Novel-ty
"The very reason I write is so that I might not sleepwalk through my entire life."
-- Zadie Smith
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about The Perfect Novel. Reading articles lamenting the lack of Great Literary Works being published these days and the paucity of Bright New Young Talent (young, in the literary world, being defined as anyone under 40). Wondering where the Voice of My Generation is, wondering what they would sound like, what they would write about, what they would say. Wondering if there can even be a Voice of My Generation anymore, especially after reading some article somewhere that pointed out that the previous Voices of Generations all tended to be white and male…not at all in vogue in today’s climate of multiculturalism…meaning that the whole concept of a Voice of a Generation may well be bunk to begin with.
Then along comes Zadie Smith, who just wrote an absolutely brilliant article on the act of judging literature, the uneasy relationship between truth and fiction (and between the writer’s truths and the writer’s communication of said truths), and the real reason why there are so few Great Literary Works published in any generation.
It’s a long article, but if you have any interest in literature (or, say, were an English major in college) read it in its entirety. It’s one of the more fascinating and spot-on essays I’ve read in awhile.
Here’s one snippet:
It is impossible to convey all of the truth of all our experience. When we write, similarly, we have the idea of a total revelation of truth, but cannot realize it. And so, instead, each writer asks himself which serviceable truths he can live with, which alliances are strong enough to hold… In what form, asks the writer, can I most truthfully describe the world as it is experienced by this particular self? And it is from that starting point that each writer goes on to make their individual compromise with the self, which is always a compromise with truth as far as the self can know it. That is why the most common feeling, upon re-reading one's own work, is Prufrock's: "That is not it at all ... that is not what I meant, at all ..." Writing feels like self-betrayal, like failure.
It is possible I think this article is so brilliant because it addresses quite directly a few intellectual quandaries I've been having. She sums up it up pretty neatly -- the essential problem of writing something that is real and authentic and true, but is also fiction.
Perhaps I should back up.
I’ve been picking, very casually, very occasionally, at a novel. Ooh, that felt weird to type. It’s not really something I talk about. It’s nowhere near anything yet, and it may well never be. I’m just picking at the edges right now...chiseling a little at the corners, curious as to what shape the marble may hold.
I’ve always assumed I would write a novel someday. (The fact that I have no real experience, or talent for, writing fiction being only a minor obstacle.) I know it in the same way (I think) other people know they will have kids. Not sure when, not sure how (well, they might technically know *how*….), not sure in what way kids will fit into the overall plan…but part of the plan nonetheless. That’s what my novel feels like to me.
It’s inside my skin. There are times I can feel its physical presence inside me…can almost make out its contours. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly inspired to write, or when I can’t get certain phrases or ideas out of my head until I write them down, I think of my novel like a splintering bone. I think these phrases are bone spurs, digging their way through to the surface of my skin, and my only job, at the moment, is to pick them out, write them down and hold them for safekeeping. I have files and files of random sentences I’m keeping safe.
I’ve gone through a lot lately that has been inspiring random phrases, paragraphs, or even whole pages. And so I’ve been thinking a lot about writing as the revelation of truths. Writing fiction as an act of figuring out my own, real-world, life…of analyzing its patterns, of making it feel meaningful, of subjecting it to a poetic standard. Like Smith, writing keeps me from sleepwalking through my life. But also like Smith, I wonder which truths I pick. Where is the line between fiction and autobiography? What truths do I – can I – reveal, and what truths do I mix with what lies?
Any introductory creative writing class will tell you to “write what you know.” I want to write something that will ring true, that is an authentic representation of a real experience. And yet I also have a sense that a novel should be a little grander – reach more, aim higher, dream bigger. The stakes need to be higher and the themes bigger than just the tiny experience of one individual. A great novel lifts us up.
And therein lays the problem, as Smith points out. When we write to communicate Big Ideas and Grand Themes, we lose touch with the truths we know. We stop representing a real experience and start representing a clichéd conception of that experience. It’s Baudrillard’s simulacrum (that one’s for you, E.) – we start to think that this clichéd representation of experience is the real thing, and that experiences that do not fit this pattern are inauthentic…when, in fact, they are the most authentic of all because they are real.
Which brings me back to all this Voice of Our Generation stuff…because, of course, that’s the real hidden dream here. To write a novel is one thing, but to write a novel that speaks to the dreams and yearnings and questions and problems of whole generation…well, that's the ultimate, right? But in striving to represent those Great Themes, you risk running afoul of all the Great Clichés that are out there.
Such as, for example, the Great Cliché of the young writer dreaming big about her Great American Novel (which, once published, would propel her instantly into Voice of Her Generation status)... but not actually having a clue what that novel would be about or, for that matter, how to write even halfway decent fiction in the first place. Yep, walked right into that one.
-- Zadie Smith
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about The Perfect Novel. Reading articles lamenting the lack of Great Literary Works being published these days and the paucity of Bright New Young Talent (young, in the literary world, being defined as anyone under 40). Wondering where the Voice of My Generation is, wondering what they would sound like, what they would write about, what they would say. Wondering if there can even be a Voice of My Generation anymore, especially after reading some article somewhere that pointed out that the previous Voices of Generations all tended to be white and male…not at all in vogue in today’s climate of multiculturalism…meaning that the whole concept of a Voice of a Generation may well be bunk to begin with.
Then along comes Zadie Smith, who just wrote an absolutely brilliant article on the act of judging literature, the uneasy relationship between truth and fiction (and between the writer’s truths and the writer’s communication of said truths), and the real reason why there are so few Great Literary Works published in any generation.
It’s a long article, but if you have any interest in literature (or, say, were an English major in college) read it in its entirety. It’s one of the more fascinating and spot-on essays I’ve read in awhile.
Here’s one snippet:
It is impossible to convey all of the truth of all our experience. When we write, similarly, we have the idea of a total revelation of truth, but cannot realize it. And so, instead, each writer asks himself which serviceable truths he can live with, which alliances are strong enough to hold… In what form, asks the writer, can I most truthfully describe the world as it is experienced by this particular self? And it is from that starting point that each writer goes on to make their individual compromise with the self, which is always a compromise with truth as far as the self can know it. That is why the most common feeling, upon re-reading one's own work, is Prufrock's: "That is not it at all ... that is not what I meant, at all ..." Writing feels like self-betrayal, like failure.
It is possible I think this article is so brilliant because it addresses quite directly a few intellectual quandaries I've been having. She sums up it up pretty neatly -- the essential problem of writing something that is real and authentic and true, but is also fiction.
Perhaps I should back up.
I’ve been picking, very casually, very occasionally, at a novel. Ooh, that felt weird to type. It’s not really something I talk about. It’s nowhere near anything yet, and it may well never be. I’m just picking at the edges right now...chiseling a little at the corners, curious as to what shape the marble may hold.
I’ve always assumed I would write a novel someday. (The fact that I have no real experience, or talent for, writing fiction being only a minor obstacle.) I know it in the same way (I think) other people know they will have kids. Not sure when, not sure how (well, they might technically know *how*….), not sure in what way kids will fit into the overall plan…but part of the plan nonetheless. That’s what my novel feels like to me.
It’s inside my skin. There are times I can feel its physical presence inside me…can almost make out its contours. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly inspired to write, or when I can’t get certain phrases or ideas out of my head until I write them down, I think of my novel like a splintering bone. I think these phrases are bone spurs, digging their way through to the surface of my skin, and my only job, at the moment, is to pick them out, write them down and hold them for safekeeping. I have files and files of random sentences I’m keeping safe.
I’ve gone through a lot lately that has been inspiring random phrases, paragraphs, or even whole pages. And so I’ve been thinking a lot about writing as the revelation of truths. Writing fiction as an act of figuring out my own, real-world, life…of analyzing its patterns, of making it feel meaningful, of subjecting it to a poetic standard. Like Smith, writing keeps me from sleepwalking through my life. But also like Smith, I wonder which truths I pick. Where is the line between fiction and autobiography? What truths do I – can I – reveal, and what truths do I mix with what lies?
Any introductory creative writing class will tell you to “write what you know.” I want to write something that will ring true, that is an authentic representation of a real experience. And yet I also have a sense that a novel should be a little grander – reach more, aim higher, dream bigger. The stakes need to be higher and the themes bigger than just the tiny experience of one individual. A great novel lifts us up.
And therein lays the problem, as Smith points out. When we write to communicate Big Ideas and Grand Themes, we lose touch with the truths we know. We stop representing a real experience and start representing a clichéd conception of that experience. It’s Baudrillard’s simulacrum (that one’s for you, E.) – we start to think that this clichéd representation of experience is the real thing, and that experiences that do not fit this pattern are inauthentic…when, in fact, they are the most authentic of all because they are real.
Which brings me back to all this Voice of Our Generation stuff…because, of course, that’s the real hidden dream here. To write a novel is one thing, but to write a novel that speaks to the dreams and yearnings and questions and problems of whole generation…well, that's the ultimate, right? But in striving to represent those Great Themes, you risk running afoul of all the Great Clichés that are out there.
Such as, for example, the Great Cliché of the young writer dreaming big about her Great American Novel (which, once published, would propel her instantly into Voice of Her Generation status)... but not actually having a clue what that novel would be about or, for that matter, how to write even halfway decent fiction in the first place. Yep, walked right into that one.
posted by Melissa at 2:05 PM
2 Comments:
"Write what you don't know about what you know." That's a quote from somebody...
As a former English major, Melissa, I feel like I should have some sort of inspirational anecdote from a writer's life, about someone who did exactly what you're doing now, and was then catapulted into Literary Eminence. Unfortunately, I mostly studied gender and sexuality, whose most eminent authors either offed themselves or dreamed about offing themselves -- not really the stuff of inspiration. Perhaps the anti-heroism of the postmodern age has made it more difficult to lead any type of a manageable life and speak for your generation.
Post a Comment
<< Home