I admire the courage of anyone who publishes fiction. As a sometime writer of the same, I know that, should anyone read my paltry offerings, I open myself to criticism and critique. It’s a bit of me on each page I scribble.
Still, often I read material that makes me cringe. Tips from writers who succeeded tell us what to avoid, yet some fiction writers still seem unaware. Novels full of cliches, telling—not showing, and telling yet again, over-written and lacking subtlety make their way into my hands. I want to bury my eyes in a box of salt.
But there are virtues in such reading. Perhaps the greatest is that poor writing reminds me that I don’t know how my work appears to others. I recently read a novel that tried me sorely. I realized as I read, however, that I was learning on each page.
Many of us learn to write by reading good writers. If we read enough, we take on the successful habits of our idols. Their cadences and images become our sacred writ. Like disciples we gather at their feet.
I’ve never taken a writing course (and I’m sure many would say it shows), but I grew up reading voraciously. Books were my friends and some of my fondest memories involve the aroma of bookstores. I didn’t realize it was learning; I was having too much fun.
When other kids in grade school were shooting spitballs or eyeing the girls, I was scribbling stories. One page at a time I emulated Bradbury, Poe, or as I thought, Asimov. I still have some of those yellowed pages to remind me how far I’ve come. Some of the ideas weren’t bad. Although the writing is juvenile, it is better than some of what I read.
Teaching via negativa may be undervalued. Of course, we all have limited time, and we’d rather be reading the works of an accomplished master. Still, following the neophyte may get you lost, but once you’ve found your way out of the jungle, you will have learned something.
As I often tell my writing partner Fantasia, with this craft nothing is wasted.
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