Writing Quote: Writing Is Hard Work by Suze Orman

 

 

Writing Quote: Writing Is Hard Work

 

by Suze Orman

 

Writing is hard work, not magic. It begins with deciding why you are writing and whom you are writing for. What is your intent? What do you want the reader to get out of it? What do you want to get out of it. It's also about making a serious time commitment and getting the project done.

― Suze Orman

 

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Writing Quote: Don’t Use Adjectives by C. S. Lewis

 

Writing Quote: Don’t Use Adjectives

 

by C. S. Lewis

 

In writing. Don’t use adjectives which merely tell us how you want us to feel about the thing you are describing. I mean, instead of telling us a thing was “terrible,” describe it so that we’ll be terrified.

Don’t say it was “delightful”; make us say “delightful” when we’ve read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers, “Please will you do my job for me.”

― C. S. Lewis

 

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James Salter: Why I Write An American Master on the Origins of His Craft By James Salter

 

James Salter: Why I Write

An American Master on the Origins of His Craft

 

By James Salter

“To write! What a marvelous thing!” When he was old and forgotten, living in a rundown house in the dreary suburbs of Paris, Léautaud wrote these lines. He was unmarried, childless, alone. The world of the theater in which he had worked as a critic for years was now dark for him, but from the ruins of his life these words rose. To write!

One thinks of many writers who might have said this, Anne Sexton, even though she committed suicide, or Hemingway or Virginia Woolf, who both did also, or Faulkner, scorned in his rural town, or the wreckage that was Fitzgerald in the end. The thing that is marvelous is literature, which is like the sea, and the exaltation of being near it, whether you are a powerful swimmer or wading by the shore. The act of writing, though often tedious, can still provide extraordinary pleasure. For me that comes line by line at the tip of a pen, which is what I like to write with, and the page on which the lines are written, the pages, can be the most valuable thing I will ever own.

The cynics say that if you do not write for money you are a dabbler or a fool, but this is not true. To see one’s work in print is the real desire, to have it read. The remuneration is of less importance; no one was paid for the samizdats. Money is but one form of approval.

It is such a long time that I have been writing that I don’t remember the beginning. It was not a matter of doing what my father knew how to do. He had gone to Rutgers, West Point, and then MIT, and I don’t think in my lifetime I ever saw him reading a novel. He read newspapers, the Sun, the World-Telegram, there were at least a dozen in New York in those days. His task was laid out for him: to rise in the world.

Nor was my mother an avid reader. She read to me as a child, of course, and in time I read the books that were published in popular series, The Hardy Boys and Bomba, the Jungle Boy. I recall little about them. I did not read Ivanhoe, Treasure Island, Kim, or The Scottish Chiefs, though two or three of them were given to me. I had six volumes of a collection called My Bookhouse, edited by Olive Beaupré Miller, whose name is not to be found among the various Millers—Mrs. Alice, Henry, Joaquin, Joe—in The Reader’s Encyclopedia, but who was responsible for what knowledge I had of Cervantes, Dickens, Tolstoy, Homer, and the others whose work was excerpted. The contents also included folktales, fairy tales, parts of the Bible, and more. When I read of writers who when young were given the freedom of their fathers’ or friends’ libraries, I think of Bookhouse, which was that for me. It was not an education but the introduction to one. There were also poems, and in grammar school we had to memorize and then stand up and recite well-known poems. Many of these I still know, including Kipling’s “If,” which my father paid me a dollar to learn. Language is acquired, like other things, through the act of imitating, and rhythm and elegance may come in part from poems.

I could draw quite well as a boy and even, though uninstructed, paint. What impulse made me do this, and where the ability came from—although my father could draw a little—I cannot say. My desire to write, apparent at the age of seven or eight, likely came from the same source. I made crude books, as many children do, with awkward printing and drawings, from small sheets of paper, folded and sewn together.

In prep school we were poets, at least many of my friends and I were, ardent and profound. There were elegies but no love poems—those came later. I had some early success. In a national poetry contest I won honorable mention, and sold two poems to Poetry magazine.

All this was a phase, in nearly every case to be soon outgrown. In 1939 the war had broken out, and by 1941 we were in it. I ended up at West Point. The old life vanished; the new one had little use for poetry. I did read, and as an upperclassman wrote a few short stories. I had seen some in the Academy magazine and felt I could do better, and after the first one, the editor asked for more. When I became an officer there was, at first, no time for writing, nor was there the privacy. Beyond that was a greater inhibition: it was alien to the life. I had been commissioned in the Army Air Force and in the early days was a transport pilot, later switching into fighters. With that I felt I had found my role.

Stationed in Florida in about 1950, I happened to see in a bookshop window in Pensacola a boldly displayed novel called The Town and The City by John Kerouac. The name. There had been a Jack Kerouac at prep school, and he had written some stories. On the back of the jacket was a photograph, a gentle, almost yearning face with eyes cast downward. I recognized it instantly. I remember a feeling of envy. Kerouac was only a few years older than I was. Somehow he had written this impressive-looking novel. I bought the book and eagerly read it. It owed a lot to Thomas Wolfe—Look Homeward, Angel and others—who was a major figure then, but still it was an achievement. I took it as a mark of what might be done.

I had gotten married, and in the embrace of a more orderly life, on occasional weekends or in the evenings, I began to write again. The Korean War broke out. When I was sent over I took a small typewriter with me, thinking that if I was killed, the pages I had been writing would be a memorial. They were immature pages, to say the least. A few years later, the novel they were part of was rejected by the publishers, but one of them suggested that if I were to write another novel they would be interested in seeing it. Another novel. That might be years.

I had a journal I had kept while flying combat missions. It contained some description, but there was little shape to it. The war had the central role. One afternoon, in Florida again—I was there on temporary duty—I came back from the flight line, sat down on my cot, and began to hurriedly write out a page or so of outline that had suddenly occurred to me. It would be a novel about idealism, the true and the untrue, spare and in authentic prose. What had been missing but was missing no longer was the plot.

“Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end.”

Why was I writing? It was not for glory; I had seen what I took to be real glory. It was not for acclaim. I knew that if the book was published, it would have to be under a pseudonym; I did not want to jeopardize a career by becoming known as a writer. I had heard the derisive references to “God-Is-My-Copilot” Scott. The ethic of fighter squadrons was drink and daring; anything else was suspect. Still, I thought of myself as more than just a pilot and imagined a book that would be in every way admirable. It would be evident that someone among the ranks of pilots had written it, an exceptional figure, unknown, but I would have the satisfaction of knowing who it was.

I wrote when I could find time. Some of the book was written at a fighter base on Long Island, the rest of it in Europe, when I was stationed in Germany. A lieutenant in my squadron who lived in the apartment adjoining ours could hear the typewriter late at night through the bedroom wall. “What are you doing,” he asked one day, “writing a book?” It was meant as a joke. Nothing could be more unlikely. I was the experienced operations officer. Next step was squadron commander.

The Hunters was published by Harper and Brothers in late 1956. A section of the book appeared first in Collier’s. Word of it spread immediately. With the rest I sat speculating as to who the writer might be, someone who had served in Korea, with the Fourth Group, probably.

The reviews were good. I was 32 years old, the father of a child, with my wife expecting another. I had been flying fighters for seven years. I decided I had had enough. The childhood urge to write had never died, in fact, it had proven itself. I discussed it with my wife, who, with only a partial understanding of what was involved, did not attempt to change my mind. Upon leaving Europe, I resigned my commission with the aim of becoming a writer.

It was the most difficult act of my life. Latent in me, I suppose, there was always the belief that writing was greater than other things, or at least would prove to be greater in the end. Call it a delusion if you like, but within me was an insistence that whatever we did, the things that were said, the dawns, the cities, the lives, all of it had to be drawn together, made into pages, or it was in danger of not existing, of never having been. There comes a time when you realize that everything is a dream, and only those things preserved in writing have any possibility of being real.

Of the actual hard business of writing I knew very little. The first book had been a gift. I missed the active life terribly, and after a long struggle a second book was completed. It was a failure. Jean Stafford, one of the judges for a prize for which it had been routinely submitted, left the manuscript on an airplane. The book made no sense to her, she said. But there was no turning back.

A Sport and a Pastime was published six years later. It, too, did not sell. A few thousand copies, that was all. It stayed in print, however, and one by one, slowly, foreign publishers bought it. Finally, Modern Library.

The use of literature, Emerson wrote, is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. Perhaps this is true, but I would claim something broader. Literature is the river of civilization, its Tigris and Nile. Those who follow it, and I am inclined to say those only, pass by the glories.

Over the years I have been a writer for a succession of reasons. In the beginning, as I have said, I wrote to be admired, even if not known. Once I had decided to be a writer, I wrote hoping for acceptance, approval.

Gertrude Stein, when asked why she wrote, replied, “For praise.” Lorca said he wrote to be loved. Faulkner said a writer wrote for glory. I may at times have written for those reasons, it’s hard to know. Overall I write because I see the world in a certain way that no dialogue or series of them can begin to describe, that no book can fully render, though the greatest books thrill in their attempt.

A great book may be an accident, but a good one is a possibility, and it is thinking of that that one writes. In short, to achieve. The rest takes care of itself, and so much praise is given to insignificant things that there is hardly any sense in striving for it.

In the end, writing is like a prison, an island from which you will never be released but which is a kind of paradise: the solitude, the thoughts, the incredible joy of putting into words the essence of what you for the moment understand and with your whole heart want to believe.

 

From Don’t Save Anything: The Uncollected Essays, Articles, and Profiles of James Salter, by James Salter, courtesy of Counterpoint Press. 

 

About the Author 

James Arnold Horowitz (June 10, 1925 – June 19, 2015), better known as James Salter, his pen name and later-adopted legal name, was an American novelist and short-story writer. Originally a career officer and pilot in the United States Air Force, he resigned from the military in 1957 following the successful publication of his first novel, The Hunters. Wikipedia

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Power of Writing: The Purpose of a Writer is to Keep Civilization from Destroying Itself

 

Power of Writing: The Purpose of a Writer is to Keep Civilization from Destroying Itself

 

by Olivia Salter

 

Albert Camus, a renowned French Algerian philosopher, author, and journalist, once famously stated, "The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself." This powerful quote succinctly captures the profound role that writers and intellectuals play in society. Camus, known for his existentialist philosophy and contributions to the field of literature, understood the critical importance of storytelling and the written word in shaping the course of human civilization.

At the core of Camus' statement lies a deep sense of responsibility that writers carry for preserving the values and integrity of a civilization. By exploring the complexities of human experience and reflecting on the moral dilemmas and ethical challenges of the world, writers have the power to provoke thought, inspire change, and illuminate paths towards a more harmonious existence. In a world fraught with conflicts, injustices, and uncertainties, the written word serves as a beacon of hope, challenging the status quo and envisioning a better future.

Throughout history, writers have been at the forefront of social movements, advocating for justice, equality, and peace. Their words have sparked revolutions, toppled oppressive regimes, and given voice to the marginalized and oppressed. Writers possess the unique ability to transcend the boundaries of time and space, connecting people across generations and cultures through their stories and ideas. In a sense, they act as custodians of collective memory, preserving the lessons of the past and guiding us towards a more enlightened future.

Camus' quote also underscores the profound impact that literature can have on shaping individual and collective consciousness. Through their works, writers challenge us to confront uncomfortable truths, question our assumptions, and reevaluate our deeply held beliefs. By shedding light on the darker aspects of human nature and society, they compel us to confront our own vulnerabilities and prejudices, fostering empathy, compassion, and understanding.

In times of turmoil and upheaval, writers serve as witnesses to history, chronicling the triumphs and tragedies of human existence. Their words provide solace in moments of despair, inspiration in times of doubt, and a sense of unity in a world that often feels fragmented and divided. As guardians of the written word, writers have the power to shape hearts and minds, instilling in us a sense of shared humanity and collective responsibility.

Ultimately, Camus' quote serves as a poignant reminder of the enduring relevance and significance of literature in our lives. As we navigate the complexities of the modern world, facing formidable challenges and uncertainties, writers stand as beacons of light, guiding us towards a brighter tomorrow. Through their words, they offer us a glimpse of what is possible, inspiring us to strive for a more just, equitable, and compassionate society. In the face of destruction and chaos, writers hold the key to our collective salvation, reminding us of the transformative power of storytelling and the enduring legacy of the written word.

 

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Writing Craft: Pace & Prosody in Fiction Writing by Olivia Salter

 

Writing Craft: Pace & Prosody in Fiction Writing

 

by Olivia Salter

 

Pace and prosody are essential elements in fiction writing that can greatly impact the overall reading experience for the audience. Pace refers to the speed at which a story unfolds, while prosody involves the rhythm and flow of language within the text. Both of these elements work together to create a cohesive and engaging narrative that keeps readers hooked from beginning to end.

In fiction writing, pace plays a crucial role in keeping the audience engaged and interested in the story. A well-paced narrative will have a balance between slower, more descriptive scenes and faster-paced action sequences. This allows for moments of tension and release, keeping readers on the edge of their seats and eager to find out what happens next. By carefully controlling the pace of the story, writers can create a sense of urgency and excitement that propels the plot forward.

Prosody, on the other hand, adds an extra layer of depth to the writing by focusing on the musicality of language. This includes elements such as rhythm, meter, and tone, all of which contribute to the overall mood and atmosphere of the story. By paying attention to prosody, writers can enhance the emotional impact of their writing and create a more immersive reading experience for the audience.

When it comes to incorporating pace and prosody into fiction writing, there are several techniques that writers can use. For pace, varying sentence length and structure can help create a sense of rhythm and flow within the text. Short, punchy sentences can quicken the pace of a scene, while longer, more descriptive sentences can slow it down and provide a moment of reflection.

As for prosody, paying attention to the sound and cadence of language can help create a more lyrical and engaging narrative. Using techniques such as alliteration, repetition, and parallelism can enhance the musicality of the writing and draw readers further into the story.

Overall, pace and prosody are important tools that writers can use to craft a compelling and immersive narrative. By balancing the speed at which a story unfolds and paying attention to the musicality of language, writers can create a dynamic and engaging reading experience that will captivate audiences and leave a memorable journey in the reader’s mind.

 

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Path to Truth: The Essence of Writing by Olivia Salter, Quote by Ursula Le Guin

 

Path to Truth: The Essence of Writing

 

by Olivia Salter

 

Quote by Ursula Le Guin

 

 Ursula K. Le Guin, a prominent American author known for her works of science fiction and fantasy, beautifully encapsulates the essence of writing in her quote, "A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, and how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight." This profound statement by Le Guin reflects the intricate relationship between writers and words, highlighting the immense power and responsibility that come with wielding language.

At the heart of Le Guin's quote is the idea that writers are inherently mindful of the significance of words. They understand that language is not merely a tool for communication but a gateway to understanding, expression, and ultimately, truth. Through their craft, writers navigate the nuanced meanings and nuances of words, carefully selecting and arranging them to convey their thoughts, emotions, and ideas with precision and clarity.

The notion of words being a path to truth and freedom is central to Le Guin's philosophy of writing. For writers, words serve as a means of exploration, a vehicle for articulating their innermost thoughts and convictions. In weaving together sentences and stories, writers are able to uncover deeper truths about themselves and the world around them, while also advocating for freedom of expression and the exploration of new possibilities.

Furthermore, Le Guin emphasizes the dual nature of words, recognizing that they can evoke both fear and delight in those who wield them. The power of language lies in its ability to provoke emotional responses, inspire change, and challenge perceptions. Writers understand the weight of their words and the impact they can have on readers, which is why they approach their craft with a sense of responsibility and reverence.

In essence, Le Guin's quote celebrates the profound connection between writers and words, underscoring the role of language in shaping our understanding of the world and ourselves. Through the artful manipulation of words, writers have the ability to illuminate truths, spark conversations, and ultimately effect change. As stewards of language, writers bear the unique privilege and burden of conveying meaning, intention, and emotion through their words—a task that requires care, thought, and, above all, a deep appreciation for the transformative power of language.

 

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Writing Conflict: External Conflict in Literature by Olivia Salter

Writing Conflict: External Conflict in Literature

 

by Olivia Salter

 

External conflict is a crucial element in literature that drives the  story forward and creates tension and drama. It involves the protagonist facing challenges or obstacles that come from outside sources, such as other characters, society, nature, or supernatural forces. These conflicts serve to test the strength and resolve of the main character, forcing them to confront their fears, make difficult decisions, and ultimately grow and evolve throughout the story.

One of the most common forms of external conflict in literature is man vs. man, where the protagonist is pitted against another character or group of characters. This type of conflict can take the form of physical confrontations, verbal sparring, or even psychological warfare. Through these interactions, the protagonist's values, beliefs, and morals are tested, leading to inner turmoil and self-discovery.

Another form of external conflict is man vs. society, where the protagonist must navigate the expectations, norms, and rules of the world around them. This can involve challenging societal injustices, fighting against oppressive systems, or simply trying to fit in and find their place in society. By confronting these external forces, the protagonist can bring about change, challenge the status quo, and inspire others to do the same.

Nature can also serve as a source of external conflict in literature, with the protagonist facing the elements, natural disasters, or dangerous wildlife. These challenges force the protagonist to rely on their survival instincts, adapt to their surroundings, and overcome adversity in order to survive. Nature can be a powerful symbol of both beauty and danger, reflecting the fragility and resilience of the human spirit.

Finally, external conflict can also take on a supernatural or otherworldly form, where the protagonist must battle supernatural beings, mystical forces, or otherworldly creatures. These conflicts often test the protagonist's belief in the unknown, their faith in themselves, and their ability to confront the mysteries of the universe. By delving into the realm of the supernatural, authors can explore themes of magic, destiny, and the power of belief.

In conclusion, external conflict plays a vital role in literature by challenging the protagonist, driving the plot forward, and highlighting the complexities of human nature. By incorporating various forms of external conflict into their stories, authors can create engaging narratives that captivate readers, provoke thought, and inspire change. Ultimately, it is through the protagonist's struggles and triumphs against external forces that the true depth of their character is revealed, leaving a lasting impact on readers long after they have finished the story. 

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• What Is External Conflict in Literature? Definition and Examples