Writing Towards Wisdom: The Writer as Shaman

Writing Towards Wisdom: The Writer as Shaman, a clear, conscise analysis of the creative writing process, was used as the basis for the creative writing seminars taught by Robert Burdette Sweet at California State University in San Jose.  You can order from Amazon.com (we recommend searching for the text by using the ISBN number), or directly from the publisher: Helios House by calling 1-800-765-4354

The following excerpt, pages 86 to 90, from Writing Towards Wisdom: The Writer as Shaman (ISBN: 0923490019) is listed by permission of the author:

... How to Appraise

          When you go to an art show, hear a new piece of music, or first read a book or story, it's difficult not to confine initial reactions to the overly subjective "I like it or I hate it or I'm indifferent." Although gut reactions are interesting, they may reveal more about the viewer than they do about the work commented upon. We are not born with taste, insight or an awareness of our culture's heritage.

          And too, as critics of our own work and that of others, we never thoroughly free ourselves from personal expectations and biases. But we can get to the point where, despite our prejudices and concerns, we might have some notion as to whether a story works on its own merits. It is particularly important that we not condone nor condemn on the basis of subject matter.

          You may enjoy a work about horses because you like horses, but that does no more than validate your own interest. Besides, horses are probably only the story's main metaphor.

          In an attempt to control critical responses, I suggest that the work be viewed in terms of the concepts that follow. All but one begin with the letter "S" so they easily might be deposited in the memory bank. They are listed in the order of their importance.

          SIGNIFICANCE: If the story is not about a universal, then its appeal and "significance" is limited or non-existent. By "universal" I mean one or more of the major conflicts, archetypal characters and taboos. Typically, the more meaningful the work, the more levels it will function on concurrently. For instance, is Moby Dick representative of Nature, God, Evil or none of the above? Is Hamlet insane, merely a above? Is Hamlet insane, merely a mama's boy, a murderer, a victim of circumstances, or some other possibility centuries of criticism may have cooked up? If the work is replete with ambiguities and paradoxes, its ability to reflect life is as accurately inaccurate as whatever may pass for reality. The longevity of writings such as the Bible and the U.S. Constitution depend upon their re-interpretability.

          STRUCTURE: The cage that holds the universal must adequately house the content. The bones that support the fictional life should allow for strength and movement as well as confinement. Water unchanneled produces little energy. Recall, however, that if -- as in some anti-fiction (also known as post-modern fiction), the story meanders towards no particular key line or realization -- then the cage might best be circular to indicate that the end is the beginning and the beginning is the end.

          STYLE: It is style that has varied most throughout the centuries -- universals and structures seldom do. Style is the business of the particular writer and the age within which the writer lives. If the age is classically oriented, that is to say suspicious of emotions, then style is meant to serve the structure and little more. The personality of the writer is less evident. Is there a quotable line in Oedipus Rex? Shakespeare, a poet from a more romantic era, richly infused the language with image upon image. Style, at our point in history, is the writer's personal imprint. Rejecting editors like to dismiss authors for "not having found their own voices." Our present times encourage individual expression, even the idiosyncratic voice. How otherwise could we have produced such divergent verbal signatures as those belonging to Orwell, Hemingway, Faulkner and Tom Wolfe?

          The best way to realize your own voice is to keep a diary. Let accident or sheer flow of emotion reveal your verbal personality. If friends can recognize us at a distance by the way we walk, then so too can we define ourselves by the words we use and the order in which we use them. Style is you!

          Three cautions are suggested, however: (1) Beware the passive. "Was" is the deadest word in the language. So is "have." "Mary was to have had her breakfast before she was going to go to work." (2) Use Latinisms sparingly, if at all. Latinisms are words that came into the English language from our Roman heritage. They tend to embody abstractions, such as the words expeditious, cohere, exercitation; these words are not only lengthy but can't be seen, felt, tasted or smelled. Better to rely on words that came to us from the Anglo-Saxon, usually have four letters such as fast, hold, and use, rather than the Latinisms just mentioned. Remember that the four-letter Anglo-Saxon word beginning with "f" is the strongest word in the language. Employ it with care and respect for its volatile nature.

          Adverbs, too, can weight a sentence and leach vitality from the most apt image. As a test, after you've completed a story, see how many words you can delete without changing the meaning. Surprisingly, more words can be deleted from Hemingway without altering the sense, than can be expunged from Faulkner without altering the sense. So brevity is not a necessary goal, but accuracy, making every word count, is a goal.

          Because words have sound as well as visual representation, it is advantageous for writers not to have tin ears. Words are potential music. Read your work aloud; hear it. If your readers have not taken too many speed-reading courses such as those offered by Evelyn Wood, they will hear it too.

          SINCERITY: Since writing is one of the most difficult forms of self-entertainment, you are advised not to write unless you care a great deal for what you're writing about. The investment in time, energy and money (for a typist, a computer, paper, photocopying, stamps) is enormous. The writer's dedication and concern must match the effort that will be expended. Rewards in the form of money and fame may be negligible, but if you're sincere, the rewards in self-discovery will go far beyond what a formal education or a competent therapist could offer.

          As a writer, you will some day be asked why you don't dash off a mystery or a spy story or a romance. "Get famous and then write the serious stuff," they'll say. But being a genre-escapist is not easy! Every technique, every skill must be at your command -- the only difference is that you have to know everything and yet remain sincerely shallow. Because if you're not sincerely shallow, the reader will know he's being put on. It is the rare writer who is very bright yet mindless. The rare musician and painter, too. Perhaps there's a reason our culture rewards them. Danielle Steel, Jackie Collins, and Stephen King are unique. They must be very concerned about what they don't have to say.

          It is difficult to conceive how a shaman-scapegoat writer could become a genre-escapist or vice versa. Could Joseph Conrad really have chosen to be reincarnated in the mind of Harold Robbins? Or could Harold Robbins have practiced in a fomer life by scribbling with the pen of Goethe?

          Of course, Tolkien's trilogy is a watered-down version of Richard Wagner's Ring of the Niebelungen operatic cycle, but we'll assume he's sincerely drowned in his memories of the Rhine Maidens' chorus and is not, in fact, the pale resuscitation of the composer-librettist he appears to be.

          In other words, whoever you naturally are, or are naturally driven to emulate, be it and do it. In the long run, you have no choice.

          ORIGINALITY: Properly speaking, there is no such thing as originality. Themes, even in different cultures and different historical periods, may vary their emphasis but the conflicts, character types, and nature of the wisdom trying to be grasped and accepted remains a constant.

          Structures, too, have shown little change. Basically, there are only two story shapes possible: The rectangle and the circle. Since shape should imitate the content, if there is something knowable to be revealed, then it's best to use a rectangular shape to indicate that there is a progression towards understanding. If the content is meant to explore wholeness or that there is no new point to be grasped (the end is also the beginning), then a circular structure is suitable.

          Originality, when it appears at all, is primarily evident in style. Since style is the imprint of the creator, and no two persons or cultures are exactly alike, it is here that the fresh voice, the rearrangement of an old technique, might come into play. Even the greatness of Shakespeare, Bach and Michelangelo is not explainable in terms of their originality. Actually, it might be that they were great because they were not original, all three working near the tail end of very tried and true traditions. Rather, a case could be made indicating the dangers inherent in the too-eccentric voice, the sheer novelty of the final product which might bewilder rather than enlighten.

          Even anti-fiction (also known as post-modern fiction) is not particularly original. The idea of an exploding and imploding universe, the unimportance of individual character, the absurdity of excssive material needs -- all of which form the structural and thematic base for anti-fiction -- is not unlike Hindu thinking of 500 B.C. As the Bhagavad-Gita summarized the human quandary: "Thinking of sense-objects, man becomes attached thereto. From attachments longing and from longing anger is born. From anger arises delusion; from delusion, loss of memory is caused. From loss of memory, the discriminative faculty is ruined and from the ruin of discrimination, he perishes."

          Belief in change itself might be a delusion. Though the colors and severity of turbulence in the sea are always different, that's still the ocean we're looking at.