A Goodreads user
asked
Mary L. Tabor:
When you say the attempt is to make something "other" I would assume this is where craft comes in? When I think of writers like Nabokov, Joyce, Woolf, I think of writers who were, first and foremost "sentence-makers". When you write, Mary, is the ideal to work your way forward sentence by sentence? Discovering the next sentence as you write it? Or is there a more plan-ahead action involved?
Mary L. Tabor
Studying the craft is a primary task when learning, say, in the dreaded “workshop” but that workshop mentality has little to do with the process of invention.
The key for me as a student of the art and for my teaching has been lifting the curtain on the “continuous dream” the writer strives to create. That’s why when I teach—and I still do, pro bono—I insist the emerging writer come to me with a desire to read published fiction, meaning, yes, anointed “great stuff.” We then take apart, working together, to figure out how the writer “did it,” the so-called “craft” that the gifted writer may in fact never have consciously thought that much about.
But the process of invention is crippled by the “toolbox” of craft. Once we learn it, we need in some real sense to “forget” it and what I mean by that is this: The writer must trust what he knows—and I think all great artists have loved and have read challenging work. What the artist learns by reading “great stuff” lies somewhere inside him. He’s got it and he’s gotta trust it.
The plan of action is to move forward “not knowing” and that means without a plan, without an outline, without knowing how the story will end. I trust the “not knowing” because that’s where the invention takes place.
I do move forward sentence by sentence, but I keep moving forward. Once the story takes on a life of its own, I let it go wherever it wants. When I “hit” it, I don’t know how I did it. I praise the genie or muse. I bow down in gratefulness. And I wonder, How will I ever do it again?
The key for me as a student of the art and for my teaching has been lifting the curtain on the “continuous dream” the writer strives to create. That’s why when I teach—and I still do, pro bono—I insist the emerging writer come to me with a desire to read published fiction, meaning, yes, anointed “great stuff.” We then take apart, working together, to figure out how the writer “did it,” the so-called “craft” that the gifted writer may in fact never have consciously thought that much about.
But the process of invention is crippled by the “toolbox” of craft. Once we learn it, we need in some real sense to “forget” it and what I mean by that is this: The writer must trust what he knows—and I think all great artists have loved and have read challenging work. What the artist learns by reading “great stuff” lies somewhere inside him. He’s got it and he’s gotta trust it.
The plan of action is to move forward “not knowing” and that means without a plan, without an outline, without knowing how the story will end. I trust the “not knowing” because that’s where the invention takes place.
I do move forward sentence by sentence, but I keep moving forward. Once the story takes on a life of its own, I let it go wherever it wants. When I “hit” it, I don’t know how I did it. I praise the genie or muse. I bow down in gratefulness. And I wonder, How will I ever do it again?
More Answered Questions
A Goodreads user
asked
Mary L. Tabor:
And what do you think of fiction that isn't interested in fostering empathy per se, but aims to offer the reader escape or pure titillation instead? Genre fiction or commercial fiction. Do any of these books appeal to you as a reader? If so, why? And if not, why not?
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Aug 30, 2014 09:29AM
Aug 30, 2014 09:30AM