Ahoy, folksies. I have a new idea! And it stems from my perceived inability to write tension without a threat of violence. But before I get all ahead of myself, let’s take a breath and explain. Athletes need to warm up (well, not according to Tallahassee from Zombieland, but whatever) and writers do, too. Because time—our most valuable yet most infuriatingly difficult to use resource–is limited, one might as well make the warm-up also developmentally worthwhile. I mean, want to get that swole writer bod? Then never spend a word willy-nilly.…
No matter what you think about self-censorship, I believe that it is very important to at least have thought about the issues and be able to provide a reason to back up your stance. Without overemphasizing the scope and reach of our work, we writers need to understand how our profession affects the people around us. Only from that understanding–that responsibility–can we make a truly educated choice regarding our work.
There are various and sundry complaints about the “prequel” trilogy (PT, or POS to some) in comparison the the “original” trilogy (OT), but one misstep has always stood out to me (I know you’re thinking “Jar Jar!” but that’s not it… just hear me out). The Force is treated very differently from trilogy to trilogy.
When I meet a new writer, musician, artist, or any other creative type, the foremost question that intrigues me is: “how do you keep yourself on track?”
When you find yourself truculently bedighting your scrivenery with inimical prose, serried and thick as chaparral; I, for one, recommend elision instead. Otherwise, your writing may appear solecistic, and you, as a writer, solipsismal.
When someone asks for “description,” do you answer with “leave nothing to the imagination?”
Well, as you may know, this isn’t too classy, and although some folks may enjoy that, most probably don’t.
What King is saying is not to avoid writing darlings, but rather to remove them from the final product. This is important because I believe that breathing life into those “darlings” is one of the best ways a writer can improve his craft.
I’d like to borrow a tired chiché from my music education experience, which is that the “practice makes perfect” mantra is misleading. Practice makes permanent is more often true. Only perfect practice makes perfect. Which raises the question: how does one practice writing?
Research is, in the end, borrowing or reusing ideas for a different end goal. So, when perusing the dusty halls of human experience, remember to bring your notebook.
In a society that so values monetary success, understand that the immediate lack thereof is not a sign of failure, nor is it a symptom of bad writing or flawed ideas, though that’s an easy go-to excuse.