All right, so you shut the door, and you write down a first draft, at white heat, because that energy has been growing in you all through the prewriting stage and when released at last, is incandescent. You trust yourself and the story and you write.
[...]
Then it cools down and you cool down, and arrive, probably somewhat chilled and rueful, at the next stage. Your story is full of ugly, stupid bits. You distrust it now, and that's as it should be. But you still have to trust yourself. You have to know that you can make it better. Unless you're a genius or have extremely low standards, composition is followed by critical, patient revision, with the thinking mind turned on.
I can trust myself to write my story at white heat without asking any questions of it - if I know my craft through practice - if I have at least a sense of where this story's going - and if when it's got there, I'm willing to turn right round and go over it and over it, word by word, idea by idea, testing and proving it till it goes right. Till all of it goes right.
Consider the story as a dance, the reader and writer as partners. The writer leads, yes; but leading isn't pushing; it's setting up a field of mutuality where two people can move in cooperation with grace. It takes two to tango.
Fiction, like all art, takes place in a space that is the maker's loving difference from the thing made. Without that space there can be no consistent truthfulness and no true respect for the human beings the story is about.
Though the author may pretend otherwise, the author's point of view is larger than the character's and includes knowledge the character lacks. This means that the character, existing only in the author's knowledge, may be known as we cannot ever know any actual person; and such insight may reveal insights and durable truths relevant to our own lies.
To fuse author and character - to limit the character's behavior to what the author approves of doing, or the character's opinions to the author's opinions, and so forth - is to lose that chance of revelation.
The author's tone may be cold or passionately concerned; it may be detached or judgmental; the difference of the author's point of view from the character's may be obvious or concealed; but the difference must exist. In the space provided by that difference, discovery, change, learning, action, tragedy, fulfillment take place - the story takes place.
basically, dont mary sue
Some of the most praised recent memoirs have been about growing up in poverty [...] The ground of our experience is dark, and all our inventions start in that darkness. From it, some of them leap forth in fire.
The imagination can transfigure the dark matter of life. And in many personal essays and autobiographies, that's what I begin to miss, to crave: transfiguration. To recognise our shared, familiar misery is not enough. I want to recognise something I never saw before. I want the vision to leap out at me, terrible and blazing - the fire of the transfiguring imagination. I want the true dragons.
[...] I hope every writer has had at least a moment when they rode the wave, and all the words were right.
As readers, we have all ridden that wave, and known that joy.
Prose and poetry - all art, music, dance - rise from and move with the profound rhyhtms of our body, our being, and hte body and being of the world. [...] Once we get the beat, teh right beat, our ideas and our words dance to it, the round dance that everybody can join. And then I am thou, and the barriers are down. For a little while.
When I was young, I used to know that I had a story to write when I found in my mind and body an imaginary person whom I could embody myself in, with whom I could identify strongly, deeply, bodily. It was so much like falling in love that maybe that's what it was.
[...] An abundance of labour is arguably the point, to the extent that there is one, of technological progress. It is the beginning of the end of the need to work hard to stay alive. A system in which people actively seek out labour they would strongly prefer not to do [...] is not one society ought to aim to preserve any longer than technologically necessary. If society can find ways to automate such unpleasant tasks, or to share the work more broadly so that individual workers devote fewer of their waking hours to hard, unpleasant labour, that surely represents human progress.
The fact that he feels the need to qualify this line of reasoning with the use of "arguably" paints a pretty depressing picture of contemporary economic discourse
[...] If redistribution is managed too clumsily, the incentive for clever or ambitious individuals to work to improve the economy might be lost, leading to stagnant growth and too little social surplus with which to provide all members of society with a rising standard of living.
this is worth thinking about more because this justification--the question of incentive--seems to underpin his entire economic worldview (and he's not alone). the problem is that he never really explores the full ramifications of an abundance of labour & how that could affect the idea of incentive. like what is the incentive supposed to be, really? the possibility of buying more luxury goods or getting people to do things for you? why do we take it as natural that the economic motive is the only acceptable incentive without considering what that actually means?
The various partisans are like the allegorical blind men describing different parts of an elephant: each has his insights, but the competing stories have yet to be reconciled with each other. This book will provide that explanation. What is missing from the conversation is a clear explanation of how rapid technological change is compatible with both rising employment globally and disappointing growth in wages and productivity. [...]
he cites:
what's ironic is that he falls into the same trap (missing the whole leftist angle)