Speed of . . . writing. Guest post by Elizabeth Moon

 

Two recent articles—one in the New York Times  http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/18/magazine/dear-novelists-be-less-moses-and-more-cosell.html?_r=2&pagewanted=1&ref=books   and a responsive one in the Guardian  http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/sep/19/literary-productivity —discussed the relationship of writing speed to writing quality, while lightly scolding some "literary" writers for their extremely slow production, with years (sometimes many years) between books.

            Both articles pointed out that some writers of literary merit produced a book a year without any apparent diminution of their books' quality, but other, more current ones do not–in fact, write very slowly.  In the current literary world, slowness is equated with quality more often than not.   Comments from readers to both articles reinforced the stereotype (slow writing is better writing; rapid writing "churns out" or "whips out" low-quality writing).  One or two writers who produce both literary and commercial fiction were quoted as saying that they write very differently–and at a different speed–depending on their perception of the "artistic merit" of the work itself. 

            As a writer who has produced at the book-a-year rate for over twenty years, I have my own opinion of these ideas (yes, that is steam coming out in puffs…). 

            First, on the matter of speed over quality:  there's no linear relationship between writing speed and quality.  These are independent variables.  Some writers are naturally faster/slower than others; all writers have a natural speed of production, one at which they write the best work they can write.  Rushing to exceed that natural speed–for whatever reason–risks harming the work.   Artificially slowing down also risks harming the work.   Most people understand that rushing can damage any work, from writing to building a shed…many do not understand that artificially slowing down can have the same effect. 

            Consider a simple physical act like walking.   If you are out walking on easy ground, neither late for anything nor slowing down to stay with a slower companion, you will pick up your natural rhythm and your natural walking speed.  Both hurrying and slowing are less natural, and require effort to maintain.  When I hiked with my husband, I was always hurrying, stretching my legs, taking faster steps; when I walked with a toddler, I was always taking uncomfortably short steps.  As a result, I spent effort on the act of walking, not on the "content" of the walk: sights, sounds, smells, etc.  The same is true of crafts: the skilled woodcarver tends to be faster than the novice, but each has his/her own natural speed–at each level of skill–when control of the tools is best and the connection between idea and action is strongest. 

            So with writing.  The natural pace of writing for me does allow a book a year; when I try to slow down intentionally, I begin to lose both contact with the book's energy (if the book were a horse, its "impulsion")  and lose interest in it.   I know from past experience (pre-publishing writing) that writing slow means I write worse.  The quality of my writing (whatever level someone cares to give it) is best when I'm writing at my natural speed.   In working with novice writers, I've found that the slowest are not the best.

            The Guardian comments included a reference to a New York Times podcast in which Irish writer John Banville is said to have explained that his writing method (and speed) varies with the intended "artistic merit" of the work.   He writes his literary works in longhand, at approximately 100 words a day, and his commercial fiction on the computer, at 1000+ words a day.   I admit I'd never heard of John Banville or his commercial pseudonym, Benjamin Black, so I have no way to compare the quality (in my opinion) of the one to the other.  But I had an immediate allergic reaction to the idea of any artist deliberately choosing to do work which he considers inferior, disrespecting both his/her audience and the work itself. 

            Riding instructors point out that every time you get on a horse, you either make the horse–and your own riding–better or worse.   Whether you're riding the same horse or a different one, out riding for pleasure or taking a lesson or in competition–every single time, your riding improves or backslides.  So does the horse.   The dullest borrowed plug, then, deserves the best riding you can give it–sitting correctly, being light with the hands, giving clear aids–just as if it were a champion in the show ring.  Slopping about in the saddle, letting your legs flop around, inconsistent use of the aids–all those will reinforce your own bad habits and teach the horse that riders are lousy communicators.   If you ride as well as you can on every horse on every ride, you will continue to improve as a rider, and the horses will become more responsive as they experience good rider communication.   

            The same is true of singing, a point my voice teacher is finally getting across to my rebellious vocal apparatus.  Singing well is not just a matter of learning specific skills, but of making those skills habitual–you learn to sing well reliably by singing well every time you sing.   Either the tone improves, or it worsens.  Either the vowels tend toward the best, or slide back to the worst.   I have more years of skilled riding behind me than I do of skilled singing, so I'm finding the singing difficult–but I can see the point that the vocal equivalent of slumping in the saddle or paying no attention to leg aids creates the same type of problem for the singer: bad habits persist and good ones never develop.  

            The same is true of any craft, including writing.   The writer who thinks of commercial writing as having less or no "artistic merit" will not only produce commercial fiction of less artistic merit, but will also impair his/her literary fiction.  Bad habits transfer from practice to performance.  Writing a thousand words a day of fiction you know–and intend to be–inferior will affect the hundred words a day you expect to be superior.   I can understand that one project might slow a writer's natural storytelling speed because of the nature of the project without affecting the quality; what bothers me is Banville's apparent linking of writing speed to artistic merit and his choice to do less than his best.  Still, the possibility does exist that the thousand words–simply by being more practice–might have a beneficial effect on the hundred–but only if the thousand words are as good as, or better than, the hundred.   In another interview, Banville says he regards his crime novels as "craft" while his literary novels are "art," so at least he's not dismissing the need for craft in the commercial fiction, and craft is the foundation of art.  But by considering his crime writing "cheap fiction" he disrespects not just crime fiction but his own talent.

            Since slow production is (at present) considered one of the hallmarks of serious literary fiction with "artistic merit," I wonder whether some authors simply lie about the relative worth and the speed of production of their literary v. their commercial (if they do commercial) work.   Do they really produce only 100 words a day, or are they also (as, looking at Banville's bibliography, seems possible) producing a great deal of other work simultaneously, writing only part of the day on the new literary masterpiece?  Do they in fact work as diligently on their commercial fiction as on their literary fiction, but pretend not to, sneering at their own commercial projects in order to preserve their lit-fic persona?   Street cred in lit-fic circles depends a great deal on the approval of certain academics and critics.  When those who gatekeep the halls of literary fiction believe that good writing must be slow and determinedly anti-commercial, the writer with lit-fic ambitions might well cooperate with the prevailing myth.  

            I'm convinced that artists and craftspersons produce their best when they treat their craft–and its intended audience–with respect, when they give the best that is in them no matter whether a given work is large or small, complex or simple.

Absototively.  Go EMoon.  –ed