Wet Rags

Something unusual has happened. I've become engaged in an online debate about writing and literature. An alleged expert has criticized me for being too purple in my prose; an accusation of which I am most certainly guilty. The basic argument attempts to answer the following question: which is more important, the story or its telling? 

I may be in the minority, according to my adversary, but when I read, the prose is always more salient than the story. Consider Proust's madeleine scene; it is almost completely void of story, but his faculties for description are so deft that it doesn't matter. A meager happening, ordinary by most standards, is transmuted into a commentary on the inexhaustible power of human memory, imagination, and what it means to grow old. The passage is revered by critics, readers, and authors alike, and rightly so, because it achieves what writing should: it enhances the reader's intimacy, appreciation, and understanding about what it means to be human. James Joyce, also regarded as one of the greatest men to ever hold a pen, has a penchant for embellishment that borders on psychotic compulsion. Some of the best sentences and stories I've ever read have been written by Joyce and, sometimes, they are about nothing. Then there's Chekhov, who is lauded and loathed for this same reason. He was often criticized for flat characters in flat worlds; for stories that didn't tell a story. In a sense, I feel one must abandon traditional standards of expectation and eschew a dogged adherence to rules and style in order to achieve something significant. The pitfall, obviously, is that more often than not what results is base or incomprehensible; poor authorship. 

My online opponent, whom I actually really respect, tells me I try too hard. There is truth in her criticism, absolutely, and perhaps I should soften my preference for prose to strengthen my capacity to tell a story. There is no disputing this; she is right; my story was flat, almost non-existent. She is a mentor of sorts, one who I probably have much to learn from, if I'd listen. My problem with her opinion is that she is too much in love with the established conventions of the literary intelligentsia. She is a self-proclaimed channeler of the masters, a conduit for the holy spirit of Cervantes. Her beliefs border on dogma. Her remarks are marked by a not-so-subtle air of condescension (though she says she doesn't mean it that way) which, though irksome, causes me to smile. She feels passionately about her stance and I like that. She is blunt and honest to the point of insensitivity. There is something of myself I see in her. I'd like to sit with her and have a drink, a beer or a glass of wine. She could wear purple lipstick and sing. 

If I am being honest with myself, and why should I be anything else, what bothers me most about our exchange is that she told me I can't write this way. 

I don't like being told I can't. I tell it to myself enough. 

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I posted the above message in response to my new online friend. This made her even more insensitive and mean. Trenchant is a good word to describe her. She must be a terribly bitter and unhappy person (and also, I'd imagine, the type to staunchly deny it). I hate to lob the ad hominem attack grenade, but I think when providing feedback one must have tact. One must remember they are talking to another human. She reminds me of Simon Cowell; gives me the feeling she takes pleasure in all things pejorative. She uses phrases like "this sucks" and "it was agonizing reading this" to describe my writing. Oh well, some people cannot contain their discontent. Instead they must wring it out like a wet rag over the heads of others.