done by hand. For me that is the best way, especially at the beginning of a project, when slowness and thought matter. Since it is abstract and self-conscious, as well as a form of separation and withdrawal, writing disconnects you from experience, freezing it. Sometimes this disconnection can feel like a sort of killing. Some young writers can even feel that if they write from their own life, or about their own family, that this objectification can be like murdering your own parents. They are rightly nervous of the amount of conflict and aggression which creative exploration seems to invite. No wonder they can feel inhibited. It’s easier to avoid difference and the problem of taking power, to play dead and choose to be passive orsubmissive, than to argue or be individual. But the price is higher.
*
For young writers there is no audience. No one real hears them yet. They have to attempt difficult things. They must work at ideas which are beyond them. It would be sensible for them to find a good teacher, one who would push them. That would be their apprenticeship, when they would be rejected, criticised and knocked down repeatedly, as they would be in the world. Most of the young writers I teach don’t produce enough work. They’re over-anxious about the quality of what they’re doing, not bold enough, and, later on in the process, not tough enough when it comes to cutting and rewriting.
But at least if you can see writing as a form of costume or masking, you can see that it can be learned. The voice, the point of view, is a put-on. All this is pretence, a form of magical play, like string-work with more omnipotence. Even forms of recently fashionable ‘confessional’ writing, which appear to be told like it was, require as much art and construction as any thriller, which is why often these pieces turn out to be more fictional than intended. And this is more than just expressing oneself. The writer is a fiction, having created herself out of what she has been given.
I would go further. When you write, you are addressing other people; there is always someone else there,someone who sees you. And this absent reader whom the writer imagines – the subject the writer is trying to take on an outing, the implicit receiver of the words, the one who should understand – is also a fiction, an essential one. This fiction orientates the writer. The reader makes the writer possible. Yet thinking of the reader makes the writer anxious. This reader is judging you. This reader recognises you, and reads you properly. The reader wants to be fascinated and enchanted. This is the crucial question for the writer, as it is for any person. How do we keep the other’s attention? How do we keep their desire for us alive? What do they see, and do they love us? Will they forgive us our mistakes? Are we giving them something they want, something they don’t want, or something else altogether? Living with such anxiety, and answering it back, justifying your work, is necessary to the process.
Some writers think their characters have to be sympathetic. That is not at all necessary or common in good writing, and cute characters are off-putting. Obviously, you’d no more read a book on the basis of its characters being likeable than you’d choose a lover because they were nice. All that must happen is for the reader to become involved with the writer’s people, and see themselves in the conflicts and dilemmas the writer produces.
*
The devilish character Jack Tanner in George Bernard Shaw’s Man and Superman states, ‘The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art.’
In his witty essay ‘The Writer on Holiday’, Roland Barthes considers this romantic idea of the place of the writer in the public imagination. If writers are ‘specialists of the human soul’ or ‘professionals of inspiration’, the writer simply cannot go on