“Why do we write fiction?” Charles Johnson asks. “Why do we read it? Why are stories so important to us?”
I've read umpteen books on the art and craft of writing, but I couldn't resist one more. Johnson's credentials are as numerous as Abraham's descendants.
Confession: I skimmed the opening chapters, full of autobiography, in order to zero in on the parts of most interest to me. Namely, what gives a story the power and magic to consume readers and make everything disappear but the story?
Some of the answers to Johnson's questions, posed as a teacher to students, are already familiar to writers. Others are not as commonly followed as I’d like – in fact, in fiction workshops, people who do this are likely to be clobbered: EXPAND YOUR VOCABULARY. Read the dictionary. The writer won’t use most of the words, but “a large vocabulary is comparable to an artist with many colors on his palette. He doesn’t use all of them on a single canvas, but he always has the right shade available when he needs it.” Now I feel entitled to use some of those ten-dollar words I picked up from Zane Grey in my childhood. Lugubrious. Taciturn. Pusillanimous. Woot!
In an era of texting and “the truncated language Twitter, the anonymity of the Internet, and the triumph of hip-hop and gangster rap,” Johnson writes, “does anyone ever talk anymore about taste?” Read the book for more on that timely topic.
Another suggestion I love: filling cheap, unlined spiral notebooks with notes on “literally everything I experience or think worth remembering during the day; I jot down images, phrases used by my friends, fragments of thoughts, overheard dialogue, anything I flag in something I’ve read that strikes me for its sentence form or memorable qualities, its beauty or its truth.” I’ve done this for years, and I usually find these notations more accessible than what I save on a computer. (That’s a long story.) Johnson has hundreds of these notebooks, 43 years of accumulation“I save everything; it’s shameless” – but he does revisit them, hunting for thoughts, images, ideas, and “I can always count on finding some sentence, phrase, or idea I had, say, twenty or thirty years ago that is perfect for a story or novel in progress.”
The chapter on voice is mostly familiar advice, but with examples we may not have seen before.
Chapter 23, “The Wounds That Create Our Work,” is worth visiting. It is the wound, Gardner says, that makes the writer “driven.” Johnson emphasizes that “happy, well-adjusted children” or adults can create great art, too. The suffering artist isn’t the only kind of artist.
I own the John Gardner classic, “The Art of Fiction,” and Johnson quotes from it all throughout this book, but he quotes philosophers as well, e.g. Sartre, Hegel, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Herbert Spiegelberg, and more. There’s David Hume and his denial of the self’s existence. Those who find philosophy daunting can look to other chapters and still get their money’s worth from this book.
“Buddhists are naturally fans of science fiction,” Johnson says. Why? Buddhism, philosophy, and science fiction “as well as science itself”challenge our views and transform our perception.
Chapter 36, “Writing Well Is Thinking Well,” especially speaks to me. Too many excerpts would relieve you of the need to buy this book, but let me assure you, it’s packed with great lines. “With the first draft, every page is like a prayerin that draft we put something on paper just to determine whether it is worth our continuing to work on it.”
Chapter 42, “The Truth-Telling Power of Fiction,” is especially empowering for me. I believe the truth can be *best* expressed in the guise of fiction, sometimes. This chapter is packed with quotes (William James, for one), and the idea that each sentence is a unit of energy.
The fact that fiction “humanizes” is something all careful readers know. Albert Camus is quoted: “Feelings and images multiply a philosophy by ten. People think only in images… If you want to be a philosopher, write novels.”
Johnson himself is not a product of the university writing workshop approach to teaching writing, notes Marc C. Conner in the Afterword. Johnson took a medieval apprentice model, comparing the training of a writer to that of a jazz musician or martial artist.
Chapter 32, “The Art of Book Reviewing,” is a special favorite for me. Johnson reached a point, after reviewing so many authors, where he could “let reviewing become one of the things I’d done enough of” and could final “let go.” (I’m very close to this point myself.) I applaud his view that “a serious writer has an obligation to respond to and be engaged with other contemporary authors.”
And I love this: “a well-done book review can be a thing of beauty as memorable as the book under reviewand in some cases more engaging and memorable than the book being discussed.”
My habit of quoting extensively from the text when I review a book is vindicated here: “that way a reader could directly experience the work without me, the reviewer,” as a middle man mediating “or standing in the way of” readers encountering the author’s own words, thoughts, and prose style.
Here’s one for the one-star bandits to internalize: “I always tried to review the work of others with the kind of mindfulness, sympathy, compassion, and care that I hoped reviewers would bring to my own literary creations.”
In all, this is a thoughtful and fascinating, inspiring and encouraging book for writers. We can never have too many books on writing, right?
NOTE: Thanks to NetGalley for an ARC of this book.