Is it the real turtle soup or only the mock?

imitation--a process followed by beginning and intermediate writers in which they sedulously copy the style, concept, and attitude of established writers whom they admire or whose success they envy.

Imitation is useful up to an educational point, but once that education is achieved, the writer needs to move on to the risky business of discovering the self that awaits. As the sale price of an individual hardcover title increases, it becomes particularly apparent that the reader is going to want to get originality, not imitation for the $26 price tag. Why would a reader want to spend $26 for an imitation of Annie Proulx when, for the same $26, the real thing could be had. The writer's best opportunity for finding an audience comes as a result of the risk taking that provides original voice and ideas of dramatic deployment. It is not only possible but admirable to learn from other writers, living or dead. The time comes, however, when this learning must be recast into the writer's own words and feelings.

Intermediate- and experienced-level writers, having discovered their voices, themes, and lines of dramatic attack run the risk of self-parody when they begin imitating themselves, the ideal being that each new project is a launching of the ship of discovery on the vast ocean of enthusiasm.

The Real West, The Real Writer, The Real Reader

sensory genome, the--a sequence of receptors for touch, sight, hearing, awareness of heat/cold, awareness of taste; the relative degrees in which characters experience sensation; a method of articulating individual characters; an adjunct of the psychological spectrum of a character

If you were portraying a character in a stage or filmed production, you'd have investigated the individual to the point of at least subliminally assessing the person's tolerance for heat, cold, pressure, hunger. You'd have an opinion about whether that character were more a "sight" or "hearing" person. Knowing the sensory spectrum of a character helps produce a more plausible and visible representation of that character. Such knowledge helps the writer determine defining specifics for a character: What would his favorite meal be? Was the character a cotton or wool person, dog or cat, wine or beer, vegan or meat lover. When coming into a scene for the first time, would the character first be aware of sight, sound, temperature, odor?

The sensory genome merits investigation with all ranks of characters because of the spontaneous appearance of thematic or otherwise relevant responses. Example: A pizza deliverer steps into a room and begins sneezing in allergic response to cats, which triggers a furtherance of an argument between the two front-rank characters to whom the pizza is delivered.

Individual character traits should have some relevance however remote to the landscape, tone, and outcome of the story, their inclusion determined by their enhancement of plausibility rather than the distraction of mere originality. Thus, in extreme example, a brief discussion of two cowboys during a cattle drive, in which they argue over the relative merits of hemorrhoid analgesic, speaks to the side effects of too much time on a horse, and adds a note of realism. The conversation might otherwise be deleted as having no material effect on the outcome of the story, but its inclusion will insure the characters place in the readers' memory.

writers block--a strategic narrative impasse occasioned by the writer not knowing what to write next; the result of too much thinking during writing time; the unwelcome presence of a cultural super-ego; a side-effect of the beginning writers belief in the notion of a narrative arriving all at once in near perfect condition.

One of the more effective approaches to coping with this affliction is to move on to the next scene, leaving a Post-It note to the effect, confrontation between Bill and Fred goes here, or sex scene goes here. Another effective approach is to stop thinking about theme- and plot-related matters in terms of questions, as for instance, What would Bill do now and is it plausible that Fred would want to stop him? Move instead to the id-related mode by asking, What does Bill want now? then listening for Bill's answer. If it turns out that Bill doesn't want anything right now, move on to the moment where he does want something. During early draft stages, thought is not a helpful ally, rather it is the equivalent of the dog or cat who jumps up on the bed at night, wanting the precise place on the mattress occupied by the writer. The true helpful ally is what the writer wants, repeat wants, to write, not what the writer thinks would be good to write.


audience for story, the--a group of students who are assigned the text of a particular narrative; a collection of individuals who read for pleasure or information; a number of friends and relatives of a writer; a team of publishing professionals who are on the look out for something; a writer who is obsessively compulsively driven to relate a sequential series of events; a writer who is bored with the prospect of having nothing interesting to read; a writer who has just finished reading a remarkable and compelling work by another writer; a writer who is pissed over some racial, social, intellectual, or scientific injustice; a reviewer who likes books; a reviewer who does not like books.

Who Was That Writer I Saw You With?

Part of the attraction of the alternate universe meme is the happenstance in which, for good or ill, you meet yourself in a former incarnation, which is to say you find or are reminded of previous work you have not thought about for some time. The immediate good accrues when, after a gulp or two, you recognize how far you've progressed since them. But the ill part comes when the other shoes is dropped, the other shoe being the question, Have you come far enough since then?

Then, depending on when it was in relationship to the now you inhabit so loftily, may have carried no urgency with it except the urgency to get some ink, to see yourself in print, to attract a complementary or nasty letter to the editor. Were this the case, you for your part engaged in writing to appeal to people, wanting an audience. Were indeed this the case, your subtext could well have been: What do they want already, I'm writing as entertainingly as possible?

If Then were not all that long ago and the project never did find its way to an audience, the subtext could easily have been: I still like it, or Well, onward to the next one. Thus will it become clear to you that you already had the audience you wanted; you were writing to yourself and can see now as you saw when you wrote the piece whether it keeps you interested, caring, moving over the page with concern as opposed to the kind of dull-eyed lapse you fall into when watching a friend's videotapes of his or her summer vacation.

Should you ever find yourself on the receiving end of good notices, complements addressed to something specific you have sent forth to make its way out into the world, it becomes worthwhile to see if you can capture the self or selves responsible for that work, then send them a message: Nice going, but things are going to be different from now on. The goal is to get beyond liking yourself so much that your goal is to play to that audience instead of playing to the audience of the gallery of ideas, landing spots, and spontaneous wonders hiding in your toolkit, step forth in some hastily contrived vehicle from which you launch yourself afresh at the world.

The world of commerce is a lovely scatter of venues and perspectives wherein sometimes the most innocent thing flung against the barn wall sticks and the purely original thing fails to leave any trace of its existence. Believers in free market as we are, we also have to believe that the purely original thing can find a home in the market without any visible reason.

No wonder so many of us are considered mad men and mad women; no wonder so many exquisitely realized and written things are equated to poetry because, after all, poetry is madness in meter or cadence or image.

The real goal then is to strive for the dance of madness instead of the lock step of safety. When we talk about revision, it is wise to consider revisiting a project in light of what we have learned from having lived it and executed it, but it is no less wise to search through the work for lingering traces of sanity, then draw the most wonderful of all proofreader's marks through them--the places where things make logical sense, where grammar and syntax trump heart beats and the syncopated pit-a-pat of risk.