Write About Now

Another Plank in the Reader's Manifesto

Now Denis Johnson has gotten the B. R. Myers treatment in The Atlantic: "A Bright Shining Lie." In case you don't know, Myers is the author of A Reader's Manifesto, based on an essay published in The Atlantic, a piece of old-fashioned, accessible literary criticism that takes to task some of our most celebrated current authors for not writing in plain English. Myers points out what the common man has always suspected: the literary fiction is pretty much bunk, a kind of confidence game played with language. The emperor has been naked for a long time, and finally someone's had the courage to say so.

Or, to put it another way, Myers does to modern fiction what Twain did to Fenimore Cooper. I'm just not convinced that the stylistic crimes in the former case always rise to the level of the latter.

Myers always makes sense to me within the context of his own writing. When he skewers the pretensions of the great and those with aspirations greatward, I'm invariably delighted. If I go back to the original text, though, I'm not so convinced. I can't help feeling that, to bolster the argument, he has to pretend as if intelligible passages really aren't. He seems to think that any use of language that is unusual, that strays from dictionary definitions, is so imprecise as to be incomprehensible. Still, he has a point. Artistic pretensions are bolstered by people afraid to admit they don't "get" it, and the result is often praise of what ought rather to be censured. I find myself agreeing with him in principle but not on particulars.

There's no doubt, though, that Myers is doing what a critic should -- spelling out what a good novel should be and skewering anything that doesn't fit. I don't always agree with him, but like John Aldridge's Talents and Technicians, I think he's required reading for those of us who want to speak to an audience wider than that of our fellow writers.

Planning a Novel, Part 3: The Treatment

The thrilling conclusion of my series at The Master's Artist.

Planning a novel isn't rocket science. In Part 1, I discussed the conceptual grid that gives structure to your novel, and in Part 2 we turned to the topic of pre-writing, which solidifies the story world in your imagination. Now, let's conclude with the step that brings them both together: writing a treatment of your novel.

What's a treatment, and why bother writing one? Think of a treatment as a dramatized summary. It's more than just a bare bones outline, but less than a fully-fledged novel. Imagine you're fast-forwarding through a movie, stopping for the highlights, or skimming a novel for class the night before the big test. A treatment is like that. It gives you the major contours and pulls you in just enough to give a glimpse of what the finished book will be like.