on writing well

This is a blog of necessity rather than pleasure; I have been falling out of the writing habit recently, and that is dangerous ground for me. Struggling to write a blog, which by its very nature is self-indulgent, is a bad sign for someone trying to branch out into wider writing. If I can't selfishly write about my own thoughts and opinions, how will I possibly be able to create something new in my imagination?

I hope that one of the problems that all young writers (and I am a young writer, despite my recent unfortunate birthday) experience is the fear of being boring. I know I have a writing style, and I know it needs a great deal of further development. I have recently grudgingly accepted that this requires writing. Sounds so obvious, doesn't it? But it is very easy to indulge the notion that critical reading can be as beneficial to a writer as pounding the keyboard. I am reading two frustrating books at the moment- enjoyable, well written, flawed books. For example, one is by Erik Larson, who wrote the must-read, absolutely amazing The Devil in the White City. That book (it's nonfiction, but the most exciting nonfiction I have ever read) juxtaposes the story of Daniel H. Burnham's architectural achievements with the story of the gruesome murderer Dr. Holmes as their lives strangely intersect in late 19th century America. His newer book that I am currently reading? It juxtaposes the scientific achievements of Guglielmo Marconi with the story of an unlikely murderer around the turn of the 20th century. Wonderfully gripping stuff, but perhaps you can see my frustration. I enjoy this book without being in awe of it. Yet I am awed by the prospect of writing myself. Larson certainly has his niche, but I don't. I don't even really want to be the sort of writer who falls into an easy niche, and yet I strongly feel the need to find a fixed voice. Sometimes I wonder with each new place, each new adventure, if I don't set myself farther from an axis that would help define a voice.

I seek a voice, yet I suppose almost all of you who actually read these things know that perhaps my favorite word is "polymath". I admire writers who succeed in multiple formats, such as Tim Parks and Orhan Pamuk. I believe I could develop along these lines, and yet the authors who absolutely floor me do not follow this style. They write works with an authoritative voice that could only be theirs. Anyone who has struggled through one of my favorites, Blood Meridian, should understand exactly what I mean. And it should probably be noted that for all his considerable talents Pamuk could not be anything other than a Turkish intellectual. Saramago would not be Saramago were he not a self exiled Portuguese communist. The authors who really floor me, Saramago for one, Roberto Calasso for another, have an absolute command of their unique and authoritative voice. I have tried to write in London and New York; I am unable to do so. I know the neighborhoods, I can create the people and visualize actions, but the crucial element of authenticity is missing. I have lost touch with the midwest; where does that leave me? Struggling to write!

Back to boring again. You'll have to trust me, but here is a little exercise I just did. I took the book next to me on my desk and opened it to a random page and read the first sentences that I saw. Here they are: "She looked at me, and I raised my hands in a gesture that said, You're on your own, kid. I got off the bike and joined her on the road." (author's italics). It's a pretty ordinary, boring sentence. There's a story there, sure, but the two sentences are almost bland. They come from a 900 page book, which is no doubt filled with thousands of such sentences. Yet somehow this collection becomes an idiosyncratic voice, one that can sustain a LONG story. It's tough as a writer to look over a few paragraphs, or a few thousand words, and not feel that no one would ever want to read what you have written. A few sentences perhaps, maybe a punchline of sorts. But the whole thing? Inconceivable!

I should come out of this reflecting on what it is that I do know. I suppose you could say, rather optimistically, that my voice is currently "happy uncertainty." That sounds better than "frustrated and empty." Perhaps one day a critic will note that the lack of place in my writing gives it an everyman quality. Maybe that's my problem- my literary mind seeks to completely reject my most available strength- diversity of experience. Perhaps, for an uncertain optimist, that rejection can be the impetus to real growth...