WRITER'S REMORSE
WRITING HAS NEARLY DRIVEN ME TO A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN . . . So wrote famed American author, Truman Capote (pardon my paraphrase).
In the introduction to his book, "Handcarved Coffins," Capote recounts a rather unnerving event: seems the "Enfant Terrible" of American Letters was perusing some of his more celebrated works, when a wave of nausea unexpectedly swept over him. It was a moment of epiphany. Capote suddenly realized that his much lauded works were flawed; in most cases, he'd taken pages to achieve effects which -- with a little more literary sweat -- could've been nailed in a single paragraph. Capote was devastated. After decades as a best-selling, critically acclaimed author, he'd simply come to the realization that he could've done it better -- and did: the result being, "Handcarved Coffins."
George Plimpton, interviewing Joseph Heller for The Paris Review, asked the author of "Catch 22" what was the most important lesson he imparted to students in his writing class?
"That writing is hard." Responded Heller, "And that all books are rewritten."
In that same volume of The Paris Review, Plimpton queried Irwin Shaw on the nature of the beast: did Shaw find that writing became easier with experience?
"No." Answered Shaw, "When you first start out it's simple; you know only one way to begin a story. Later you learn there are a hundred different ways to begin that same story."
My point? Well, to quote Joseph Heller: "Writing is hard." Shit . . . It's more than hard -- it's damn near impossible!! As writers, we suffer from the dreaded "Double Whammy." Not only must we contend with our own limitations, but those of a woefully imperfect and inadequate instrument: The Written Word. A painter must wrestle with the conundrum of recreating a 3-dimensional world on a 2-dimensional canvas -- but daunting a task tho it may be, nature has provided him (her) the perfect tools: the contrast of light and shadow; perspective. The writer is not so fortunate. His (her) only tool is an archaic, frustratingly limited, imprecise written language: the product of equally limited and imprecise human beings. As writers, we are preordained to fail; to live always with the gnawing feeling that we could've done it better. What a bitch!! We'll never reach our intended destination. But there's this: each time we sit down to face the blank page, we'll do so with the fervent hope that indeed, we will do it better.
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." Wrote a wise man.
Pity the mountain climber who scales Everest: once the summit has been reached, there's nowhere to go but down. Learn to enjoy the climb.
In the introduction to his book, "Handcarved Coffins," Capote recounts a rather unnerving event: seems the "Enfant Terrible" of American Letters was perusing some of his more celebrated works, when a wave of nausea unexpectedly swept over him. It was a moment of epiphany. Capote suddenly realized that his much lauded works were flawed; in most cases, he'd taken pages to achieve effects which -- with a little more literary sweat -- could've been nailed in a single paragraph. Capote was devastated. After decades as a best-selling, critically acclaimed author, he'd simply come to the realization that he could've done it better -- and did: the result being, "Handcarved Coffins."
George Plimpton, interviewing Joseph Heller for The Paris Review, asked the author of "Catch 22" what was the most important lesson he imparted to students in his writing class?
"That writing is hard." Responded Heller, "And that all books are rewritten."
In that same volume of The Paris Review, Plimpton queried Irwin Shaw on the nature of the beast: did Shaw find that writing became easier with experience?
"No." Answered Shaw, "When you first start out it's simple; you know only one way to begin a story. Later you learn there are a hundred different ways to begin that same story."
My point? Well, to quote Joseph Heller: "Writing is hard." Shit . . . It's more than hard -- it's damn near impossible!! As writers, we suffer from the dreaded "Double Whammy." Not only must we contend with our own limitations, but those of a woefully imperfect and inadequate instrument: The Written Word. A painter must wrestle with the conundrum of recreating a 3-dimensional world on a 2-dimensional canvas -- but daunting a task tho it may be, nature has provided him (her) the perfect tools: the contrast of light and shadow; perspective. The writer is not so fortunate. His (her) only tool is an archaic, frustratingly limited, imprecise written language: the product of equally limited and imprecise human beings. As writers, we are preordained to fail; to live always with the gnawing feeling that we could've done it better. What a bitch!! We'll never reach our intended destination. But there's this: each time we sit down to face the blank page, we'll do so with the fervent hope that indeed, we will do it better.
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." Wrote a wise man.
Pity the mountain climber who scales Everest: once the summit has been reached, there's nowhere to go but down. Learn to enjoy the climb.
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