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“The human mind is programmed for survival, not for truth.”

Philosopher John Gray

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Finding Your Own Voice

“Style is knowing who you are, what
You want to say, and not giving a damn.”

Gore Vidal

We all begin, inevitably, as imitators. I can clearly remember, at a young age, trying and failing to write like P.G.Wodehouse, W.W.Jacobs and (more ambitiously) like Somerset Maugham.

Imitation fails almost every time because every writer has a unique style or “voice.” Finding your very own personal writing voice is one of the most difficult learning tasks and (when you succeed) one of the most rewarding. If you’re already happy with your writing voice, leave it alone. But, if you feel frustrated because your real style and personality aren’t making it on to the page, consider of the tips below – some of which I discovered from experience, and others that are passed on from other sources.

Your own writing voice is not the stream of consciousness chatter of everyday talk. Most talk is chaotic, undigested nonsense. If you don’t believe me listen to other people’s cell phone conversations, or use a small pocket voice recorder to discover how you and other people talk in ordinary social situations. You will be amazed, and probably depressed when you listen to the results! For comparison, read some passages out loud from one of your favorite writers.

Your own writing voice is not the manic inner chatter of the mind. Writing is thinking in full dress, or thinking plus.

Plus what?

The first plus is a minus: get rid of the linguistic baggage of the past. This means all the stylistic quirks and habits you picked up by imitation, or from teachers or anyone else who has tried to shape the way you write. Special kinds of writing you have done in the past may have played havoc with your natural style. In my own life I’ve been influenced by newspaper journalism, technical writing and (worst of all) academic writing. The latter is a deadly form of verbose non-communication, and it may take years to shake off its baneful affects! Your goal is to get down to a spare, clean, economical prose. George Orwell’s famous essay “Politics and the English Language” is as good a way as any to find out what that means.
Next, resist the natural temptation to dress up your new plain style with fancy words, phrases, metaphors and images you found somewhere else.
Then relax at the keyboard. Write in a way that comes easily and naturally, without the heavy breathing. Some people actually find yoga-style breathing exercises helpful. The goal here is to dissolve the barriers between you and your writing. The biggest barrier for many of us is the mere act of writing, and especially the dreaded IASW syndrome (“I am a serious writer…”).

Practice to develop confidence. This means writing for no other reason than to develop your voice, just as a musician searches for a personal interpretation of a piece of music by rehearsing it over and over. Write with the intention of throwing your writing away. It’s amazingly liberating!

On no account write first drafts with a market in mind. This will kill the authenticity of your voice stone dead before you start. At this stage, don’t even think about markets and audiences.

Write what you know and care most about in your life and in your mind. This always brings out the most honest and revealing style. It’s important to discover your real feelings towards your subject, and not just to reproduce the “correct” or “conventional” feelings. A little self-analysis may be needed here, but don’t worry. Until you launch your words into print they belong to you absolutely. Write exactly what you want, no matter how outrageous. That’s what the delete key is for.

Finally, try to discover the tone that comes most naturally to you. This is probably the same as your everyday personality. Are you normally humorous, ironic, analytical, gloomy, subtle, angry, or anxious? It’s hard to cover up a deep personality trait. Your best writing will reflect your personality, whether you like it or not.

Norman Mailer, in The Spooky Art, argues that personal style is essentially a matter of maturity. First you learn how to write, then you learn who you are.

“One has arrived at a personal philosophy…At that juncture, everything one writes come out of one’s own fundamental mood.”

In these ways – by thinking and practicing and just by living and developing character – we find our own writing voice the same way we learned to walk and talk, naturally and inevitably. Some forms make it easier than others. Memoir and personal essay bring out the personality of the writer fairly easily. Fiction writing is more likely to throw up barriers between the authentic voice of the writer and the invented voices of the characters. After all, it’s the essence of the fiction writer’s art to be somebody else. But in the process he can forget to be himself.

If American English is not your first language, things get a bit more complicated. In this sense alone writing in your “own” voice is problematic. A spoken accent may be charming, but it doesn’t translate into writing. Nor does the grammar of another language. German speakers, for example, sometimes write English in a Germanic way that sounds heavy and awkward. Even those of us from old England have trouble with colloquial American English which seems (to us) to omit a great many words, misspell others, mistake the meaning of still more (e.g. “hopefully”) and ignore most rules of grammar that we were taught at school.

We benighted foreign-born writers have no choice except to find a voice that is acceptably American, or endearingly ethnic. We don’t all have to write like MFAs from Iowa, but we must fit in to some recognizable linguistic-American format, or nobody will read us. And if we don’t like it, as any right-wing pundit would be happy to tell us, we can go back to where we came from.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Teachers should be more careful. I might have become an artist or an astronaut, but an indulgent fourth grade teacher praised one of my essays, and essays became my fate. My diaries turned into collections of tiny essays, designed to fit the two-inch space allocated for each day, and I wrote overbaked sketches of anything and everything from a visit to the dentist to collecting tadpoles. Soon I became the most overpraised little writer in my school. Obviously, I wasn’t much good at anything else. Many years later I came upon the correct diagnosis of my situation in Kurt Vonnegut’s eccentric memoir Palm Sunday.

“Writing allows even a stupid person to seem halfway intelligent, if only that person will write the same thought over and over again, improving it just a little bit each time. It is a lot like inflating a blimp with a bicycle pump. Anyone can do it, but it takes time.”

Vonnegut was a creative genius, and knew it. But a non-fiction writer who keeps to regular deadlines cannot afford to wait for the brilliant inspiration that may never come. We must keep pumping, grab ideas straight out of the mess of reality, and try to make sense of life in the process of writing about it. A fiction writer is limited only by imagination. An essayist is trapped in the real world, which is nothing if not repetitive.

Ideas are like events: they keep coming back in different disguises. Georges Simenon, the extraordinarily prolific author of five hundred novels, as well as countless articles and reviews, wrote in his autobiographical Notebooks that every writer has a limited lifetime stock of ideas, and must eventually face the awful choice between silence and self-repetition.

History really does move in circles, as the Greeks believed. The same things keep on happening, and there are remarkably few surprises. There is always a war, an election, a summer heatwave or a winter deep freeze, a corruption scandal, a holiday season, an economic crisis, or a new invention that scientists predict will change the world. It takes a kind of perverse creativity to write something different about these cyclical themes every time they come around. At any given moment, certain ideas are “in the air”, and everyone is talking and writing about them: the addictive use of smart phones, Donald Trump, taxes, weddings, or interesting new diseases. A regular commentator must find something to say about them, and it is hard to avoid repeating what everyone else is saying and hearing in the media echo chamber. Failure to be original is always an option, and eventually it becomes inevitable.

It’s true that even the greatest writers and philosophers in history were limited by what they knew. Marx did not branch out into romantic stories or Virginia Woolf into economic theory. They stuck to their one big idea. But essays are not novels or treatises on political economy. Essays, as Montaigne demonstrated five hundred years ago, are about everything. An essayist who stays awake and alive can never, ever, run out of ideas. This is, in fact, the essayist’s job description.

Essayists, therefore, are forced to be original. If the world refuses to gratify our desire for novelty there is no alternative but to re-describe the world’s repetitions in a novel way.

Contemporary writing is often dreary and depressing because so many writers feel the urge to pass on their adolescent discovery that life is a sad business. It is a valid discovery. The problem is that it has no novelty. You’d never guess how funny and strange life is from reading most modern books – a toxic tide of thinly-disguised victim memoirs, miserable family stories, failed love affairs and terminal illnesses. Too many writers are taking themselves far too seriously. They seem to be writing to take revenge on life, or to stick it to their families or their ex-lovers. Or perhaps they are just following the example of their equally depressive professors in the MFA program, whose basic writing rule seems to be: “If it’s not gloomy, it’s not serious.”

Humor has always been the salvation of the human race, especially at its most grandiose and serious moments. The ancient Greeks and Romans, at the height of their civilizations, had plenty of jokers willing to point out that the emperor had no clothes. So did the British in Victorian times, when they ruled half the world. Nations and writers need humor most when they feel most serious and self-important.
To be fair, writers who wallow in gloom and doom may be simply responding to the current market, where bad news is extraordinarily popular (check out the bestseller lists). For some strange reason, the bringer of bad news also has higher status. The prophet of doom has always been more respected (although less welcome) than the clown.

Ideas are like events: they keep coming back in different disguises. Georges Simenon, the extraordinarily prolific author of five hundred novels, as well as countless articles and reviews, wrote in his autobiographical Notebooks that every writer has a limited lifetime stock of ideas, and must eventually face the awful choice between silence and self-repetition.

Intellectualism for Dummies

One of the unique features of Paris is the permanent open-air book sale along the banks of the Seine. It’s so famous that it is actually listed as a World Heritage site. But the bouquinistes as the booksellers are called, are in trouble with the mayor. They are selling too few antique books and too many tourist souvenirs. The rising tide of plastic Eiffel Towers threatens to swamp this ancient literary marketplace. I’ve never really understood the appeal of plastic Eiffel Towers, or plastic Empire State Buildings or Leaning Towers of Pisa for that matter. But they sell much better than books, so I seem to be out of step with the rest of humanity as usual.

There are still many fine bookstores in Paris, but the stock is not as highbrow as you might imagine. Les Nuls have invaded the bookstores in a big way. Nul means essentially “useless” or “stupid.” In other words the French have their own range of instruction books on everything for dummies, including one with the grandiose title Culture for Dummies, which presumably covers everything, like Diderot’s famous Encyclopaedia.

I find these “Dummies” books as puzzling as the plastic Eiffel Towers. I suppose the ironic titles help to diminish the fear of failure. Years ago there was a splendid collection of books, also with yellow covers, called the “Teach Yourself” series. They offered just about every subject from languages to aeronautical engineering, and they weren’t embarrassing to read in public. Teaching yourself is an active, praiseworthy activity. Being a passive Dummy, an Idiot, or a Nul, it seems to me, is not.

French movies are another clue that our preconceptions about Gallic culture need to be adjusted. My wife was doing some research on French popular movies so I saw more than a hundred of them, under protest. These were the films that have been big box office hits in France but never make it to the United States, and they were dreadful. If movies are anything to go by the French are attracted by really (really, really) silly comedies, sentimental tales of family life, and excruciating coming of age sagas, plus the usual fantasies of sex and extreme violence. If you imagine, as I did, that the French spend their evenings watching ultra-sophisticated New Wave movies, think again. The average French movie makes Batman look like a work of high culture.

So where do we get the idea that inside every Frenchman is a Jean Paul Sartre or Jean-Luc Godard, or that inside every French woman a Simone de Beauvoir or Marguerite Duras? It may be the black clothes and long scarves that make so many passersby look like creative artists, or it may simply be the result of several centuries of propaganda claiming that the French are smarter than anyone else. Either way it’s an illusion, although an enjoyable one.

Genuine French intellectuals do exist, of course, and they make the rest of us feel like dummies. Just try to read a book by Michel Houellebecq, or dabble in the philosophical world of Jacques Derrida. A migraine is guaranteed, probably with a stomach upset into the bargain. But that’s fine because their work isn’t meant for us, it’s meant for them. These are the secrets of their tribe, and outsiders have no business trying to understand them. As for the rest of the French, I hate to tell you this but they are almost exactly as intellectual as us.

What do I Know?

There are few things more pleasing than discovering the expression of a latent thought – that is a thought that has been lurking in the back of your mind for years or decades, but has never quite come into focus. Margaret Attwood just provided me with this pleasure in the following quotation.

“Everyone thinks writers must know more about the inside of the human head, but that is wrong. They know less. That’s why they write. Trying to find out what everyone else takes for granted.”

These few words lit up a dark corner that has disturbed me for years. There are many plausible answers to the question: “Why do we write?” I’ve used most of them in my lifetime. But, as Attwood implies, the real reason I write is that I don’t understand anything about other human beings, and I’m trying to find out.

The human world is awash with enthusiasms and manias, all of which are incomprehensible to me: sports, religion, and war are three of the big ones. I just can’t understand what anybody sees in any of them, yet they seem to be as basic to human happiness as food or sex.

It’s disappointing that forty years or more of writing haven’t brought me any closer to answers, but at least I tried. In the end, I’m happy to relax into the bemused acquiescence of the great French essayist Michel de Montaigne. In middle age he became skeptical about the possibility of any true knowledge, and adopted the motto: “Que sais-je?” – What do I know?

It’s the thought that counts

Here’s a book worth reading, although it was published back in 2011 which now almost seems like an age of innocence – Except When I Write by Arthur Krystal. He is a well-known essayist and critic (New Yorker, Harpers, etc.) and has collected together twelve of his best essays and critical reviews from 2005 to 2009.

The first essay alone is worth the price – “When Writers Speak.” In it Krystal offers a quotation that Edgar Allan Poe attributed to Montaigne.
“People talk about thinking, but for my part I never think except when I sit down to write.”

This mild but disturbing aperçu brought me up short. It had the same effect on Krystal, and perhaps on you. How true it is – at least for my mental habit. Most of the time I live and talk on automatic pilot, using the same stock repertoire of actions and phrases that I’ve been using all my life. Thought is not necessary, unless I try to solve a crossword or puzzle out some new outrage committed by my computer.

It’s the same for most of us. Recently I took a two-hour train trip to and from New York, during which I was surrounded by people who talked loudly and incessantly to each other or (more often) to some disembodied entity hiding inside a cell phone. I must have been an unwilling listener to eight or ten conversations on that train, and none of them made any sense whatsoever. They were (to use a good old-fashioned word) just blather, empty words, ungrammatical stream of consciousness noise. No communication was taking place, except the kind of communication that occurs when one monkey chatters to another – a kind of verbal grooming or exchange of recognition signals.

It was depressing to realize that I often do exactly the same thing. Faced with a social situation, or an unexpected phone call or an encounter in the post office, I can blather as well as anyone. Not a single thought enters my head while I am doing it.

But when I sit down to write, as Montaigne said, I begin to think. The rusty gears of my brain grind into action and (as has often been pointed out to me by my nearest and dearest) I disappear into a state of abstraction where I don’t want to talk to anybody. This is exactly why writing is so hard. It’s not the writing it’s the thinking that produces keyboard avoidance and writer’s block.

The reverse side of this phenomenon, as Krystal points out, is that writers are often poor speakers. Our literary skills don’t always translate into verbal skills, perhaps because the thinking part of our brains is reserved for or used up by the first.

As someone who works in radio, where speech and writing (and, occasionally, thought) come together, I found Krystal’s speculations fascinating. But you have to read the whole of Krystal’s essay – if I describe it in any more detail here I will probably be guilty of copyright infringement. The rest of his book is excellent too, especially if you are interested in Hazlitt, Poe, Barzun, or Scott Fitzgerald (some of his favorite subjects). His essays are models of complex yet completely friendly writing, and they must have required a lot of thought.

The Teaching Experience

A lot of writers teach to pay the rent. It’s the almost ideal occupation because of the long vacations and the fact that teaching is (or was) all about words, books, and ideas. Some have made the leap from teaching to literary fame, like Frank McCourt (Teacher Man) and Alan Bloom (The Closing of the American Mind).

I’ve done my share of teaching, although I started late. The first time I faced a class, at a British University, I was already thirty years old. This gave me a certain advantage over the younger assistant professors. The students assumed I was more senior than I was, and I didn’t disillusion them. For twenty years I continued teaching at that university, and in New York, Connecticut, and California. It was a great experience, although it left me with an ineradicable streak of irony.

Now I only teach at summer writing schools, and the occasional adult seminar, where the dynamic is very different from that of a college class. But an opportunity just came along to teach a special seminar at the local university, which set me thinking again about the education process, which I thought I had left behind for good.

Teaching changes people. It gives confidence, or at least it did for me. It’s great for the self-esteem, perhaps too great. Professors feel sure of themselves. They are the experts, and they are on top of their subjects. They may occasionally be challenged by graduate students or a bright undergraduate, but basically they are invulnerable.

It’s a good feeling to be ‘the authority.’ It’s something I miss as a writer. My audience and work team consists of our two cats, who never defer to my authority in any way whatsoever. So the thought of a seminar is rather tempting.

Other kinds of teaching may be less good for the morale. Primary school teachers are (I hope) firmly in charge of their tiny pupils. But middle and high school teachers are on a battlefield, and they often seem crushed and embittered by the experience. Education works best from ages 0 to 10, and then again from about 20 to 30. The intermediate years are a waste of time.

Pedagogy has changed enormously in my lifetime. The boys’ school I went to was run by a team of authoritarian “masters” to used sarcasm and violence to keep us in line. But they were effective teachers. At university I encountered some of those old-fashioned professors of the type portrayed so vividly by John Houseman in the movie The Paper Chase. Teachers were always typecast as enemies, egomaniacs, or gurus. They fascinated us, because they were so different and we assumed (usually wrongly) that they had bottomless stores of secret knowledge.

All gone now: vanished beyond recall. Today’s teachers, at all levels, are supposed to be friends and confidantes, regular guys and gals who facilitate shared learning experiences instead of teaching. Now it seems they are supposed to be bodyguards and sharp shooters as well. Whatever they are paid, it cannot possibly be enough.

Speech!

Every time I have to speak in public I am struck by the difference between the words that we write and the words that we say. I first learned this almost forty years ago when I first began teaching, but it still comes as a surprise. Things that are easy to write may be difficult or almost impossible to speak out loud. The most obvious example is the contrast between a love letter (easy, a piece of cake) and a verbal declaration of love face to face (terrifying, virtually out of the question).

There are a number of reasons for this. The spoken word carries a load of meaning and emotion that the written word can rarely equal. Speech and hearing are instinctively human, while writing and reading are mere techniques. When we speak we get an instant reaction from our audience, whether it is two hundred people or one. A live audience responds in a way that a computer keyboard does not, and you as a speaker may be diverted and even derailed by their responses. Also, when we speak, we hear the awful inadequacies of our own words. That’s why one of the best pieces of advice for writers is: “Read it out loud.”

Public speaking is a good exercise for writers, as well as being a potential source of income (always welcome). Reading your own works and talking about them is a great way to expand your audience, and your understanding of how other people react to your ideas.

The tradition of live storytelling has had a revival recently, and I’ve participated in one or two events. Once again, if you are not a trained actor, this is a useful way to get accustomed to public exposure. The best way is to start by reading traditional stories. For some reason it is easier to ‘tell’ other people’s words than it is to read one’s own. I don’t pretend to understand this, unless it is simple modesty (or embarrassment). If you’ve never been to a storytelling event for adults I can highly recommend it.

Radio occupies an interesting middle ground between public speaking and writing. The performer is invisible, but his or her words are carried by the voice. Good radio performers (and voice actors who read recorded books) can have tremendous impact, perhaps even greater than in a face-to-face situation. Sometimes I think that the invisible speaker is the best communicator of all – but we must come out into the daylight sometimes.

The best technique for preparing a public speech is well known, and it works. First write the whole thing out in full, so you can judge its completeness, its logic, and its length. This version will be almost literally unspeakable – stilted and awkward when you read it out loud. Then take the full version and make a series of brief notes cover the main points, and speak only from the notes. The effect is like magic. Your speech will suddenly flow naturally and expressively, and everyone will acclaim you as a great speaker. The ghastly effect of reading a speech from a text can be heard by listening to any politician. Never read a speech!

Solitude

“I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert.”

Henry David Thoreau: Walden

We humans are a sociable species. That’s how we survive. We have the self-protective herd instinct that tells us to conform, follow the leader, and go with the crowd. This behavior can be seen in its purest form in your local high school, where ‘fitting in’ is practically a religion.

What makes us different from cows or lemmings is that we can and do break away from the herd, and think our separate thoughts. We are bees with a perspective on the hive, which allows us to evolve and to create. It also gives us a headache.

The moments when we are separated from the swarm, mentally or physically, are precious, potentially creative spaces, when we can actually reflect on what (for want of a better phrase) I have to call the meaning of life. Even though Monty Python made an international joke out of it, the meaning of life is still a pretty important question.

This makes the absence of solitude al the more disturbing. Oddly enough it used to be available in public places like airports or trains, where we had to wait in a kind of limbo. But limbo has been abolished by scientific progress. In any such area today, the whole world is connected with cell phones, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries, blueteeth, greenteeth any many other technologies I haven’t even heard of yet. Everyone is talking into thin air, or peering at a tiny screen while trying to press buttons the size of deer ticks. Nobody has the slightest desire to pause for reflection. On the contrary, that kind of solitude has become quite scary.

Normally couples just ignore each one another in public spaces. Now they actively turn their backs, each one absorbed in communication with someone else, somewhere else. The solitude of their togetherness is too much to endure. Or perhaps they are just following the prescription of the German poet Rainer Maria Rilke:

“I hold this to be the highest task for a bond between two people: that each protects the solitude of the other.”

Cellphones make it easy to escape the other, but not the millions and billions of others.
We can travel to the ends of the earth, but even the deserts and mountains are crowded. Resorts ironically offer “Relaxation and solitude,” when you and they know that thousands of others will be sharing the same solitary experience. Solitude, when we find it, is all in the mind.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel A Hundred Years of Solitude is not really “about” solitude, except in so far as it follows the pointless and circular lives of the Buendia family, cut off from the wider world and progress. They are solitary in so far as they are ignorant, and their solitude is less a gift than a pathology.

But solitude remains a romantic, poetic notion, especially for creative people. A strange thing happened to me last summer. On a trip abroad I was unable to connect to the Internet for about a week, I had no telephone, and the cell phone failed. We had no TV or radio either. We were cut off from the continuous chatter of the outside world, and achieved a kind of solitude by default.

It was very disturbing at first, but then a profound peace descended. This, I supposed, was the magic of solitude that everyone writes about, but almost nobody finds. I could almost feel my blood pressure going down, I slept better, I was relaxed – and I couldn’t write a word.

This may be what happens to people who hide away in remote writers’ colonies, hoping that peace and quiet will bring the inspiration that everyday life had failed to bring. Thoreau wrote a lot about solitude, but he was constantly involved with people, with nature, and with his own philosophy. He was no more solitary than I am, sitting completely alone in my study, apart from two cats, the birds outside the window, and the radio playing a harp concerto by a composer with a marvelous name – Karl Ditters Von Dittersdorf.

Real solitude must be very much like Death Lite. Solitary confinement is one of our cruelest punishments. Not wonder we love to dream about it, but never to practice it on ourselves.

The Writer as Sociologist

We tend to assume that writers began as students of literature, and most did. It’s no surprise that Martin Amis and John Updike are English graduates. But writers are a diverse and unpredictable lot, and some of us end up very far from where we started out, educationally speaking. The late Norman Mailer, for example, studied at Harvard to be an aeronautical engineer, and Saul Bellow read sociology and anthropology at Chicago.

It was reassuring to discover this last fact. People I meet often assume that I must have studied either literature or music, because these are the two things that I am publicly involved in right now. They are surprised and even offended to learn that, in fact, was trained, like Bellow, as a sociologist at the University of London. At the beginning of my university career I had studied literature for a time, but discovered that my opinions about canonical writers never coincided with those of my professors. Literature led me into some wonderful arguments, but also led to very poor grades.

Sociology suited me very well. It is (or was) a wide-open subject within which all kinds of curiosities can be indulged. In sociology we learned about the subject matter of literature – namely ourselves and our intricately connected world.

After graduating, on the basis of a thesis about radical politics, I spent almost twenty years teaching in the British and American university systems. What fascinated me as a teacher was the broad view of society, especially in classic theory. Sociology (like anthropology and history) tends to drag us away from our preoccupation with personal issues. It asks us to look at the big picture.

A few intellectuals began asking sociological questions in the eighteenth century, during the period now called The Enlightenment (l’éclairage, literally “lighting up” in French). As religion declined it was possible and necessary to investigate everything: where morality comes from, why we have conflicts and wars, what is the best kind of government, and whether human beings can or should ever be equal. These are huge questions, and they were taken up in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by a series of mighty intellectuals, including Marl Marx, Emile Durkheim, and Max Weber. They were not strictly scientific thinkers, but nor were they just speculative philosophers. Their theories open up the minds of students, create doubt and debate about the most fundamental things “we all know,” and generally provide a marvelous teaching tool.

The social sciences in general are justly notorious for promoting bad writing. This is partly because some of its practitioners are terrible writers, but mainly because the subject matter is accessible and familiar – the family, politics, social class, race, and so on. In an effort to make their work appear more academic and scientific, professional sociologists have packaged their work in a barbarous jargon that fools nobody but effectively conceals whatever it is they are trying to prove or explain.

For this and other reasons in the 1990s I began to edge away from sociology and towards journalism (which had been my first occupation and obsession before I began teaching). The sociological perspective has been invaluable. Every topic has two sides, the personal and the social. Most writers zero in on the personal. I could always be (or seem) original by choosing the social side.

Saul Bellow, as another sociologist-turned-writer, reinforces my point. Here’s a quote from his biography, as presented in Wikipedia:

“The author’s works speak to the disorienting nature of modern civilization, and the countervailing ability of humans to overcome their frailty and achieve greatness (or at least awareness). Bellow saw many flaws in modern civilization, and its ability to foster madness, materialism and misleading knowledge.”

Updike writes only about himself. Bellow writes about society. And I suspect that all writers, especially the most self-involved, would benefit from a few courses on sociology and anthropology (to say nothing of history and philosophy).

That’s my prejudice for today.

No time to write? Here’s the reason

Every writer has the same complaint – no time. Yet writers in the past managed to be prolific without even the crutch of a computer, or sometimes even a typewriter. How did they do it?

The answer is summed up in a book by Alison Light: Mrs. Woolf and The Servants. It records the sad travails of Virginia Woolf in dealing with the ill-paid people whose job it was to cook for her, clean for her, arrange her clothes, and in general make her life absolutely free of household cares. According to the book Mrs. Woolf hated her servants, even while she depended on them utterly.

We are all our own servants now, slaves to our homes and families. No wonder we have no time.