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May. 24th, 2005 10:23 amI'm in the middle of Robertson Davies's excellent The Papers of Samuel Marchbanks, which is why I'm now having some trouble with the "Writing Mimic" syndrome. Certain writers just make me want to imitate their style, no matter how stupid or pretentious it seems when I'm doing it. Davies is one thing, but when it happens with someone like Elmore Leonard, that brings the pain. The PAIN.
In my Writer's Craft course in high school, they made us write stories in the styles of other authors -- Timothy Findlay, Ernest Hemingway (of course), and I think Flannery O'Connor. Obviously that's a necessary part of learning, but it seems like finding your own voice again is really difficult. Not so much in terms of style, because that happens on its own: you write in your voice because you can't help it. But your own subject matter and your own hobby horses can be easily forgotten as you try to emulate other writers and please other people.
I've had to pound my head on the desk a lot on this issue, because for a long time I wasn't interested in writing about people my own age. I thought that you had to write about adults in order to be a "real" writer, and c'mon, I started seriously writing when I was 12. The kind of shit a 12-year-old thinks adults do and think is ridiculous. Had I written about the people around me (and Jesus God, I knew some weird characters), I might have produced something worth reading. In fact, I still resist the idea of writing about the area where I spent my teen years. I hate that place, and the energy I put into hating it is inaccessible to my writing so long as I refuse to deal with it.
So, I don't know, I guess the answer is to keep a detailed and honest journal, but I've never been a fan of real paper journals. I write in them occasionally, and find them useful, but they tend to make me even more self-centred than I already am.
In other news, thanks again to Min for her recommendation of The Aphanes and to those who were kind enough to comment. You all rawk. Chapter 8 is about half-done.
In my Writer's Craft course in high school, they made us write stories in the styles of other authors -- Timothy Findlay, Ernest Hemingway (of course), and I think Flannery O'Connor. Obviously that's a necessary part of learning, but it seems like finding your own voice again is really difficult. Not so much in terms of style, because that happens on its own: you write in your voice because you can't help it. But your own subject matter and your own hobby horses can be easily forgotten as you try to emulate other writers and please other people.
I've had to pound my head on the desk a lot on this issue, because for a long time I wasn't interested in writing about people my own age. I thought that you had to write about adults in order to be a "real" writer, and c'mon, I started seriously writing when I was 12. The kind of shit a 12-year-old thinks adults do and think is ridiculous. Had I written about the people around me (and Jesus God, I knew some weird characters), I might have produced something worth reading. In fact, I still resist the idea of writing about the area where I spent my teen years. I hate that place, and the energy I put into hating it is inaccessible to my writing so long as I refuse to deal with it.
So, I don't know, I guess the answer is to keep a detailed and honest journal, but I've never been a fan of real paper journals. I write in them occasionally, and find them useful, but they tend to make me even more self-centred than I already am.
In other news, thanks again to Min for her recommendation of The Aphanes and to those who were kind enough to comment. You all rawk. Chapter 8 is about half-done.
