In Search of Originality

There were two things I watched on TV last night which made me wonder how genius in writing comes about. The first program was Shakespeare’s ‘Much Ado About Nothing’, easily my favourite of his plays; and ‘The Gambler’, an average film in which the main character attempts to teach what I’m asking at one point. What did make Shakespeare such a genius? I did a little reading last night, and my personal favourite of the theories was Jack Kerouac’s explanation – that it is divided by those who create original work – ‘geniuses’ – and those who imitate, even brilliantly imitate – ‘talent’.

He stated, in an essay for Writer’s Digest titled Are Writers Made or Born?, written in 1962which was also later on included in The Portable Jack Kerouacthat he thought this was the case. He started the essay by stating, “Writers are made, for anybody who isn’t illiterate can write; but geniuses of the writing art like Melville, Whitman or Thoreau are born.” He went on to say that no one else could have written Moby-Dick, Leaves of Grass, or any of Shakespeare’s plays – that the writers of these works of literature had something they were born with, something that couldn’t be taught. To explain the difference to talent, Kerouac used the following example; “Some perfect virtuoso who can interpret Brahms on the violin is called a “genius,” but the genius, the originating force, really belongs to Brahms; the violin virtuoso is simply a talented interpreter — in other words, a “Talent.” Or you’ll hear people say that so-and-so is a “major writer” because of his “talent.” There can be no major writers without original genius. Artists of genius, like Jackson Pollock, have painted things that have never been seen before… Take the case of James Joyce: people say he “wasted” his “talent” on the stream-of-consciousness style, when in fact he was simply born to originate it.”

On the other side of the argument, there was Mark Twain, with his famous quote; “…all ideas are second-hand, consciously and unconsciously drawn from a million outside sources, and daily used by the garnerer with a pride and satisfaction born of the superstition that he originated them…” This was from a letter written to his friend Helen Keller, after she was accused, and later acquitted, of plagiarism. This is the most common theory of originality most of us know – I even remember a teacher from school saying something very similar, something that upset me at the time. As a child, I’d unconsciously remembered a story (I can’t even remember which one anymore!) and elements of it ran parallel to the short story I’d written. They noted, delightedly, as a child had took on reading something they hadn’t expected, that it reminded them of this other story. I hated the story I’d written after that, glaring down at my pudgy little hands, holding the sheet of paper with childish disgust. I’d thought my story was unlike all others! Once I grew up, and read a lot more books, I realised that it was near impossible to write something that truly is original, something that uses no other elements any other book has. The very fact my own books fit neatly in genre categories shows that there are many of us in the same boat – most of us, I expect. That feeling I had as a child stayed with me though, and it made me not want to write anything for a long time. As Salvador Dalí even said, “Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.”

But I think there’s some common ground between these two ways of thinking. On the one hand, I agree whole-heartedly with Jack Kerouac. I think genius is born, not made, and most of us – including me, haha – can merely hope to fall into the ‘talent’ category. But I also agree with Mark Twain. Whatever we think is original, may have been created a long time before those stories were written down. Who knows? Having said that, I have a hard time imagining the way Shakespeare spun words together, or the way Herman Melville brought a raw accuracy to the characters of his book, could ever have been repeated before. But I think while we’re imitating genius and trying to hone our stories as well as we can, we can always aim for that elusive ‘original story’. Because without aiming for genius, talent can never be as good as possible. 🙂

What are your thoughts, guys? Which side of the argument do you lie on?

 

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The First Impression

Now, I’m not talking about general first impressions, of course – but of book first impressions! 🙂 Annnd….I know this post was supposed to be up days ago, but apparently WordPress had other ideas, and didn’t post it for me. So here it is, anyway! 

We all know the important parts of putting a book together. Cover, editor, marketing…but what happens after the reader first clicks onto your Amazon page? They might take a look at the cover, and decide that they love it enough to look further. A cover may not bother them, and they’ll go straight to the blurb. (I made a big post on writing a blurb here.) After they’ve read it, been hooked enough to read a bit more, what next?

They’re going to take a ‘Look Inside’. And that’s where the book either lives up to its promise, or falls a little short.

Because the most important part of your entire manuscript – really! – is the very first line. Anyone who has ever had to write an essay knows that it must begin with a sentence that sums up everything the essay is about, your opinion, or your viewpoint. A manuscript is no different in that it must sum up the feeling of your entire novel, and hook someone is just a few words. First, let’s take a look at some great first lines, then we’ll see what sets them apart. (Just to note, first lines in any book are subjective, but I’ve tried to pick lines from classic books that I think most people will know pretty well, and most will agree on. 🙂 )

 

At least we passed the Snape test.

At least we passed the Snape test.

The Good Stuff

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”  Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”  Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”  George Orwell, 1984

“I am an invisible man.” Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

“Call me Ishmael.” Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

“All children, except one, grow up.” J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

“I had been making the rounds of the Sacrifice Poles the day we heard my brother had escaped.” Iain Banks, The Wasp Factory

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice ‘without pictures or conversation?'” Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

 

It's a blog, don't worry. We're all crazy around here. But we'll work out these damn opening lines together!

It’s a blog, don’t worry. We’re all crazy around here. But we’ll work out these damn opening lines together!

What’s The Idea?

What makes all these opening lines both so memorable and brilliant? What is it that they all have in common? Well the first important thing to note is that all of them, in one way or another, sum up everything the novel is about. Without having to delve further, the reader already has the seed of an idea of what the book is about. J.M. Barrie’s line immediately encapsulates Peter Pan. Melville’s line open up a complex web of ideas about the narrator, who really, is the character that the book revolves around as he tells it from his own viewpoint. Austen’s famous line also immediately gets to the heart of what the book about, and even without reading further, we almost certainly know there will be a romantic couple somewhere in the novel who do not instantly fall in love. 

So the first thing to consider is ‘does this first line get across the feel of my novel?’ I’m not saying that you have to give away everything in one sentence, but you have to set the tone. Take Orwell’s line, “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” For those who have never read it, it’s a science-fiction novel, and it also falls neatly into a ‘modern’ genre; dystopian. This line sets the scene first with its description of the day -cold and bright. ‘Bright’ on its own could bring back memories of sunny days, but not when coupled with ‘cold’. It brings to mind cold, bright places, such as the clinical areas of hospitals, or snowy days outside. It gives a clean, clinical feel to the first line, something quite emotionless and separate from anything comforting. Then there’s the second part of that line – the clocks were striking thirteen. This captures out attention straight away, because we know, in our world, clocks do no such thing. So this tells the reader that this is a strange, unforgiving place with different rules and ideas from our own. We already have the emotionless feel from the first part, so this can only tell us that clocks striking thirteen are not a good thing. This is a carefully crafted sentence, and each part of it, although short, gives the feel of the whole novel to the reader.

 

I must know more!

I must know more!

But What Else?

It can’t be as easy as setting the scene; there must be something more. And there is. It speaks directly to the reader. The quickest way to get a reader to connect with your book is to give them something they can relate to. On the surface, some of them don’t seem like they go too far into this, but unconsciously, you can connect with something in the line. Look at Lewis Carroll’s opening line – didn’t we all feel like that when we were small children? And with Ellison’s line, despite the fact none of us have ever actually been invisible (at least, I hope not!), we can feel the depression and loneliness behind the statement. Maybe it’s because at some point or another, we’ve all felt ‘invisible’ in some way, perhaps for some of us its because we’re the kind of people who empathise easily with people in a difficult situation. 

Leo Tolstoy’s first line actually does this twice. First by suggesting the truth we all know behind any family – that no matter how much you love each other, there will be arguments and fall-outs, and no doubt there’s one or two people in the family who don’t speak to each other at all! But this leads to the other truth he holds up, that we like to have a social veneer over ourselves and our loved ones, to prevent the rest of society from seeing what would be considered to be flaws or immoral ideas. This also encompasses what the novel itself is about, and weirdly, strikes as true today as when it was first written.

 

Go, create beautiful opening lines together. Or apart. Or in a room of people. You can literally write opening lines anywhere. LOL

Go, create beautiful opening lines together. Or apart. Or in a room of people. You can literally write opening lines anywhere. LOL

So To Sum Up…

An opening line needs to be the most powerful sentence you write in the whole novel. It has to connect with the reader, either by evoking an emotion, or by linking it to a universal truth we’ve all felt at one time or another. It also has to immediately sum up the entire book in just a few words. This is the ultimate synopsis, is that it sums up everything that can be expected from the book in one go.

The best way to go about it really, is to write your whole book, edit it, then come back to that first line again. Tweak it and play with it until it covers everything mentioned above – and any reader who loves your first line, is already eager for the rest of your book. 🙂

 

What lines do you guys like the best from novels? What’s your favourite opening line ever? 🙂