How Should You Write?

Aspiring writers must search for their voice. Test, try, experiment, adjust. Finding a voice can be one of the most arduous tasks for a writer, but once it appears and sharpens, (and only then), should a writer go about producing published works aggressively. That's not to say that a writing voice cannot evolve, it most certainly must as the writer grows, learns and develops.

For me, sitting down and writing my Hurricane Katrina book in 3 1/2 weeks crystallized my voice; at least it sent me well on my way.

Today, short bursts, as found in blogs, can help shape a writer's voice too. Sometimes you shouldn't think too much -- just let it flow.

Generally, I prefer an economical style, where significant effort is put into writing concise sentences that convey powerful meaning without wasted words. But also, sometimes, a long, flowery sentence is called for: it is the only approach that will fit for the art of the story, and its rhythm is called for at precisely that point in the work.

Bukowski, if you read his novels, opines that a sentence should be as short and full of punch as possible. He believed that all those extra adjectives and long sentences and paragraphs merely mask the fact that a writer can't find the precise words they are looking for, so they hope the reader will somehow find the meaning the writer intends in a puffy, vague sentence.

If you read Hemingway, his prose is noticeably terse and efficient, but now and then he departs from his usual style. F. Scott Fitzgerald does it naturally and perfectly, only using a few extra words when they are absolutely needed, to add to the richness of the story and lyricism of the sentence and paragraph. Flaubert and Checkov are also economical in their use of prose.

That is not to say that there is only one way to write. Take Tom Robbins, for instance. He developed his own style. He leans toward using long sentences and fabulously obscure words. But it works. And as Robbins said, "In fiction, there are no rules. That's what I have against 'teaching writing' in academia. In fiction, what works, works."

And take Kerouac: he found his voice by writing quickly, nonstop, tapping his brain (and some amphetamines at times) to rattle out stream-of-consciousness truths. Of course, he meticulously revised his work, although he didn't let that fact out much.

A writer should try different approaches. William Burroughs even experimented with physically cutting out words and sentences and moving them around, pasting them where they really didn't belong -- all in the interest of discovering a new way to construct words. I believe it is the writer's responsibility to use words in ways they have never been used, or even to invent new words or forms of words. Hey, Shakespeare did it. Supposedly he used a vocabulary of 20,000 words, some of which hadn't been invented yet. The average person might have a vocabulary of 4,000-5,000 words.

Another unique writer was John Kennedy Toole (A Confederacy of Dunces), who had a brilliant style all his own, full of juicy descriptions that hit the mark. No one can imitate his work!

You should go out and find your style, your voice. And you do that by writing, writing, writing. But the absolute worst thing you can do is to try to imitate another writer. That only makes for pathetic reading.

So, what is a writer? One who writes (not one who quotes others' writing or simply talks about writing).

Drinking with Codrescu

In New Orleans when I decided to get serious about writing I started hanging out at the Goldmine Saloon in the French Quarter. Every Thursday night Dave Brinks hosts the "17 Poets" poetry readings. Sometimes it's spoken word, sometimes it's performance art and sometimes a musician will accompany a reading, which can make for a dreamy experience. You should go, it's great, and there's a surprising amount of talent.

That's where I met Andrei Codrescu, the Romanian-transplant poet who comments on NPR in his inimitable tone. He also teaches at LSU. His readings are riveting, and when he's in the audience he's about the most enthusiastic supporter of the artists, especially if it's one of his students.

Over the next 3 or 4 years I'd run into Andrei in the Quarter, we'd chat a bit, maybe have a coffee or a drink or two if we were at Molly's (probably his favorite bar). I used to get some cache by introducing literary wannabe women to him. He'd humor them and they'd fawn and giggle.

When I was in San Miguel de Allende a few weeks ago at the Tom Robbins workshop I ended up relaying messages between Andrei and Robbins in between workshop sessions. "We used to run around together a little," Robbins said. "His essays on NPR are great. I love listening to them. Does he still drink J&B?"

Robbins eyesight is going -- he can only stand to read or write for about 20 minutes at a time now -- so Andrei is sending Tom a DVD of his latest work.

Andrei's real funny in person, and, of course, real smart and witty, and his dry humor cuts through the syrupy New Orleans air like a cleaver.

And he's a lot of fun to drink with.

Major Writers on Writers

I love to hear big-time writers criticizing other big-time writers, or even just telling stories out of class about them. For most of us, that's out of bounds; we don't have the standing to do so.

Truman Capote famously said of Jack Kerouac's rambling style, "That's not writing, that's typing!" Last week at the San Miguel Literary Festival, Tom Robbins said, "But much of what Kerouac wrote was as good or better than what Capote wrote." Ouch. As it turns out, Kerouac was constantly writing, and those close to him said he was always revising and re-writing, although his style makes it seem like a stream-of-consciousness first draft.

Robbins also addressed research in his workshop. He said it should be woven in, so that it becomes a natural part of the writing. "Not like Michener, who spent the first 40 pages of his book, Mexico just spouting out research."

Then there's Michener criticizing Hemingway, although he revered his work. Hem's friend A.E. Hotchner was asked to edit a Hem piece for Life magazine that was supposed to be 10,000 words. Life gave the 120,000 word manuscript to Hotchner to edit. Michener said it was incredibly overwritten and full of repetition and run-on sentences. The polished manuscript ran to about 70,000 words, and when the final version got down to about 45,000 words, it was pretty good. Hmmm...back then they had REAL editors! Today, a book has to be ready to go or publishers won't even look at it.

Once, when Hemingway was just starting out, he gave a manuscript to F. Scott Fitzgerald to critique. Well, Fitzgerald let him have it in a detailed and biting way. Hem scribbled on it, "Kiss my ass." But surely he made some changes to the book after that.

Of course, there was always this ongoing competition/discussion between Hemingway and Faulkner on style. Hem said he knew those big words that Faulkner used, he just preferred to use simpler ones. Personally, I think writing should be clear and succinct, unless a particular thought or passage demands it. Some of Faulkner's stuff you can just get lost in. Like James Joyce.

Michener said of Truman Capote, "I grew ever more grateful to him for playing the role of the genius-clown who reminds the general public that artists are always different and sometimes radically so."

Funny thing about Truman Capote: On cross-country trips he would make the driver take him to a library in some rural county seat and wait while Capote ran inside. When asked what he was doing, Capote said, "Checking the card catalogs. In this one Mailer had seven cards. Gore Vidal had eight. But I had eleven."

The wonderfully crass and honest (and butt-ugly!) poet, Charles Bukowski, when he was rising up, wrote that he knew there was room for him in the literary world, since he had read Tolstoy and all the others, and they just weren't that great. I enjoyed reading Bukowski's novels, especially, Ham on Rye, Women, and Hollywood. They read fast and they're funny and entertaining; sometimes a little gross. Read them and you'll know what I mean.

Bukowski's favorite writer was John Fante. I like him too. A lot. I wish he would've written more novels. Although he was known mostly as a screenwriter, his style is very efficient and clear. I loved his novel, Ask the Dust. Every single sentence is well-written. He also wrote the screenplay adaptation of Nelson Algren's Walk on the Wild Side," which is set in New Orleans.

And then there's Andrei Codrescu's story of how, when he as a young man in New York, fresh from Romania and barely able to speak English, the Beat poet Allen Ginsburg set up a meeting for Codrescu with Wiliam S. Burroughs (Naked Lunch, Junkie). During lunch, Burroughs slid his cold, bony hand on Codrescu's thigh. Codrescu, (as he tells it) told Burroughs he wasn't into that.

You know that Burroughs lived on the Westbank of New Orleans? Yes, in 1948 he lived in Algiers. The cops were always trying to arrest him for shooting heroin, but they could never catch him. So the city council passed an ordinance that you could be arrested for having track marks on your arms. Then the cops picked him up for that.

Burroughs was also arrested after police searched his home and found letters between him and Ginsberg referring to a possible delivery of pot. Burroughs fled to Mexico to escape imprisonment in Louisiana. Burroughs planned to stay in Mexico for at least five years, the length of his charge's statute of limitations.

Burroughs used to shoot an apple off his wife's head, as a drunken game. In 1951, Burroughs shot and killed Vollmer in a boozed-up game of "William Tell" at a party above the American-owned Bounty Bar in Mexico City. He spent 13 days in jail before his brother came to Mexico City and bribed Mexican lawyers and officials, which allowed Burroughs to be released on bail while he awaited trial for the killing (he never did).

Tom Robbins: Still Crazy After All These Years

I had the good fortune to meet Tom Robbins last week. He was the headliner at the 2008 Summer Literary Festival held by the San Miguel Authors' Sala. San Miguel de Allende, Mexico is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It reminds me of the French Quarter (actually, vice-versa) and like the Quarter, the muse is there. On my first visit in June I wrote feverishly. The place just has that inspirational feel. It's the balconies, the mountains, the happy children.

I was anxious to hear Tom R. speak and he didn't disappoint. In his keynote address he announced that he would not only speak about language being not the frosting, but the cake, but also he would reveal the secret of the universe!

And he did. (Email me for enlightenment).

There was a full buffet dinner served afterward and I was lucky enough to have my assigned seat right next to him! So I tried to strike up a conversation:

RS: Hey Tom, I read somewhere online that you wished you would have started writing novels later; that maybe you could have done better if you'd waited until you had a little more seasoning.

TR: I don't think I ever said that. In fact, I sort of think I started late. But there's all kinds of stuff on the Internet about me that's not true.

RS: But you do like the expressionistic painter Jackson Pollock, don't you?
TR: Well, yes. Very much so. I went to live in New York City for a year to research his life and write a book about him. But I never wrote the book. It was a good excuse to live in New York.

RS: Did you see that movie they made about his life? It was pretty good, I thought.
TR: Yes, it was good. I thought they captured him well. But the thing they didn't do was to say why his work was important.

RS: I dunno. That's Hollywood. Maybe they didn't want to get that deep into it.

RS: You know Richard Ford told a story in New Orleans that one interviewer said it was always such a disappointment to meet authors--they never spoke like they wrote.
TS: Yeah, people expect me to talk like I write.
RS: You never know what someone is going to be like, in person.
TS: Yeah, I used to go to parties in New York with Eugene O'Neill and people thought he was my retarded older brother. He could barely speak a complete sentence.
RS: That's incredible. What a playwright.

RS: You do like cigars, don't you?
TR: Yes.

RS: What kind is your favorite?
TR: Well, Cubans, of course.

RS: Yeah, but what kind of Cubans?
TR: Vegas Robaina.
RS: I like Montecristo. Montecristo #2. You know them?
TR: Yes.
RS: They're the torpedo-shaped ones.
TR: I know.

RS: They're only $40 a box in Cuba. I got some when I went last March.
TS: You have to be careful--they'll sell you counterfeits.
RS: But you can tell by making sure they are rolled uniformly, and checking out that the box matches the ring.
TS: OK.

RS: Cubans are $200 a box in Mexico. And, of course, you're not supposed to even have them in the U.S.
TR: I just drive to Canada. Put a couple of boxes of Nicaraguans on the seat and throw a sweater over them. Then put a box of Cubans under the seat. When I cross the border, they'll ask, "Hey, what's under the sweater?" I show them the cigar boxes and they look at them and let me on through. They never even think to look under the seat.

RS: I just separate them from the box and take the rings off them to bring them in from Mexico. I don't think they have cigar sniffing dogs yet.
TR: And if they did, the dogs wouldn't know the difference between a Cuban and a Nicaraguan.

RS: So, I was laughing about papaya juice in your, "Fierce Invalids" book.
TR: (laughs) Now that part was autobiographical. I was at a Havana hotel and I asked for "jugo papaya." The waiters just laughed their asses off. Papaya means "pussy" there.
RS: Ha, haa! I suppose it does sort of look like one on the inside...
TR: And it's juicy.

Suddenly, there was a thunderbolt outside and it began pouring rain. Both Tom and I looked out the open doors for a minute. He was mesmerized--and electrified.

RS: It's great to write when it's raining, isn't it?
TR: Yes, I love it.
RS: That's why I like New Orleans. It pours. It just really pours when it rains.
TR: That's why I like Seattle. It reduces the temptation to do anything else but write.

The lights went out and we were thrust into blackness, with only the flicker of candles wavering over the tables. It seemed we'd be eating in near darkness. Then the lights came back on, while the storm raged. Someone closed the doors, so we couldn't see the lightning and rain anymore.

TR: I don't know why they closed the doors.

He seemed a little distraught.

After several minutes, someone opened the doors and Tom craned his neck to see outside. But it seemed like he couldn't get enough, like the moment had passed.

TR: Excuse me, but I've got a long day tomorrow. I think I'll head out.
RS: See ya manana.