At the risk of overcommenting yet again, I want to share a feeling inspired by today's post (thank you, George), the film viewings, the Chaplin interview, and the rich interactions in the comments (as usual, I learn much from each of you). I'm holding an interesting new impression of how I want to approach my own writing going forward, and am compelled to share it here with the hope others might find value in it, also.
I used to own horses, and lived in that world for a time. My own best horse was one copper-colored off-track thoroughbred who helped me get through a tough set of years by using a "safety stance" to protect me whenever I would venture out to her stall at night to cry into her neck so that the kids wouldn't see me succumbing to the exhaustion of single parenting and worry.
Bear with me for a moment until I circle back from horses to writing because I think it's a good and useful comparison.
In my own opinion and experience, the best horse-rider pairs communicate really well with each other, by use of the riders legs, the horse's ears, and both of their sets of eyes and head position, among other subtle things. Usually, the kind of riding we get to see is entirely controlled by the rider (writer?) and the horse (wild story) is tolerating the control for a number of reasons. While most any "broke" horse will ride or respond somehow with a bridle on its head, because of the pressure of a bit in its mouth, it's a use of forceful intention on the part of the rider to get the horse to submit to the rider's own will. It might look elegant on its surface, sure. I think of a lot of editing like this, and I also think it's not the most beautiful, most artistic riding there is. It doesn't respect the animal as much as is possible, which I think is critical if riding (like writing) is ever to be artistic. I can watch horses on a Merry-go-Round, watch an animated movie like "Spirit", if I want mechanically "artistic". Artistic, to me, respects something natural trying to speak with its own voice not mine.
A wild horse is a thing of absolute, pure beauty to watch; however, because it is entirely free and separate from us, its stories are largely unknown to us who glimpse it in its own environment from our own very limited perspective, the horse usually communicating only with others like itself. That's ok, too, of course, even desirable to leave a wild thing to itself and merely ponder its existence.
But a genuine partnership between a trusting and joyful horse and its trusting and joyfully partnered rider is an extraordinary thing to witness and experience, a profound gift––and it's the example I want to focus upon and hold in my mind now as I write going forward... so inspired as I am today. What I want to seek in writing is something that moves between these two better-known horse worlds of wild or dominated.
A well-respected, well-handled, very sensitive horse can be ridden by a rider using no gear of any kind––not a bridle (with a bit), nor a saddle, not even a halter (no bit), especially not riding crops or spurs or anything of the like––just bareback and loose-mouthed, its rider not even holding onto its mane. A horse without gear has the capacity to run fully free, so its partnership under those conditions is really powerful to recognize. Without gear, the rider and the horse can connect and communicate with each other using just light leg pressure, resistance or relaxation in their bodies, their eyes, their heads, and maybe something more subtle than all this that is kind of hard to commuicate because I personally think it tips into a spiritual realm. The two become one for a mutual purpose that becomes a sort of restrained freedom, and a joy made partnership that both can appreciate if there's trust, respect, and good communication. Both can have a bit of say in what takes place, and it's a joy to both witness and experience this kind of artistic riding. It's as close to being accepted into the wild horse's world as a rider can become without living on an open range studying a herd. As a metaphor for our written work, riding without tools or force is the difference, I think, between a written set of operating instructions and the kind of gathering of words that dips into a reservoir of truth and feeling that moves a person to tears.
If I keep this kind of riding in mind, I feel like I'll know how to face my stories going forward when they show up, better understand how to trust them to say what they are holding inside, and let them out with their beauty intact, but then edit them with a looser rein, too; because, I want to ride my story and words a bit like a wild horse releasing its natural love of its own gifts over to me, with me as its privileged rider-witness, in partnership.
***
Not sure how I got from where I was before to where this is now, but I'm inspired by all that's happened here today, and I think it's really going to help me on my path. (Thanks for reading if you did.)
"Artistic, to me, respects something natural trying to speak with its own voice, not mine."
I love what you've shared here, Traci. It takes me back to my childhood and my own days of living in that world. My heart horse's name was Gamble, a little bay gelding with blue eyes, and though he wasn't mine he very much felt like he was with the exception of a month every summer when his owner would take him to his ranch in Wyoming. He was a horse I could ride with just a halter, a horse who followed me around everywhere without needing a lead. We had that deep, spiritual connection that you wrote of so beautifully. I've never thought of connecting riding to a creative practice, but what you wrote made me think of the times I would show him (this makes us sound much fancier than we were). There are elements of riding that require practice and skill, and having all these tools in your box can definitely help you be a better rider. But also, there is something to the experience that goes beyond thought and no amount of preparation will help you get there. There's something that can't be forced, and I found that the times I was too in my head, overthinking my next move, were the times that didn't go so well for me. The times I wasn't feeling and trusting that deeper, mysterious connection.
And "something natural trying to speak with its own voice"
I feel this acutely when I hear poetry read aloud... a poem is an even more densely organised language-object than a short story, you could argue.
I am certainly no actor, but I long to hear the poem read as if the words are just occurring to the voice at that moment, or rather are presenting themselves spontaneously into the consciousness for the first time, having churned away in experience and the sub-conscious before bubbling up into voiced perception at the very moment of their speaking.
But the way it is often spoken seems to fall into this ponderous mock-profundity with baleful fade at the line-end, as if it has been intoned again and again into the same old patterns of speech and thought - which is the exact opposite of what's happening. It's the cliche and the superficial vocalisations of thoughtless mob-response that should be presented in this mournful, disappointing register; not the precise and delicious insights of poetry.
I know this is a slightly literal interpretation of 'voice' in this context, but I think there's something in it - a story or poem read aloud WELL, that is really something; author and speech together like, I can only imagine, seeing the wild-horse and rider in synch. Such a beautiful metaphor, by the way.
Manami, I think you just hit on what I've been trying to differentiate. I want to come to story prepared, then trust its voice through my own lens, and come back to editing with a light hand. To be "educated and guided by her own work of art," as George put it.
I've not seen the movie, but I'm familiar with the program and I'll definitely watch this (and think of you and your Gamble). Thank you for reading and commenting on my little horsey side-tangent. Feels like a pivotal day for me and my perspective.
Thank you, Patty. That's probably what I should have done in the first place, instead of hijacking George's post! Clearly, this is the post of his that did it for me, got me to my breakthrough. I'm back to a lot of forward movement again and would love to share how this post and my horse analogy are working for me. Those two Chaplin clips are like signposts hanging above me while I'm working right now, moving between them when I feel like I'm pushing words and need a little more flow, then setting out index cards so I can actually see what needs to tighten when the structure seems sloppy. (Like the first Chaplin clip, my current work is wordy in the front, a common problem.) I get so much out of seeing how others incorporate the teachings in this group, and it feels validating to know my own perspective is useful to you. I don't know about P&W today, but hmmm....
Manami, I did watch the documentary you suggested, and parts of it highlight well the point I was trying to make. Thank you for the recommendation. I enjoyed it. (Though, that Texan needed to buy Willie for his lovely wife7, and I'm still irked about that now, days later. haha)
It's been a little while since I've seen it so I don't remember that, but I'm sure it would have irked me too! I'm glad you enjoyed it. What I do remember is that everyone had such different approaches to how they went about bonding with and training their mustangs . . . one woman reminded me of the person who taught me to ride, not in character but in spirit. May we all greet the blank page with the same joyful curiosity and fearlessness :)
I enjoyed this very much. If I'm understanding what you're saying about the horse/person relationship, it's writing with our two minds: the plodding, conscious mind that comes to the blank page (maybe with some ideas about a story, but certainly with ideas about what a story is supposed to be), riding next to the subconscious free mind which conjures images, etc, that the conscious mind had no idea were there. And there is a trust there, a give and take, and an openness to let both minds do their work. Did i get that right? When you write about editing with a looser rein, I'm guessing you mean "editing your mind." Not editing the piece itself. Anyway, thanks for posting!
Yes, Mary, I think that's what I meant. Let's see, what am I really trying to say there?
As of today, following today's exploration, I thought in terms of the wild subconscious coming in through me and my personal filter, and once it does that it's entered into a place where something I'm feeling or something I'm recognizing as universal, something worthy of telling into story comes out of me and into my partnership with it. I want to think of that first joining with the wildness of the words as something which is not all mine, not all from me, but also something not really able to be expressed and understood apart from the subjectivity of an artistic lens and expression. There's an art trying to move through an artist and run wild, and I tend to keep it bridled out of fear, or else come back to it later, heavy-handed, and over-edit out of fear.
The more I practice writing the easier it's becoming to surrender so much control, and the more I'm willing to trust the words coming through me in that first partnership with them. After today, I think I'll have more courage to prevent myself from bridling the flow of expression. (Like the succession of billiard balls.) Something about the focus today on that first film, The Champion, and Chaplin's willingness, even eagerness, to allow the humor ride through his own interpretations helped me understand that part of the process.
Editing is such a crucial part after that, of course, akin to putting a bridle back on a horse and making it bend to my will, which could be a beautiful thing or a horrible thing, or simply something overworked and "mine" more than belonging to the wild idea. I want to preserve the wild idea, to essentially ride bareback and unbridled, in that first partnership. Something Charlie Chaplin did seems like he trusted a wild ride, and then lamented the loss of that in the evolution of his career, and I'll remember that lesson better now, after all this evaluation of his process and his influence on George.
I love that you've found something that works for you. I, too, hope for the unbridled me to appear on the page before the buttoned up version of me comes along and starts erasing/changing things. But I do see it all as coming through my own limited head. I know that puts me at odds with those who think of themselves as vessels to what comes to them from the universe. Though, in the end, I think we are all saying the same thing (whatever we believe about where the ideas come from, they do come to us from somewhere and into our heads, and we then put words on paper), I think it's important for every artist to find those metaphors that work for them and their process. I do love a horse metaphor. Well, I love all metaphors, really. Thanks for taking the time to further elucidate your meaning for me!
The woman who I am loving in craft books, Allison K Williams in her book Seven Drafts calls it our vomit draft — a slightly more pungent metaphor!? Lol
Traci, your metaphor of rider and horse intimately joined captures, for me, what I would like the writing experience to be. But, my horse is often going the opposite direction from what I want. My last time on a real horse was many years ago. This was Copper, stout and determined, and when she decided to go home, she went, and at her speed. I had no say in the matter. Fortunately I didn't fall off, and managed to duck the tree branches. She was most definitely something natural, in this case determined to speak with her own voice. This, I think, is also part of writing.
Writing: a tug of war? Weaving, and reweaving, and…the second time I ever rode a horse—on a cattle drive in Northern California when I was working to buy more food so I could keeping trying to hike south on the PCT—the horse I was riding took over, just like Copper, to my embarrassed chagrin!
I think many people conceive of artistic creation as "expressing oneself". But that's too limiting and simplistic. I think of it more as expressing "things", or "life". That's what enables the artist to expand their own limited perspective by losing themselves in the meeting between self and other.
“every stroke is explicit and unambiguous – yet it has totally forgotten itself in its openness to what it has met. And the meeting is so close you can’t tell whose trace is whose. A map of love indeed.” (John Berger on Van Gogh's reed pen ink drawings)
Update: it feels critical at this point to redirect back to the original point of George's post, and remind us all, myself included: "Revising, then, might be thought of as a system for getting more organization into the little system that is our story."
If the wild story (untamed mustang) was fit for publication and the moving of masses, we'd never need any instruction, but my own point was just to recognize for myself aloud that in editing, I want to remember what that wild origin held up to entice me toward its telling, and then take away the things that distract from it rather than enhance that. In my own case, my organizational editing needed me to pull out a huge chunk of my current wip and move the storyline forward a bit, so I could get back to focusing on the original impetus of why I'm telling this particular story in the first place. As George keeps pointing out, to my understanding, the better we become at organizing well, editing well, the more natural that finished product should feel, intelligent not random, as George said. Even Chaplin, he notes, did many, many improvisational takes and edits to move his final plan and product into its readied place, which could then appear as if it flowed from some spontaneous place, as if complete in one thought, one take.
In thinking of my horse analogy, the story we ride will be tamed but not oppressed, and the presentation to an audience will have had much prior practice in order to best reveal its original beauty. No one wants to watch a wild mustang kick its trainer or try and run through fences, but there's a reason we want to connect with this wild thing, so in our training of it, we have to remember back to that open-freedom reason we first found beauty in its story and let it tell us what it has to say. Whatever is getting in the way in our crafting needs to be organized, edited out of the way. It doesn't just happen, but we are a curator of its artistic presentation.
Ultimately, all this study this week freed me up to get flowing again, because organization was tripping me up. I wonder if that is a common problem for people at my stage of writing, working on my first large work and getting quickly "stiff in the saddle" about it all as I go: overly conscious, overwriting, saying too much without saying it well, losing sight of the priorities of my story's best arc, confused at times by volume, counting precious words equally with the necessary ones... and so on. Well, this week, I'm back to a happy gallop, and I credit George, Charlie, and this group!
I’m thinking, that beautiful ride, horse and rider as one, takes some organizing to get to. After the wild first draft, and the revising (re-organizing), the final version takes off at a gallop, and every part of it works seamlessly with every other part, and the reader doesn’t see all the work that went into making it so great. Not on the first read, anyway.
Traci, thank you for both your entries. What would we do without metaphors? This morning working on a story I used the notion of my imagination/midbrain as a living animal, something that called for kindness in order to provide what I needed. I could feel the difference, in a good way.
what a gift this was to read today! I'm doing a soft return to writing after some personal distractions and sad events, and stopped by Story Club to dip my toe back into writing headspace. I try to serve my writing and the story as best I can, instead of wrenching it this way and that, but it's hard sometimes to get a handle on what that should feel like, and harder still after a tough time. Such an apt, gorgeous reminder in your reflections on riding/writing, and the potential for joy and trust in the relationship between the rider/writer and the respected, sensitive horse/story. Thank you.
It's good heart stuff to know my own take on this post inspired you today, Jessica. Thank you for your comment so that I could know that it landed well with you; that awareness is as validating as anything else I do with words and among the people who assemble and share them with each other. I don't know if you saw it yet, but George's post from yesterday on Art vs. Commerce is another great view from a different angle on the balancing act writers take on when building stories. I know I can overthink all this analysis and it's freeing just to remember to get back into the story bubbling up and let it run free before any taming edits. Only we know how to ride/write that thing the way it's coming through us! No one else can dream the dream. Then, as we read more and analyze more, we'll understand better all the time how to present that once-wild thing to others for maximum impact and influence. Best wishes to you as you get comfy getting back into your flow, and my condolences on the challenges that distracted you recently. There's a lot of reassurance and motivation among the people here, so keep posting and sharing when you can. :)
Thank you for this, Traci -- it really resonates. Some days I can tell I'm beating a scene into submission... Some days the editing process is a lighter, more joyful experience (no saddle, no bridle)... I've learned from experience that the latter leads to better writing. I'll think of your horses whenever I write from now on.
I’m so grateful you wrote this. Just before you got to the place you were going I began to have a vision of horse and rider, like a pair of lovers, completely in synch, galloping through the night.
Your love of horses and riding comes through like a spotlight in this post and is moving even to this nonrider. It says to me that whatever one's process, writing what you love and care about is key.
Before I engage in this activity, I just want to take a moment to say thank you, George, for your own intentionality of language in these posts. {e.g. For referring to *her* as well as *him*}.
I'm growing less and less comfortable with using either 'him' or 'her' when I mean to include all humans, and find myself using 'they' a lot of the time. (I understand the grammar argument about 'they' not technically being a singular noun, but that doesn't bother me.) Not trying to instruct anyone here. Just noting something that's been happening inside my own brain. Happy every time I see George employ "her" or "she," though--it still surprises me on every occurrence and I look forward to the day when that surprise goes away.
I wonder if we need to balance it out first, turn the patriarchal system inside out. I began at around 20 by conceiving God as female, which for me made religion feel less insane. And now there’s less need for one or the other, for a binary dichotomy, and more of a need to include every possibility of the human (or, of all living things…I know, trending toward pantheism, but, why not?) I liked how the Chaplin interview ended with him saying something on the order of, “I don’t need to know what life is; what I want is to be able to try out different possibilities.”
God is referred to in both masculine and feminine terms in the Bible. “Father” and “He” is prevalent, so many overlook the more female/feminine traits of God. So, you aren’t wrong to refer to God as her. I often refer God as them, since they are a communal being. God refers to themselves as “I am,” which keeps them from being limited to our own boundaries or labels that might ebb and flow with our cultural ideals.
Yes, I notice that little burp of surprise too and wonder at myself. But I am of a certain age and habits die hard.
I like what I hear of young folk who are less focused on gender and more on which person looks like fun to um - romance with.
There is a use of they as singular and we do it without thinking. a quick example off top of head: "Dana's teacher is coming to dinner." "Well, I hope they like spinach." - ie. singular where gender unknown. Just have to stretch it a bit.
As a woman who sings tenor, I and three other women were recently introduced in a local choral performance as first “non-men” and, upon revision, “tenors who are definitely not men,” which was frankly hilarious if only it didn’t reflect a paucity of imagination regarding any alternative reference point beside the masculine. All that to say, I too appreciate the effort at inclusion, whether “her” or the singular “they.”
I want to apologize, George, for missing the past month. I've got a good excuse. Wipf & Stock Publishing gave me a contract on Snarl, my first novel. I'm also producing a study guide to go with it (for book clubs) called A Snarl Theology. www.snarlthelion.com
I'll be back next week at this site, though I doubt I can catch all the way up!!!!
Thanks, too. Not sure how much the karma and hopefulness the Story Club has had to provide the karma that pushed my book through the fiction gauntlet. There are no coincidences.
Four decades, five books, hundreds of short stories and poems, and finally a hit. I wrote it back in 2015. Sits in the middle of my production of novels. I did an edit on Snarl after 3 months with you. Must've made a difference. God bless your teaching style, attention to detail, and depth of support.
Never felt so good about writing since I got the nod. Deeply grateful.
(Got a push to republish today - I first posted quite late on the last post)
Thank you, Jackie. For the next few months, I'm the wackiest guy in the world. When the book launches, I will be found out for the (I don't know) that I am, whichever way that goes, but tears will be involved, letting loose the fearful expose of a writer of 40 years in journo-land, technical space, and poetry's desert, finally lowering his novel into a well or helium-hefting it into the sky. Either will do. I'm exhausted already from the relief of it.
Does more organization result in less spontaneity? The first Chaplin fight has a sort of anything goes anarchy that is delightful, although I admit it would have probably benefited from some judicious editing. The second fight scene, by contrast, seemed, however intricate and witty and tightly edited, a little overdetermined. A little drained of improv imagery, compared to the first one.
That’s the fine and treacherous balance beam, to be coherent and dynamic at once. But worth falling from, even if it’s only now and again that we make it work.
Only in Story Club would one go from Babel to Chaplin. We are being taken on a joyful ride.
The two Chaplin fight scenes have the same set-up. In both, Chaplin fights a larger man, a more serious boxer. In the first, the action is frenetic and crazed, as if both fighters have taken amphetamines. It's all action. The word "slapstick" comes to mind. The second is slower, and the choreography is beautiful and graceful, at the same time that it is funny. The gags seem spontaneous but obviously require great skill and timing to get them right. Everything about the fight scene in City Life seems professional, deliberate and under control. The camera work is more sophisticated. The fight scene in The Champion seems entirely improvised, crazy and out of control. That's part of its appeal, I know, but the City Life scene is beautifully done, and I wouldn't say that about the first one.
I haven’t watched either movie in many years so it was wonderful to laugh out loud while watching alone on my iPad. However, in the context of this exercise, I will note that the editing in “The Champion” fight is rather crude. Or maybe utilitarian is the better way to say it. The editing tells the story (foreshadowing the dog’s hilarious entrance into the fight, for instance) but it doesn’t “enhance.” On the other hand, the “City Lights” fight is one continuous sequence. There are no cuts. That was a very purposeful decision—to be the editor who doesn’t make a cut. That choice keeps us always involved in the action. Its artifice makes the fight more (ahem) realistic The fight thus becomes the only story told. And the Tramp loses the fight! There’s one narrative, unlike in “The Champion,” which has multiple narrative threads. And, now, I’m wondering if “The City Lights” fooled me into thinking there were no cuts. We’re there cuts that I didn’t notice? I’ll have to watch again.
Actually, I think there was at least one cut, deftly done, when Chaplin hangs over the ropes in the direction of the bell, and then the next thing you see is him standing back up with the cord wound around his neck.
Funny, I didn’t recall the fantasy, but I was curious after watching it the first time if I had somehow missed how the cord got wound round his neck, so I went and rewatched :-)
I felt a keener sense of escalation in the "City Lights" version that had something to do with fewer distractions. And I think fewer edits/cuts was a big part of that (though there was at least one series of edits, in the corner when he imagines the girl is stroking his face)! I can absolutely believe that the action was improvised, but somehow improvised with cleaner intentionality.
There was also definitely a cut between the bit where Chaplin flies across the ring on a wire (there is a clip on his shorts) and then the portion of the fight following where there is not clip. :)
One element that's important is that in The Champion film was still treated as if it were simply a recording of a stage performance. I.e. one, straight on camera angle that all the action unfolds in front of. So, you have to look at its staging and economy as if you were in a theatre watching a play. The second is shot more like what we recognize as a film. Different camera angles, edit points where these carry more of the pacing. Don't mean to be a total wet blanket here - because the overall point when it comes to story composition is fabulous and of an importance rarely emphasized - but these two Chaplin instances are a bit of apples to oranges.
Thanks. Still, GS’s point and observations are the real deal here. Just that I don’t think, and you also, that the Chaplin examples are apt ways of demonstrating his theory of story economy.
Came here to say (less eloquently) this. I'll add that IMO since City Lights has more of what we, a viewer in 2022, might expect from camera angles, cuts, and other vocabulary, we will relate to it differently. Me, I liked the anarchy (as someone else put it so well) in the old film, and it being in a style of presentation that is heightened and dated really added to that for me. I see plenty of comments here from people who had a different reaction; I can't declare of course WHY they had that reaction but perhaps what you're outlining here is part of the reason, part of the influence.
I have to admit, no, I'm eager to admit that I agree with you, Steve. Although I thought maybe the whole Champion scene went on a bit too long, it was much funnier than the City Lights one (although I did admire the choreography).
While I preferred the Champion scene to the City Lights Scene, I hadn't considered the different film techniques. I see exactly your point here in the level of complexity of actual film making (camera technique). Thanks!
The first seemed more slapdash, like he was cobbling gags together without a sense of progression. In the later fight, he seems more “directed.”
I recently watch “The Real Charlie Chaplin” on Showtime. It includes interviews and clips. But by far the most interesting segment for me as a writer was his creating of the flower girl scene in “City Lights”. He took many months shooting and reshooting this single, brief scene, trying to get it just right, all the while not able to say why the scene wasn’t working. At one point, he tried replacing the actress playing the flower girl. But that still didn’t help. In the end, it was a single scene beat at the end that changed it from a very good scene to an iconic one. It is eye-opening, watching a true genius wrestle with the work.
I guess overall I enjoyed "The Champion" more. I was a bit disappointed in the more "produced" later one, "City Lights" - when the art of movie making had acquired more technique maybe. And it was more noticeably repetitious - at first the hiding behind the referee - or whatever you call the third guy in a fight - was fun but then it was done too often.
The extras in "The Champion" seemed to be having a really good time as well, and I enjoyed watching them. Had the thought of watching it slowed down to just watch the audience watching the fight - wonder who all those guys were - and how they got there.
I enjoyed this post - reading how Chaplin enjoyed spontaneity and seat of his (chalky!) pants. It's helping me loosen up. Been keeping too tight a rein on this chapter I'm redrafting - letting the need for this project to be finally over dominate.
GRR. gotta get my hero from HERE to THERE! Well - wait just a wee minute now...
Thanks Jackie - I think I reacted the same way, but didn't quite know how to pin it down. My first impression was that they were having a little more fun making "The Champion" - a little more antic, a little more surprising even to themselves.
Yes - antic! I like that word. Surprising to themselves - I like that too. I think now, re-visioning my watching of the later movie - the tone was offputting - more meanness in the men egging on the fighters. And not so surprising to themselves. But I may be coloring it now in my memory!
I am right now taking a short break from revising Draft 6, Chapter 9, Rev 1 of my novel for 10-12 year olds. I'm feeling the opposite of spontaneous. In fact I'm deeply, muckily mired in plot requirements. (I've been having great joy in earlier chapters of this draft, but with this chapter, I am efforting it.)
Revising a novel as opposed to a short story means that changes can affect multiple later chapters. Sigh.
I recently watched Adaptation again - movie written by Charlie Kaufman - and being in the throes of my novel revision - I found it all the more hilarious. Maybe a little hysterically so.
Anyway - thanks! I wrote out the details about my problem here, and saw a better way - character driven, and within plot requirements.
You'll be glad to know I deleted all that. I really was writing to all of you, and it got me out of ricocheting off the interior of my skull.
However the result is useful to only one person, and that person has copied them to a file on disk!
Thanks for the heads up, Zoe. I might like that. Depends on what I'm in a mood for. Last night we watched Coda which won the Oscar for best picture.
Say --WHAT???
Per "Adaptation" - it was a "McKee" movie if ever I saw one - predictable and schmaltzy. But you know - that's exactly what I needed to watch last night -- something to give the pickled brain a break! :-D And the deaf parents were pretty great!
A wee bit off topic, but since George is mentioned in this piece by Steve Almond in today's Lit Hub I thought it might be of interest, especially since it's good advice.
Hi, Roseanne. Thank you. The Vonnegut reveal helped me to understand better the vexation implicit in a few "real" episodes which haunt me in exactly this way. I can't let go of them quite and I don't know what to do with them quite. Equally so the tyrannical cramping effect of the "true story" and that it is necessary to find the right hammer to shatter it on the gambit that the shards will be more useful. I more than half knew all of this stuff but that was not sufficient. It never hurts to get some perspective from the likes of Kurt Vonnegut! John
"Write about what you can't get rid of by other means." And what, in this article, is posited as that which you can't get rid of is a particular moment which carries the salience of being described as "a haunting".
A thought provoking article Roseanne, thanks for posting.
Makes me realise that something to work on is spotting the really salient moments, being aware that many more are possibly going to be identified than can, in one lifetime, come through to being placed and hammered into being on our preferred form of writing anvil.
As I type this, just six months into Story Club I'm thinking over how I might begin to start into some fresh writing 'informed' - in whatever way(s) - by what I've been picking up along the way we've been travelling and putting away inside my personal 'Story Club Silo Backpack'. I feel, lately, as though I'm in process of pulling together the rudiments of a game plan with the potential to start me on the first of a series of rolling, small scale writing projects . . . not, yet, quite ready to trundle along to the launch pad, to set ready for ignition, but definitely gearing-up to getting organised.
The moments in the first fight scene, with the dog, are funnier, but it did need editing down. I loved how Chaplin did these strange things in the first one, like rubbing his butt in the dirt, and other seemingly spontaneous funny bits. Second one tighter, more controlled, sharper. Still funny. I wonder how much of the first one was improvised, and the second one more planned out. It would be cool to know what the conversations were like behind the scenes, with the editor and camera people.
Thank you George for your post on Sunday, May 1. I thank you from my whole heart and all its connected parts - top, middle, and bottom! I thought your post was beautiful. It helped me to organize some of my confused thoughts about art and the making of art. You put into words something that for me, at least, has always been elusive. That is, why is a work of art beautiful and why is it that a work of art can sometimes take your breath away. Your post taught me so much. I haven't really commented before, but I'm moved to say how enormously helpful and thought-provoking your post is.
I'm a painter (although I do try occasionally to write fiction and non-fiction) and I think what you said about a good work of art as a highly organized system of course refers to painting. In a great painting there is little waste or randomness. Nothing "flaps." All the parts are somehow locked in together and yet the system feels open and alive. The parts feel as though they are in connection with each other and therefore make a whole that is experienced as beautiful and satisfying. If you remove one thing or set of connections from a painting or story, for example, it becomes a different painting or story. Becoming aware of the underlying connections can be exhilarating. I've had that experience of exhilaration in Story Club.
I can look at a painting by Matisse or Cezanne and feel there is a structure and organization but have no idea how it came into being (I wish I understood that more). I have a difficult time uncovering the relationships and connections, although I can feel their impact. I know the artist's experience, practice, and revision is part of the painting or story, but I don't feel the effort that went into making it.
Chaplin said, "the intellect is not too great a thing." Perhaps this quote by Cezanne is related (if indeed Cezanne said this): "the minute I start to think the painting falls apart." YES!
What you wrote helps me to think about writing, painting, and art in a new way, on a deeper level. And I must add that Story Club has helped my writing too.
Oh my goodness, I'm so grateful for you and this class.
Seeds? Plants grow in an organized way that feels unorchestrated and therefore beautiful.
In the City Lights clip, Chaplin plants seeds. The scene is set up (the ring, hand-shaking, stretching, bell and timer, etc.) in ways that constrain and organize but then allow an unfolding that feels organic -- and beautiful. In The Champion, it seems anything can happen. It feels more like a pile of leaves than seed-plant-wow!-flower.
In the comments, I see many people found the more chaotic scene (The Champion) funnier or just more enjoyable to watch. I can understand that for these two short scenes -- but I wouldn't want to read a whole story of spontaneity.
This is my first post but I've been following all the way. Thank you, George. I've learned so much from Story Club.
Thank you for this post. So much to think about, not least within the paradoxes. I did not know much about Charlie Chaplin. His life story is at least as interesting as his films. It is good to know that one of the prime movers of film often felt that he had no idea what he was doing, or why things weren’t coming together, but he kept working at it anyway, day in, day out.
While watching the boxing sequences I might be most impressed by CC’s agility and grace, both physical and mental. I liked both scenes, but more so the second, because I think he went deeper with his attention. This depth of focus is I imagine largely due to sixteen years of watching, making, and remaking movies. (It’s interesting to me that he resisted sound (and, later, color) but eventually made use of them. Similarly, he engaged in quite a few doomed relationships before the one that worked out.)
The first sequence felt like improv. The second felt composed. Both have their positive aspects, and both reveal Chaplin's abilities. I think I prefer the second, more composed piece, because I liked the repeating patterns. But on another day, I might say I prefer the first one.
The repeating patterns were great. I am reminded of music, building force within repeating patterns and surprising variations. Some writing also does this.
At the risk of overcommenting yet again, I want to share a feeling inspired by today's post (thank you, George), the film viewings, the Chaplin interview, and the rich interactions in the comments (as usual, I learn much from each of you). I'm holding an interesting new impression of how I want to approach my own writing going forward, and am compelled to share it here with the hope others might find value in it, also.
I used to own horses, and lived in that world for a time. My own best horse was one copper-colored off-track thoroughbred who helped me get through a tough set of years by using a "safety stance" to protect me whenever I would venture out to her stall at night to cry into her neck so that the kids wouldn't see me succumbing to the exhaustion of single parenting and worry.
Bear with me for a moment until I circle back from horses to writing because I think it's a good and useful comparison.
In my own opinion and experience, the best horse-rider pairs communicate really well with each other, by use of the riders legs, the horse's ears, and both of their sets of eyes and head position, among other subtle things. Usually, the kind of riding we get to see is entirely controlled by the rider (writer?) and the horse (wild story) is tolerating the control for a number of reasons. While most any "broke" horse will ride or respond somehow with a bridle on its head, because of the pressure of a bit in its mouth, it's a use of forceful intention on the part of the rider to get the horse to submit to the rider's own will. It might look elegant on its surface, sure. I think of a lot of editing like this, and I also think it's not the most beautiful, most artistic riding there is. It doesn't respect the animal as much as is possible, which I think is critical if riding (like writing) is ever to be artistic. I can watch horses on a Merry-go-Round, watch an animated movie like "Spirit", if I want mechanically "artistic". Artistic, to me, respects something natural trying to speak with its own voice not mine.
A wild horse is a thing of absolute, pure beauty to watch; however, because it is entirely free and separate from us, its stories are largely unknown to us who glimpse it in its own environment from our own very limited perspective, the horse usually communicating only with others like itself. That's ok, too, of course, even desirable to leave a wild thing to itself and merely ponder its existence.
But a genuine partnership between a trusting and joyful horse and its trusting and joyfully partnered rider is an extraordinary thing to witness and experience, a profound gift––and it's the example I want to focus upon and hold in my mind now as I write going forward... so inspired as I am today. What I want to seek in writing is something that moves between these two better-known horse worlds of wild or dominated.
A well-respected, well-handled, very sensitive horse can be ridden by a rider using no gear of any kind––not a bridle (with a bit), nor a saddle, not even a halter (no bit), especially not riding crops or spurs or anything of the like––just bareback and loose-mouthed, its rider not even holding onto its mane. A horse without gear has the capacity to run fully free, so its partnership under those conditions is really powerful to recognize. Without gear, the rider and the horse can connect and communicate with each other using just light leg pressure, resistance or relaxation in their bodies, their eyes, their heads, and maybe something more subtle than all this that is kind of hard to commuicate because I personally think it tips into a spiritual realm. The two become one for a mutual purpose that becomes a sort of restrained freedom, and a joy made partnership that both can appreciate if there's trust, respect, and good communication. Both can have a bit of say in what takes place, and it's a joy to both witness and experience this kind of artistic riding. It's as close to being accepted into the wild horse's world as a rider can become without living on an open range studying a herd. As a metaphor for our written work, riding without tools or force is the difference, I think, between a written set of operating instructions and the kind of gathering of words that dips into a reservoir of truth and feeling that moves a person to tears.
If I keep this kind of riding in mind, I feel like I'll know how to face my stories going forward when they show up, better understand how to trust them to say what they are holding inside, and let them out with their beauty intact, but then edit them with a looser rein, too; because, I want to ride my story and words a bit like a wild horse releasing its natural love of its own gifts over to me, with me as its privileged rider-witness, in partnership.
***
Not sure how I got from where I was before to where this is now, but I'm inspired by all that's happened here today, and I think it's really going to help me on my path. (Thanks for reading if you did.)
"Artistic, to me, respects something natural trying to speak with its own voice, not mine."
I love what you've shared here, Traci. It takes me back to my childhood and my own days of living in that world. My heart horse's name was Gamble, a little bay gelding with blue eyes, and though he wasn't mine he very much felt like he was with the exception of a month every summer when his owner would take him to his ranch in Wyoming. He was a horse I could ride with just a halter, a horse who followed me around everywhere without needing a lead. We had that deep, spiritual connection that you wrote of so beautifully. I've never thought of connecting riding to a creative practice, but what you wrote made me think of the times I would show him (this makes us sound much fancier than we were). There are elements of riding that require practice and skill, and having all these tools in your box can definitely help you be a better rider. But also, there is something to the experience that goes beyond thought and no amount of preparation will help you get there. There's something that can't be forced, and I found that the times I was too in my head, overthinking my next move, were the times that didn't go so well for me. The times I wasn't feeling and trusting that deeper, mysterious connection.
(P.S. Have you seen "Wild Horse, Wild Ride?")
And "something natural trying to speak with its own voice"
I feel this acutely when I hear poetry read aloud... a poem is an even more densely organised language-object than a short story, you could argue.
I am certainly no actor, but I long to hear the poem read as if the words are just occurring to the voice at that moment, or rather are presenting themselves spontaneously into the consciousness for the first time, having churned away in experience and the sub-conscious before bubbling up into voiced perception at the very moment of their speaking.
But the way it is often spoken seems to fall into this ponderous mock-profundity with baleful fade at the line-end, as if it has been intoned again and again into the same old patterns of speech and thought - which is the exact opposite of what's happening. It's the cliche and the superficial vocalisations of thoughtless mob-response that should be presented in this mournful, disappointing register; not the precise and delicious insights of poetry.
I know this is a slightly literal interpretation of 'voice' in this context, but I think there's something in it - a story or poem read aloud WELL, that is really something; author and speech together like, I can only imagine, seeing the wild-horse and rider in synch. Such a beautiful metaphor, by the way.
Lovely, Niall. Gorgeous poetry informs my desired writing voice, as well.
Manami, I think you just hit on what I've been trying to differentiate. I want to come to story prepared, then trust its voice through my own lens, and come back to editing with a light hand. To be "educated and guided by her own work of art," as George put it.
I've not seen the movie, but I'm familiar with the program and I'll definitely watch this (and think of you and your Gamble). Thank you for reading and commenting on my little horsey side-tangent. Feels like a pivotal day for me and my perspective.
Adore this analogy! Create an essay for Poets and Writer’s?
Thank you, Patty. That's probably what I should have done in the first place, instead of hijacking George's post! Clearly, this is the post of his that did it for me, got me to my breakthrough. I'm back to a lot of forward movement again and would love to share how this post and my horse analogy are working for me. Those two Chaplin clips are like signposts hanging above me while I'm working right now, moving between them when I feel like I'm pushing words and need a little more flow, then setting out index cards so I can actually see what needs to tighten when the structure seems sloppy. (Like the first Chaplin clip, my current work is wordy in the front, a common problem.) I get so much out of seeing how others incorporate the teachings in this group, and it feels validating to know my own perspective is useful to you. I don't know about P&W today, but hmmm....
I thought it was an amazing “hijack” thank you for sharing it
By the way last time I tried to rehab a rescue I got thrown and shattered my L2 haha great analogy for my writing— revision HURTS!
I hope you mended well, Patty. That sounds horrible!!
Manami, I did watch the documentary you suggested, and parts of it highlight well the point I was trying to make. Thank you for the recommendation. I enjoyed it. (Though, that Texan needed to buy Willie for his lovely wife7, and I'm still irked about that now, days later. haha)
It's been a little while since I've seen it so I don't remember that, but I'm sure it would have irked me too! I'm glad you enjoyed it. What I do remember is that everyone had such different approaches to how they went about bonding with and training their mustangs . . . one woman reminded me of the person who taught me to ride, not in character but in spirit. May we all greet the blank page with the same joyful curiosity and fearlessness :)
I enjoyed this very much. If I'm understanding what you're saying about the horse/person relationship, it's writing with our two minds: the plodding, conscious mind that comes to the blank page (maybe with some ideas about a story, but certainly with ideas about what a story is supposed to be), riding next to the subconscious free mind which conjures images, etc, that the conscious mind had no idea were there. And there is a trust there, a give and take, and an openness to let both minds do their work. Did i get that right? When you write about editing with a looser rein, I'm guessing you mean "editing your mind." Not editing the piece itself. Anyway, thanks for posting!
Yes, Mary, I think that's what I meant. Let's see, what am I really trying to say there?
As of today, following today's exploration, I thought in terms of the wild subconscious coming in through me and my personal filter, and once it does that it's entered into a place where something I'm feeling or something I'm recognizing as universal, something worthy of telling into story comes out of me and into my partnership with it. I want to think of that first joining with the wildness of the words as something which is not all mine, not all from me, but also something not really able to be expressed and understood apart from the subjectivity of an artistic lens and expression. There's an art trying to move through an artist and run wild, and I tend to keep it bridled out of fear, or else come back to it later, heavy-handed, and over-edit out of fear.
The more I practice writing the easier it's becoming to surrender so much control, and the more I'm willing to trust the words coming through me in that first partnership with them. After today, I think I'll have more courage to prevent myself from bridling the flow of expression. (Like the succession of billiard balls.) Something about the focus today on that first film, The Champion, and Chaplin's willingness, even eagerness, to allow the humor ride through his own interpretations helped me understand that part of the process.
Editing is such a crucial part after that, of course, akin to putting a bridle back on a horse and making it bend to my will, which could be a beautiful thing or a horrible thing, or simply something overworked and "mine" more than belonging to the wild idea. I want to preserve the wild idea, to essentially ride bareback and unbridled, in that first partnership. Something Charlie Chaplin did seems like he trusted a wild ride, and then lamented the loss of that in the evolution of his career, and I'll remember that lesson better now, after all this evaluation of his process and his influence on George.
I love that you've found something that works for you. I, too, hope for the unbridled me to appear on the page before the buttoned up version of me comes along and starts erasing/changing things. But I do see it all as coming through my own limited head. I know that puts me at odds with those who think of themselves as vessels to what comes to them from the universe. Though, in the end, I think we are all saying the same thing (whatever we believe about where the ideas come from, they do come to us from somewhere and into our heads, and we then put words on paper), I think it's important for every artist to find those metaphors that work for them and their process. I do love a horse metaphor. Well, I love all metaphors, really. Thanks for taking the time to further elucidate your meaning for me!
The woman who I am loving in craft books, Allison K Williams in her book Seven Drafts calls it our vomit draft — a slightly more pungent metaphor!? Lol
I'm still partial to "shitty first draft" (anne lamott). That way, when my first draft sucks, I can remind myself that it's all part of the process.
Traci, your metaphor of rider and horse intimately joined captures, for me, what I would like the writing experience to be. But, my horse is often going the opposite direction from what I want. My last time on a real horse was many years ago. This was Copper, stout and determined, and when she decided to go home, she went, and at her speed. I had no say in the matter. Fortunately I didn't fall off, and managed to duck the tree branches. She was most definitely something natural, in this case determined to speak with her own voice. This, I think, is also part of writing.
Oh Jane, your story made me smile. I've known many Coppers in my life! Even the best riders have days where they hardly make it out of the barn :)
Writing: a tug of war? Weaving, and reweaving, and…the second time I ever rode a horse—on a cattle drive in Northern California when I was working to buy more food so I could keeping trying to hike south on the PCT—the horse I was riding took over, just like Copper, to my embarrassed chagrin!
This is wonderful, thank you.
I think many people conceive of artistic creation as "expressing oneself". But that's too limiting and simplistic. I think of it more as expressing "things", or "life". That's what enables the artist to expand their own limited perspective by losing themselves in the meeting between self and other.
“every stroke is explicit and unambiguous – yet it has totally forgotten itself in its openness to what it has met. And the meeting is so close you can’t tell whose trace is whose. A map of love indeed.” (John Berger on Van Gogh's reed pen ink drawings)
I try to be a spiritual stenographer lol
Update: it feels critical at this point to redirect back to the original point of George's post, and remind us all, myself included: "Revising, then, might be thought of as a system for getting more organization into the little system that is our story."
If the wild story (untamed mustang) was fit for publication and the moving of masses, we'd never need any instruction, but my own point was just to recognize for myself aloud that in editing, I want to remember what that wild origin held up to entice me toward its telling, and then take away the things that distract from it rather than enhance that. In my own case, my organizational editing needed me to pull out a huge chunk of my current wip and move the storyline forward a bit, so I could get back to focusing on the original impetus of why I'm telling this particular story in the first place. As George keeps pointing out, to my understanding, the better we become at organizing well, editing well, the more natural that finished product should feel, intelligent not random, as George said. Even Chaplin, he notes, did many, many improvisational takes and edits to move his final plan and product into its readied place, which could then appear as if it flowed from some spontaneous place, as if complete in one thought, one take.
In thinking of my horse analogy, the story we ride will be tamed but not oppressed, and the presentation to an audience will have had much prior practice in order to best reveal its original beauty. No one wants to watch a wild mustang kick its trainer or try and run through fences, but there's a reason we want to connect with this wild thing, so in our training of it, we have to remember back to that open-freedom reason we first found beauty in its story and let it tell us what it has to say. Whatever is getting in the way in our crafting needs to be organized, edited out of the way. It doesn't just happen, but we are a curator of its artistic presentation.
Ultimately, all this study this week freed me up to get flowing again, because organization was tripping me up. I wonder if that is a common problem for people at my stage of writing, working on my first large work and getting quickly "stiff in the saddle" about it all as I go: overly conscious, overwriting, saying too much without saying it well, losing sight of the priorities of my story's best arc, confused at times by volume, counting precious words equally with the necessary ones... and so on. Well, this week, I'm back to a happy gallop, and I credit George, Charlie, and this group!
I’m thinking, that beautiful ride, horse and rider as one, takes some organizing to get to. After the wild first draft, and the revising (re-organizing), the final version takes off at a gallop, and every part of it works seamlessly with every other part, and the reader doesn’t see all the work that went into making it so great. Not on the first read, anyway.
Traci, thank you for both your entries. What would we do without metaphors? This morning working on a story I used the notion of my imagination/midbrain as a living animal, something that called for kindness in order to provide what I needed. I could feel the difference, in a good way.
All from your advice^^
Drop the saddle..go bare back and hold onto the horse with your thighs and tangle your fingers into his mane^^ Now! hang on!
My ears are pointing forward!^^
I laughed at that one. I can see it.
what a gift this was to read today! I'm doing a soft return to writing after some personal distractions and sad events, and stopped by Story Club to dip my toe back into writing headspace. I try to serve my writing and the story as best I can, instead of wrenching it this way and that, but it's hard sometimes to get a handle on what that should feel like, and harder still after a tough time. Such an apt, gorgeous reminder in your reflections on riding/writing, and the potential for joy and trust in the relationship between the rider/writer and the respected, sensitive horse/story. Thank you.
It's good heart stuff to know my own take on this post inspired you today, Jessica. Thank you for your comment so that I could know that it landed well with you; that awareness is as validating as anything else I do with words and among the people who assemble and share them with each other. I don't know if you saw it yet, but George's post from yesterday on Art vs. Commerce is another great view from a different angle on the balancing act writers take on when building stories. I know I can overthink all this analysis and it's freeing just to remember to get back into the story bubbling up and let it run free before any taming edits. Only we know how to ride/write that thing the way it's coming through us! No one else can dream the dream. Then, as we read more and analyze more, we'll understand better all the time how to present that once-wild thing to others for maximum impact and influence. Best wishes to you as you get comfy getting back into your flow, and my condolences on the challenges that distracted you recently. There's a lot of reassurance and motivation among the people here, so keep posting and sharing when you can. :)
Thank you for this, Traci -- it really resonates. Some days I can tell I'm beating a scene into submission... Some days the editing process is a lighter, more joyful experience (no saddle, no bridle)... I've learned from experience that the latter leads to better writing. I'll think of your horses whenever I write from now on.
Yeah! Giddy up....^^
I’m so grateful you wrote this. Just before you got to the place you were going I began to have a vision of horse and rider, like a pair of lovers, completely in synch, galloping through the night.
Your love of horses and riding comes through like a spotlight in this post and is moving even to this nonrider. It says to me that whatever one's process, writing what you love and care about is key.
To see that process explained through the individual approaches of so many different writers in here is invaluable. Thanks, Ellen.
This is really nicely put. Thanks for writing it out and sharing with us!
You got here by taking a ride^^^^
Thanks for telling me about the safety stance....I know I'm going to have to use it at some point^^
Always use your legs and voice..the horse understands^^
Before I engage in this activity, I just want to take a moment to say thank you, George, for your own intentionality of language in these posts. {e.g. For referring to *her* as well as *him*}.
It is my pleasure, Lanie. Little by little, it will become the norm.
I'm growing less and less comfortable with using either 'him' or 'her' when I mean to include all humans, and find myself using 'they' a lot of the time. (I understand the grammar argument about 'they' not technically being a singular noun, but that doesn't bother me.) Not trying to instruct anyone here. Just noting something that's been happening inside my own brain. Happy every time I see George employ "her" or "she," though--it still surprises me on every occurrence and I look forward to the day when that surprise goes away.
I wonder if we need to balance it out first, turn the patriarchal system inside out. I began at around 20 by conceiving God as female, which for me made religion feel less insane. And now there’s less need for one or the other, for a binary dichotomy, and more of a need to include every possibility of the human (or, of all living things…I know, trending toward pantheism, but, why not?) I liked how the Chaplin interview ended with him saying something on the order of, “I don’t need to know what life is; what I want is to be able to try out different possibilities.”
God is referred to in both masculine and feminine terms in the Bible. “Father” and “He” is prevalent, so many overlook the more female/feminine traits of God. So, you aren’t wrong to refer to God as her. I often refer God as them, since they are a communal being. God refers to themselves as “I am,” which keeps them from being limited to our own boundaries or labels that might ebb and flow with our cultural ideals.
“A communal being.” I love that, Lanie. Something we could all also aspire to become.
Agreed. We also create boundaries between ourselves and others when, really, we are all just human beings.
I hang with the Holy Ghost and avoid all the present stuff^^
Yes, I notice that little burp of surprise too and wonder at myself. But I am of a certain age and habits die hard.
I like what I hear of young folk who are less focused on gender and more on which person looks like fun to um - romance with.
There is a use of they as singular and we do it without thinking. a quick example off top of head: "Dana's teacher is coming to dinner." "Well, I hope they like spinach." - ie. singular where gender unknown. Just have to stretch it a bit.
As a woman who sings tenor, I and three other women were recently introduced in a local choral performance as first “non-men” and, upon revision, “tenors who are definitely not men,” which was frankly hilarious if only it didn’t reflect a paucity of imagination regarding any alternative reference point beside the masculine. All that to say, I too appreciate the effort at inclusion, whether “her” or the singular “they.”
I want to apologize, George, for missing the past month. I've got a good excuse. Wipf & Stock Publishing gave me a contract on Snarl, my first novel. I'm also producing a study guide to go with it (for book clubs) called A Snarl Theology. www.snarlthelion.com
I'll be back next week at this site, though I doubt I can catch all the way up!!!!
Thanks, too. Not sure how much the karma and hopefulness the Story Club has had to provide the karma that pushed my book through the fiction gauntlet. There are no coincidences.
Four decades, five books, hundreds of short stories and poems, and finally a hit. I wrote it back in 2015. Sits in the middle of my production of novels. I did an edit on Snarl after 3 months with you. Must've made a difference. God bless your teaching style, attention to detail, and depth of support.
Never felt so good about writing since I got the nod. Deeply grateful.
(Got a push to republish today - I first posted quite late on the last post)
Congratulations!!
Thank you, Jackie. For the next few months, I'm the wackiest guy in the world. When the book launches, I will be found out for the (I don't know) that I am, whichever way that goes, but tears will be involved, letting loose the fearful expose of a writer of 40 years in journo-land, technical space, and poetry's desert, finally lowering his novel into a well or helium-hefting it into the sky. Either will do. I'm exhausted already from the relief of it.
Stand in line long enough, you'll be served. 💞
Exciting!
More than I thought it would be. Changes the way I approach my writing tasks. Zeroed in, now.
Looking forward to reading this!!
What a kind man ...
You finally have a nice snarl^..^
Thank you, George. This is wonderful and reminds me of the line from “Adam’s Curse” by Yeats:
“A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.”
Yes, indeed! Thanks Robin. These words are exactly what I needed to be reminded of, from one of my favorite poems.
I’m so glad! Thank you for telling me so. I love that poem too.
Thank you for this perfect quote, Robin!
You’re very welcome; I’m so glad it resonated for you!
It will resonate until my last breath, thereby perhaps cheating death.
May it be so!
Does more organization result in less spontaneity? The first Chaplin fight has a sort of anything goes anarchy that is delightful, although I admit it would have probably benefited from some judicious editing. The second fight scene, by contrast, seemed, however intricate and witty and tightly edited, a little overdetermined. A little drained of improv imagery, compared to the first one.
So much less joy in the second as well.
which is made explicit in its ending!!!! No joy there at all (for our hero)
I agree, Dirk. Overdetermined. That's the word I was looking for!
That’s the fine and treacherous balance beam, to be coherent and dynamic at once. But worth falling from, even if it’s only now and again that we make it work.
agree.
Only in Story Club would one go from Babel to Chaplin. We are being taken on a joyful ride.
The two Chaplin fight scenes have the same set-up. In both, Chaplin fights a larger man, a more serious boxer. In the first, the action is frenetic and crazed, as if both fighters have taken amphetamines. It's all action. The word "slapstick" comes to mind. The second is slower, and the choreography is beautiful and graceful, at the same time that it is funny. The gags seem spontaneous but obviously require great skill and timing to get them right. Everything about the fight scene in City Life seems professional, deliberate and under control. The camera work is more sophisticated. The fight scene in The Champion seems entirely improvised, crazy and out of control. That's part of its appeal, I know, but the City Life scene is beautifully done, and I wouldn't say that about the first one.
I haven’t watched either movie in many years so it was wonderful to laugh out loud while watching alone on my iPad. However, in the context of this exercise, I will note that the editing in “The Champion” fight is rather crude. Or maybe utilitarian is the better way to say it. The editing tells the story (foreshadowing the dog’s hilarious entrance into the fight, for instance) but it doesn’t “enhance.” On the other hand, the “City Lights” fight is one continuous sequence. There are no cuts. That was a very purposeful decision—to be the editor who doesn’t make a cut. That choice keeps us always involved in the action. Its artifice makes the fight more (ahem) realistic The fight thus becomes the only story told. And the Tramp loses the fight! There’s one narrative, unlike in “The Champion,” which has multiple narrative threads. And, now, I’m wondering if “The City Lights” fooled me into thinking there were no cuts. We’re there cuts that I didn’t notice? I’ll have to watch again.
Actually, I think there was at least one cut, deftly done, when Chaplin hangs over the ropes in the direction of the bell, and then the next thing you see is him standing back up with the cord wound around his neck.
Yes, and somebody else pointed out the cut when he fantasized about the woman in the corner with him! I’m an easy mark, I guess!
Funny, I didn’t recall the fantasy, but I was curious after watching it the first time if I had somehow missed how the cord got wound round his neck, so I went and rewatched :-)
I felt a keener sense of escalation in the "City Lights" version that had something to do with fewer distractions. And I think fewer edits/cuts was a big part of that (though there was at least one series of edits, in the corner when he imagines the girl is stroking his face)! I can absolutely believe that the action was improvised, but somehow improvised with cleaner intentionality.
Yes, there were cuts! Thanks for pointing that out!
But so well integrated into the action, you didn't notice. That's art.
There was also definitely a cut between the bit where Chaplin flies across the ring on a wire (there is a clip on his shorts) and then the portion of the fight following where there is not clip. :)
One element that's important is that in The Champion film was still treated as if it were simply a recording of a stage performance. I.e. one, straight on camera angle that all the action unfolds in front of. So, you have to look at its staging and economy as if you were in a theatre watching a play. The second is shot more like what we recognize as a film. Different camera angles, edit points where these carry more of the pacing. Don't mean to be a total wet blanket here - because the overall point when it comes to story composition is fabulous and of an importance rarely emphasized - but these two Chaplin instances are a bit of apples to oranges.
I sensed this too, Stephen, but lack the means of expression. You said it better than I could have.
Thanks. Still, GS’s point and observations are the real deal here. Just that I don’t think, and you also, that the Chaplin examples are apt ways of demonstrating his theory of story economy.
Sometimes, and maybe it's so in this case, showing what a thing is by demonstrating what it isn't makes the stronger point.
Came here to say (less eloquently) this. I'll add that IMO since City Lights has more of what we, a viewer in 2022, might expect from camera angles, cuts, and other vocabulary, we will relate to it differently. Me, I liked the anarchy (as someone else put it so well) in the old film, and it being in a style of presentation that is heightened and dated really added to that for me. I see plenty of comments here from people who had a different reaction; I can't declare of course WHY they had that reaction but perhaps what you're outlining here is part of the reason, part of the influence.
I have to admit, no, I'm eager to admit that I agree with you, Steve. Although I thought maybe the whole Champion scene went on a bit too long, it was much funnier than the City Lights one (although I did admire the choreography).
While I preferred the Champion scene to the City Lights Scene, I hadn't considered the different film techniques. I see exactly your point here in the level of complexity of actual film making (camera technique). Thanks!
The first seemed more slapdash, like he was cobbling gags together without a sense of progression. In the later fight, he seems more “directed.”
I recently watch “The Real Charlie Chaplin” on Showtime. It includes interviews and clips. But by far the most interesting segment for me as a writer was his creating of the flower girl scene in “City Lights”. He took many months shooting and reshooting this single, brief scene, trying to get it just right, all the while not able to say why the scene wasn’t working. At one point, he tried replacing the actress playing the flower girl. But that still didn’t help. In the end, it was a single scene beat at the end that changed it from a very good scene to an iconic one. It is eye-opening, watching a true genius wrestle with the work.
I guess overall I enjoyed "The Champion" more. I was a bit disappointed in the more "produced" later one, "City Lights" - when the art of movie making had acquired more technique maybe. And it was more noticeably repetitious - at first the hiding behind the referee - or whatever you call the third guy in a fight - was fun but then it was done too often.
The extras in "The Champion" seemed to be having a really good time as well, and I enjoyed watching them. Had the thought of watching it slowed down to just watch the audience watching the fight - wonder who all those guys were - and how they got there.
I enjoyed this post - reading how Chaplin enjoyed spontaneity and seat of his (chalky!) pants. It's helping me loosen up. Been keeping too tight a rein on this chapter I'm redrafting - letting the need for this project to be finally over dominate.
GRR. gotta get my hero from HERE to THERE! Well - wait just a wee minute now...
Thanks Jackie - I think I reacted the same way, but didn't quite know how to pin it down. My first impression was that they were having a little more fun making "The Champion" - a little more antic, a little more surprising even to themselves.
Though - I did enjoy both.
Yes - antic! I like that word. Surprising to themselves - I like that too. I think now, re-visioning my watching of the later movie - the tone was offputting - more meanness in the men egging on the fighters. And not so surprising to themselves. But I may be coloring it now in my memory!
Let that protagonist dance!
I am right now taking a short break from revising Draft 6, Chapter 9, Rev 1 of my novel for 10-12 year olds. I'm feeling the opposite of spontaneous. In fact I'm deeply, muckily mired in plot requirements. (I've been having great joy in earlier chapters of this draft, but with this chapter, I am efforting it.)
Revising a novel as opposed to a short story means that changes can affect multiple later chapters. Sigh.
I recently watched Adaptation again - movie written by Charlie Kaufman - and being in the throes of my novel revision - I found it all the more hilarious. Maybe a little hysterically so.
Anyway - thanks! I wrote out the details about my problem here, and saw a better way - character driven, and within plot requirements.
You'll be glad to know I deleted all that. I really was writing to all of you, and it got me out of ricocheting off the interior of my skull.
However the result is useful to only one person, and that person has copied them to a file on disk!
Funny you should mention Adaptation (love that movie btw) because I just watched this Rick and Morty scene earlier today. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8jT-ix51ao
no longer available :-(
Ha! Perfect! -- Not a show I know - maybe have to check it out!
It's a wonderful show, but be forewarned that it's often violent and disturbing.
Thanks for the heads up, Zoe. I might like that. Depends on what I'm in a mood for. Last night we watched Coda which won the Oscar for best picture.
Say --WHAT???
Per "Adaptation" - it was a "McKee" movie if ever I saw one - predictable and schmaltzy. But you know - that's exactly what I needed to watch last night -- something to give the pickled brain a break! :-D And the deaf parents were pretty great!
Yay! I'm happy for you to be freed up and flowing again, Jackie! These posts and interactions here do that for me some weeks, also.
Zoe, Jackie, loved that movie. A good reminder to see it again.
A wee bit off topic, but since George is mentioned in this piece by Steve Almond in today's Lit Hub I thought it might be of interest, especially since it's good advice.
https://lithub.com/how-the-small-moments-that-haunt-us-can-from-the-seeds-of-a-novel/?utm_source=Sailthru&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Lit%20Hub%20Daily:%20May%202%2C%202022&utm_term=lithub_master_list
Hi, Roseanne. Thank you. The Vonnegut reveal helped me to understand better the vexation implicit in a few "real" episodes which haunt me in exactly this way. I can't let go of them quite and I don't know what to do with them quite. Equally so the tyrannical cramping effect of the "true story" and that it is necessary to find the right hammer to shatter it on the gambit that the shards will be more useful. I more than half knew all of this stuff but that was not sufficient. It never hurts to get some perspective from the likes of Kurt Vonnegut! John
"Write about what you can't get rid of by other means." And what, in this article, is posited as that which you can't get rid of is a particular moment which carries the salience of being described as "a haunting".
A thought provoking article Roseanne, thanks for posting.
Makes me realise that something to work on is spotting the really salient moments, being aware that many more are possibly going to be identified than can, in one lifetime, come through to being placed and hammered into being on our preferred form of writing anvil.
As I type this, just six months into Story Club I'm thinking over how I might begin to start into some fresh writing 'informed' - in whatever way(s) - by what I've been picking up along the way we've been travelling and putting away inside my personal 'Story Club Silo Backpack'. I feel, lately, as though I'm in process of pulling together the rudiments of a game plan with the potential to start me on the first of a series of rolling, small scale writing projects . . . not, yet, quite ready to trundle along to the launch pad, to set ready for ignition, but definitely gearing-up to getting organised.
I just read that piece and it's tremendous. Thank you for posting the link and bringing our attention to it.
Thanks for sharing that, Rosanne!
The moments in the first fight scene, with the dog, are funnier, but it did need editing down. I loved how Chaplin did these strange things in the first one, like rubbing his butt in the dirt, and other seemingly spontaneous funny bits. Second one tighter, more controlled, sharper. Still funny. I wonder how much of the first one was improvised, and the second one more planned out. It would be cool to know what the conversations were like behind the scenes, with the editor and camera people.
Thank you George for your post on Sunday, May 1. I thank you from my whole heart and all its connected parts - top, middle, and bottom! I thought your post was beautiful. It helped me to organize some of my confused thoughts about art and the making of art. You put into words something that for me, at least, has always been elusive. That is, why is a work of art beautiful and why is it that a work of art can sometimes take your breath away. Your post taught me so much. I haven't really commented before, but I'm moved to say how enormously helpful and thought-provoking your post is.
I'm a painter (although I do try occasionally to write fiction and non-fiction) and I think what you said about a good work of art as a highly organized system of course refers to painting. In a great painting there is little waste or randomness. Nothing "flaps." All the parts are somehow locked in together and yet the system feels open and alive. The parts feel as though they are in connection with each other and therefore make a whole that is experienced as beautiful and satisfying. If you remove one thing or set of connections from a painting or story, for example, it becomes a different painting or story. Becoming aware of the underlying connections can be exhilarating. I've had that experience of exhilaration in Story Club.
I can look at a painting by Matisse or Cezanne and feel there is a structure and organization but have no idea how it came into being (I wish I understood that more). I have a difficult time uncovering the relationships and connections, although I can feel their impact. I know the artist's experience, practice, and revision is part of the painting or story, but I don't feel the effort that went into making it.
Chaplin said, "the intellect is not too great a thing." Perhaps this quote by Cezanne is related (if indeed Cezanne said this): "the minute I start to think the painting falls apart." YES!
What you wrote helps me to think about writing, painting, and art in a new way, on a deeper level. And I must add that Story Club has helped my writing too.
Oh my goodness, I'm so grateful for you and this class.
Seeds? Plants grow in an organized way that feels unorchestrated and therefore beautiful.
In the City Lights clip, Chaplin plants seeds. The scene is set up (the ring, hand-shaking, stretching, bell and timer, etc.) in ways that constrain and organize but then allow an unfolding that feels organic -- and beautiful. In The Champion, it seems anything can happen. It feels more like a pile of leaves than seed-plant-wow!-flower.
In the comments, I see many people found the more chaotic scene (The Champion) funnier or just more enjoyable to watch. I can understand that for these two short scenes -- but I wouldn't want to read a whole story of spontaneity.
This is my first post but I've been following all the way. Thank you, George. I've learned so much from Story Club.
Thank you for this post. So much to think about, not least within the paradoxes. I did not know much about Charlie Chaplin. His life story is at least as interesting as his films. It is good to know that one of the prime movers of film often felt that he had no idea what he was doing, or why things weren’t coming together, but he kept working at it anyway, day in, day out.
While watching the boxing sequences I might be most impressed by CC’s agility and grace, both physical and mental. I liked both scenes, but more so the second, because I think he went deeper with his attention. This depth of focus is I imagine largely due to sixteen years of watching, making, and remaking movies. (It’s interesting to me that he resisted sound (and, later, color) but eventually made use of them. Similarly, he engaged in quite a few doomed relationships before the one that worked out.)
The first sequence felt like improv. The second felt composed. Both have their positive aspects, and both reveal Chaplin's abilities. I think I prefer the second, more composed piece, because I liked the repeating patterns. But on another day, I might say I prefer the first one.
The repeating patterns were great. I am reminded of music, building force within repeating patterns and surprising variations. Some writing also does this.