The following quotation is from
the New York Times Sunday Book Review
about a collection of stories titled, “Summer Lies,” by Bernhard Schlink. The
reviewer, Lisa Zeidner, observes that “stories filled with observations of
background details like the weather or birdsong can easily become dull — or,
conversely, poetically overwrought.” However, this particular author of this
particular book “avoids both pitfalls, and absorbs us with the blow-by-blows of
his characters’ reactions, even when the plot is adamantly short on
life-changing events.” This is how normative fiction is parsed, then. What does
this quote say to you? Look at the worry and bother over a plot that leaves
much to be desired because there are no life changing events. And the lack of
life changing events aren’t saved by the other details provided that apparently
batter up a bore, dilly-dally in a dullness, or are too elaborately and overly poetic.
But, (always there’s a but), this particular author, in this particular piece
of writing, saves himself by providing “blow by-blows of his characters’
reactions,” and to someone, somewhere, that was sufficient. (Or to be fair: to
enough people, in many places, that was plenty). This is just to say that
someone will lay any number of claims against your plot or your characters or
your style or your phraseology or any number of things that we have been fixedly
looking for in works of art ‘since the beginning of time’ (to quote a student’s
essay).
And if someone will forever be
displeased with one or all of the aspects that make up a piece of literature, (or
fiction, if you’d rather use that referential in this case), then why in the
world would you bother to cater to everyone? (Or more extremely, anyone?) Maybe
that is a silly question, a rudimentary notion. Allow me to backpedal from that
statement somewhat: Why not then, if people will forever be displeased, forget
about the whole lot of ‘em and start writing (I guess in the modernists’ vein)
to forever try to make it new (whatever that ‘new’ means to you)?
Why
can’t a story be constructed entirely of “observations of background details
like the weather or birdsong?” Couldn’t that present the possibility to make up
a sort of narrative itself? Or instead of the “life changing events,” why not
worry over language?
Language changing events—sentences,
each, an event in itself where you can let phrases turn and unfold anew, follow
the bricked yellow syntactical road at times, and see what pens the page. Take
the sentence to a different place. (Ugh, pardon that). Vary sentence lengths,
drop pronouns, add qualifiers to the point that an entire sentence, in fact,
quite possibly, in all reality, may well, frightfully enough, or delightfully,
be constructed of just that. It may come off as gibberish—especially if being
read aloud. This is an inherent risk of fleeing, falling or flying from the
nest of the normative. Writing is, or should be, a form of risk taking. Why
continue scratching out the same grammatically correct sentence in the same
neatly structured narrative? Why let words be absorbed into the background?
Without the words, surely, all that’s left is __________.
But I’d like to think, or at
least fool myself into thinking, that there can be more to an experimental
piece that does bind it, enough so that it may even meet with Lisa Zeidner’s
approval. One must needle the thread and weave some repetition throughout a
piece so that there is something that leaves the reader, one who regularly
chooses normative fiction over experimental fiction, less strung out. Give them
a dose. Sedate the patient. A story most certainly can be found out in an
experimental piece, if one were to look closely enough (if the writer executes
the breadcrumb trail aptly). What is absented? What, then, is gained—beyond
some selfish desire to scribble in such a way? For me, it seems the more
natural approach to applying art to the world, or the world to art, especially
that of language and thoughts happening at real time. But be prepared, however,
for here teeters the edge of abstraction, and perhaps some vagabond vagaries
found in your writing will be the only observables to the reader out there, the
audience, so called. Jeanette Winterson, as she discusses patrons observing
paintings, writes:
When you say ‘This
work has nothing to do with me’. When you say ‘This work is
boring/pointless/silly/obscure/elitist etc’, you may be right, because you are
looking at a fad, or you might be wrong because the work falls so outside of
the safety of your own experience that in order to keep your own world intact,
you must deny the other world of the painting. This denial of imaginative
experience happens at a deeper level than our affirmation of our daily world.
Every day, in countless ways, you and I convince ourselves about ourselves.
True art, when it happens to us, challenges the ‘I’ that we are. (Art Objects)
I
like to think that we all want to be challenged, and not only does the
presentation of experimental fiction challenge a reader to ‘figure it out,’ but
it also calls into question the reason why there needs to be so much figuring
in the first place. The same applies to writing, or attempting to write,
experimental pieces. They challenge us to be unconvinced, and to provide some
sort of object that is worth something, anything, in this world that is crowded
by words and by screens and by war and by all of the rest of the etcetera, and
perfectly plotted tales that do not exist in any world I’ve taken part in
(including those presented in my colorful dreams). When Gertrude Stein arrived
back in the States in 1934 for a lecture tour, she was met by a group of
journalists and after “she went on to answer their questions lucidly and in
good humor,” one of the journalists asked, “Why don’t you write the way you
talk?” to which Stein replied, “Why don’t you read the way I write?”
Matthew
Parker is a human being who attempts to write writing. He believes that being
enrolled in a writing program such as FAU's MFA program helps coin the cup of
that cause. As for the future, he suggests counting cards.
brilliant.
ReplyDeleteReally enjoyed your thoughts Mr. Parker.
ReplyDeleteStop challenging my "I", Matt! Really, this is quite liberating.
ReplyDelete