On Writing

The Writers Craft,

or

a fragile vessel tossed upon a sea of troubled ink

     I have written various pieces over my life, some humorous, some self-conscious attempts at “writing”, some merely scribbles of a few lines that popped into my mind at odd times. I am forever coming across some scrap of paper, envelope, napkin or even cardboard that I used to preserve a thought important at that moment. Some give me pause, I’m struck by the import of the stray thought so preserved. Some strike me as examples of how trite, corny and uninspired I can be without half trying. I keep all these scraps as reminders of my journey; signposts, if you will, on the road to self-discovery and actualization.

     At times, the words come tumbling out, all in the right order, the phrasing so tight and appropriate it seems to write itself. I stand in awe at times like those, more witness than participant, as the work unfolds and takes shape. On these, I do little editing or rewriting. Other pieces struggle to see the light of day, caught in the pull between mind and pen, words fighting to get out, pell-mell, like frightened spectators at a soccer game when a riot erupts. Sometimes the work gets set aside, never to be revisited, sometimes I keep returning, wanting to complete the thought that inspired me.

     I’ve never been a “touchy-feely” kind of writer, scribbling down the events of the day in a breezy style. I tend to reflect on things, trying to see both sides, working to understand the implications or motivations of those involved. The mysteries of life intrigue me and I am drawn toward trying to resolve at least the ones that involve or interest me. I claim no special license or authority to do so, merely the application of whatever talent I may possess and the lessons I’ve learned in life, strained through a twisted psyche that refuses to take “no” as answer. My interests span the universe, no pun intended, from the hard science of deep space exploration to the science fiction of space travel and all points in between.

     I am fascinated by history; the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, World Wars I and II, the old West, the Age of Antiquity all hold thrall over my imagination, having caused me countless hours lost in dusty tomes numerous over the years. I appreciate those writers who recreate the times so cannily, they transport the reader as if by time machine. Even those writers less adroit, when writing of personal experience, bring an immediacy to their subject that transcends syntax and grammar. When I was young, I devoured The Great Escape and Guadalcanal Diary, The Count of Monte Cristo and Gone With The Wind, fascinated by the intensity of the author’s evocation of the historical period and circumstances. I was forever influenced to aspire to such artistry by books such as there, wherein phrases flew like daggers, descriptions evoked people as real as any I saw day to day, and the world encompassed in them became as lifelike as is ever possible when the written word is the medium.

     Did my topic switch here, from “writing” to “reading”? Not at all, because the writer plies his craft for the reader, it is a symbiotic relationship, each one feeding the other. When I hear people say “I don’t read” or any of the variants on that theme, I think, as I’m gnashing my teeth, “You have no idea what you are missing!” If ignorance is bliss, there are those who are in heaven. I can no more imagine not reading than I can imagine not breathing. The worlds opened for exploration far exceed any televised offering, with a richness of detail and depth that outstrips any movie treatment. Perhaps that is why, when we see a movie made from a book we have read, the movie is a pale imitation, whole sections pared away to meet the constraints of time and ego.

     Sometimes new treatments of oft-filmed books deviate completely from the original, incorporating the director’s vision, although all too often that vision seems to involve far more explosions than the author had. The recent movie versions of The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy are a good case in point. Both of these works, by Robert Ludlum, are well-plotted and well-crafted thrillers, dense with detail and sub-plotting, the characters well-realized, fleshed out with backgrounds and psychological motivations. The first filmversion, a TV mini-series with Richard Chamberlain and Jaclyn Smith is relatively faithful to the book, with cutting mostly limited to expository passages. The recent big screen version is first and foremost a vehicle for Mark Wahlberg, sacrificing whole sections and characterizations for “plotting” purposes, reducing the female lead to almost nothing, the bad guys to cartoonish louts and eliminates the sub-plot of chasing a real assassin named “Carlos”. In the sequel, in the opening minutes the movie leaves the book behind completely, when Marie is killed as she and Jason Bourne are hiding, on the run, in India. I understand why so many writers over the years have left Hollywood in disgust, outraged by the treatment their work have been subjected to, in the interests of “making a good movie”. Writing and movie-making are not similar arts, requiring different approaches to achieve their ends, and, to paraphrase, “ne’er the twain shall meet”. Well, perhaps until the Lord of the Rings….but that’s another story, for another day!