C1008-1 Writing Stories: Nonfiction

    1.    CREATIVE NONFICTION:  Some time ago, I purchased a copy of a literary journal, entitled, Creative Nonfiction.  I found the title of the journal somewhat difficult to absorb because it seemed so completely counterintuitive to me.  Indeed, how could literature that was labeled as “nonfiction” also be “creative” at the same time?  While it is true that the process of writing anything is a creative process - and it could be no other way, unless one could scoop up literary works in much the same way one mines iron ore - doesn’t the nonfiction moniker suggest a written work that should be strongly factual and “realistic?”  Really, when you think about it, though, isn’t all writing “creative” by definition?  Is it even possible to have writing that is not creative?  What would you call it instead?  “Found” writing?  “Accidental” writing?  “Inadvertent” writing?  It is almost too perplexing to contemplate.  Nonetheless, there exists a tension between what we think of as the legitimate works (all right, you English majors out there, all together now, say: noble, creative writers of fiction), and those gnarly bastards of creative nonfiction.  The editor of Creative Nonfiction, Lee Gutkind, even wrote an introduction to the issue, in which the basic “unfairness” of categorizing creative nonfiction writers as lower-order writers than creative fiction writers was explored, and he did that with some bitterness: “Frankly, I am sick and tired of having to pass legitimacy tests” (Lee Gutkind,  “From the Editor: The Poets & Writers Issue,” Creative Nonfiction, Number 26, n.d., p. 2).  Jeeze, Gutkind, I feel really bad for you.

    2.    JOURNALISM WITH A CLEAN SHIRT:  Well, legitimacy tests or no, I was perplexed, let me tell you, about that unusual title until I saw an advertizement in the back of the journal that pretty much defined the genre for me: “Creative nonfiction liberated journalism by inviting writers to dramatize, interpret, speculate, and even re-create their subjects.”  Just so.  Perhaps “creative nonfiction” is just another way of saying, “elegant letter-writing,” or “journalism with a bit of genuine style” (i.e., style that was not taken from some newspaper’s idiotic notion of style, e.g., the New York Times Style Manual.  Remember that traditional journalism is to writing what coal mining is to sculpture.  So, any suggestion about informing journalism with some modicum of writing excellence is always to be welcomed.  After all, we can’t all be eight-year-olds in our reading habits).  In effect that is exactly what I found in that literary journal: material that could be found in any personal journal or in a letter from an accomplished writer-friend.  And I recognized the genre at once because that’s precisely what I do when I write: I tell stories that have some anchor - however tenuous - in reality.  But I wouldn’t degrade myself by calling my writing “journalism.”  Good heavens, one should always strive to produce writing on a more exalted level than that.  Man!

    3.    VACATION STORIES:  But the literary journal had me in a frame of mind at the start of a personal vacation in which I was reflecting upon the meaning of the words “fiction” and “nonfiction.”  And it was into that very context that some difficulties in telling stories to others led me to reflect on the meaning of stories in general, and on the practical implications of differentiating between the various forms of narration or storytelling.  In particular, I found it difficult to tell some of my stories to others with my wife and daughter present. They interrupted my stories repeatedly, and would not let me tell the stories in my own way - even when I said, “Hey, it’s my lie.  Let me tell it my way.”  For some reason they felt compelled to emend almost everything I said.  They made me feel like a fool, and I became very angry at their persistent rudeness.

    4.    RUDE LISTENERS:  Yet, it is almost always a facile and unthinking matter to confuse the internal logic of a story with the raw structural elements of a philosophical argument.  When that happens, the narrator’s exposition of his story is frequently attacked en echelon by his auditors, as if it were a philosophical argument requiring a precise refutation, or a piece of courtroom testimony to be seared with heated and repeated objections.  Yet, the story itself so often contains such rhythms and internal cadences that philosophical inquiry and argumentation serve only to destroy the lilting flow and pace of the story.  Then too, the abrupt cessation of the story line that is necessitated by the imposition of those raw arguments, causes the story to cease, left unsheltered among derelict and desultory fragments of narration, and caught unawares in the sudden tangle of rudeness.
     For indeed, it is always rudeness and ignorance that compel an auditor to “question” the elements of a story as if the story were wholly didactic.  Stories, to those who really think about them, however, are often actually works of performing artistry.  The stories are told, not to convey eternal truths per se, or to present compelling arguments as such, but rather, to give pleasure to the auditors (and to the narrator) by the very act of telling alone.  In many ways, a singer and a story teller both infuse their particular media so that their efforts might be received with pleasure by those so inclined to receive it.  One would not confuse either effort with a legal deposition, or a philosophical argument, or even, surprisingly, with detailed instructions for repairing washing machines.  The proper telling of a story, in my view, is always a piece of artistry, and one should no sooner interrupt an actor on a stage in order to contradict one of his lines than he would or should - properly - interrupt a narrator in the thick of his tale.  No reasonable person stands on his feet, shouts rudely at the actor on the stage, and expounds on the ontological dilemmas of Shakespeare’s “To be or not to be” during the play itself.  To do so would quickly label the person as a crank of the meanest order.

    5.    THE STORY IN ITSELF:  But often rude and ignorant people will interrupt a narrator to edit his story, or to contradict it, or to launch an ad hominem on his character because they believe that he is fabricating the events in his story, or what have you.  And yet, and yet - none of these things about the story is necessarily true.  The story in its broadest outlines is the very essence of what the story means: or, more succinctly, the story means itself.  How can anyone, then, contradict something that means itself?  One may properly disagree with the delivery strategy of the narrator, or his choice of words, or the pace and cadence of his tale.  But one cannot disagree with the story itself except in a banal, perfunctory, and pedantic way.  To say that one does not like so-and-so’s story is to make a statement about one’s own opinions.  It says nothing about the story itself.  In fact, the story stands immune and alone, quite beyond the reach of any would-be detractor.
     We should always remember that no two stories are ever precisely and exactly alike - even if the second story is a digital recording of the first story: the digital reproduction will contain electronic hum, distortion, noise, and glitches that are not present in the first story.  To be sure, they are similar.  But they are not alike.  And we can see this demonstrated in a very gross way almost daily, when we are present when someone tells a person a brief story.  Let’s call the auditor Michelle.  Later, we hear Michelle attempting to repeat the story to another third person.  Invariably Michelle - and all of us for that matter - will garble some of the details of the story, to the point that we cannot believe what we are hearing.  Whereas Mrs. Smith may have told Michelle that 77 people were on the ferry, Michelle will report 37 people present.  If we are ignorant and rude, we might have a tendency at that point to reach into the narration to hit the big emergency stop button, and to correct Michelle right then and there.  But when we do that, we destroy Michelle’s narration; we embarrass her; and we transform unimportant and tiny details of the story into big, lumbering, forensic monoliths that trip up poor Michelle.  Unless Michelle’s story was a confession or a deposition in a police station, the sundry details of the story should always be unimportant to the narration.  Does anyone really suppose that Michelle’s ferry story is any less compelling because she could remember only 37 passengers being present when the ship sank to the bottom of the sea with the loss of all 77 hands on board?  What practical difference does it make if 37 or 77 or 907 people were on board if the fate of all of the passengers is death by drowning?
     But the pendant, rude or ignorant person (to be sure, there is a considerable overlap among those categories) will insist upon disrupting the narration in order to “correct” the storyteller, when, in fact, the story being told is unique in itself, and cannot properly be emended.
     Please do not finish my stories.  With all your might, pretend that the story I am telling is my story, mine and mine alone.  And let me say further that you cannot take the hand of the dancer and whirl her away from me as if that didn’t matter at all.  I’m doing this foxtrot, pal; not you.  You understand?  This is my story.  Get your own damn story.

F2103-1 The Wisdom of Cats

My friend, Nina, has a very large, black cat named Maxx.  And sometimes Maxx seems to understand things that cats aren’t supposed to understand.

Nina told me that one Saturday morning Maxx jumped up on her bed before the sun had gilded the shrubbery outside, and began to “knead” the pillow with its paws.  That in itself was annoying enough.  But Maxx insisted upon nuzzling up to Nina and subjected her to his disgusting “fish breath.”  Tuna breath at 5:30 a.m., to be sure, was not on Nina’s list of Delightful Things Every Woman Should Experience.

“Maxx,” Nina said in her best Alpha voice, “let me explain something to you.  I work very hard all week and Saturday is the only day I get to sleep in.  You come up on this bed and start your “paw the pillow” stuff and wake me up.  Then you give me that Tuna Breath.  That makes me very angry.  Well, let me say this, Maxx.  You are not permitted to come into this bedroom until 10:00 a.m. and even then you are not permitted to come up on the bed.  Do you understand?  Now get out of here and let me sleep.”

Maxx left the room and did not come back until 10:00 a.m.  Nina said that now Maxx never comes into her bedroom on Saturday mornings until 10:00 a.m.  And he stays off of the bed.

Who would have thought it would have been that easy to get a cat to do exactly what its owner wants?

C3001-58 Thanksgiving: Dreams

 I am thankful for the childhood dreams that always came true, and for the foolish dreams that You knew weren’t made for me.  Your kindness gave me both, by saying yes and no to the very same question.

B8002-2 Facts

DEFINING CHARACTERISTICS OF FACTS:

a. SIMPLE, UNIFIED, & MENSURABLE RELATIONSHIP: Facts are simple, unified statements of the mensurable relationship between one material thing and another. “All real properties of a thing can be expressed mathematically as quantities, i.e., numbers, showing the relation of these properties to other properties.” (Ouspensky, p. 65.)
For example, when we measure a piece of wood and say that it is eight inches long, we mean that the piece of wood holds a mensurable relationship of eight units (or “inches” or “centimeters,” etc.) on a suitable measurement scale (tape measure, yardstick, etc.) to a dimensional extension (or “length”) on the piece of lumber itself. This relationship, which we express as “eight inches in length,” is a fact.

b. QUANTITY, EXTENSION, OR DURATION: Facts can only be expressed in terms of quantity, extension or duration, as follows:

“There are three [quantity] persons in the elevator.”
“Jason has a 34-inch [extension] waist.”
“We’ve been here two [duration] hours.”

c. MENSURABLE ASSERTIONS: Facts are always and only mensurable assertions. If you cannot measure it, it cannot be a fact.

(1) NON-MATERIAL THINGS CAN NEVER BE THE BASIS FOR FACTS: Since non-material things are not subject to enumeration, extension or duration, no factual assertions made about them.

(2) MATERIAL THINGS THAT CANNOT BE MEASURED CAN NEVER FORM THE BASIS FOR FACTS: To state, for example, that “this object is made of plastic” is not a fact: it is an opinion based on certain kinds of evidence. Similarly, it is not a fact to assert that something is “red” or “blue” or any other color, for that matter. Remember, quantity, extension or duration alone form the basis of facts.

d. THE TEST OF A FACT IS MENSURABILITY: If something can be measured (number, dimension, or duration) it is capable of being factual. Emphatically, “reasonableness,” “logical consistency,” “necessity,” or “evidence” do not apply to facts.

e. FACTS ARE ALWAYS OBJECTIVE:

f. FACTS ARE ALWAYS LOGICALLY CONSTRUCTED:

g. ONLY SIMPLE FACTS MAY BE QUANTIFIED: One may say, as a statement of fact, that, “There are nine pennies in the drawer.” But one cannot say, as a factual statement, that, “A water molecule is composed of two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom” because a water molecule is, as we understand it at this time, a complex relationship between two factors. We may say that a given measure of water contains two moles of hydrogen and one mole of oxygen and infer from these facts that water is composed of two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom. But when we make that inference, there is no factual basis for it. It is merely an opinion. Remember again, only simple, unified relationships can be described as facts

h. FACTS ARE SELF-REFERENTIAL: Facts imply nothing beyond themselves. To state that a piece of wood measures “eight inches in length” holds no implications beyond that fact. Only when facts are arrayed against intentions of usability do these mensurable quantities become relevant. For example, the eight-inch piece of wood might be too short for someone wanting to erect a flagpole. But it may be quite suitable for other (unstated) uses. A scrap of wood in a pile - one that happens to measure eight inches in length - is just a scrap of wood in a pile; it is not the beginning assumption for a chest of drawers or a tomato stake. At the end of the day, it is just an eight-inch piece of wood.

(1) TAUTOLOGIES: Of their very nature, facts are inherently tautologous.

(2) EMANATIONS ARE NOT POSSIBLE: No brave forays into the unknown are possible for facts. They exist without pretensions beyond their plain descriptions. They are, in a word, ontological.

i. FACTS ARE ALWAYS VERIFIABLE AND REPEATABLE: The relationship found by one person can be duplicated by others and, within some range of acceptable measuring error, the same result can be found by others as well. There is, then, a factual inelasticity about material things that is woefully lacking in mere opinion. When we count the guests around the breakfast table we consistently arrive at the number four without disputing among ourselves whether the poor dear at the far end of the table just might happen to be a moose or a water faucet instead.

j. ULTIMATELY, FACTS ARE TRIVIAL: Since facts are self-referential and imply nothing beyond themselves, they are always trivial in a philosophical sense.

k. A COLLECTION OF FACTS CONSTITUTES A LIST: As facts themselves can imply nothing, so also lists can imply nothing. Lists, sometimes called “data,” are used, however, to form opinions. But the lists themselves do not force a definite conclusion in such a way that, for example, we can say with some confidence, that “ingesting a 5,000 calorie/day diet will make one fat.” Lumberjacks might do that regularly without becoming obese, while the sedentary might well grow to immense size on such a diet. To state, then, that the 5,000 calorie/day diet will make one fat as a “fact” is to misapprehend the meaning of the word “fact.” One will see at once that an opinion is being expressed when one states that a 5,000 calorie diet will make one fat.

l. FACTS, COLLECTIVELY GROUPED INTO A LIST, ARE NOT INTER-RELATED: Facts are intransitive and independent of one another. For example, suppose one counted the number of people entering an elevator at a quarter past the hour throughout an eight hour period. The resulting list, which would show, say, four people entering the elevator at 9:15 a.m., would have no correlation with the three people entering the elevator at 3:15 p.m. These two facts would stand independently of each other. Except in some trivial and co-incidental manner, there would be no correlation between the number of morning and afternoon passengers.

m. THE CONFUSION OF FACTS AND OPINIONS: Science, as a self-styled, mensurable activity, frequently falls into the error of confusing facts with opinions. It often suggests that the data (or list of facts) support a certain conclusion when they do nothing of the sort. The facts are only mensurable qualities without implication for practical use. Let me give an example from real life. A university invertebrate zoology class wished to study aquatic life in a pond on the campus. The students took water samples each Monday morning during the Fall of the year, recorded the water temperature, and counted the types and numbers of diatoms in the water. As they collected and counted the samples, they noticed that certain diatoms began to disappear in number as the water grew colder, while other diatoms increased in number during the same time period. At the end of a suitable period the teacher asked the students to tell him what had happened to the diatoms in the pond.
The more enterprising members of the class postulated that Asterionella grew abundantly in cold water and were, therefore, “cold-adapted.” They made similar claims for diatoms that disappeared except that they said such diatoms were not “cold-adapted.” Where did the students get such notions?
The numbers themselves seemed to suggest just such a conclusion. The students saw a correlation between the bloom of certain diatomaceous species and the increasing coldness of the water. Yet the numbers recorded as facts told only how many diatoms were present on a given date and what the water temperature was on that same date. The efflorescence or decline in diatom count was inferred as a correlative of water temperature (or other factors). But - and this is the important point here - what supported such an opinion? Certainly not the facts. The facts measured the number of diatoms present. But, how can mere measurements suggest a hypothesis? The opinion the students held was a leap of faith of sorts; a belief that the coexistence of certain forms of diatoms with certain temperatures implied a correlation. Yet, consider this: surely, if one saw an elephant in the zoo when it was 20 degrees Celsius and did not see an elephant in the zoo when it was minus 20 degrees Celsius, one could not logically infer that temperature had anything to do with the presence or absence of the elephants. The zoo keepers may have kept the elephants indoors (and out of sight) when the weather was colder.

n. THE MATHEMATIZATION OF FACTS YIELDS UNIVERSAL DESCRIPTIONS OF RELATIONS: It does not yield instantiation or the particularization of instance. Instead, the mathematization of facts often describes the orderly process of nature, i.e., what we sometime term “natural law,” but it does not necessarily describe the “Scientific Law,” i.e, a man-made description of those orderly processes of nature.

B8002-1 Facts

What I want to know is this: are facts something “out there” to be discovered and brought kicking and screaming into the arena of debate like some recalcitrant child at bedtime (evidence of objectified reality)? Or are facts something we gather - like wild flowers - into a rounded bouquet to present to a loved one as evidence of our ardent love (evidence of relationships)? Are facts, thus, merely ways of beating our opponents over the head with the found-objects of obstinate detail or are facts, instead, great mystic muses that we bring along by the hand to sway our opponents with their alluring beauty? Are facts nothing more than selected arguments that we marshal to support our contention (evidence of subjective reality) - arguments of a particular refinement to be sure, but nonetheless arguments that venture out like timid mice into the penumbra beyond the bright edge of opinion? Now, I know that we like to speak about facts as if everybody in the whole wide world knew exactly what we were talking about. And sometime I suspect that we really do know just that. But there are those other times, when I think that we babble our Kaatie Kekkelbeck nonsense because we don’t know any better, and we end up smothering ourselves with our own ignorance and stupidity.

Of course, it shouldn’t be that way at all. We should know - at least intuitively - what a “fact” is, so that when another person comes along telling us "that they hate us and that’s a damned fact,” well, the perpetrator of that animus, then, surely makes himself perfectly clear. Why should there be a rolling wave of confusion about something as straight-forward as lingering doubt? Especially, doubt about the hater? Do I make myself clear? Tell me, then, just what is a fact?

One thing I would stress here, at this particular point, is that I will not use the word “fact” in the conventional sense in which you are most likely to encounter the word. You may be disturbed by my idiosyncracy. But nonetheless, I use the word in my particularity because “fact” as commonly understood fails to distinguish itself from mere “opinion.” In the search for something I call “unassailable facts,” I have noted that only certain characteristics inhere in statements that cannot be readily challenged. And those inherent characteristics always prove to be trivial.

B1042-6 Chemo

    Years ago, while I was attending the U.S. Army Chemical Corps School in Alabama, I met a soldier from the Royal Thai Army.  He was an enlisted man by the name of Corporal Chumpol.  It was relatively rare to see foreign enlisted soldiers at the school (we had just two while I was there), although officers from around the world could be seen there quite regularly.
    One day, following a military parade, Corporal Chumpol came back into the barracks smiling broadly and told us, “I just love Ah-May-Ree-Ka (‘America’).  Everybody is so nice to me.”  He had been saluted by many officers and he was clearly enjoying the honor.  His dress uniform had “shoulder boards,” or epaulets, with an embroidered  Royal Thai Army insignia placard, along with three brass cones that looked like Hershey Kisses mounted on them.  In most armies of the world, those three cones would designate the rank of captain.  But Chumpol was just a corporal.  Again and again, he had been mistaken for a captain, and had been called, “Sir,” by unsuspecting officers, who snapped to attention as he passed by and saluted him.  And Corporal Chumpol just loved it.
    Then one day, just when he was about to be saluted again, an American soldier told the officer, “He ain’t nothing, Sir.  He’s just a corporal.  Don’t salute him like he was an officer.  He ain’t nothing.”
    He ain’t nothing.  I supposed that many of us spend a lifetime hiding in that disguise of “nothing,” unnoticed and disregarded, for the most part.  True, we might attract attention from time to time and be recognized by others, perhaps when someone says, “Yeah, that’s him, Officer.  Second guy from the left.  That’s him.”  But usually we can chameleon ourselves so well that we disappear for all practical purposes.
    Which brings me to my point.  Yes, there is a point to this, believe it or not.  Do you know how lucky it is to have cancer?  You’re probably thinking that “lucky” and “cancer” cannot be used together in the same sentence.  You would be wrong if you thought that way, however.  I say that it’s a very lucky thing to have cancer because cancer turns on God’s Sunshine Pump.  And when that Sunshine Pump is running, everybody salutes you and treats you like Corporal Chumpol - even if you don’t deserve it, even if you’re a “nothing.”
    I’m not going to dismiss the pain and suffering of cancer.  It can be quite intense at times.  There are days when it hurts so badly that you’re afraid that you are going to die.  And, after an hour of that suffering, sometimes you begin to be afraid that you’re going to live.  That’s not what I’m talking about.
    Instead, I’m talking about how easy it is for many people to obey our Lord’s commandment to love one another when they are dealing with a cancer patient.  The same impatient people who fly into a blinding rage on the highway when they are cut off by another driver suddenly become mellow and loving around those afflicted with cancer.  That’s what I’m talking about: the utter transformation of people who would like to treat you as if you were nothing at all, but now are kind, and loving, and solicitous - just as our Lord intended them to be.
    I feel a particular debt of gratitude toward those who have sent cards and letters; to those who have called me on the telephone to ask about my condition; to those who have wrapped me in prayer as a gift to God; and to those who have offered to help in any way, and have offered their time and talents to make this cancer journey a bit easier.  At times this endless parade of goodwill makes me feel like Corporal Chumpol: I don’t deserve it; but I love it nonetheless.
    Indeed, it is a lucky thing to have cancer.

C1011-1 Criticism and the Writer

     1.    EMOTIONAL INVESTMENT:  Those who have an emotional investment in their writing tend not to have a favorable response to any criticism of their writing.  More often than not they view their particular piece of writing as something that is just as sacrosanct as a member of their immediate family and as something that is simply beyond any kind of constructive criticism whatsoever.  One should no more think of criticizing a person’s family members than one should think of criticizing a sensitive, emotionally-invested person’s writing.
     To a certain extent having an emotional investment in one’s writing is important thing.  Without such an investment the writer would have a problem marshaling the kind of necessary ego to make his writing worthwhile.  However, to place oneself wholly beyond criticism emotionally makes it very difficult for that kind of person to ever improve his writing skills.  A key requirement for a person to improve his writing skills must include some openness to modest suggestions to improve that writing.  When that is not the case, i.e., when the person stubbornly clings to the writing as it stands, then there is no possibility of making improvements to that writing.  That is not to say that there cannot be times when one’s writing is satisfactory to oneself and beyond effective criticism.  To be sure, not all criticism is useful or needed in every case.  At times criticism can actually get in the way, and can be quite harmful.
     Writers sometimes invite criticism of their work, and they do so to elicit some response to their work, but without necessarily inviting criticism per se.  What they really want, more often than not, is a favorable and complementary response to their writing and not some constructive criticism that seeks to improve that writing.  It is often difficult for a critic to tell the difference between a writer seeking to have his ego salved and a writer seeking genuine criticism of his work.  It is often not useful for a person to take a writer’s word at face value when that person invites criticism of his work.  More often than not, the writer is simply seeking complements from a trusted or revered person.  The difficulty, as I see it then, is to tell the difference between the sycophant and the true writing student.
     It would appear to me then, that the critic’s first task is to determine whether he is dealing with an egoist or a learner.  And often that is no mean task.  Sometimes he can simply ask the writer precisely what he wants from a critique.  But the response is often unreliable: the person may say he wants a critique that is helpful in pointing out inadequacies in his writing, when he actually wants and expects a compliment from the critic.  How to tell the difference?
     The critic could tell him that he intends to criticize his work and that he will do so quite brutally and honestly.  Moreover, the critic could tell him that he takes the writer’s word at face value when he asked for frank criticism.  Thus, the critic must make it known that he intends to criticized the writers works and will not praise them heedlessly.  It may be necessary for the critic to ask the writer quite directly whether he wants a compliment or if he wants constructive criticism.  And, finally, the writer must agree to accept the criticism at face value and not see it as malicious or harmful or hurtful.  If the writer agrees to accept the critic’s criticism, then the critic must proceed tentatively in case the writer misrepresents his position.
     From my own personal experience I would say the critic’s best mode of operation is to simply refuse to criticize another person’s writing.  It is actually much safer that way.  The cordiality that existed between the critic and his writer is often maintained in that silence.  The surest, the easiest way to lose a writer friend is to tell him many ways that he is not a good writer.  Pointing out problematic writing is an ego-destroying operation for the person who wrote the work.  And it is often difficult and thankless work for the critic as well.

     2.    LEARNING:  I do believe that writers are born with a certain innate leaning, or perhaps one should say, a proclivity towards writing.  There are others who lack this gift, and no amount of training whatsoever would seem to overcome that deficiency: such persons are doomed to an inarticulate and nonverbal life.  The others - those gifted with being writers - possess only that proclivity and do not possess the accomplished skills of a fine writer.  Instead, those skills, must be developed as a craft.  One is not born a writer.  One is born with the tendency to become a writer.  But the transition from raw proclivity to settled artistic skill is one that is fraught with difficulty and struggle.  One does not wake up one morning to discover that he has become a writer while he slept at night.  Instead, the person must invest a great deal of effort and time to become such a writer.
     Emotional investment in one’s writing, then, would seem to serve as an insurmountable barrier to ever improving one’s writing.  The writer’s first steps are taken with an awareness that he is not a god who produces consistently perfect work every day.  There must be an openness to learning on an ongoing basis.  The writer never ever achieves a style that is perfect and inclusive and beyond reproach.  Always and ever, the writer’s skills can be improved to some extent.  Yet there are many writers who dig in their heels and refuse to accept any suggestions for change because of that emotional investment in their writing.  In some rare and happy cases, there are writers sufficiently skilled that their reluctance to have anyone criticize and change their writing is actually a well-placed attitude.  Such writers are exceedingly rare, however.  One can safely say that the balance of the writers that one encounters are either completely invested in their work and will not allow criticism; or more happily, they are open to suggestion and actively seek it in order to improve their writing.  The problem for the critic is knowing the difference.

3.    THE SIREN SONG:  It is into such a context that a would-be critic often finds himself.  Frequently he is asked to act as an editor or to criticize another person’s piece of writing, and in his innocence, he sails directly at the Lorelei when he takes the bait.  Such persons do not want criticism when they ask for it.  They really want a pat on the back.  They want their work praised to the heavens even when the work is mediocre and unsatisfactory.  They do not want their work subjected to a rigorous examination, nor do they wish to have their work ravaged by the critic who complains at their work isn’t like something he would do.  For, in effect, all critics complain that a piece of writing is either 1), not like their own or 2), not like the writing of some other accomplished writer.  The perceptive reader will see that both of these criticisms are really non sequiturs: to say that a piece of writing isn’t like mine or like that person’s is over there is really quite beyond the point.  Of course it isn’t like mine or his - it’s like the person’s writing who wrote it.  Nonetheless, the critic will crash into this rock, amid stream, like a sailor in a fog.  A critic’s most responsive answer when asked to criticize should always be an inquiry about whether the writer seeking that criticism is able to bear it.  The first question a critic should always ask is this: “Do you want a pat on the back, or you do you really want to know what I think about your writing.”

4.    CRITICISM WITH UNDERSTANDING:  I know that it might not make sense to you to hear me say that you shouldn’t listen to your critics when they say that they think your [name of story here] is something for old ladies.  The hardest thing that you can do as a writer is to close your ears to criticism.  Yet, it is something you have to do.  And I say that because, at the end of the day, all criticism complains that your writing isn’t like “this writing over here” or like “my writing,” or like the writing of “Miss Big Britches Best-Seller Over There.”  You thought it was more complicated than that, didn’t you?  But it isn’t.  The critics can help you only in so far as they point out the mechanical errors in your writing: spelling, grammar, etc.  But when they get into your motivation for telling a story, they’re really bursting into the bathroom while you’re sitting on the toilet: They’re being rude and uncivilized.
     You need to tell them that, 1) you’ve created something (your story) that didn’t exist before, 2) that you’ve created this story to understand yourself and your existence, 3) that you’ve made a creative thing for which you were paid, and 4) you need to tell them all to shut the hell up.
     Now, they aren’t going to understand any of that.  People who do not write cannot understand the demon that chases writers through the woods.  They could lie on a beach for a week, watching the waves lapping the shore, and never give it a second thought.  But you and I would be searching for a pencil and notebook after 20 minutes to tell ourselves how those waves lapped the shore.  We make sense of the world through the medium of words.  And that’s a wholly private thing.  Making sense of the world for you is your business and not the business of others who do not have your vested interest in the outcome of that sense-making enterprise.  That is why almost all criticism is so off the mark: it complains that your attempt to understand the world is not like someone else’s attempt to understand the world.  How dumb is that?  It’s yours; it isn’t supposed to be like someone else’s stuff.

     5.    KEEPING OUR OWN STUFF:  Let me stick my neck out here, if you don’t mind, and make several points about writing - our writing and their writing.
     First:  At some point, when the critics have ravaged our writing because it doesn’t meet their expectations for clarity, or readability, or cadence, or whatever, we will be forced to say that what we have created is ours, and that we will not surrender any more to their strident demands.  At some point we will no longer be willing to turn our honest efforts into mere journalism in order to satisfy some juvenile standard of readability.  Appropriately then, there comes a point when it becomes impossible for us to continue pruning our work so that it can join in with their mindless, fifth-grade topiaries.  At the end of the day, our work is our work, and not theirs.
     Second:  We understand, further, that our obstinacy and unwillingness to modify what we have written could have very real commercial implications.  Still, there are things that we may have written that have what I call idiosyncratic value.  These works may not be well-written; they may lack readability, or clarity, or cadence; they may contain words that some will find bizarre or incomprehensible or offensive.  But they are ours, and they may be so personal, so personally intimate,  that they cannot be shared with the world.  Think of your personal journal.  Would you change it so that it read like the New York Times?  Would you post your entire journal on the Internet?  I didn’t think so.
     Third:  We are aware that there are many, very practical, things that we can do to improve our writing.  Often we can improve readability, for example,  simply by replacing commas with periods, i.e., breaking long sentences into short, readable sentences.  Some word processing programs can count word-length, average sentence-length, and maximum sentence-length, and those programs can be helpful in assessing the “fogginess” of our writing.  As an aside, I remember how I was once attracted to the Lorelei of a comma-obsessed short story writer, and how I emulated his long and rambling sentences, and how I wrecked on the jagged rocks of incomprehensibility.  And I still do it, to my everlasting shame (see the preceding sentence if you don’t believe me).  Yet, improving our writing is something that we discover that we must do to be better writers, and not something that others do for us.  As we study and seek to improve our craft, we make the necessary changes.  If we allow others to dictate those changes, we will seldom internalize the rationale for making the changes in the first place.  The moral of the story: We do the changing; not them.
     Fourth:  You might have explored around the Internet looking for a writers’ forum.  You may even be a member of such a group.  But eventually almost all writing forum members become disenchanted with the forum for one reason or another, and go on to other, more productive, ventures.  I was a member of www.mywriterscircle.com for some time.  I enjoyed the chit-chat, and actually posted a few things there.  Then a funny thing happened.  Some members went on vacation (only they might have called it a “holiday”) and others became busy with personal concerns in their lives and went silent for a time.  And then the crazies swooped in and hijacked the site.  It was then that I dropped out.  I couldn’t tell you what is happening with that site today.  I check back in from time to time, and I’ve noticed that some familiar names are still there.  But many new members - all it seems with chimera-bearing names, such as dragon, witch, wizard, wolf, unicorn, etc. - have arrived to spread their form of silliness on the site.  Perhaps all writing forums undergo such a transformation over a period of time.  At any given moment a particular group may interact well with its members, to the enjoyment of those participating in that group.  But it seems that small things (vacations, etc.) upset the equilibrium and destroy the cohesiveness of the group.  And then the members drop out.  I found that many secularists (one is tempted to say, satanists) suddenly appeared on the site and started their wearisome antichrist stuff.  So I exited in disgust.  MyWritersCircle shows a great many members on its roster.  Yet, the number of very active and participating members may be as few as 50 members.  You may benefit as a writer from an interaction with some of those people.  But the balance of them will waste your time.  And that is the real danger of any writing forum: it may degenerate into mere gossip and destroy your opportunities to become a more effective writer because it will rob you of the time necessary to write more serious stuff.  If you like fluff, there’s much to occupy your time there, however.  One posting about limericks, for example, has attracted almost 30,000 views!  I’d give it a look if I were you.  I’d even participate for a time.  But honestly, then I’d go on to better things.