A stream of billowing, E. coli–tainted silt to fill up your pan while you strain to sift out the few scant flecks of advice it might contain. Not worth it even if you can find the useful advice, and you may even leave it with nothing of value, only dubious stains.
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[CW for rape. [Yes, in a book about basic writing advice. No, I can’t even either.]]
Appalling.
Meandering and vague, the advice ranges from the obvious to the naively ritualistic—when it’s present at all. At times a section works up to suggesting an insight, then rather than deliver on its implicit premise it winds down with a whimpered evasion.
The prose is mushy and wordy without saying much. There’s an entire section—one of the rare bits that shows some substance—on strengthening prose by mercilessly removing words that do no work for a book, yet it does not seem to have occurred to Mosley that what is good for fiction prose might be applied to the non-fiction book he was writing.
But this is merely disappointing, not appalling.
What’s appalling is what was so easily avoided with the least work consulting with another’s perspective. (Perhaps the evasive dismissal of outside critique of his work in progress, so plainly and unreflectively disclosed later, serves him less well than he supposes.)
Do you like unannounced, casual treatment of rape? Because that’s what you’ll find. The implication in the introduction that all men have the urge, among other things, to rape, gallantly restrained so as to participate in civil society, should have been the clear warning.
But surely, just a poor turn of phrase, I worried at the time.
Oh no, not at all. When we get to the extended working example, we find Bob Millar elevated to protagonist by the expedience of a little rape and murder of wife and children. Just a casually-introduced catalyst to plot and character development, inserted into this paper pablum with the thoughtless indifference of the entitled. And then he returns to it throughout the longest chapter, repeatedly prodding with calloused hands a stomach-turning pustule of violence, because it’s ~character building~.
To ground this critique in maximal charity, I must disclose that I learned three things of value from the remaining hate-reading of this book:
- Why some people insist that writing every day is the *only* way to write (reimmersing in your manuscript is much more work after a day away)
- A method of identifying words that can be removed to strengthen prose
- Dialogue and description should always do more than one job, preferably multiple
This is however praise so faint it fails to emit a single photon. All were revealed in a few words buried among a hundred pages, and didn’t at all need the rest of the book to land. Their value lies in concision, and they stood out from the rest of the advice like bullhorns in fog. The advice on plotting, story, characterisation, and structure—the majority of the book, that is—is indefinite to the point of uselessness. To use a word he liked to repeat (contrary to his advice to avoid such): it is flaccid.
None of those lessons were worth wading in a swamp bobbing thick with surprise sewage, especially since they are all superficial enough to be readily available from better books. This book says a whole lot of nothing, with a steaming helping of rape-is-good-drama apologia ladled on top.
What’s clear by the end is Mosley doesn’t know how he writes, except in the most superficial ways, and cannot share any real insights. At times he is actively disdainful of the idea that there is skill or craft to writing. His concluding note is a shrug that he has only the roughest advice to offer, then a mystical gesture towards the inner heart of a writer as the true source of quality. The utter lack of self-awareness is astounding, all the more so for having been laid out so clearly on the page before him by his own hand.
There are far better books on writing—more substantial, more effective, more deft, more insightful, more practical. This book is valuable only as a lesson in the kind of mediocrity to not produce.
This book is the equivalent of “draw a circle; now draw the rest of the owl raping a young girl.”