Reflecting Back And Moving Forward
As I consider my experience working through Steering The Craft, I keep returning to certain thoughts. Now, many of these concern questions about why Le Guin focused the work the way she did. This is not a second-guessing, but rather an effort to further my understanding, to get as much as possible out of this. For example, I wonder about Le Guin's leaving out any comments on story structure, or on the difference in the order of events as they happen and the order they are revealed in the narrative.
This all points towards a certain trust in the process. Le Guin hints at this and makes statements in this direction, but it seems to me that underneath much of what is in the book is an awareness that the most important thing for a writer is to connect with the stories voice. This might be a character in the story or a disembodied and distant voice, and it may not always be apparent, but Le Guin seems to insist, albeit somewhat indirectly, that if one commits to finding that voice, it will guide the process along. The rest, in a certain way, can sort itself out. Indeed, the idea that a writer should know everything before starting is something that is directly eschewed, while the push to get into voice and let it lead the charge is at the heart of many exercises and chapters.
Writing is a strange process. I have spent some time studying sculpture and am keenly interested in the visual arts. I dabble in playing the harmonica and singing. As well, I studied ballroom and Latin dance for a number of years, even competing and performing. Many artists in these and other fields will talk about how language gets in the way. I know that if I am doing a dance step, while learning it, I have to have a very clear idea of what comes when, and I may need to slow down and think through each step with the language, but if I need to think the words when I am dancing, that step won't actually work. When I sculpt, as well, it becomes important to allow the process to happen outside of language.
Language, in some ways, is at odds with the artistic process. The didactic nature of organizing ideas into language can disrupt the flow that is needed for artistic expression. This makes writing a strange and difficult task. While other artists can step away from words and allow the art to become a means of direct and unfiltered expression, writing is about the language itself. It is the word. So, how then, does one remain inside language while simultaneously entering the necessary frame of mind for such creation? It seems to me that the act of stepping into voice is a large part of this. It is no longer about your own language, but about the connecting to that speaker. They are the conduit of the language, and that changes things. It is no longer the same as the internal dialogue of an ordinary internal thought, but something different. It is not the words that are the focus, but instead the speaker, and as such their is a difference. In my mind, for instance, as I write, I am not feeling the words as internal thought the way that I would if I were to actually think them. They are almost a physical sensation in my hand, and while I do have them in my head, they are not the same as the voice that I would hear if I were just thinking.
I think that this is really much of the reason why Le Guin is correct about the importance of finding the voice. It has to be the prime mover, in many ways, for a story, as anything within it will be touched by that voice. The characters will be seen through it, or, in first person, even drive it. The details will be what that voice would notice and how it would notice them. The entire world comes to us from that voice, and the writer has to understand, first, how to find that. It is essential for the story, but it is also essential for the writer, as a way of entering into the process.
Now, having said all of that, I also think that one must be willing and able to go beyond this, to add greater levels of conscious competence, and even to uncover ideas, processes, tools, and techniques that may not be commonly used, if not wholly original. Such understandings have to be developed with the intellect, but integrated through the artistic process. It is towards this end that I want to keep on the work here as a sort of writer's journal, a public working space for experimentation and thought about the process of crafting writing, but from a personal and self-exploratory angle. It seems clear to me that the learning process for writing, at least for me, requires not only the active experimentation that the writing exercises reflect, but also a deep amount of learning and thinking, which is added through the discursive work that is represented by this type of entry. The latter allows me to begin considering the ideas, presents me with new options, but when I step into the writing process, I have to trust that the things I was considering will percolate through.
At this moment, I am deeply interested in the questions that are raised by the focus on voice of the recent exercises. I am wanting to figure out a way to integrate tools that I've used in different story forms, and to cultivate a voice which allows me the ability to do more within my stories. Le Guin says at one point that she thinks a third person narrator has certain limits, for instance that they cannot taste things. The involved narrator might describe textures or have access to things no one could actually see, but unless a character is eating it, you cannot describe the flavor of a piece of fruit on a counter. Of course, that is only her opinion, as she herself makes clear, and I am sure other writers have tasted the banana before any character ever peeled it. But, the point is larger, and is about the idea of exploring those limits. I want to find a way to create a voice that has the ability to do go in new directions, which has access to aspects of experience that other writers might not think of, or might even consider beyond the narrator. While I have some ideas about what I want to be able to do, and even a few thoughts on the attributes of it, I also know that it will be in the writing that idea comes to fruition. Still, in order for that to happen, it is essential for me to continue the mental process that fuels and informs this process. While I may never, intellectually, know what that voice is exactly, I know that my analytical musings are essential to learning the nature of the voice I wish to cultivate.
Towards this end, I think I will likely follow the Le Guin book with another writing guide, though I have a few in contention. I will speak more of this soon, but for the moment, I am going to leave it. I am reading a bit of a few books right now, and I think I know which one I will choose, but I want to let things sit for a few more days, and I am actually considering another project idea which would involve similar work, but with a slightly different focus and organization, and not based on a particular writing guide. I am also thinking that I might do something where I switch up the format with some sort of rotating schedule, allowing me to do both. I actually do not doubt that I will wind up doing much of this and more, but the details of how that will unfold are something that I am still considering.
This all points towards a certain trust in the process. Le Guin hints at this and makes statements in this direction, but it seems to me that underneath much of what is in the book is an awareness that the most important thing for a writer is to connect with the stories voice. This might be a character in the story or a disembodied and distant voice, and it may not always be apparent, but Le Guin seems to insist, albeit somewhat indirectly, that if one commits to finding that voice, it will guide the process along. The rest, in a certain way, can sort itself out. Indeed, the idea that a writer should know everything before starting is something that is directly eschewed, while the push to get into voice and let it lead the charge is at the heart of many exercises and chapters.
Writing is a strange process. I have spent some time studying sculpture and am keenly interested in the visual arts. I dabble in playing the harmonica and singing. As well, I studied ballroom and Latin dance for a number of years, even competing and performing. Many artists in these and other fields will talk about how language gets in the way. I know that if I am doing a dance step, while learning it, I have to have a very clear idea of what comes when, and I may need to slow down and think through each step with the language, but if I need to think the words when I am dancing, that step won't actually work. When I sculpt, as well, it becomes important to allow the process to happen outside of language.
Language, in some ways, is at odds with the artistic process. The didactic nature of organizing ideas into language can disrupt the flow that is needed for artistic expression. This makes writing a strange and difficult task. While other artists can step away from words and allow the art to become a means of direct and unfiltered expression, writing is about the language itself. It is the word. So, how then, does one remain inside language while simultaneously entering the necessary frame of mind for such creation? It seems to me that the act of stepping into voice is a large part of this. It is no longer about your own language, but about the connecting to that speaker. They are the conduit of the language, and that changes things. It is no longer the same as the internal dialogue of an ordinary internal thought, but something different. It is not the words that are the focus, but instead the speaker, and as such their is a difference. In my mind, for instance, as I write, I am not feeling the words as internal thought the way that I would if I were to actually think them. They are almost a physical sensation in my hand, and while I do have them in my head, they are not the same as the voice that I would hear if I were just thinking.
I think that this is really much of the reason why Le Guin is correct about the importance of finding the voice. It has to be the prime mover, in many ways, for a story, as anything within it will be touched by that voice. The characters will be seen through it, or, in first person, even drive it. The details will be what that voice would notice and how it would notice them. The entire world comes to us from that voice, and the writer has to understand, first, how to find that. It is essential for the story, but it is also essential for the writer, as a way of entering into the process.
Now, having said all of that, I also think that one must be willing and able to go beyond this, to add greater levels of conscious competence, and even to uncover ideas, processes, tools, and techniques that may not be commonly used, if not wholly original. Such understandings have to be developed with the intellect, but integrated through the artistic process. It is towards this end that I want to keep on the work here as a sort of writer's journal, a public working space for experimentation and thought about the process of crafting writing, but from a personal and self-exploratory angle. It seems clear to me that the learning process for writing, at least for me, requires not only the active experimentation that the writing exercises reflect, but also a deep amount of learning and thinking, which is added through the discursive work that is represented by this type of entry. The latter allows me to begin considering the ideas, presents me with new options, but when I step into the writing process, I have to trust that the things I was considering will percolate through.
At this moment, I am deeply interested in the questions that are raised by the focus on voice of the recent exercises. I am wanting to figure out a way to integrate tools that I've used in different story forms, and to cultivate a voice which allows me the ability to do more within my stories. Le Guin says at one point that she thinks a third person narrator has certain limits, for instance that they cannot taste things. The involved narrator might describe textures or have access to things no one could actually see, but unless a character is eating it, you cannot describe the flavor of a piece of fruit on a counter. Of course, that is only her opinion, as she herself makes clear, and I am sure other writers have tasted the banana before any character ever peeled it. But, the point is larger, and is about the idea of exploring those limits. I want to find a way to create a voice that has the ability to do go in new directions, which has access to aspects of experience that other writers might not think of, or might even consider beyond the narrator. While I have some ideas about what I want to be able to do, and even a few thoughts on the attributes of it, I also know that it will be in the writing that idea comes to fruition. Still, in order for that to happen, it is essential for me to continue the mental process that fuels and informs this process. While I may never, intellectually, know what that voice is exactly, I know that my analytical musings are essential to learning the nature of the voice I wish to cultivate.
Towards this end, I think I will likely follow the Le Guin book with another writing guide, though I have a few in contention. I will speak more of this soon, but for the moment, I am going to leave it. I am reading a bit of a few books right now, and I think I know which one I will choose, but I want to let things sit for a few more days, and I am actually considering another project idea which would involve similar work, but with a slightly different focus and organization, and not based on a particular writing guide. I am also thinking that I might do something where I switch up the format with some sort of rotating schedule, allowing me to do both. I actually do not doubt that I will wind up doing much of this and more, but the details of how that will unfold are something that I am still considering.
This reminds me of many of our conversations years ago!
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