Nathan Bransford - The Forums

The discussion rages in writing venues about how accomplished authors get away with many of the so-called no-nos of writing struggling writers are rejected for. Accomplished authors enjoy publication regardless of how poorly crafted their writing is, to a point.

Name recognition sells. No-names don't sell unless they, whatever, get lucky, or more to the point, artfully surpass a house's author stable, timely report on circumstances no one else has written about, report hashed and rehashed circumstances in a fresh and vigorous way, artfully combine and overlap and cross over genres, or the hardest of all, artfully transcend what has come before and report in a way never before seen in print or wherever. That latter happens every once in a while. In one sense, Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas did that most recently. Not only an overlap between fiction and nonfiction and journalism, but artfully crafted and timely relevant and a significant departure from previous forms. The style and craft aren't all that special. The voice transcends previous expression though.

I've read accomplished authors seeking what they do that struggling writers don't. Struggling writers do the same no-nos as master class authors. In some cases master authors do less of it, although in other cases more of it, but more artfully. In general, accomplished authors didn't get there solely by persistence. Though persistence counts, it is Thomas Edison's famous proverb which shows what's what. Invention is ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration. The Paretto Principle finishes the thought exercise. Twenty percent of the causes cause eighty percent of the effects, and vice versa, twenty percent of the effects come from eighty percent of the causes. If the shortcomings are only twenty percent, they can still cause eighty percent of the effects, which cause undesirable outcomes. If the virtues are only twenty percent, one outcome is they aren't sufficient to overtop the shortcomings.

Even an inspiration can fail from its own insightful perspective. It took a half decade for cinema technology to reach a point where Tolkien's Lord of the Rings could be do the saga justice in film, not a fabulous outcome for an epic and film-worthy saga in Tolkien's lifetime. Not a great example that. A better one, most any initial inspiration can fail on basic principles. Say, a narrative about how employers want employee loyalty so bad they will sabotage a worker's personal life. In the course of following that inspiration, it might become obvious the employer is oblivious to his indifference toward workers' personal lives. Then the worker might realize he doesn't have a personal life without a working life. And so on. It becomes burdensomely intricate and can collapse under the sheer mass of momentum. That's where perspiration comes into play.

How many shortcomings can a narrative's virtues sustain and still meet or ideally exceed marketplace and more importantly reader expectations. Say on balance twenty percent shortcomings and eighty percent virtues. I can name many of the vices in highly successful popularly and critically acclaimed narratives I've read, most of the virtues. Frankly, perfection is impossible. If it were possible in writing, there'd only be one narrative worth reading. It would have been written long ago and there'd be no need for or interest in anyone attempting another. And cultures change, adapt, evolve. What's paramount in 3,000 BCE can be irrelevant in 2012. New influences and reflections of society come along, driven mostly by of all things technology.

So how many vices does any given narrative contain. Say, Ernest Hemingway's Nobel prize winning capstone novella The Old Man and the Sea. No more than twenty percent; however, it's the twenty percent of its virtues that make it a modern classic. The rest of its virtues are pretty much all things being equal in generalistic terms. Could Hemingway have improved it, possibly. I don't think he could though. He settled for good enough according to his skills at the time. If he were alive today and writing he'd have Postmodernism to contend with, one. He'd also have the benefits of advancements in technology and writing and narrative theory if he chose to follow their respective influences on, reflections of, and contributions to the literary arts.

I'm of the opinion screening readers reject struggling writers because they're an unknown marketplace quantity in the first place; however, more so because their writing doesn't rise above the fray of millions of other struggling writers with twenty percent shortcomings and twenty percent virtues vying for a severely limited number of debut spots. Why acquire a struggling writer when there are sufficient accomplished authors to fill a catalog list and an occasional up and coming struggling writer with an artful nuance comes along to take up the slack. No reason.

However, in good conscience, a screening reader might deign to give a reason for rejection. Ready to hand are the many so-called rules of writing widely known for giving convenient excuses. Show don't tell, unsettled narrative point of view, genre not suitable to the house, slow start, sagging middle, incomplete ending, craft and voice stuff, and so on, assuming mechanical style is not in and of itself the reason.

On the other hand, I feel a great deal of the outsider looking in and frustrated by the fickle marketplace is driven by artistic jealousy and the green eyed monster of envy, which serves in a kind of congnitive bias way to stifle struggling writer growth. I followed the rules, my acquaintances liked it, why in the name of all that's logical doesn't the marketplace want it. Because there are millions of other struggling writers with the same experience and process.

There is a law that's like any other, a guiding principle, known as the law of diminishing returns. How much polish is needed. Will a crude stone do duty as a hammer for driving in tent stakes. Some campers migh prefer a chrome plated, zirconium enrcrusted steel hammer. Flashy ostentatious display of wealth. Good enough is relative. Does polishing a narrative to a high sheen mute its vigour. Does polishing a narrative to a rough finish strengthen its impact. Will one more pass take it up to a new level. When is it good enough. For me, it's when I'm satisfied I've done the best I'm ready, willing, and able to and my faculties can do.

Your point about Hemingway rings true. Not only do new styles and theories emerge, but the audience changes as well. Different generations want different things from what they read. Slow beginnings, black-and-white scenarios and paragraphs upon paragraphs of description would all receive a thumbs down today. Though it's hard to say if writing standards have changed for the better or for the worse. They've just changed, and that's that.

In any case, in questioning whether an author could have improved his/her work, the answer would probably always be a "yes". Take me for example - I'm 19 right now, and let's say I've written a novel. I've edited this novel and made it as perfect as it could be. Fast-forward ten years, and I'm 29. I've probably read a heck of a lot more, I've probably written a lot more, but most importantly, I've probably experienced a lot more. Those experiences would be crucial in how I assess and write a text; I'd have a lot more to draw from, and I'd have more of sense of what works and what doesn't. If my future self looks at that novel I wrote when I was 19, he'd probably change a whole lot of stuff, or just throw it out because it sucks so much. It's a quality only age (and practice) can bring, unfortunately.

But at what age does it stop? Seventy, eighty, ninety, a hundred? Can we expect this "wisdom with age and practice" to just move towards infinity until we die, or does it plateau at a certain point? Can writing be improved endlessly, or, since we're working with the English language and our minds, both of which are finite systems, is there a limit to what we can do?

All pertinent points, GKJeyasingham.

Building on the last paragraph, not only at what person's age does advancement stop, at what age of humanity does advancement stop. I'm of the opinion humanity is in it's young adult years. Postmodernism to me for its self-aware questioning and challenging of presupposed notions of propriety reflects the teenage rebellion phase of maturity. Not that it's, per se, an immature age, that it's an age when rebellion is part of the natural maturing process, an age when familial detachment processes and independent self-identity formation favor rebelliousness, an age like any other where trial and error are part of the maturing process.

An appreciable change has evolved over time in literature, closing narrative distance has steadily advanced to closer and closer intimacy with settings, plots, ideas, characters, events, and discourses. Way back when, narrative distance was wide open. Readers anymore want danger close. Writing anymore strives for the most part for that intimate closeness. And it is written word's power to deliver, more than any other medium, that personal intimacy. Back when when entertainments were private and public live performances, that was it. LIterature didn't have to try for closer than it did. And literature fans were few and far between because literacy was severely limited and books cost a fortune. Anymore, with mass culture access to cinema, digital entertainment channels, portable music players, and so on, there's a lot of competition for audience time and entertainment discretionary budgets. If literature will hold its own, it must focus on what it does best, and that is intimately close narrative distance. It's getting there.

One other point your comments raise, if a writer learns young as much as he or she can learn about writing, then he or she over the course of his or her writing career has great potential and luxury to add to what's come before. Of course, he or she might stumble into something new too. But the main thing is writers today stand on the shoulders of those who came before, who stood on the shoulders of those who came before, back in an unbroken chain of standing on shoulders of those who came before. At what height does it end, I don't think it does, not until every story has been written, not least of which is the story of humanity, of all creation. Since I believe humanity is but young-adult-old, I also believe there's many years ahead still to go to humanity's late adulthood.