Toys for the Boys

It sickens me that even during this so-called ‘budget crisis’ in Australia, we can always, somehow, find money to spend on toys for the boys: 12.4 billion dollars on fifty-eight new fighter planes.

We are told that, in the upcoming budget, there will be cuts across the board, that everyone will have to pull their weight. Not defence though, apparently. Oh no, not defence. And you can probably include our various spy organisations in that too. We have to be prepared, apparently, to defend ourselves against possible future hostile actions from all of our great ‘friends’ in the region.

We have to cut back on our foreign aid; but oh no, not defence. Never mind that increasing our foreign aid in the region would probably be a much better investment and, in the long term, a much better form of defence. But pictures of our Prime Minister beside a newly dug well are not nearly as impressive as pictures of our Prime Minister sitting in the cockpit of a fighter plane.

Defence, apparently, is more important than health, education, social services, disability support and the environment. Defence, apparently, is more important than the lifestyle, wellbeing, and values we are supposedly defending.

Never give up! Really?

Every so often on this blog I launch an attack on a popular saying or sentiment. Why? Because these are often repeated without any real thought or understanding of their implications. Because they are often said in lieu of actually saying anything at all. ‘Never give up’ is one of these.

Giving up is sometimes the most appropriate response in a given set of circumstances… Unless you are absolutely convinced that bashing your head against that wall will eventually knock down that wall, rather than turn your head into pulp. Sometimes what we are trying to do is not a good idea. Sometimes we are not very good at what we are trying to achieve. Sometimes the cost of continuing is far greater than the benefits that might accrue from ‘success’.

‘Never give up’ is the cry of the gambling addict. It is always possible that the next press of that button—or whatever it is you do on those infernal machines—will be the winning press. If I stop now I will be tormented for the rest of my life. Just one more press and I might have won millions! Just one more bash of my head and the wall might have come tumbling down. The next publisher could be THE ONE!

Even those who have succeeded after never giving up—and, who knows, they might have been just one bash short of giving up—may have been better off giving up. Maybe JK Rowling might have written something better if she had not expended so much energy on promoting Harry whatsisname. Or maybe she would have written nothing, become a Nobel prize winning physicist, and invented time travel.

If we decide to give up, if we decide to make a strategic retreat and cut our losses, there will always be that nagging doubt that we might have succeeded if... Those (few) who appear to have persisted and ultimately succeeded—and we never hear, of course, about those who died still trying—will always be there to urge you on. Give up, and there will always be that nagging doubt. Deal with it.

Finally, don’t let the never-give-uppers convince you that to give up is to fail. It’s actually a very profound and courageous form of success. To give up is to realise that I am not, after all, particularly well-suited to that particular pursuit. I’m not, after all, quite cut out to break the fifteen hundred metres freestyle record. I’m probably not going to invent that time machine. Maybe I’m not quite as good a writer as I thought I was. Giving up sets you free to follow other pursuits, to find that thing you really are good at. And maybe it gives you the freedom to live in the here and now, rather than in the unrealised—and possibly unrealisable—dream.

What to do next...

At the end of the novel, 2001: A Space Odyssey (as also in the movie), we are left with an image of the Starchild, the super-evolved new form of Dave Bowman, astronaut, hovering above the earth and wondering what to do next. That, to me, has long symbolised the challenge, not just of being a super-evolved human, but of being an ordinary, everyday human. What do I do next?

Traditional religion has often posed the question: Why am I here? Personally, I don’t believe that I have been brought into this world for some kind of secret (or obvious) purpose. Human beings came into existence through an entirely natural and wonderful process of evolution. Evolution has no plan. It doesn’t think ahead. Natural selection responds to existing conditions, and sometimes it leads to useless dead ends. So I am not here for a purpose, as a result of some divine or natural plan. Nevertheless I am here; and the question that always faces me is: What do I do next?

I wouldn’t claim that we are the only creatures on this planet, let alone in the wide universe, who face this question. Nevertheless, we do seem to depend less on instinct and more on conscious decision-making than most other animals. Almost certainly we are driven by instinct more often than we care to admit. But much of what I do has to be decided. It doesn’t really matter whether other creatures also face this dilemma. It doesn’t even matter whether you do. I know that I do.

When we are younger, particularly in our teenage years, we battle for our freedom. We don’t like being told what to do by those in authority. We rebel! And spend the rest of our lives looking for someone or something that will tell us what to do next. Whether they are political leaders, great philosophers, religious leaders, or pop stars, we look for someone to lift from us this terrible burden of decision-making. No wonder neither religion nor totalitarianism ever quite go away. We want what we so detested in our parents: someone to tell us what to do next.

It can be tiring, this decision-making, this unending process of self-motivation. One of the characters in the novel I am currently working on has these thoughts:

He wanted to be a bee or an ant, or some other creature that was simply what it was, and didn’t have to decide what to be, or feel guilty about what it was or wasn’t. He doubted that an ant or a bee experienced guilt.

No doubt someone will want to argue that it’s possible that ants and bees feel guilt. Fine. Let them. All I know is that decision-making inevitably involves guilt. When faced with a choice, it is always possible that I will make the wrong choice. And, of course, in the real world there is never a simple ‘right or wrong’ choice. Every choice I make will have good and bad consequences, to a lesser or greater degree. There’s always room to feel guilty about the bad ones.

So, every day—every moment—I feel like that Starchild, looking at the world around me and wondering what I will do next. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad, by any means. It’s also wildly exhilarating! Possibility is both frightening and exciting, like the best rides in a theme park. With all the burdens that come with this freedom to do, I would never again swap it for the security of the State or the comfort of Religion.

A Review: The Radovaks' War, by Robert Wickson

This is quite an ambitious undertaking, tracking a Polish family, the Radovaks, and their connections through the six years of the Second World War, across Europe and North Africa. Although the story follows all members of the family from time to time, it focuses most closely on the two sons, Stefan and Igor and, to a lesser extent, their father, Max.

The point of view (POV) adopted in this novel is crucial to how well it works or doesn’t work. When the focus is on Igor and Stefan, the POV tends to be third person and intimate. This is also sometimes true from time to time of other characters, but it is Igor and Stefan whom we come to know most intimately. We are made privy to their emotions and thoughts; we are taken into situations of suspense, jeopardy and intimacy with them. These are the parts of the novel that work best. Having said that, sometimes, even during these more intimate moments, the POV might shift momentarily to another (sometimes quite minor) character. This was not always successful. As far as other members of the family are concerned—particularly the mother, Anna, and Igor’s wife, Trishka—even when the narrative concerns them, the POV tends to be more remote and external, and events are often related quickly and sketchily. Sometimes they are not seen for many chapters, and even when they are finally seen again, the reader never comes to know them very well. As a result, the reader does not become very heavily invested in their fate.

There are large gaps even in the stories of Igor and Stefan. Sometimes they disappear for several chapters, and many months might pass. Although the external events of their stories are quite different, I never really acquired a sense of these men as distinct personalities. They remain, rather generically, young men involved in dangerous circumstances. These circumstances and the men’s activities dominate over personalities. Nevertheless, some of these individual episodes are very well told. Max, although given less airtime, seems to have a more distinctive personality, perhaps because he is an older man. Among the women, Anna the wife and Trishka the daughter-in-law scarcely come to life. It is actually Marie, the love interest of Stefan, who acquires the most substance among the women, probably because there is at least one chapter in which her POV is adopted and becomes very intimate. Minor characters come and go throughout the story, some given—briefly—more prominence than others, only to disappear off stage, never to be seen again; or to have their fate reported briefly later. One character is introduced only very briefly and his death scene is reported. We are then informed that over several months Igor had become close friends with him. This has important implications for the final chapters of the novel. Yet this friendship is only very briefly reported, and his death leaves the reader unmoved because the reader has no relationship with this character. This is an example of the inconsistency in the treatment of minor characters which is sometimes problematic.

I would rather the author had made a firmer decision to follow closely the trajectory of the two sons (and, to a lesser extent, the father) through the war, rather than popping back occasionally to relate what had been happening with the women for the past few months. In the end, these brief episodes were a distraction from the central narrative. The alternative would have been to give a much closer and more intimate account of the women too, which would, of course, have made this a much larger novel, perhaps of Gone With the Wind or War and Peace proportions.

All in all, I felt that the author the captured period quite well. As to the historical accuracy of the events reported I am not entirely sure; but I did notice one historical discrepancy: although referred to several times here in 1945, the KGB was not formed until 1954. This did make me wonder about the historical accuracy of other parts of the story.

As seems to happen so often in many (particularly self-published) novels, there appeared to be an increasing number of typographical errors as the novel progressed, as though whoever undertook the editing and proofreading became tired and lost focus along the way. I was particularly irritated by the persistent use, during one section of the novel, of mien for the German mein. This inevitably stood out in the italicised font.

I did, in the end, enjoy this novel, although the way the author sometimes skipped lightly over important events, or made large jumps in time, irritated me. Overall, I felt the novel could have used a firm editor’s hand. I give it three stars.

Commas Put Editor in Coma

Commas Put Editor in Coma

This might be the headline one day, as I tackle an editing task. They look so sweet and innocent, don’t they? Look at him back there, dangling prettily behind that ‘t’. But they invade my dreams at night, those tiny, tailed dots. Beware the comma apocalypse!

Is it just me, or do they drive you crazy too? Where to put the little buggers? When I edit my own writing they pop in and out all the time. I figure it must be something to do with what I have eaten on the day that determines whether I put a comma there or there. Now there are some rules (and guidelines) of course. We all know the famous ‘Eats, shoots and leaves’ vs ‘Eats shoots and leaves’ example. There are many other situations in which the presence or absence of a comma changes the meaning. Nevertheless, there remains that grey area. ‘There are a number of situations where their use becomes a matter of judgment and personal preference’, observes the Australian style manual. Damn! Where’s a good rule when you need one?

The use of commas is as much about rhythm as it is about grammar and meaning. This is tricky for someone with little or no sense of rhythm. Or, perhaps, with a fluctuating sense of rhythm. Do I use more commas on days when I have eaten salsa?

Consider one of my earlier sentences: ‘Is it just me, or do they drive you crazy too?’ My natural inclination is to place a comma there, because I ‘hear’ it. But it’s not long before I begin to second guess myself. ‘Is it just me or do they drive you crazy too?’ Now I can hear it without the comma. Does it matter? Probably not.

My inclination when editing someone else’s work is only to modify the use of commas when it actually affects the meaning, or when one of the actual rules for using commas clearly applies.

Even so, you can bet that during each pass that I make through your manuscript commas will pop in and out of existence like some kind of weird sub-atomic particle.

On Being Wrong

4 x 4 + 4 x 4 +4 – 4 x 4 = ?

The above arithmetic sentence has been floating around Facebook recently. Can you work out the answer? Apparently (we are told) 73% of people get it wrong. To work it out you have to know a rule: in calculations like this, multiplication and division take precedence over addition and subtraction. That means, simply put, that you carry out any multiplications or divisions before you carry out the additions and subtractions. So it works like this:

4 x 4 + 4 x 4 +4 – 4 x 4 = 16 +16 + 4 -16 = 20.

Most people (73%), though, don’t seem to know this rule. They simply carry out the calculations from left to right:

4 x 4 + 4 x 4 + 4 – 4 x 4

= 16 + 4 x 4 + 4 – 4 x 4

= 20 x 4 + 4 – 4 x 4

= 80 + 4 – 4 x 4

= 84 – 4 x 4

= 80 x 4

= 320

That’s okay. It’s an easy mistake to make, if you have forgotten the rule or never learned it. The interesting part of this is the reaction of many of those who get it wrong. Some insist that theirs is the correct way to do it. Okay, fair enough. They’re wrong, but at least I can understand their position. Other arguments are more bizarre. ‘Different people do things different ways. You can do it any way you want to.’ ‘So someone made a silly rule! So what, I’ll do it however I want to!’ Rather than simply admit that they were wrong, or that they did not know the rule, they adopt a defensive posture. ‘I didn’t know that rule, so it can’t be important anyway.’ ‘No one’s going to tell me how to do it. It’s a free country, I’ll do it my way.’

Arithmetical or mathematical anarchy is not an option, but there is a deeper point here. It demonstrates how difficult it is for people to admit that they are wrong, once they have committed themselves to a position, even on such an apparently trivial—it’s not actually trivial, although many might think so—issue such as this. Instead of saying, ‘Oh, I didn’t know that. I see it now,’ people would rather defend the incorrect answer or adopt the attitude that ‘it doesn’t matter anyway’. If this is possible on an issue that people will have forgotten tomorrow, imagine how difficult it is for people to admit they have been mistaken on what appears to be a more important issue: religious beliefs, political opinions, scientific theories.

Our politicians demonstrate this kind of attitude every day. They obstinately cling to an outmoded policy or point of view today for no better reason than that they held it yesterday. To admit that they might actually have been mistaken…? It can’t be done. And were they to do it—in fairness to them—the media and the public would bay for blood. People cling to religious or superstitious beliefs long after they are even remotely defensible. Pride—and a lack of anything to replace the old view—prevents people from changing their minds. Or admitting that they may have been mistaken after all.

As a society we should applaud scientists, politicians, religious and other leaders—anyone who has the courage to stand up and admit: ‘Yes, I was wrong. I see it now.’

The Writer as Architect, Builder and Interior Decorator: Part Three

The Writer as Interior Director

I have talked about the writer as architect and the writer as builder. As architect we plan and design our story; as builder we put together the words, sentences and paragraphs that give our ideas form.

Hemingway argued that writing was not interior decoration, and that the Baroque was over. Many writers, once the building has been constructed, would consider their job done. However, I believe there is one more step that can turn competent and even good writing into excellent writing. It is what transforms writing as craft into writing as art. This does not necessarily involve the elaborate constructs of the Baroque; but it does require attention to detail. It is about word choice, sentence structure, and the careful construction of paragraphs. It is beyond good grammar, and often even breaks those rules. This I call ‘interior decoration’. It is writing to create a mood, to generate an effect, and to vary pace. As with all art, this will often come down to a matter of taste.

Consider the following passage:

She came in the Towers’ front entrance and walked up the stairs, passing her neighbors on the way. She walked down the hall of the fifth-floor to room 5C, dug in her purse, unlocked the door and let herself in. She was shocked to find blood splattered on her living room walls, her flat screen television smashed on the floor below its wall mount, her plants uprooted and dumped out of their containers.

There’s nothing particularly wrong with this. It’s not badly written. The grammar is fine. It’s clear and concise. Now consider this:

Coming in the Towers’ front entrance and walking up the stairs had been a familiar experience. Passing her neighbors on the stairs had been a familiar experience. Walking down the hall of the fifth-floor to room 5C had been a familiar experience. Digging in her purse for her keys, unlocking the door, and letting herself in… all familiar as well. Finding the blood splattered on her living room walls, her flat screen television smashed on the floor below its wall mount, her plants uprooted and dumped out of their containers, well, all of that was very unfamiliar.

What the writer has done in that second version is to first of all create a rhythm, using repetition and well measured phrases. They have avoided overusing that repetition by varying it on the fourth pass: ‘all familiar as well’. Then comes the reveal, with the antithesis: ‘all that was very unfamiliar’. The writer has used this measured rhythm to build suspense and create a mood. The reader knows something is coming, and is led skillfully towards it. That is interior decoration, and it turns good writing into something much more powerful and evocative.

This is not something that should be done all the time. To do so would be to stumble back into the Baroque, or even the glitzy pretention of the Rococo. The book would become far too long-winded and annoying. This, I think, is what Hemingway is warning against. But it should be done at key moments, and to a lesser extent along the way.

Interior decoration is not always about adding words. Minimalism is also an interior decoration choice. Less is sometimes more effective than more. A simple word or phrase can be just the right touch. Listen to this from The Dubliners, by James Joyce. ‘Mr Duffy lived a short distance from his body.’ So few words to say so much. There is an entire personality—a philosophy even—in that sentence. ‘All this happened, more or less’, is the opening line of Kurt Vonnegut Jr’s Slaughterhouse Five. It forewarns you about what you are about to read. How much more? How much less? This is a true story but, well, maybe not so true, too. This is sort of what happened, and sort of not.

When it comes to interior decorating, words are used—even fewer words—to do far more than just tell a story, or convey information. They are used to create an effect. They are used to evoke. Poets do not have a monopoly on this. And creative writing is not journalism. Any number of combinations of words can convey the information. When we choose this word rather than that one… When we decide that this sentence sounds better before that one… We are already doing the interior decoration. It is a fine line we tread and it will come down to taste in the end. Did Joyce go too far when he wrote that ‘Love loves to love love’? Or when he described ‘The sea, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea’?

This is not something that an editor can necessarily help you with very much. I might say to you: bring this passage more to life. I might say: tone that down a little. I may suggest a better word here and there. I may suggest that a particular metaphor does not work well. But this, more than anywhere else, is where a writer’s individual style comes in.

It is also where the rules are broken. It is where sentence fragments are used, where words are used with unusual meanings. The rules are broken intentionally to create a particular effect. And this is where a copy editor must tread carefully. Often it is obvious when a writer is simply making a mistake; but sometimes there is the suspicion that an ‘error’ is intentional. Here, as copy editor, I will just raise the question. Did you intend to do this? And I might also suggest that, in my opinion, it does or doesn’t work. But this is a judgement call, not an appeal to the rules.

The best writing, then, demands that the writer be architect, builder and interior decorator. There need to be good ideas, an interesting plot and strong characterisation. The right building blocks and materials need to be used. But this empty building also demands decoration. This will give it interest and even beauty. This will generate the surprise and delight when we turn the corner. It is this which helps to transform writing from a craft into an art.

If writing as art is frowned upon today, regarded as something pretentious, we are the poorer for it.