When does style get in the way of content?

A large part of what sets literary fiction apart from genre fiction is style. Genre fiction is about getting from Point A to Point B and so on as quickly and enticingly as possible. It's about entertainment, keeping the reader turning pages, engaging him or her in the plot.

But would you say that John Grisham has a completely different writing style than, say, James Patterson? (We're talking style, not content.) If a page from each writer were spread out before you, with comparable action going on, would you be able to tell which author is which? Probably not. Because that's not the point of genre fiction.

Literary fiction, however, is often more concerned with character, with language and ideas. Authors find a way to explore these things in the style of their prose. There's the stripped down minimalism of, say, Ernest Hemingway and Raymond Carver. There's the free-spirited conversational prose of Jack Kerouak. There's Alice Munro's restrained, precise style that's also incredibly empathetic, and Joyce Carol Oates's breathless but controlled prose. In literary fiction, in other words, style is part of the content.

There's no doubt that at the hands of a skilled writer, style is more than a useful tool; it's a profound means of expression, a challenge, a way to write beauty or violence or hatred or love or sorrow without actually writing it. But what happens when style takes over and becomes style for style's sake? A way for a talented writer to flaunt his or her skills at the sacrifice of, well, everything else?

Take James Frey, for example. I've been talking about him quite a bit lately because I recently read his new novel, Bright Shiny Morning. For the most part, I thought the book was brilliant. However, there were times when Frey's chaotic, no commas, run-on sentences style of writing was in direct contrast with a particular character or scene. That style works effectively during scenes of chaos--a shooting in Venice Beach, an uncertain, feverish first kiss--but other times, not so much. Not to mention its incongruence with controlled, well-educated characters. This, to me, speaks of Frey's "F 'em if they don't like it" mentality to style. While his could be a powerful tool, it instead becomes an obtrusive, look-at-me-the-author shout to the reader, which distracts from the precision of his observations and frequent beauty of the language itself.

What are your thoughts? Who are some authors whose style tends to overshadow content? Or, on the other hand, whose style perfectly complements it?

Comments (0) 20.07.2009. 12:39

How helpful is exploring new forms of writing?

In a word? Very.

I first realized this when I worked at People magazine. Before then, I had identified myself solely as a fiction writer. I thought there was far more art involved in making up narratives that move people than in simply relaying on paper what you see or hear (which, I regret to say, I ignorantly thought was the extent of journalism). Celebrity "news coverage"--such as, one memorable time, what Rob Lowe ordered to drink at some bar in Louisiana--aside, it didn't take long for me to recognize and be in awe of the art and skill of being a good journalist.

Writing objectively and quickly about events and people in the world is an incredibly difficult thing. Most people insist that all journalists have biases, and of course that's true. But the good ones are able to push past their own opinions to tell a story to the world that is, as far as they understand, true. Not just factually accurate, but true. That involves stripping a story of the devices upon which fiction depends--metaphor, point of view, and embellishment are only a few--to reach the essence of what is happening. I realized that the same stripping down could be very powerful in fiction. (Ever heard of Hemingway?) Pared down isn't my natural style, but it's one I've learned to use to benefit a scene, moment, or character.

Now I'm working on putting together a dramatic screenplay for a client. It's my first foray into this unique form of storytelling, and it's been a learning experience. Talk about pared down! In screenplay writing, the story is all in how characters interact with each other. This means realistic dialogue--not flowery language. This means subtlety and restraint. Some of the most moving films are so powerful because they are subtle. The Reader with Kate Winslet and Ralph Fiennes is a fantastic recent example. The story is in the fine, shifting, subtle expressions on Winslet's character's face; in the short, almost curt way her lines are delivered, which belies an aching vulnerability and coiled strength. To achieve this in a screenplay is, I'm realizing, extremely, extremely difficult. As in literature, any moment that strikes the reader (or viewer) as true requires an alchemy of luck, intense dedication, and the moments of understanding that come like magic.

What new forms of writing have you experimented with recently? How did the experience affect your other work?

Comments (0) 06.07.2009. 13:43

How to combat the dreaded block?

I've always hated the term "writer's block." It seemed too easy to me, too cliche, too always said with a knowing and sympathetic nod. I always though it was more like writer's laziness. Perhaps writer's pessimism, with a dash of writer's distraction. But this, I recently found, was condescending of me.

Full disclosure: I had a bad, and I mean baaad, MFA workshop a few weeks ago. Mortifyingly bad. Crying-in-the-bathroom bad. Chugging-beer-on break bad. I had submitted a story with which I wasn't completely satisfied. I knew there was more delving to do, more pulling at the characters to extract their real substance. There was more of a story to tell than what I told. My workshop instructor indirectly (but not that indirectly) likened it to a painting of a lily you buy to complement the scheme of your guest bath... as compared to the transcendent beauty of a van Gogh.

I gave myself 24 hours to steam, to rant, to doubt myself, to hate him (my workshop instructor, not van Gogh), to hate the story, and to generally feel sorry for myself. Then, I said, back to work.

Only I couldn't get back to work.

Anytime I thought about my novel--let alone pulled up the document on my computer--my chest seized with dread. Anything I wrote sounded stilted, self-conscious. Every bit the way I felt. Delete, delete, delete. For a solid month, it was like I forgot that fiction writing is what I most love to do in life. Instead it became a chore. I had never felt that way before. Writer's block?

Okay, yes, maybe. But more than that, it was writer's doubt. At least, it was this writer's doubt. With the dreaded lily image in the back of my mind, I momentarily lost faith in my writing, in myself. A bleak house for that time, indeed.

The cure, for me, came one sunny afternoon about two weeks ago. I carted my laptop into my favorite cafe, telling myself I would WORK for two hours. If all else failed, there was wine. As anticipated, I pulled up my novel and froze. Then I thought, why don't I write about something else? Why don't I loosen up, look away for a minute, and write about what I see?

So I did. I wrote about the cafe's gleaming cement floors and the black and white photos contrasting against the mustard walls. I wrote about the owner of the cafe lecturing two new-hire bakers, and the old woman who was blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation. I wrote about the shiny chrome light fixtures, the unseasonably bright sun streaming through the windows and lighting a young woman's textbook. I wrote two pages. And just like that, I was back.

My advice for anyone suffering a creativity (or productivity) block:

1. Figure out the source of the block. Did it start with a criticism of your work? Are you burned out on a particular project? Is there an unhappy event occurring elsewhere in your life? Knowing when and why the block started is empowering.

2. Give yourself a break. Shut down the computer and go watch a movie. Start another project. Surround yourself with positive people--friends and family who believe in you. Exercise a flabby creativity muscle, like cooking or painting if you're a writer.

3. Inspire yourself. Reread your favorite book and transcribe the passages that most move you. Go to a museum (a van Gogh exhibit, perhaps?). Ride your bike through beautiful scenery.

4. Get back to work. If you flub it, recognize that the mistake/lame metaphor/whatever is not permanent.

5. Now really get back to work.

For the record, I'm 200+ pages into my novel. Two-thirds complete!

Have you ever suffered a block? What did you do to combat it?

Comments (1) 12.03.2009. 23:40