to talk about the publishing industry; I have no first-hand experience of it” is setting the standard rather high, wouldn’t you agree? By this standard, nobody but elected officials would be able to talk about many political issues.)
And specifically because you misread the challenge, you also take liberties with commentary on my writing. Just to be clear: the work I’m posting on my site is a work-in-progess (that’s why it says “work in progress”). You’re entitled to comment on it privately while it’s in progress. Once you write about it and post these criticisms on your blog, however, you’re entering the public domain, and you accept the responsibilities of a serious critic … something I am sure you would prefer to be considered.
Tom, I’m being blunt but I mean this in a complimentary way. You have the brains and passion to write better criticism than this. However, in this case you’ve failed to do so. While it’s true that some of your criticisms are constructive, others are simply nitpicking.
You make absolutely no reference to the work’s themes, characterizations, or plot. Maybe you *can’t* make reference to these — works-in-progress kind of stymie these larger assessments. And I’m sure that frustrates you. But that’s just too bad, isn’t it? It’s my blog and I can post the novel at whatever pace I want. In the meantime, you might demonstrate some patience. Weren’t you the one who wrote a post several months ago about amateurish critics who denounce work that they’ve only read in part?
You can do better than that. The challenge was clearly worded, and “perceiving” it to be about the blog’s posts in general is a misreading on your part.
No, I can’t. That’s as good as it’s going to get. As I said in my comment above, I don’t think you answered mine either. But that’s ok. You tried.
( Incidentally, stating “I’m not qualified to talk about the publishing industry; I have no first-hand experience of it” is setting the standard rather high, wouldn’t you agree? By this standard, nobody but elected officials would be able to talk about many political issues.)
No, it’s not. A lot of bloggers write about the publishing world, but a lot of them are published writers or are editors. They have first-hand experience. They deal with publishers. I merely read what they write. Not all of them agree.
And specifically because you misread the challenge, you also take liberties with commentary on my writing. Just to be clear: the work I’m posting on my site is a work-in-progess (that’s why it says “work in progress”). You’re entitled to comment on it privately while it’s in progress. Once you write about it and post these criticisms on your blog, however, you’re entering the public domain, and you accept the responsibilities of a serious critic … something I am sure you would prefer to be considered.
I’m entitled to comment on whatever I come across on the internet. Your work in progress is a published one. You’ve exposed it to whatever response anyone can come up with, right or wrong, intelligent or stupid. If you don’t like that, take it down. And bloggers are not necessarily serious critics. They’re bloggers. It doesn’t follow that anything they write must be more than a personal response. If it is, all the better.
You make absolutely no reference to the work’s themes, characterizations, or plot. Maybe you *can’t* make reference to these — works-in-progress kind of stymie these larger assessments. And I’m sure that frustrates you.
It doesn’t. The truth is that the writing itself puts me off looking any further. It’s the writing I discuss, not themes, characterisations, etc., things I don’t normally discuss anyway. I don’t need to see more to discuss what I talked about.
Weren’t you the one who wrote a post several months ago about amateurish critics who denounce work that they’ve only read in part?
Not the same thing. He wasn’t talking about the prose. He was talking about books whose plot didn’t follow the formula he’d learnt in workshops. Go back and read it, and you’ll see.
I’ve made myself clear enough: your method of giving stage directions/descriptions doesn’t work for me. I think it’s lazy and sloppy. One could argue that you’ve just slipped, it was a mistake, you’ll fix it later. But you’ve actually gone so far as to defend the practice on your blog, so I know this is precisely what you’re striving for. I think it’s misguided, I’ve said so, and there you have it.
Well, there’s a lot here and even though I appreciate some of your points, I think you’re trying to close an argument that you’re afraid you’re going to lose. (Yes, there are times when working arguments through to their conclusions matters.) Part of our disagreement is based on the question of the challenge. But even if we put that aside, there’s the larger question of what constitutes fair critical comment. Sure, this is the blogosphere, and often anything goes. That doesn’t make it right. And it doesn’t mean that what you wrote in your “Response to the Screenplay-Novel” was simply off-hand commentary. It sure reads like an essay with serious critical intentions.
re: the post you put up several months ago and what that was really about: You claim now that it a criticism of someone “talking about books whose plot didn’t follow the formula he’d learnt in workshops”. Okay … in part. But I stand by my point that it was also a general denunciation of critics who are, to use a phrase you’re fond of, lazy and sloppy.
Here is an extended quote:
This guy who claims his favourite novel is Ulysses actually spends most of his time reviewing crime fiction and reviews books he hasn’t even finished. Now, keep in mind what he writes about “rampant exposition and lack of trust in the reader” and Ondaatje’s belief in the reader “to add two and two”. Although he finds it harder to stand best-sellers, this is his *review of Leviathan after reading only ten pages*. [your boldtype emphasis here]
The strategy of the story-telling didn’t work for me.
I found the first ten pages so annoying and tedious that I couldn’t read any further.
What I gather from the first 10 pp is that:
1. The dead guy had a “terrible secret.” I need to know up front what this is, to keep reading. I won’t read another page to find out.
2. The narrator knew the dead guy but doesn’t want to tell FBI. I can’t imagine why, and I don’t care. This is supposed to be a hook, I guess, but it doesn’t work that way for me. Just tell me, right off the bat. At least give me a hint.
3. The dead guy blew himself up for a reason. We don’t know what that is. Right now-during the whole 10 pp-I don’t give a tinker’s damn. I guess this is supposed to be another hook. You have to give me at least a hint. Otherwise I just do a dim-out.I took a workshop from the novelist John Rechy one time. He said: If you keep saying, in your book, “I have a mystery that I’m going to tell you,” and you say it over and over again, it becomes maddening. It will make you put the book down. That is what happened to me here.
Thank God I can just put it down and forget about it.
Whew. What a relief.
Angle, you’re in no position to comment on what Auster says “over and over again”. After a mere ten pages, you have nothing but false impressions. You don’t know jack shit about this book’s strategy. Auster never delays explaining the explosion. The explosion isn’t the point. If Auster has made any mistake, it’s trusting fools like you to put two and two together.
Angle talked about the plot. I did not. Angle talked about the characters. I did not. I talked about (for lack of a better word) the prose and the imagery. Angle did not. You quoted it yourself. Look at it.
I simply don’t need to see the whole thing to talk about prose and imagery. There’s nothing on page 238 that’s going to justify lazy imagery on page 3. I’ve read enough to know that it’s not what I think is vivid, and you yourself defended this use of language before I even commented on it, so it’s clear that you intend it and plan to do it throughout the book.
A better comparison could be made to the Kostova post, where I discussed only the prose. When you find the kind of writing I found in that book, the only question is “Is this a bad beginning, or does she keep it up throughout the book?” I’ve been following your posts, and you haven’t stopped doing what I object to. So why should I need to see the whole thing?
There’s no argument I’m afraid of losing here. I have no doubt that a lot of people will enjoy reading it. Many people might even agree with me but feel that the dialogue is vivid enough to compensate for it. I have an argument about the media of film and prose fiction, but that’s not being disputed here, I don’t think. My main point is that I don’t enjoy the screenplay-novel and don’t agree with your example of “less is more vivid”. I don’t imagine someone’s going to come along and convince me that, in fact, I do enjoy it and do agree with it.
On partial readings: “Angle, you’re in no position to comment on what Auster says “over and over again”. After a mere ten pages, you have nothing but false impressions. You don’t know jack shit about this book’s strategy.”
On your own critical approach: “I’ve been following your posts, and you haven’t stopped doing what I object to. So why should I need to see the whole thing?”
Enough said.
More than enough, actually. If you can’t see the difference between the what I’ve commented about and what Angle has commented about, even when you’ve been hammered over the head with it, then you’re wasting your time and mine.
Tom, I wasn’t going to respond but then I read your email.
Some things to consider:
- I understand your point quite well. (No need to hammer me.) You do close readings. But here’s the thing: close readings can only be done if you’ve read a piece in its entirety. This is an ironclad rule of literary criticism, and it’s non-negotiable. Whatever I may or may not have said in a bookstore several years ago doesn’t count. The books I choose to like/buy are different from books that I may write criticism on. It is the uttering of an opinion in a public arena (not personal conversation) that is key here. You call posting publishing. Well, published criticism has to follow this basic rule. Always.
- Novels have been serialized since at least the 19th Century. And just because something is serialized doesn’t mean it’s complete. The manifestos are complete. Criticize ‘em all you want. The screenplay-novel isn’t. Something tells me you’ll hate it just as much when I’m finished anyway, so why don’t you draft that part of your essay for the time being? If you’re really itching to comment, do so at my site. You might be flattered to know that I think some of your criticisms of my actual writing are worthwhile. But before you trash the entire project on your *own* site, I’d appreciate it if you had the decency to wait until it’s finished.
- Your claim that you are just a blogger and therefore can write anything you want is bogus. If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck. This was an essay.
- Most of us learn essay writing at university. And admitting to a partial reading would never be accepted in an essay at any level of study, either undergraduate or graduate. Ask a professor.
- I think you need some outside perspective on what you wrote in your own post re: Angle. I still say you were denouncing the guy’s critical competence by attacking him for doing partial readings. Cool off and get a second opinion on what you wrote and how it reads to others. No doubt you were criticizing Angle a particular way. But be honest: you were also saying he was an idiot because he only read “a mere ten pages”.
- In general, choose your words with more care. Your tone is much less tactful than it could be. Show some maturity. You’ll keep more friends that way.
It should be clear to you that I don't agree. I don't see you giving me arguments attempting to persuade me otherwise. I've posted this kind of thing before, and you've only objected now that it has been focussed on your writing.
If an editor turns this down after reading much less than I have, are you going to hound them and say, "Yeah but, no but, yeah but, you haven't read the whole thing!"
And as you well enough know, I have been to university, and I know what essay writing involves. I don't need to ask a professor. Essay writing was practically the only thing I was good at.
Let's get something straight. This is my blog. It's my place. I make the rules. You only comment here when I let you. I can even edit your comments if I want. A blog post here is what I say it is.
As for tact, I had a personal comment to make, and made it in a personal email to you, not here. You bring it up here without consulting me. And tell me to choose my words more carefully. I took your advice and got a second opinion, from someone whose opinion I value very much. With their permission, I'm posting it:
I had a glance at his blog. Is that meant to be a novel? It looks like an amateurish sixth-form experiment. I wouldn't tolerate any bullshit from its perpetrator. Your criticism is spot on. The "stage directions" would be considered laughable in a screenplay. Screenwriters do not generally give much direction because actors, and more particularly directors, do not need telling how to render the ideas in the play.
I understand your point quite well. (No need to hammer me.) You do close readings. But here's the thing: close readings can only be done if you've read a piece in its entirety.
Bullshit.
This is an ironclad rule of literary criticism
As if there were rules!
and it's non-negotiable. Whatever I may or may not have said in a bookstore several years ago doesn't count. The books I choose to like/buy are different from books that I may write criticism on.
But one would expect those books one likes to be the same that one criticises favourably!
It is the uttering of an opinion in a public arena (not personal conversation) that is key here. You call posting publishing. Well, published criticism has to follow this basic rule. Always.
Utter bullshit. You can criticise one paragraph. I've done it. Even one phrase can be criticised.
You can even make literary criticism without reading even one word!
Novels have been serialized since at least the 19th Century. And just because something is serialized doesn't mean it's complete.
Eh?
The manifestos are complete. Criticize 'em all you want. The screenplay-novel isn't.
You can tell it's shit without having to read the whole thing.
Something tells me you'll hate it just as much when I'm finished anyway, so why don't you draft that part of your essay for the time being? If you're really itching to comment, do so at my site. You might be flattered to know that I think some of your criticisms of my actual writing are worthwhile.
His writing is pisspoor. Something tells me he wouldn't much like my criticisms of it.
"He starts walking down the porch steps with a sprightly gait."
This would be shit writing in any form of novel. It needs to be taken out and shot.
Take this:
"Apart from Paul and a clerk, the bookstore seems empty."
Leaving aside the structural infelicity of this sentence (Harvor has made a basic error in English, akin to dangling a modifier. I'm sure I don't need to point out what it is), one has to ask how a bookstore can seem to be empty in this context. This is one of those things that is quite clearly, strikingly wrong, but it's hard to explain why. It's to do with what "seeming" is.
If you seem a nice guy, you seem it to me. I conclude that you are. You don't objectively seem anything. Seeming is always subjective. But screenplays cannot be subjective. They can only describe what is or isn't there because the writer is *entirely* omniscient. It's in the nature of screenplays that he or she is, because the writer creates the scene out of whole cloth. *Nothing* is left to the reader. This is because the writer of a screenplay does not intend to engage a reader in the pursuit of meaning; rather, he or she intends to engage a viewer in that pursuit.
Clearly, the bookshop *looks* empty, but it cannot *seem* it. Who is it seeming to?
The viewer of the film made from the screenplay can have things seem to him or her but the interpreter of the screenplay cannot. He or she can only have what things are. Screenplays are *entirely descriptive*. This is, I think, the crux of your criticism of the conceit.
But before you trash the entire project on your *own* site, I'd appreciate it if you had the decency to wait until it's finished.
I would be inviting this guy to fuck off at this point. What? He's going to improve so much in the whole that the part will somehow become good?
One might fish out a bad sentence from a good novel. Maybe even a poor page or two. Even, I suppose, a chapter: Moby-Dick has a famously ropey one.
But, generally, bad is bad. And, in particular, a bad idea won't turn into a good one just because there's lots of it.
Your claim that you are just a blogger and therefore can write anything you want is bogus.
That is precisely what bloggers can claim and can do.
Most of us learn essay writing at university. And admitting to a partial reading would never be accepted in an essay at any level of study, either undergraduate or graduate. Ask a professor.
The "essay" was about the concept rather than the execution as such though.
I think you need some outside perspective on what you wrote in your own post re: Angle. I still say you were denouncing the guy's critical competence by attacking him for doing partial readings. Cool off and get a second opinion on what you wrote and how it reads to others. No doubt you were criticizing Angle a particular way. But be honest: you were also saying he was an idiot because he only read "a mere ten pages".
In general, choose your words with more care.
Okay. Fuck. Off.
How's that for well chosen?
Your tone is much less tactful than it could be.
His novel is awful though. I think you only slightly put the boot in.
Show some maturity. You'll keep more friends that way.
I'd rather have fewer friends but better.
“You’re entitled to criticize the screenplay-novel form (and my writing) as much as you like.” Finn Harvor, 3 May.
“The manifestos are complete. Criticize ‘em all you want. The screenplay-novel isn’t. [...] But before you trash the entire project on your *own* site, I’d appreciate it if you had the decency to wait until it’s finished.” Finn Harvor, 10 May.
You’ve gone too far. But other people are reading this, too, so here goes.
Re: the two quotes of mine you cite:
On May 3, the opening sentences to my comment were: “You’re entitled to criticize the screenplay-novel form (and my writing) as much as you like. And there’s a lot here that I’d like to respond to later.” The second sentence is important; I planned to take up the issue of your doing partial readings later. But at that time, I wanted to focus on the issue of whether you’d even addressed my challenge.
You didn’t want to do so. So on May 8, I clarified what I meant about the parameters of criticizing writing more clearly:
“And specifically because you misread the challenge, you also take liberties with commentary on my writing. Just to be clear: the work I’m posting on my site is a work-in-progress (that’s why it says “work in progress”). You’re entitled to comment on it privately while it’s in progress. Once you write about it and post these criticisms on your blog, however, you’re entering the public domain, and you accept the responsibilities of a serious critic … something I am sure you would prefer to be considered.”
This is a blog – your blog. I can’t edit my remarks once they’re posted. For what it’s worth, almost immediately I realized I’d phrased things unclearly on May 3 and thought of adding a p.s. But at that point I still thought we could have a mature discussion specifically of my challenge to you, and wanted to focus on that. I even waited several days for you to think things over. However, you dug in your heels and things went from there.
It’s like this: yes, when you write an essay you can criticize my writing any way you choose … once the screenplay-novel is finished. As I said (I’m not the only one who doesn’t seem to get points even when hammered over the head), this is a fundamental rule of literary criticism, blogged or otherwise. The situation is analogous to that of free speech: we all say people have the right to say whatever they want. But there are limits.
Re: citing your email – strictly speaking, email is like a letter, and once received it becomes the property of the owner. (This isn’t true of the essay I once sent you, however, just so you don’t get any ideas.) Of course, it’s true that it is courteous to ask the email writer before quoting him or her, but think about what was going on: we were having a public discussion. You adopted an objective tone in your public pronouncements and then sent me an email bringing up a personal incident. It was a dirty, sneaky ploy. So I called you on it. You’re being hypocritically self-righteous when you make an issue of this.
Re: the cut-and-paste method of composing comments. This is just plain lazy. And you don’t like lazy. If you’re going to compose a comment, do it properly. Point form is okay. But cut-and-paste isn’t. All you’re doing is copying someone else’s comment and then inserting a series of come-backs, many of them snide. And if that’s not enough to convince you, think about it this way: it’s a game two can play. I wrote a cut-and-paste of your essay soon after you posted it. Wanna see it? Didn’t think so.
Re: your friend’s comments about screenplays – yep. Right. Screenplays meant for film production aren’t written the same way. But this is a screenplay-NOVEL. It’s a new form, an experimental form, and it’s trying to merge the strengths of both screenplay and novel. I’m still working on getting the mix right. And maybe the two of you will hate what I’m doing till kingdom come. But I think this hybrid form has a lot of potential, especially given the general decline of popularity of literary novels and the need for writers to be more daring in their attempt to reach an audience.
(As well, since your friend has allowed his/her comment to be posted publicly, that person might consider going back to the site and reading more of it before jumping to conclusions about what I’m doing. I suspect this person has been made uneasy by the tone of your surrounding remarks in any case, and might be interested in achieving some distance from them.)
re: The lines of my bad writing that you quote recently:
Well, “sprightly gait” is a bit of stinker, isn’t it? It will go. I’m not sure I’ll go as far as taking it out and shooting it, but I’ll change it.
The line about the bookstore isn’t grammatically perfect. (Touche about “looks” being the better verb.) But here your criticism is flawed by the sort of pedantic nitpicking I mentioned earlier. This is one reason why I think you’d be wise to read more criticism produced by professionals: while they can attack work very viciously, many of them also try to strike a balance. The overall implication of your close reading is that all my writing is cliched and/or bad. I don’t think this is true. There are passages that are deliberately descriptive, attempt to do what descriptive passages in a traditional novel do, and hopefully do it well. Even the descriptions of tone of voice that you dislike are there for a reason: since this is really a novel, they add something to the dialogue, which, as you point out, is most of the text.
There’s no *reason* why you have to strike a balance, of course. There’s no *reason* to see both the good and the bad in a work. But, you know, sometimes the wise thing just is.
And as for the rest of your recent comments, they speak for themselves.
Bye, Tom.
It’s like this: yes, when you write an essay you can criticize my writing any way you choose … once the screenplay-novel is finished. As I said (I’m not the only one who doesn’t seem to get points even when hammered over the head), this is a fundamental rule of literary criticism, blogged or otherwise. The situation is analogous to that of free speech: we all say people have the right to say whatever they want. But there are limits.
You're fair game as much as anybody else. You never complained when I did the very same thing with other writers. When I did the same thing with Kostova's book, not one person here or on any other site claimed I had to read the whole thing before I commented on the prose.
You're only objecting because it's your book being criticised. The truth is I did not "trash" it as you say above. I was civil and balanced. Things have become unpleasant here in the comments because you won't let things be — you presume to tell me about freedom of speech and iron-clad rules of criticism, blah blah blah. If I had written a positive review you know damn well you wouldn't have said, "Thanks, but don't you think you're being hasty? You haven't read the whole thing." You're being childish. Someone has stated an opinion of your work you don't like and you're scrambling to object to it. Grow up, and get used to it.
You adopted an objective tone in your public pronouncements and then sent me an email bringing up a personal incident. It was a dirty, sneaky ploy. So I called you on it. You’re being hypocritically self-righteous when you make an issue of this.
It wasn't sneaky and it wasn't a ploy. I didn't consider it appropriate for the comment section of my blog, so I didn't say anything here. You, however, did bring it up here, instead of responding to it in an email, and then presumed to tell me about tact.
Re: the cut-and-paste method of composing comments. This is just plain lazy. And you don’t like lazy. If you’re going to compose a comment, do it properly. Point form is okay. But cut-and-paste isn’t. All you’re doing is copying someone else’s comment and then inserting a series of come-backs, many of them snide. And if that’s not enough to convince you, think about it this way: it’s a game two can play. I wrote a cut-and-paste of your essay soon after you posted it. Wanna see it? Didn’t think so.
Christ! Now you're telling me how I should comment on blogs?! Are you fucking serious? I don't cut and paste because it's lazy. It requires more work to do so! I do it to make it absolutely clear what I'm responding to.
Do you honestly think I'll care if you publish snide remarks about my response to your writing? Go right ahead! My post is fair game. That's how it works in the blogosphere. If you don't understand that, you chose a very bad place to publish your work in progress.
The overall implication of your close reading is that all my writing is cliched and/or bad.
No, I have made it clear that it's the "stage direction" stuff is what I object to as not vivid, but lazy.
I suspect this person has been made uneasy by the tone of your surrounding remarks in any case, and might be interested in achieving some distance from them.
I don't know what you base your suspicions on, but you couldn't be farther from the truth. The discussion doesn't actually interest him very much. If he checks in, he might respond, but I doubt it. At any rate, he volunteered the permission to use his comments.
(Touche about “looks” being the better verb.) But here your criticism is flawed by the sort of pedantic nitpicking I mentioned earlier.
It's my friend's criticism, but I'll assume you were momentarily addressing him. If you think this is pedantic nitpicking, you shouldn't be talking about the craft of writing. It's all nitpicking. Not nitpicking produces the kind of writing we're objecting to.
I don't think replacing "seems" with "looks" makes any difference. The shop is either empty or it isn't. Paul and the clerk are the only ones there. To say it seems or looks empty is to imply that it isn't really empty, or that you don't know if it's empty. This is like when people use "as if" in their writing. It suggests that thing being described is not how it seems, or that the narrator doesn't know for sure. Your attempt at visual objectivity has created a sense of distance — you're describing how it must seem to the person picturing it. But in doing so, you introduce a fallible point of view, like a character who's there, but not participating, and whose authority I can now question. This kind of loaded POV doesn't work well in this kind of novel; it's part of what you have squeezed out. If you're going to write a screenplay-novel, just tell me the shop is otherwise empty, and I'll picture how it looks myself. According to you, I am the director, after all.
Or do I need to read the whole damn thing for this point to be valid?
There are passages that are deliberately descriptive, attempt to do what descriptive passages in a traditional novel do, and hopefully do it well. Even the descriptions of tone of voice that you dislike are there for a reason: since this is really a novel, they add something to the dialogue, which, as you point out, is most of the text.
Oh, I see. It's not sloppy, lazy writing; it's there for a reason. I haven't heard that one since I was in a workshop for teenagers.
I thought the point of a commentary was to write as you pleased, which is what you did. I often put down books because of prose or plot or plain bad writing, that doesn’t make me lazy or stupid or unfit to comment. I think the fact I didn’t finish something speaks for itself.
You can’t please everyone. Every writer should know this and be ready to take it in the @## like I have for the past 11 years. That’s just the way it goes.