Bruce Beckham's Blog - Posts Tagged "john-updike"
The present tense
I'm currently reading How Novels Work by John Mullan.
It's a detailed treatise on structure and style and that sort of thing. Quite interesting though.
Something I've come around to is writing in the present tense. Not everyone's favourite, I know, but it's such a relief as a writer not to know the outcome!
Of course, you might know the outcome - but in past tense narration it's obvious to the reader that you must. Writing (and reading) in the present tense is a more filmic experience - events unfold in real time and can take both parties by surprise.
Mullan refers to this 'much rarer' tense, and cites as a good example John Updike's Rabbit novels - near the top of my all-time favourites list, and a collection I must now revisit.
It's a detailed treatise on structure and style and that sort of thing. Quite interesting though.
Something I've come around to is writing in the present tense. Not everyone's favourite, I know, but it's such a relief as a writer not to know the outcome!
Of course, you might know the outcome - but in past tense narration it's obvious to the reader that you must. Writing (and reading) in the present tense is a more filmic experience - events unfold in real time and can take both parties by surprise.
Mullan refers to this 'much rarer' tense, and cites as a good example John Updike's Rabbit novels - near the top of my all-time favourites list, and a collection I must now revisit.
My cup of tea
I’ve realised that John Updike is not everyone’s cup of tea. However, for me, he’s like Earl Grey, which I spend far too much of each day drinking. To date, I’m neither tea’d out, nor Updiked out.
To this end, I have just finished Marry Me: A Romance.
Marry Me is set in the mid-seventies, in a small coastal town somewhere outside of New York City. In a nutshell it is about two couples, Jerry & Ruth, and Richard & Sally. Jerry & Sally are having a heavy-duty affair; Ruth & Richard once had a lite version (unbeknown to their partners).
Most of the book (pp69-239) is given over to two chapters, in which first Ruth and then Richard ‘react’ to the revelation of Jerry & Sally’s relationship. Nothing much happens. But such is the skill of Updike that – if he’s your cup of tea – you just want to keep reading.
When I struggle to analyse a book I fall back on my triple criteria of subject-story-style. As I say, there isn’t much of a story – but Updike’s style – elegantly crafted prosaic poetry – makes what there is seem quite fascinating. I don’t know how he does it.
The subject, of course – the affairs – makes for voyeuristic reading, an experience perhaps vicarious, perhaps relived. He writes so convincingly, it makes me think he knows something about it.
Contrastingly, if there is a weakness, it is in relation to the couples’ children, and the impact their existence ought to have upon parental actions and agonies. In fact they are treated as chattels, and perhaps this reflects a gap in Updike’s know-how. (If I could get moving on his autobiography, I might find the answer to this.)
But an excellent read washed down with a few gallons of Earl Grey.
To this end, I have just finished Marry Me: A Romance.
Marry Me is set in the mid-seventies, in a small coastal town somewhere outside of New York City. In a nutshell it is about two couples, Jerry & Ruth, and Richard & Sally. Jerry & Sally are having a heavy-duty affair; Ruth & Richard once had a lite version (unbeknown to their partners).
Most of the book (pp69-239) is given over to two chapters, in which first Ruth and then Richard ‘react’ to the revelation of Jerry & Sally’s relationship. Nothing much happens. But such is the skill of Updike that – if he’s your cup of tea – you just want to keep reading.
When I struggle to analyse a book I fall back on my triple criteria of subject-story-style. As I say, there isn’t much of a story – but Updike’s style – elegantly crafted prosaic poetry – makes what there is seem quite fascinating. I don’t know how he does it.
The subject, of course – the affairs – makes for voyeuristic reading, an experience perhaps vicarious, perhaps relived. He writes so convincingly, it makes me think he knows something about it.
Contrastingly, if there is a weakness, it is in relation to the couples’ children, and the impact their existence ought to have upon parental actions and agonies. In fact they are treated as chattels, and perhaps this reflects a gap in Updike’s know-how. (If I could get moving on his autobiography, I might find the answer to this.)
But an excellent read washed down with a few gallons of Earl Grey.
The Reviewer is Always Right
In Dale Carnegie’s famous treatise, ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’ all you really need to know is contained in the title. Working in advertising, I soon learned that not a great deal of profit is made out of telling folk they’re wrong. It’s a maxim that applies in most walks of life, especially if you’re the seller.
Apart from at a domestic level, the main complaints I have to put up with – small by comparison – concern reviews of Inspector Skelgill. Acquaintances quite often ask if I get bad reviews – and I laugh and say, ‘Yes!’ – and then they ask am I upset and I repeat my answer. But there is a caveat – I probably couldn’t do without them.
Don’t get me wrong, good reviews are absolutely uplifting – a few generous words from a complete stranger make you feel like Winnie the Pooh with a full jar of honey stuck on your head. Good reviews provide the essential motivation to keep writing. But bad reviews provide the essential motivation to keep improving.
There is a long-running debate on the Goodreads author forum about whether authors should respond to reviewers. The accepted protocol is no – reviews are there for potential readers, not to start an argument with a belligerent author. I agree!
But readers are allowed to argue among themselves. Indeed today I noticed that a recent 1-star review has attracted a string of comments. The negative reviewer was berated for not buying or reading the book, but instead judging it by the ‘Look Inside’ function on Amazon. (As far as I could tell, none of the people who jumped to my defence were on my payroll.)
Actually the original criticism was that the book is written in the present tense. It is. So the reviewer was right. So too was the person who said, ‘How can you review a book without reading it?’ And the person that remarked, ‘I don’t like the present tense – thanks.’ (It goes on, dilly-ding, dilly-dong.)
The moral of the story?
Frustratingly, to paraphrase a popular misquote, ‘You can’t please all of the people all of the time’ – particularly when the complaint is something that you ‘just do’. I’m sure there were times when Jimi Hendrix was asked to play more slowly, or Joan Rivers not to swear, or John Updike to stop using metaphors. Even Rabbit, Run has 8% 1-star reviews.
Apart from at a domestic level, the main complaints I have to put up with – small by comparison – concern reviews of Inspector Skelgill. Acquaintances quite often ask if I get bad reviews – and I laugh and say, ‘Yes!’ – and then they ask am I upset and I repeat my answer. But there is a caveat – I probably couldn’t do without them.
Don’t get me wrong, good reviews are absolutely uplifting – a few generous words from a complete stranger make you feel like Winnie the Pooh with a full jar of honey stuck on your head. Good reviews provide the essential motivation to keep writing. But bad reviews provide the essential motivation to keep improving.
There is a long-running debate on the Goodreads author forum about whether authors should respond to reviewers. The accepted protocol is no – reviews are there for potential readers, not to start an argument with a belligerent author. I agree!
But readers are allowed to argue among themselves. Indeed today I noticed that a recent 1-star review has attracted a string of comments. The negative reviewer was berated for not buying or reading the book, but instead judging it by the ‘Look Inside’ function on Amazon. (As far as I could tell, none of the people who jumped to my defence were on my payroll.)
Actually the original criticism was that the book is written in the present tense. It is. So the reviewer was right. So too was the person who said, ‘How can you review a book without reading it?’ And the person that remarked, ‘I don’t like the present tense – thanks.’ (It goes on, dilly-ding, dilly-dong.)
The moral of the story?
Frustratingly, to paraphrase a popular misquote, ‘You can’t please all of the people all of the time’ – particularly when the complaint is something that you ‘just do’. I’m sure there were times when Jimi Hendrix was asked to play more slowly, or Joan Rivers not to swear, or John Updike to stop using metaphors. Even Rabbit, Run has 8% 1-star reviews.
