The Confabulator Cafe

Category: Influence

  • Imitation WOULD be sincere.

    In my reading habits, I imagine I am eclectic.  My favorite fiction writers range from Richard Powers to Thomas Hardy to Neil Gaiman and Margaret Atwood.  But really, those aren’t all that different.  All use a lot of big words, have complex and twisting plots (usually two or three entwined together like a big cinnamon twist of melodrama), and write a lot about religion and science and myths.

    Believe me, I would love to say that my work is a mere imitation of those storied artists’ creations.  That the influence of Hardy’s sweeping landscapes is obvious. That, clearly, my ability to merge worlds of academia and science with deep emotional observations comes from a careful replication of Powers’ work. That my feminist aesthetic is on loan from Atwood. That my ability to write tenderly and brilliantly for the masses and specialists alike is merely derivative of Gaiman.

    If those statements were true, I might be derivative, but at least I’d be brilliant! Alas, none of those things are true.  Most of the things that I admire in my favorite writers are not qualities I can replicate. The people whom I aspire to write like have little in common with those whose books I enjoy.  My favorite writers influence my philosophies, my taste, ideas, fact bases, yes; but most of my writing style is a lot closer to that of people I merely enjoy, not idolize.  Perhaps there is an intimidation factor here.  I don’t try to write a la Thomas Hardy because I know the result will be subpar. But I can try to write like Robert Krouse (a self-published author who became a surprise Amazon hit with pleasant, satirical novels) or like Katherine Norris because my work will not disappoint quite as dramatically in that case.

    One way, though, in which my most admired writers do influence my work is in sentence structure. I try to analyze the structures of wonderful sentences and paragraphs, and build my work around those most admirable. But the day that anyone can genuinely trace the influence of any of my favorite writers in my work is the day I am happy to share it with the world!

  • The Sincerest Form of Flattery

    What’s that they say about imitation? Well, apparently I’m incompetent when it comes to flattery, because as far as I can tell my writing looks absolutely nothing like my favorite authors’ efforts.

    If I was the snooty type, I’d claim that the lack of similarities was intentional due to my artistic integrity, unique voice, particular point-of-view, blah blah blah. And…I guess I am snooty, because that’s true. Trying to project another author’s voice and tone into my own work feels phony to me. This goes to my answer to our future ephemera post related to fan fiction. I understand why people like to write fanfic—it gives the author an instant jump-start to their writing, and lets them create new tales about characters and worlds that they’ve grown to love through the original stories. But in order for me to stay inspired and motivated during the writing process, I need to create my own characters and worlds. Similarly, I very much want to craft my own writing style and voice.

    Another component to my lack of emulation in my writing is that I don’t have the proper training to pull it off. My favorite SF stories are always centered around cosmology, physics, rockets, and math, but I am not a trained cosmologist, physicist, rocket scientist, or mathematician. I’m no high-falutin’ scientist at all. Can I (and do I) write about the same topics I like to read about? Sure. Will I ever manage to write about them with the depth and expertise of my favorite authors? Probably not.

    All that said, I do try to borrow certain key traits from my favorite books and authors and let them guide my own creative process. Most importantly, I appreciate how my favorite writers don’t let their writing get in the way of the story. This approach really lends itself to my own natural style, so I’m constantly striving to write stories where the words disappear for the reader, and only the story is left. If I can manage that, I’d be a happy camper.

  • How to Waste Twenty Years on One Story

    The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia McKillip

    When I first started writing, I mean really writing, I was in love with a book called The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia McKillip. It was high fantasy, poetic, and beautiful. I still have my original dog-eared copy, bent and torn with pages falling out.

    In youthful admiration of that story, I began to create a character, then a cast of characters, problems for them to overcome, a world for them to inhabit, and yes, even a ragged, poorly drawn map of the land.

    And I wrote. I wrote in poetic, archaic language tinged with magic and pomposity. It was self-important, overly wordy, and bogged down in descriptions of every tiny weed and pebble.

    It was catastrophically bad. But I persevered. Over the course of some fifteen or more years, that story continued to haunt me. It changed, it grew, and I scrapped it and started over countless times.

    Somewhere in my mid-twenties, something shifted. My main character started speaking differently, a little less archaic, a little more sarcastic, a lot more interesting. I realized I was on to something.

    I never finished that book past perhaps four chapters or so. But the day my character started bitching that her ass hurt from riding a horse so many days on the road, that was the day I realized I had to let Patricia McKillip go so I could find my own voice.

    That was also the day I let go of the idea that I could write epic fantasy. I believe writing that sort of story requires at least a pinch of the poet inside the writer. I am not a poet. I write mostly urban fantasy because, while I love magic and monsters and enchanted creatures, I write in a straightforward, less descriptive style. I can get away with that style placing my story on the streets of Sausalito or a nondescript winter forest. A magical world, far removed from ours, requires more finesse – finesse I don’t possess.

    I write the way I talk, mostly. My descriptions aren’t very wordy, and they tend to focus on the things I would notice, not the things that describe a room or other setting. My main character is not going to note the colors of the lone maple leaf quivering on a branch in late fall. My characters are far more likely to focus on a single nose hair growing out of the antagonist’s left nostril, all the while wondering if it’s an anomaly or if he recently trimmed up there and missed one.

    And yeah, she’ll probably miss his evil monologue while she’s meditating on this.

    Honest answer, then. Since the day Princess Amberlyn decided to inform her audience of her saddle sores and described the road grit wedged inside her laced-up bodice, I started writing in my own voice. For better or worse, I’m stuck with it.

  • The Sarastory Quilt

    Quilted chaos

    Someone told me once that my writing is very Terry Brooks-ish. I suppose that makes sense, since one of my very first epic fantasy novels (after J.R.R Tolkien, of course) was The Sword of Shannara. When I try to write high fantasy, that’s what it comes out sounding like.

    I used to unapologetically write like my favorite authors. Whatever I was reading leaked into what I was writing. I’ve stolen style from brilliant TV writers like Joss Whedon and Jane Espenson. I’ve imitated the dialog in the Stephanie Plum novels by Janet Evanovich. I’ve tried to mimic fantasy worlds of some of the great epic fantasy writers like Brooks and Tolkien and mood from some of the more recent urban fantasy writers like Cassandra Clare and Laurel K. Hamilton. I’ve also borrowed attitude from my unpublished writer friends.

    It’s taken me years to develop my own voice as a writer. I had to try on a few other authors’ styles before finding my own. I’ve been compiling and tweaking what I’ve borrowed, keeping what worked for me and ditching what didn’t. Even now my writing continues to evolve, shaped by what I read and what feedback I get from my fellow writers. My writing style is like a patchwork quilt that I keep adding squares to. Sometimes patches go over the top of other worn out pieces. When I get tired of a certain pattern, I rip it off the quilt or patch over it.

    But even though the quilt changes over time, it’s always the same quilt. My quilt. Even in my attempts to mimic other writers, my voice is still my own, decidedly distinct from those I’ve borrowed from. For better or worse, my writing is in my voice. I might write different genres or story lengths, but you can still find more of me in there than you can of other authors. Even my Doctor Who fanfic is written in my voice, although the characters and the world are stolen.

    So as you read something I’ve written, you may feel that the mood could have been from a Clive Barker novel, or that a quip could have come from Buffy herself, a sex scene might be reminiscent of Karen Marie Moning, or a plot twist worthy of Steven Moffat, but you would still know it was a Sara story. My voice always sounds like me.

  • Listening to the sound of my voice

    PaperbacksWhen I first started writing, I never intentionally tried to mirror a favorite writer. The problem was that I hadn’t found my own voice yet. So when I started creating stories, it surprised me when I discovered the stories were not my own.

    One of my early attempts was to write a science fiction epic that would have a galactic scale to it. I stopped after a few thousand words when I realized I was retelling Issac Asimov’s Foundation series. As time went on, I discovered an interest in writing stories about a populated Mars, not unlike Ray Bradbury. When I graduated college, it was Stephen King and his epic The Stand that I was mimicking in style — if not in apocalyptic subject matter.

    Through all these phases in my writing, I was equally concerned and confounded by the advice I received to “find your own voice.”

    I don’t have a voice, I wanted to argue. I only know how to write like the books I have read.

    After a decade or so of writing, I’ve discovered my voice has been with me all along. It was my own voice I was drowning out by listening to my favorite authors whispering in my ear.

    What I didn’t understand, what many new writers fail to grasp, is that our favorite writers aren’t doing anything special in their writing. They aren’t adopting a “writer’s voice” when they put pen to page. Do you want to know their secret? Lean in close and I’ll whisper it to you: They talk to you.

    Writing can still be difficult. I get off track, I overwrite scenes, and I have a habit of putting on my editor hat when I should be writing. But when I get things right, it’s because I have stopped trying to write. Instead, I talk and let my fingers transcribe what I’m saying in my head.

    That’s the voice I needed to find, and it was inside me all along.

  • You’re Derivative. Get Over It.

    How similar is my own writing to that of the authors I like?

    Right off the bat, I was not a fan of this question.  It really turned me off.  Maybe even pissed me off a little.

    I was all like, “[BLEEP] you, voice on high” (otherwise known as the Café’s editors).  “I don’t write like anybody.  My style is my own.  Maybe you’re the ones who are a bunch of derivative mother-[BLEEP]ers.”

    I’m not going to lie.  It wasn’t pretty.  I went on like that for a good, solid five . . . days, but really who’s counting?  The point is I had this immediate protective reaction for not only the stories I create but the way I create them.  The thought that this voice I’m trying to cultivate might have its origins with someone else was upsetting and disheartening, and it sent my brain spiraling into what I can only describe as a mental hissy fit.

    (more…)

  • I, Apprentice

    “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

    I’ve often read about writers, especially young writers, who write like the writers they are reading.  I don’t have that issue.  In fact, I wish I did.  How easy would it be if I could instantly write like a successful writer.

    However, I have learned some great things from some amazing writers.  From Bradbury and Gardner, I learned you don’t have to write poetry to write lyrically.  From Hemingway, I learned that the simplest sentence can be powerful.  From Faulkner and Twain, I learned you don’t have to stray far from home to find intriguing settings.  From Steinbeck and Joyce, I learned a fulfilling story isn’t about living happily ever after.

    We can learn so much from the supposed masters of our craft.  But, I believe you can learn something from any writer or any reader.  Look at the contributors to the Confabulator Café.  We all have our own styles, strengths, and weaknesses.

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  • How Much Is Your Writing Like Your Favorite Author’s? (Week of 30 January 2012)

    Don’t try to deny it: everyone who does anything creative is influenced by another who has done something similar before. Sometimes the impetus to pursue a career is as simple as “I can do better than her” or even more basic, like “I wish I could do that like him”. What it takes is the courage to make the attempt. Jedi Master Yoda is famously and often quoted: “Do or do not. There is no try.” We are exhorted to “Just Do It” by Nike ads. But whose lead do we follow?

    For writers, we have to learn at the feet of the masters. Just who those masters are is up for grabs, though. Each person views their own hero as a master, whether or not the rest of the world does. That said, most of the names dropped this week in the Cafe are universally acknowledged as masters of the craft of writing. Many have won awards that are ultimately meaningless. Or are they?

    The Confabulators walk the borderlands between what’s real (coffee, for instance) and what’s not (imagination, as an example). Meshing the two is a lot of work. Creating believable settings for readers to get lost in takes practice, too. And each of us has aped a style made famous by someone else. It’s all part of the process. That said, we don’t take standing on the shoulders of giants lightly. Come in, pull up a seat and see what we mean by that.

  • Books Worth Re-reading

    “This is the worst story I know about hocuses. And it’s true.”

    This is the first line of Sarah Monette’s Melusine, the first of four books [0] in her Labyrinth series, a decadent tale of magic, murder, betrayal, and unearned loyalty, all limned in exquisite pain.
    Lois McMaster Bujold once remarked that she develops plots by imagining the worst thing that could happen to her characters, and then making it happen. Monette took that idea to another level, delivering us two brothers. Felix, a powerful wizard of the ruling class, and his younger half-brother Mildmay, the most notorious cat burglar in the city.

    What draws me to this story is the way Monette reveals her characters to us not only through their actions and circumstances, but also through their flinches, their scars, their past traumas, and their vulnerabilities. Each backstory slowly unfolds through hints and subtle references. Each new scene is rich with symbolism and meaning for the characters, and through them, for us. The reader is drawn into each brother’s viewpoint in turn, until by the end of the first book you weep when they weep, despair when they despair, feel their shame and rages and relief as if is your own. Felix’s descent into madness and visions; Mildmay’s isolation from those around him; half understood motivations stemming from fully realized fears.

    It sounds depressing, but it isn’t. Their journey isn’t so much to Fight the Bad Guy, although there is that, too, as it is to conquer their own heartbreaks. We’ve all been there, it’s part of being human. That raw, unfiltered, unbowed humanity is what makes the books compelling enough to read and re-read over again.

    [0] The others are The Virtu, The Mirador, and Corambis.

  • Call of the Sea

    Jan de Hartog’s Call of the Sea grabbed me from its first words, and it was almost impossible for me to put it down.

    After I finished it, I tracked down every single one of his books and read them more or less in the order of publication. de Hartog was nominated for a Nobel Prize for literature, and yet, like other fine writers from mid-century, he is largely forgotten today. de Hartog’s first book Captain Jan was written in Dutch, and like Conrad, de Hartog switched to English and never again wrote a novel in his native language, and like Conrad, de Hartog is a proven master of the English language.