(continued)


CHARACTERS


            Arnold Bennett said that style, plot, and originality are important but count for

nothing without convincing characters.  There you have it.  People point the way.  They sculpt the plot.


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            No character is real until he casts a shadow of his own, until he takes a step you didn’t dictate, until he goes to the bathroom without first raising his hand for your permission.


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            Every character, to stay real, must be a bit of a fraud.  No one, absolutely no one, is everything he seems to be.


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            No character can be totally evil or totally good.  To be all one or the other wouldn’t be human, nor would it be good fiction.  To be human is to be capable of every absurdity and every kindness. 


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            A crazy man needs no reason for what he does.  An evil man always his reasons, each carefully nurtured.


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            The more you describe characters, the less they’ll speak for themselves.  Too much description imprisons them.  They need room to stretch.      

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           A character can take on flesh with a single sentence.  Here’s one.  She wanted to burn all her birthdays and start clean.  Here’s another.  His pants were short and showed his socks, which were white but didn’t quite match.


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            You must be big enough to encompass all your characters.  Your brain must blaze with enough energy to fuel their brains, and your mind must be rich enough to fertilize theirs.  More than that, you must sow seeds that will make them think for themselves.


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            By necessity, writing involves voyeurism.  You watch your characters perform their most intimate acts.  Whenever possible, give them privacy.


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            A writer’s worst sin is straining to be clever.  If you’re clever, you don’t have to strain.  Another taboo.  Never be cute.


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            Something shifts in your writing when you lose a parent or a spouse.  New degrees of depth and darkness creep into your work.  You become more sensitive to your characters, and they to you.


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            When characters are physically hurt, they don’t bleed.  The author does.



WRITERS


            A male writer must portray women with all the truth he can muster, for in real life he coats them with too much fiction.  Women writers tend to grip the senses, goose the imagination, set the tone, stir the pot.  They put a man on his toes. 


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            Women face the facts of life and death with more fortitude than men.  To a man, mortality is not natural.  To a woman, it’s just one more thing to cope with.


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            All writers, male and female, pay a price, the brunt of it emotional and exorbitant.

All seek to exceed themselves, a sure formula for stress, insomnia, and perhaps eczema.


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            Writers tend to be full of themselves.  Some are full of something else.  The best take their work seriously but not themselves.  All strike aloof public poses but suffer chilling suspicions that maybe they know nothing and are fooling everyone, including themselves.


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            A writer knows that when he talks to himself he is two persons, each absorbed in the other, neither quite on the up and up.


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            No writer would enjoy being a twin, for a twin can never be confident his writing is original, not if he’s identical.


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            Right or wrong, every writer thinks he’s special, a foot apart from others.  It’s one of the perks of the profession.


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            A writer reads another writer more for language than for story, for the bare bones of all stories have been rattled since man began spinning tales.  It’s language that keeps stories going, that refreshes and renews them.  For language is a breathing thing, eternally changing, shifting shades of meaning, hues, adding nuances, fermenting thought, and distilling ideas.


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            Some scenes you create can give you the creeps, scenes that cut too close to the bone, that seemingly come from nowhere and act themselves out on their own.  That’s when you feel less an author and more a member of the audience, one with a privileged seat.  


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            The hardest lesson in writing is the proper degree of detachment.  No one wants to see your face on the page, your labored breath on the print.


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            No writer should try to impress readers, for it’s a sure way to lose them.  To hold their interest is more than enough. To magnify the meaningful in subtle and understated    ways is a goal.  To give fresh voice to a truth or add to the resonance of one is an achievement. 


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            The best writing is not in black and white and not in colors.  The shades should be

gray, taupe, tan, bone, over which the reader paints his own colors.


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            One should write with a very healthy fear. The fear of falling on your ass.



WRAP-UP


            A short story permits no dead air.   The challenge is to write novels that way.  A short story can’t survive a single mistake.  As in a poem, a false note destroys the whole.
  The bulk of a novel can survive indignities, provided they are tiny and the readers undiscerning.


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            A short story that lacks mystery and ambiguity is not a short story but a report. The same can be said about a novel. 


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            A short-story writer, like the poet, knows his language must be on the mark, the ring of truth in each syllable.  Too often the novelist prefers to rough it, and the hack is content with publishable rubbish.  The greatest ally of a hack novelist is a hack editor. Neither threatens the other.


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            Few writers can make the tough cuts in their manuscript.  Only good editors can do that.


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            Writing is as solitary as reading.  The world outside contracts, the world within expands.   




                                                                                The End

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           


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