The 7 Points of Write: An Essential Guide to Mastering the Art of Storytelling, Developing Strong Characters, and Setting Memorable Scenes (4 page)

M
USIC TO
W
RITE
B
Y

Kerouac is said to have written his masterpiece,
On the Road
, in a mere three weeks, on a single roll of telegraph paper at that, so he wouldn’t have to interrupt his flow by the obligatory act of changing paper. Beat legend has it that he wrote the book while seated at a kitchen table in his apartment on West 20th Street right here in New York, in a spontaneous, surrealistic free-flow that was propelled by pea soup, coffee, and yes, lots of Benzedrine. What resulted is a book that became an important fixture in American literature. My former mentor introduced me to Kerouac by having me read that book, and a new world was immediately opened to me. It’s one that I have never left.

Raymond Chandler, on the other hand—among my favorite writers of all time—is said to have written the Oscar-nominated screenplay for
The Blue Dahlia
in a haze of drunkenness and would often be found passed out at his table. The film turned out all right, but for a film noir entry it pales in comparison to far superior efforts, such as Jacques Tourneur’s
Out of the Past—
hands down, my favorite noir. (I could go on about classic films forever.) Chandler’s novels are quite another matter, however, as those have gone down in history as important hard-boiled fare, in effect both broadening the scope of the genre and cementing it—written under the influence or not.

There are many other stories one could relate about writers who relied on one form of substance or another to fuel their creativity, but I’ll leave those to you. Rather than rely on drugs and alcohol, however, writers could derive inspiration from far less abusive mediums. One that interests me most is music. Though he was a religious skeptic, the late, great Kurt Vonnegut wrote in his final collection of essays,
A Man Without a Country
, that “if I should ever die, God forbid, let this be my epitaph: ‘The only proof he needed for the existence of God was music.’ ” He also claimed that music aided him during times of tragedy.

I don’t think there needs to be a treatise on the benefits and effects of music (effects both ill and good); we are all of us familiar with its power, having fallen under it at one point or another in our lives. And as far as the entertainment industry is concerned—be it theater, anything associated with the nightlife, and even film and television—music is as much a staple as the very people involved. Try to imagine a film without a score or a television program that opens or closes without a theme song (well, nowadays, there’s probably just such a thing). Music is integral when it comes to any form of entertainment. I think this should apply even at the inception of your creative work—your novel—from the concept stage. Beyond that, a choice song might inspire you to get past that rough patch in your story, or to visualize a scene more fully; it might help you to beef up the tension or highlight the conflict in your book; but barring all of that, it may very well just set you in the mood to write, giving you the proper state of mind and what have you, after which you can cut the power on your CD player.

I remember watching Turner Classic Movies a few years back, and they were running a promo for their
31 Days of Oscar
, where they featured a slew of films that won (or I believe were nominated for) Academy Awards. It was probably a thirty-second spot, but it was quite effective. And the one reason I responded so positively to it was because of that hypnotic contemporary song that played in the background against images of Bette Davis, Cary Grant, Joan Crawford, Katherine Hepburn, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, and so many others, moving in striking achromatic brilliance. I watched the month-long tribute to the Oscar-worthy classics, even though I’d seen many of the films before. That is how powerful the promo was, how effective—and all because of the song, working in unison with the unforgettable moving images of Tinsel Town’s finest. And like the lyrics from that song—
Daylight Robbery
, performed by Essex native Imogen Heap—when I think back on those films and that promo, “it gets me right here … every time.”

L
ITERARY
V
OICES

L
ITERARY
V
OICES

I
KNOW MANY OF YOU HAVE YOUR
favorites when it comes to established authors. I have my own, of course. One thing is certain, though, of the many beloved authors out there, quite a few of them have garnered the large followings they currently enjoy because of their exceptional skill at delivering tales, whether entirely fictional or not. If you can’t deliver a good story, your career is pretty much cooked (even some authors who can deliver the goods have a hard time catching on, for various reasons).

I think it is obvious by now that I am drawn to a good story, whether that story is riddled with grammatical errors or written by a hand that isn’t so deft. A good story is a good story, and I have heard my share of them, first from my father, who recounted tales of his youth with a certain candid quality, all of which enthralled me, and then from others in my family. Books came last on a long list of sources, but I have delighted in and been swept into numerous tales since I began reading many years ago.

For me, what makes a story really resonate is the way in which it is told, and I am referring mainly to the author’s prose style. I am drawn to good prose like a shark to blood, if I must paint a picture. I like to see sentences written in a way that I have never seen them written before, but with fluidity, and sans any well-worn figures of speech. I like vivid descriptions of people and places and things, and the writing could either be chiefly ornate or rhythmic, so long as it fits the story, or better yet, the genre. For instance, James Joyce’s prose style wouldn’t work in a hardboiled novel, but you know that.

One thing an author needs to establish him- or herself in the literary arena, and thus attract a following, is a unique voice, and a consistent one if he or she can manage it. Any good and dedicated author will eventually, by way of accident or design, acquire a voice, a literary style that is unique to him or her, and by which that author can be readily identified by their current flock of readers. That voice will also be the signature of that author—his or her distinctive characteristic or mark, if you will—which a reader will come to expect. For instance, after reading one Raymond Chandler book, realizing that his was a voice unique to him—a voice that I found refreshing and appealing—I didn’t bother to read the blurbs or reviews of his books anymore, but bought them on spec, partly knowing what I was in for based solely on the author’s voice. The same goes for Kerouac, Fitzgerald, Hammett, and even many contemporaries.

The reclusive J. D. Salinger, though he published one book and too few short stories and novellas, displayed a unique and timeless voice himself. With Salinger in mind, the one thing that has to be associated with your voice is theme. Recurring themes must accompany your tales; themes that readers will view as little threads running through all your works, as we will also come to expect these things. Chandler had them, Kerouac had them, Hammett had them, and Salinger certainly had them. These themes can involve bravery, friendship, betrayal, redemption, abandonment, or anything you desire or can identify with, so long as it is executed well. A theme is best delivered when it is something you strongly identify with or believe in (again, write from a place of experience).

I know that some of you writers out there like to experiment, and some of you will even attempt to write a new unexplored work each time you publish, but bear this in mind: you will attract a different set of readers with each of those works. Writing with a distinctive voice, however, and offering recurring themes in your various works will not cause you to alienate your current fan base. If readers really respond to your writing in one novel, why abandon them by jettisoning everything that made that book work? If you
must
experiment, however, do so under a pen name or names, like every wise writer who has navigated that path before you. But continue writing your signature material under one name. That way everyone wins.

B
E
Y
OURSELF

One important fact to consider is that all writers who have locked onto a distinctive literary voice have achieved this by doing one thing: being who they are. Your literary voice is just that,
your
literary voice, and no one else’s. Just as no one can write with your distinctive literary signature, neither can you write with another author’s particular literary lilt. Mark Twain, who currently holds the distinction of having possessed the most notable and well-known literary voice in America and perhaps the world, wrote his stories by tapping into past experiences gained from a rugged frontier life that was peppered with the Southern tradition. He embraced that life, transferring much of it onto paper in a colloquial style that was as familiar to him as your lifestyle is to you. Therefore, you need to do likewise. Do not try to emulate Henry James or Jane Austen if you grew up in Louisiana and have never left. I wager that if you were to tap into your past and embrace the lifestyle that you have known all your life, a full-bodied narrative complete with a rich tapestry of characters awaits. And if you delivered that narrative in your own style, with your own particular way of speaking, thinking, and rationalizing, a unique literary voice would emerge that you could call your very own.

S
TREAM OF
C
ONSCIOUSNESS

As defined by Wikipedia, stream of consciousness “is the continuous flow of sense‐perceptions, thoughts, feelings, and memories in the human mind or a literary method of representing a blending of mental processes in fictional characters, usually in an unpunctuated or disjointed form of interior monologue.” Put another, looser, way, a writer can go wild on paper and write whatever comes to mind without restriction. Virginia Woolf was notorious for applying the stream of consciousness narrative mode in her works, as were Kerouac and Faulkner, and William Styron even got into the mix.

I am not suggesting that you undertake the task of writing an entire novel in a stream of consciousness free flow. This would require a great deal of study, first and foremost. What I am suggesting is that you sit down and write something fictional, directly from the heart in one complete burst, in a kind of stream of consciousness free flow. Don’t ponder on it too long or break for air, just write, write, write. Pretty much whatever comes to mind. Refrain from reaching for a dictionary and resist the urge to Google facts or locations. The idea is to write an authentic piece of fiction in the voice that is your very own. And while doing so, you should draw on memories and snatches of the past. And feel free to tap into your deepest desires—explore them—and live out your fantasies on paper.

Do this as many times as you like, creating a series of flash fiction pieces that can be as short as 500 or 1,000 words in length. With enough practice, and a sizeable collection of stream of consciousness shorts under your belt, you should begin to tap into your unique narrative voice. And when writing actual fiction that you intend to publish or circulate, you will find it very easy to call on your voice at will. It will flow from you as naturally as actual speech itself.