Mark Twain, AKA Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835 - 1910), as Publisher's Weekly once noted: "this manic, profound, daft and provocative mad genius of American culture." Author of the so-called, 'Great American novel': Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (and the one he wrote before that, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer). Hence, he's often called the 'great American novelist'. With that intro, plus the fact that his works and philosophies are enjoying a resurgence in modern literature and even political commentary, it's no stretch to think he'd have tips and relevant opinions on writing itself. Here then is his 18 tips on writing, followed by a short story which I thought appropriate for the sake of this blog - and my writing career. "To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence." - - Twain Mark Twain's Rules for Writing 1. A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere. 2. The episodes of a tale shall be necessary parts of the tale, and shall help develop it. 3. The personages in a tale shall be alive, except in the case of corpses, and that always the reader shall be able to tell the corpses from the others. 4. The personages in a tale, both dead and alive, shall exhibit a sufficient excuse for being there. 5. When the personages of a tale deal in conversation, the talk shall sound like human talk, and be talk such as human beings would be likely to talk in the given circumstances, and have a discoverable meaning, also a discoverable purpose, and a show of relevancy, and remain in the neighborhood of the subject in hand, and be interesting to the reader, and help out the tale, and stop when the people cannot think of anything more to say. 6. When the author describes the character of a personage in his tale, the conduct and conversation of that personage shall justify said description. 7. When a personage talks like an illustrated, gilt-edged, tree-calf, hand-tooled, seven-dollar Friendship's Offering in the beginning of a paragraph, he shall not talk like a Negro minstrel at the end of it. 8. Crass stupidities shall not be played upon the reader by either the author or the people in the tale. 9. The personages of a tale shall confine themselves to possibilities and let miracles alone; or, if they venture a miracle, the author must so plausibly set it forth as to make it look possible and reasonable. 10. The author shall make the reader feel a deep interest in the personages of his tale and their fate; and that he shall make the reader love the good people in the tale and hate the bad ones. 11. The characters in tale be so clearly defined that the reader can tell beforehand what each will do in a given emergency. An author should 12. _Say_ what he is proposing to say, not merely come near it. 13. Use the right word, not its second cousin. 14. Eschew surplusage. 15. Not omit necessary details. 16. Avoid slovenliness of form. 17. Use good grammar. 18. Employ a simple, straightforward style. "The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." My debut As a Literary Person Short Story by Mark Twain In those early days I had already published one little thing ('The Jumping Frog') in an Eastern paper, but I did not consider that that counted. In my view, a person who published things in a mere newspaper could not properly claim recognition as a Literary Person: he must rise away above that; he must appear in a magazine. He would then be a Literary Person; also, he would be famous--right away. These two ambitions were strong upon me. This was in 1866. I prepared my contribution, and then looked around for the best magazine to go up to glory in. I selected the most important one in New York. The contribution was accepted. I signed it 'MARK TWAIN;' for that name had some currency on the Pacific coast, and it was my idea to spread it all over the world, now, at this one jump. The article appeared in the December number, and I sat up a month waiting for the January number; for that one would contain the year's list of contributors, my name would be in it, and I should be famous and could give the banquet I was meditating. I did not give the banquet. I had not written the 'MARK TWAIN' distinctly; it was a fresh name to Eastern printers, and they put it 'Mike Swain' or 'MacSwain,' I do not remember which. At any rate, I was not celebrated and I did not give the banquet. I was a Literary Person, but that was all--a buried one; buried alive. My article was about the burning of the clipper-ship 'Hornet' on the line, May 3, 1866. There were thirty-one men on board at the time, and I was in Honolulu when the fifteen lean and ghostly survivors arrived there after a voyage of forty-three days in an open boat, through the blazing tropics, on ten days' rations of food. A very remarkable trip; but it was conducted by a captain who was a remarkable man, otherwise there would have been no survivors. He was a New Englander of the best sea-going stock of the old capable times--Captain Josiah Mitchell. For the full story, click HERE "Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it." When he died, American newspapers declared (typically arrogant, though somewhat retrospectively prophetic) "The whole world is mourning", The following quote is perhaps his most famous... "Truth is stranger than Fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't."
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A Return to the Wilderness, Part 1 I write this whilst mentally planning for a hike. Hopefully this time next week I’ll be writing from the proverbial “other side” of that mountain. It doesn’t seem like much I know, like making a fuss over something hundreds, if not thousands have done before me, and more still will do after, but allow me to put things in context… For the last few years I’ve been telling people that I’ve written a book, and only one person really, beyond a shadow of a doubt can back me up on that claim, yes my family has seen snippets as well as some friends and professionals I’ve networked with, but largely, it remains a feat that for the most part people just have to take on my word. But that doesn’t say much. On this journey I’ve seemingly gone about things in my own way – backwards that is… Leon Uris wrote that to be a writer we have to acknowledge within ourselves that we’re either insane or very naïve; this I have discovered over and over again. Can I compete with the best out there? Is my work good enough (even as I work constantly to improve it)? Do people actually want to hear what I have to say? – And on that note: What exactly do I have to say that warrants such an endeavour? - These are questions every writer faces. Inevitably, I’ve also learned that we preach about what we ourselves need to learn, and that, is what I’ve been doing for the last few years (in the very least anyway), learning. Which brings me back to the mountain; I was once asked how it is that I’m such a good climber (referring in that instance to rock climbing) – truthfully I’m not that great at it, but let’s just say that I’m “contextually adept”… this was when I first started, and as a beginner my reply was: “I guess I was always a rock climber in my mind, except that physically, I just wasn’t. So then, when I eventually got the opportunity, it all sort of felt natural” – this is something I’ve been working to apply to my writing career as well, because once you actually make that huge leap, or take the first step/hold on that first climb, are you really what you claim to be, what you believe yourself to be? That is where Faith creeps into the reckoning. Needless to say we all have our personal journey and have to travel it and negotiate its challenges in our own way. The Spiritual life cannot be made suburban. It is always frontier, and we who live in it must accept and even rejoice that it remains untamed. I’ve been doing some interesting reading of late, earnestly this time (the first real reading, that wasn’t specified research of some kind, since I started writing my book), from books that have appealed to me personally (one of which I reviewed a couple of weeks back). The one I’m currently about to finish is titled ‘Wild at Heart’ about defining, seeking and understanding the true heart of a man. It’s a book every man, or anyone who calls himself one, should read. I’ll zero in on one thing though… that of the wilderness. You see, within the heart of the true man lies the desire to explore, to be the frontiersman and lay foot upon unbroken ground, to return to the wild. It’s interesting that when people do this (not just men), they inexplicably relate the experience as being something akin to spiritual, because in reality, it is our spiritual home. So if you acknowledge the spirit within a man, within yourself, then you must realize that that Spirit, is in fact wild as well. The flesh is weak and confining and finite, but the spirit is unrestricted and strong and eternal, but only if we embrace it. Take the Bible for what it is physically – a book – and in this book of stories from many writers there is a tale of when God made Adam (in the wilderness) and brought him into the Garden of Eden (where he made Eve)… the point being this: there is a reason why men often put up pictures of untamed landscapes in their house or office, and it is about way more than simply beauty. It is the CALL of the wild, beckoning him to come home, and re-energize for his daily battles. Incidentally, the Bible also states that our spirit is our direct link to God (if you take it as more than just a book of stories). (It begs the question: where does this spiritual realm come from?) Your spirit is wild, which is why so many choose to ignore it, or don’t acknowledge it at all, because it is also dangerous, but it remains the key to you coming alive. So, I’m heading up to a mountain (along with over a dozen other brave souls, male and female), into that wintery cold, clouds and snow, to in some way symbolically cap off or underscore this mini chapter in my life – which just so happens to coincide with the near completion of the third draft of my novel (which I’ve renamed Peacekeeper – about a man who discovers what it really takes to fight the battles he faces, even when he doesn’t see it coming, when he’s alone and outmatched). The true heart of man is not a mere fleshy pump in his chest, but is in, and is, his spirit and the exploration of the vast untamed mystery of this creation we like to call life. Yes, there will be splendor, but there will also be pain lurking in that dangerous unknown, this is a battle after all. I pity those who think less of it… but there is always hope. Part of it is living on the border between life and death, or living on the border between the material and immaterial, and learning how to apply that spiritual world, to the natural of everyday. Getting back to the wild then, is about getting back to the frontier for easier access into the transcendent part of ourselves which is more than elemental. For me, personally, it’s about getting closer to God. Watch This trailer in FULL Screen mode. These Guys are just as crazy - I admire them because I suck at slack-lining and I've never attempted highlining, and wish I could do those things, but I cannot, and I cannot condone this either, even though its cool! - Leave it to the Frenchies! I recommend this book to you as it was recommended to me, and then the same guy (Shout-out to Jonathan Strysko) who did the recommending, then gave me the book a few days later just before attending another friend's wedding. In a way, it kind of found me at just the right moment (not between weddings, but in my writing). This also happens to be the first book I've actually read from start to finish in quite a while. I've started a few novels but haven't gotten round to finishing them (one by Roald Dahl - for those tracking me on Goodreads) - this is what happens when you read for the sake of reading, as apposed to reading what you need or really want to read in that moment (one novel I started but haven't finished, is the latest in the Myron Bolitar crime series 'Live Wire' by Harlen Coben - and that was a book I was looking forward to , but somehow, my heart and mind was in search of something else - although I will definitely get back to savoring that one - and then, out of nowhere, came this book by Donald Miller, an author I admittedly didn't know much about). I've never done a review for a book before so I'll hijack the format we use at In The Kan for films (its more fun that way); to read it, just click the read more tab at the bottom of this post (I only display what I think people actually want to see - and I for one, am not a fan of reading book reviews, I'm more of an impulsive and instinctual reader, whatever that is...) so let me rather add Miller's Author's Note which got me (recommendations and gifts by friends aside) intrigued enough to turn the page. Author's Note: (A Million miles in a Thousand Years) If you watched a movie about a guy who wanted a Volvo and worked for years to get it, you wouldn't cry at the end when he drove off the lot, testing the windshield wipers. You wouldn't tell your friends you saw a beautiful movie or go home and put a record on to think about the movie you'd seen.The truth is, you wouldn't remember that movie a week later, except you'd feel robbed and want your money back. Nobody cries at the end of movie about a guy who wants a Volvo. So, here's why this book appealed to me . You see, within this journey of writing a book, I've learned quite a lot and, as I've said to many folks, "I wrote a book, and then, during the process of editing and rewriting, I learned how to actually write a book". There are actually courses and textbooks to creative writing and story construction (one course is even mentioned in A Million miles) that I didn't know about, so effectively I skipped all the boring stuff about developing plot and subplot and constructing a protagonist etc... most of that came naturally (although I did need some refining), what I really needed to learn, was why I wrote this book in the first place, and how I can now make it better. I wont go too far into the details, but suffice is to say that after writing my first manuscript, I, like so many others who have done so, thought I was THE BOMB... as it turned out, my boom wasn't that spectacular (more of a PUFF really, I mean I knew it was only a first draft, but it was my first, first draft, EVER - and for a moment there, I could kind of live in that spotlight that only I could see). And then I learned that that was actually normal. It has been said by someone famous, that a 1st draft is simply a blank formless lump of clay, and that from then on, the writer chips and chisels away with subsequent drafts and rewrites to reveal the actual story, buried in there somewhere. And, it's been within this stage where the REAL questions started to come up, about my story, my main character and his conflict, his life and those around him... and by extension, those questions sort of crept up on me and my life, and this career of writing I've chosen, one that hasn't produced much as of yet, that anyone can see anyway... So yeah, in this journey I've needed, and received, many nudges in the right direction, from professionals, professors, journalists and perfect strangers (some of whom have become friends).
It's been frustrating, but I anticipate, as I near the completion of my 3rd (and a half) draft, that when this book (prior to all the others I will write, and after I acquire a Literary Agent)) eventually gets published that the main sensation I'll feel, the one that will be most prevalent, is Relief! The problem with being a writer, is that we see things a little differently. It’s not as though we’re trying that hard, but the more you write, the more you look, and whether it be for inspiration for a story, or just where to fit ourselves into the picture (because sometimes we need to be chameleon-like), our odd angle on life, just happens . It’s a bit like those poetic lyrics by Kris Kristofferson: “He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction (- a little random I know, but I’ve really been looking for moment to use those lines, and FYI, you don't have to be a writer to see the world in a different light) Truth is, we’re always looking for an avenue to explore. Sometimes it doesn’t feel natural, (or foreboding even) and usually that’s exactly what persuades us to take that route. We live in our heads, conjuring worlds and characters, and sometimes, or most times, it can get quite cluttered… so a little downtime is always in order. A far as strolls on the beachfront goes, well, it is kind of clichéd, but it only became so because it works, otherwise, there’s the mountain and Cliff side hike, for some real fresh air. Keeping with mountains, there’s real value to it you know… The clean air begins to invigorate you as you fill your lungs, then you start to climb and your muscles really start to work, forcing you to suck even more oxygen. Then you get higher and the oxygen levels decrease and your body starts to burn more energy to compensate. And the reality is, you haven’t even gone that far yet – its only just begun. That feeling you’re feeling; your muscles, your lungs, quickening breath and all… that is the feeling of literally being, more alive! Seriously though, you literally ARE using more of your body - awakening many particles and molecules that were sleeping. And as luck would have it, being alive kind of helps to tell better stories too, that’s generally how these things work. Anyway, on this recent trip, I may not have learned anything especially new (or gone on a hike), but certain things were clarified a bit more, with regard to my life as well as my storytelling… Most times it’s not about what or how much you know, but rather the way in which you apply the knowledge already amassed, and asking yourself the right – difficult to answer – questions. Both obviously and primarily apply to your life, and that will automatically filter into your work. Its all there or in front of your face, we just need (as is so often the case) to be reminded how to use it, or illustrate it, like the way a photographer uses light, or a master-chef brings certain flavors to the fore . Have a great weekend! Ciao - All pics by me... location: Durban promenade, with the World Cup Stadium arch featuring in the last two images. It was a little breezy, but not too chilly.-
Photo: 'things' by greeblie (flickr)
I'm redirecting you to a piece I wrote, recounting an actual event from my recent past... It's a short piece and you can find it here, Thanks must go to Shinazy Linda for hosting it, and inviting my humble literary contributions; you can visit her blog BOBB (Bitchin old Boomer Babe) to read more stories by her and a variety of authors/writers every week - there's also a link to the right in my blog's sidebar under Blogroll. The title of my story on the site is actually "Things we keep" - I couldn't really decide what to call it, so it kind of has two titles ("Conversations..." being the other of course). Enjoy, and keep reading! This short story is from before I became a writer, or actually, before I even thought of becoming a writer - I wrote it almost 10 years ago and I'm paying it another visit to have a look at my progress, or evolution... Admittedly I couldn't resist the temptation to edit it, but I must say, it is about 90% the same as when I finished it those years ago. Corner of fourth and main Short Fiction by Steven Benjamin (2004) When death becomes us. Our souls’ survival is in peril. Our lives become the object of perdition, even before we encounter eternity – through death. On the corner of fourth and main, stood a man, just about two feet from the curb. He stood, slightly slanted, swaying when swept by an occasional gale. Nearing autumn, there were scatterings of cloud overhead, although the city did seem to be in a jovial mood, vibrant with all the usual colours. But there I stood – the world passing me by… I was, for lack of anything better, a mess. My face; more wound than face. Staring straight ahead, I explored the realms of oblivion – ‘how nice, this culmination of… of nothing’ I thought. I felt a warmth within this impromptu hiatus of melancholy. My life had little worth. My peripherals: enlightened mankind – the living doomed. There is no meaning to life; we all end up the same – worm food, dead matter. My flagrant nihilism of life. My mind glides between this enigmatic thing we call life, and my perception of it, like a pendulum, undecided of its true destiny. Amid my dull gaze, mankind dissolved, the street became deserted; no recognizable signs of life. I liked it, my own unrestricted world – the street emptied. A sensation of serenity aroused within me, as my mind found a strangely awkward yet peaceful refuge within the tormented decay of my soul. Eyes, light brown, penetrating my still world. Bedlam! A bus roared passed me, horn blowing. I crashed back down to reality. ...to be continued - "For me, what was most interesting was the use of poetic themes and styles to tell the story - it also assisted in telling more of the story in less words (there was a limit I had to adhere to at the tui), but there is a notable rawness in the narrative. The original story is only about 600 words, but I decided to split it in two parts to see how they measure up to each other, with the possibility of fleshing some of the story out a little more..." The Boy in the Sandbox Short story by Steven Benjamin (2012) Description: Innocence can come in many forms; curiosity, a journey, an absent life and even a simple vision. Between here and an unforgiving faraway land lies vacant memories of a life given, and a life lost, and the link they share. It started with a tree, which inspired a long journey to find truth. Clara takes this journey to discover that even within dirt and arid heat, innocence and a rose may yet live… *** Her mother nodded even though her back was turned. “If this was real it would fall down and die. Metaphorically speaking that doesn’t bode well for us. Our family tree is more than just a little lopsided Mum. I’ve filled most of your side in; gone back about as far as your great-grandparents. But there’s nothing on dad’s side. I’ve already written something about him – just a couple of lines. I need more… Mum? Hello? Are you even listening? I need a story, something. I mean, all I’ve written is about how I don’t know him, and, how he’s never been around.” She lowered the heat and then turned from the stove. “Do you really need to know? I mean, is this really it? Is this what you want?” “Well. Yeah, I mean... Unless you want me to submit a half completed project.” “This isn’t just about some school assignment…” she said folding her arms, “this is about you. What do you want for yourself? Just for you.” “Well,” Clara took a step back to think, “You’ve always told me ‘when I’m older’, well now I am.” She hesitated, “Why have I never met him? You never said that he died. I don’t remember you ever speaking of him with regret; then again, you hardly speak of him. The last time was when I was enrolling in High school. You said to me he’d be proud. Where is he Mum?” Corrolla felt the question coming. She exhaled deeply, her face without emotion, as she prepared her words. “I could tell you a story.” She chewed her lower lip, her eyes searching, reaching out to distant memories. “Perhaps it’s better if you see. I’ll tell a few of the facts, the ones I know of anyway, just some names for your tree. The rest, I really don’t know.” Her eyes continued, still on their journey of reminiscence. Clara looked to her with concern. “Mum?” Corrolla’s eyes were lucid, meeting her daughters gaze. “You’ve started something now, haven’t you? There’s no turning back. Are you still keen? You need to be absolutely sure.” Clara swallowed, “Uh…” She took a deep breath, feeling a little cornered, before she responded “… well, only if he’s a good man. I mean, as long as he’s not in prison.” Corrolla smiled, walking toward her daughter. She cupped her cheeks and then pulled her close, wrapping Clara in her arms. “Okay, I’ll take you there.” She thought about Clara’s last words, and then thought to herself ‘Not all men in prison are bad men. Hope is so fickle. He’s probably still in one, maybe.’ Read more click HERE |
[Banner illustration by Joel Kanar]
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