How is it going out there amongst my fellow bloggers? To redefine a borrowed line from R.J. Ellis's chapter 'Mapping the United Kingdoms Little Magazine Field' in New British Poetries, The scope of the Possible (ed. Robert Hampson and Peter Barry)
'How would one attempt to "map out" the "landscape" of blog activity on the Internet at present?'
I have also recently been asked to give some thought on the issues of commentaries to posts on a blog that is trying to circulate ideas on 'New Technology' - a module that is part of a English Studies FdA.
With both these questions seemingly merging into the same question I thought I'd simplify things and narrow down the geographic to reflect on my experience of blogging so far. Tied into this is also yet another pause for thought with episode two of Radio 4 The Sins of Literature;
Thou Shalt not hide. It's lonely business writing. Day after day at the keyboard
with only your thoughts for company. Many writers develop rituals, habits and
creative ticks to get them through. Historically lots of them have found succour
in the arms of alcohol. The god like omnipotence they hold over the world of
their novel can encourage an equal and opposite retreat from the real world
(where they have no such powers). Thou Shalt not Hide examines the psychology
and the discipline of writing and how writers are necessarily locked into their
own heads yet trying to capture the whole wide world on the page. (http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b0383hsr/The_Sins_of_Literature_Thou_Shalt_Not_Hide/
BBC 2013 accessed 17/08/2013)
Is the blogger as lonely as the novelist, is there trepidation in waiting for a stranger to answer or ask of you from the Webs abyss?
I have no doubt that several hundreds of keen, sharp Internet analysis types have critically accessed the blogging phenomena, particularly the fastest routes to successful commentator participation. Or you could just visit 'The Blog Reviewer', ummm. I myself have willingly fallen upon the notion that Google + must be a way of drawing in more of an audience, but who will that consist of? But then, I am happy with my blogs purpose; it is proving itself to be a connecting approach to key people who I am inviting to read about what I do as a writer. The visuals I include are just sparkler's to display book covers and titles, so determined am I to keep that part of the book alive. Photographs are usually my own to show that my ideas are real and from within my imagination or places and scenes connected to my poetry and art.
One can presume that people viewing your blog are enjoying it and whether your receiving comments on a level of great excitement, aroused angered fervour or just a lecture in what your doing wrong (which I can imagine the latter and former could be conjoined for effect!) is all a reaction. Along the way I don't seem to have assaulted any ones temperaments and I do enjoy the discussions had with various readers of my blog away from the site. But herein is the key - the discussion is on the topics of my posts, not me as a blogger. It has somehow become part of who I am as a writer, this is fascinating as I rarely publish any poetry for one.....
So is it a working diary like Woolf or Path? Not as such, I keep things fixture around the middle belly of emotion, yet it is evident that I have a great passion for literature and a determination to see my creative writing eventually published. What has led on from my blog is the offer of an opportunity to write about literary things in the South West for an online magazine. My interests and research in this county can now be honed into a regular post that will hopefully shine a light on some hidden talents and tales; even directing a new angle on what is more commonly know about literature in Cornwall. I will as always endeavour to reveal more very soon......
To wrap this up I will briefly summarise that, as I touched upon Ellis's chapter regarding the landscape of small poetry publications the blog's data discourse can be viewed from a similar perspective - have blogs been evaluated by descriptive methods or analytical ones. The success of some blogs can be viewed on how greatly they express what to wear, where to eat, what is 'now' in the creative arts (be quick to keep up) the narrative persuasive in nature. The speed and direction in which things move on is like a ride in Wonka's Great Glass Elevator .....
To rouse, to conduct, to state, to be rhetoric - it is all a whirl of post modern toppings but I think my approach to good blogging is comparable to the great sitcoms and the fine radio broadcasters who like me just want the audience to keep tuning in.....
Embedded Exhibition - Exposed
Monday 19 August 2013
Saturday 10 August 2013
Characters shape the plot.....
Has anyone else been listening to the Radio 4 programme The Sins of Literature?
I have pondered over this first transmission with interest, which you can 'catch up' on BBC iplayer. At one point I had practically decided to don my wellies and start digging over my raised beds; packets of seeds at the ready. Is this the worst metaphor for novel writing? Maybe, I am a poet after all....
I agree characters are of utmost importance but where does that leave the novels of rich descriptive attention concerning sense of place, think Thomas Hardy The Return of the Native as one glorious example. The soil of the landscape may be full of the elements to germinate and mature each of your fictional persons in a grand fashion yet what if they spoil the readers view? It could be classed as a conceited concept to let the characters take over such sublime space - are people that important that they can't do without themselves for a few pages a chapter? On the flip side it is worth considering how well we want to know the characters introduced to us by the narrator. Personally I prefer sound strong individuals that do not over analysis every breeze that blows and every emotion they feel...apologies to the Modernists, but then the french writers are so good at balancing both...Merci Colette.
My considerations don't usually follow the idea that a perfect book and a great book aren't the same thing - which statement holds the most truth? Focusing on the frustrating slow parts in the middle can be somewhat like a soufflé. Does the reader approach with caution or rush in and knock the air out desperate to discover the ending? The narrator can aim to turn a runny, sloppy concoction into a light airy delight that melts in the mouth (when read out loud), yet we are warned by one of this panel of published elite that nobody thinks in metaphors. Should the reader therefore be suspicious of metaphors: something is what it is, don't confuse the reader with what it could be like, a book is not like staring at clouds! I believe that fiction is a contradiction - the writer should tell a lie truthfully; a sense of place can be achieved in a sentence and whilst levels of experience are of value, the writer can subsequently deal with an fictional experience without actually having that experience. The key here is to observe as much as possible, use the senses, then respond.
So has there been a writer who I can claim has produced a book of greatness, perceptive to the point that even after bathing the smell of a scene is still on the skin? For me that book is The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940) by Carson McCullers. I confess this book has only recently been in my possession but I devoured it as one would a meal when griping with hunger. I have tried to not fall into the trap of gasping with amazement at McCullers age or gender at the time of writing this non-superfluous piece of eloquent fiction. What I do consider genius is how she balances the characters and the sense of surroundings - neither fight for the limelight but work together harmoniously, the narrator moving words strategically in order to deeper enhance the stories scenes. A masterpiece, and I for one did not skip a single sentence, even the punctuation detected exactly where it should be, decidedly and sound.
The next few weeks I will be probably leaving the world of fiction and applying myself to theory and my approach for my third year dissertation. My personal achievements in writing are still forging ahead and I'm trying very hard to gain feedback on some of my poems before I send any more off to competitions. I have four diverse competitions which I will be entering this year. A lasting memory was attained last week when I found amongst a donated collection of Cornish books a signed copy of Jack Clemo's Confessions of a Rebel. It is just his name and no dedication and that is all I needed to make the daydream a tad real - remember a signature lends itself to the myth, a 'language-object' as Barthe termed could also be the author themselves....
I have pondered over this first transmission with interest, which you can 'catch up' on BBC iplayer. At one point I had practically decided to don my wellies and start digging over my raised beds; packets of seeds at the ready. Is this the worst metaphor for novel writing? Maybe, I am a poet after all....
I agree characters are of utmost importance but where does that leave the novels of rich descriptive attention concerning sense of place, think Thomas Hardy The Return of the Native as one glorious example. The soil of the landscape may be full of the elements to germinate and mature each of your fictional persons in a grand fashion yet what if they spoil the readers view? It could be classed as a conceited concept to let the characters take over such sublime space - are people that important that they can't do without themselves for a few pages a chapter? On the flip side it is worth considering how well we want to know the characters introduced to us by the narrator. Personally I prefer sound strong individuals that do not over analysis every breeze that blows and every emotion they feel...apologies to the Modernists, but then the french writers are so good at balancing both...Merci Colette.
My considerations don't usually follow the idea that a perfect book and a great book aren't the same thing - which statement holds the most truth? Focusing on the frustrating slow parts in the middle can be somewhat like a soufflé. Does the reader approach with caution or rush in and knock the air out desperate to discover the ending? The narrator can aim to turn a runny, sloppy concoction into a light airy delight that melts in the mouth (when read out loud), yet we are warned by one of this panel of published elite that nobody thinks in metaphors. Should the reader therefore be suspicious of metaphors: something is what it is, don't confuse the reader with what it could be like, a book is not like staring at clouds! I believe that fiction is a contradiction - the writer should tell a lie truthfully; a sense of place can be achieved in a sentence and whilst levels of experience are of value, the writer can subsequently deal with an fictional experience without actually having that experience. The key here is to observe as much as possible, use the senses, then respond.
So has there been a writer who I can claim has produced a book of greatness, perceptive to the point that even after bathing the smell of a scene is still on the skin? For me that book is The Heart is a Lonely Hunter (1940) by Carson McCullers. I confess this book has only recently been in my possession but I devoured it as one would a meal when griping with hunger. I have tried to not fall into the trap of gasping with amazement at McCullers age or gender at the time of writing this non-superfluous piece of eloquent fiction. What I do consider genius is how she balances the characters and the sense of surroundings - neither fight for the limelight but work together harmoniously, the narrator moving words strategically in order to deeper enhance the stories scenes. A masterpiece, and I for one did not skip a single sentence, even the punctuation detected exactly where it should be, decidedly and sound.
The next few weeks I will be probably leaving the world of fiction and applying myself to theory and my approach for my third year dissertation. My personal achievements in writing are still forging ahead and I'm trying very hard to gain feedback on some of my poems before I send any more off to competitions. I have four diverse competitions which I will be entering this year. A lasting memory was attained last week when I found amongst a donated collection of Cornish books a signed copy of Jack Clemo's Confessions of a Rebel. It is just his name and no dedication and that is all I needed to make the daydream a tad real - remember a signature lends itself to the myth, a 'language-object' as Barthe termed could also be the author themselves....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)