{"id":31830,"date":"2018-01-24T08:49:52","date_gmt":"2018-01-24T13:49:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/?p=31830"},"modified":"2018-01-24T08:49:52","modified_gmt":"2018-01-24T13:49:52","slug":"ursula-k-le-guin-on-writing-alas-there-are-no-recipes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/2018\/01\/24\/ursula-k-le-guin-on-writing-alas-there-are-no-recipes\/","title":{"rendered":"Ursula K. Le Guin On Writing: “Alas, There Are No Recipes”"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a><\/p>\n

With the passing of Ursula Le Guin — whose short work I read very early, and whose longer work I only read much, much later — I am reminded of some advice she’d given about writing, and given what is sometimes the focus of this blog, I thought I’d highlight her words here.<\/p>\n

(Note: do read her original answer here<\/strong><\/span><\/a>.)<\/p>\n

When asked how one writes something good, she responded with:<\/p>\n

The way to make something good is to make it well.<\/p>\n

If the ingredients are extra good (truffles, vivid prose, fascinating characters) that\u2019s a help. But it\u2019s what you do with them that counts. With the most ordinary ingredients (potatoes, everyday language, commonplace characters) \u2014 and care and skill in using them \u2014 you can make something extremely good.<\/p>\n

Inexperienced writers tend to seek the recipes for writing well. You buy the cookbook, you take the list of ingredients, you follow the directions, and behold! A masterpiece! The Never-Falling Souffl\u00e9!<\/p>\n

Wouldn\u2019t it be nice? But alas, there are no recipes. We have no Julia Child. Successful professional writers are not withholding mysterious secrets from eager beginners. The only way anybody ever learns to write well is by trying to write well. This usually begins by reading good writing by other people, and writing very badly by yourself, for a long time.<\/p>\n

There are \u201csecrets\u201d to making a story work \u2014 but they apply only to that particular writer and that particular story. You find out how to make the thing work by working at it \u2014 coming back to it, testing it, seeing where it sticks or wobbles or cheats, and figuring out how to make it go where it has to go.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And on the subject of writing to a market or following prescribed rules:<\/p>\n

If your manuscript doesn\u2019t follow the rules of what\u2019s currently trendy, the rules of what\u2019s supposed to be salable, the rule some great authority laid down, you\u2019re supposed to make it do so. Most such rules are hogwash, and even sound ones may not apply to your story. What\u2019s the use of a great recipe for souffl\u00e9 if you\u2019re making blintzes?\u00a0The important thing is to know what it is you\u2019re making, where your story is going, so that you use only the advice that genuinely helps you get there. The hell with souffl\u00e9, stick to your blintzes.<\/p>\n

We make something good, a blintz, a story, by having worked at blintzmaking or storywriting till we\u2019ve learned how to do it.<\/p>\n

With a blintz, the process is fairly routine. With stories, the process is never twice the same. Even a story written to the most prescriptive formula, like some westerns or romances, can be made poorly, or made well.<\/p>\n

Making anything well involves a commitment to the work. And that requires courage: you have to trust yourself. It helps to remember that the goal is not to write a masterpiece or a best-seller. The goal is to be able to look at your story and say, Yes. That\u2019s as good as I can make it.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(I find that advice to be very, very freeing.)<\/p>\n

Le Guin, having been done with novels, gave herself in 2015 to the task of answering a considerable number of writing questions at Book View Cafe<\/strong><\/span><\/a>, and I think you’ll find much of what she says there interesting and useful, and I encourage you to read the literally hundreds of answers she gives. I’ve popped in a few more delightful bits here —<\/p>\n

On being asked the difference between literary fiction and genre:<\/p>\n

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog about Genre Fiction vs Literary Fiction in which I stated Le Guin\u2019s Hypothesis:<\/p>\n

Literature is the extant body of written art. All novels belong to it.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I find this saves a lot of head-scratching.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

On those who believe that one style of POV is correct when writing prose:<\/p>\n

Distrust anybody \u2014 fellow writer, agent, editor \u2014 who tells you that fiction\u00a0must<\/em>\u00a0use only limited third person.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s trendy at the moment, sure. But the surest way to go out of vogue is to be in it.<\/p>\n

As currently practiced, limited third person is (like the present tense) a kind of flashlight beam \u2014 it gives a brilliant, narrow, simplifying intensity of vision. It\u2019s well suited to many short stories and to the kinds of novel where a fast pace and a tight focus are prime values. It lends itself to detachment and irony.<\/p>\n

The unlimited third person, the de-centered, flexible, moving point of view, is natural to stories and novels in which character and emotional relationships and interactions, cultural contrasts, etc., are important, in which problems aren\u2019t solved by a gunshot or a bomb but by being worked out (or not worked out) over time.<\/p>\n

Forcing such a narrative into a single POV will limit it and may cripple it. Write your story the way it wants and needs to be written. Change your POV when you feel like it!<\/p>\n

Only, be really, really sure that you know how to do it\u2026<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

On writing to, and thinking about, your so-called audience:<\/p>\n

\u201cAudience\u201d literally means \u201cthe people listening\u201d \u2013 which tells you what an odd business writing stories down is. We are silent performers in an empty room. We lack the instant feedback that maintains and sharpens the story-teller\u2019s consciousness of and relationship with the audience. So, does the writer consciously try to imagine a reader? An ideal reader? A whole lot of readers? Or are we each our own audience, writing a book we\u2019d like to read, the way we\u2019d like it written? Or do we seek a peer-group for the feedback? Such choices are entirely up to you the writer. And nobody can say what the right balance of conventionality and expectability, challenge and originality, is for you. Tailoring your writing to a specific audience\/market is good for writers to whom salability is a prime value, for others it can be demoralizing, a sell-out.<\/p>\n

The only advice I can offer is tentative: If you imagine your \u201caudience,\u201d your readers, imagine them as intelligent and sympathetic \u2014 ready to read you if you give them the chance.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

And really, one of my favorite bits, she talks about success as a metric in writing:<\/p>\n

Esme, I think the word success confuses people. They get recognition mixed up with achievement, and celebrity mixed up with excellence. I rarely use the word \u2013 it confuses me. I didn\u2019t want to be a success, I wanted to be a writer. I didn\u2019t set out to write successful books. I tried to write good ones.<\/p>\n

Receiving recognition is very important to a young artist, but you may have to settle for achievement with very little recognition for a long time. You ask about me. I wrote and submitted my work to editors for six or seven years without getting anything published except a few poems in poetry magazines \u2013 as near invisibility as you can get in print. It kept me going, though. Then I got two short stories accepted within a week, one by a literary quarterly, the other by a commercial genre magazine. From then on I had some sense of where to send the next story, and began to publish more regularly, and finally placed a novel. Each publication added to my self-confidence. Growing recognition added more. But the truth is, I always had confidence in myself as a writer \u2013 I had arrogance, even. Yet I had endless times of self-doubt. I think what carried me through was simply commitment to the job. I wanted to do it.<\/p>\n

Talent is no good without commitment. I\u2019ve had students who wrote very well, but weren\u2019t willing to commit to write, to go on writing, and to go on writing better. But that\u2019s what it takes.<\/p>\n

\u201cFeeling successful\u201d \u2013 well, that\u2019s something you have to work out for yourself, what it means to you, how important it is. You\u2019re quite right that very good and highly celebrated writers may not feel \u201csuccessful.\u201d Maybe they have unhappy natures, and the Nobel Prize would just depress them. Or maybe they aren\u2019t fully satisfied with what they\u2019ve done so far, don\u2019t feel they\u2019ve yet written the best book they could write. But they have the commitment that keeps them trying to do it.<\/p>\n

Hang in there. And don\u2019t push it. No hurry! Writing is a lifetime job.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

This is really just the tip of the iceberg.<\/p>\n

I confess, I’ve never before read her book on writing, Steering the Craft<\/strong><\/span><\/a>, but I’m going to, now.<\/p>\n

And, while you’re at it, given all that’s going on in the world, I suggest seeking out and reading (or re-reading) “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas<\/strong><\/span><\/a>.” It was the first thing I’d ever read from Le Guin and it has stuck in my craw (in the best worst way) since, imprinting in ways most stories never do. It’s a near-perfect example of how science-fiction and other imaginary narrative is uniquely posed to challenge us and trouble us and make is think about who we are and what we do.<\/p>\n

[photo credit: AP]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

With the passing of Ursula Le Guin — whose short work I read very early, and whose longer work I only read much, much later — I am reminded of some advice she’d given about writing, and given what is sometimes the focus of this blog, I thought I’d highlight her words here. (Note: do […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":{"0":"post-31830","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"hentry","6":"category-theramble","8":"no-featured-image"},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pv7MR-8ho","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/31830","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=31830"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/31830\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":31832,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/31830\/revisions\/31832"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=31830"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=31830"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/terribleminds.com\/ramble\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=31830"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}