Writing about your writing 12/06/2009
That may sound like something easy to do, but believe me it's not. In fact, most writers dread having to explain why they write. Ricardo M. de Ungria, in his introduction to A Passionate Patience: Ten Filipino Poets on the Writing of Their Poems (1995), says that poets — and perhaps most writers — become reticent when asked to talk about their works or their own writing process. And when they do say something about how they wrote their creative works, according to de Ungria quoting I. A. Richards and Harry Levin, the kind of talk writers make about their oeuvres become “suspect.” Whatever they say may be construed as self-aggrandizing statements about their art or artistry. For how can writers honestly describe what went on inside their heads while writing their pieces? Since ancient times, the creative process has always been cloaked in mystery and mysticism – with the genesis of creative works ascribed to divine possession or to the inspiration of the Muses or to the duende. The same idea persists to this more rational age, and may account for how the rest of humanity looks at writers and other artists. But the actual production of creative works may involve artists applying the same rigor as that demanded of scientists. As de Ungria quotes Valery: “Graciously the gods give us the first line for nothing, but it is up to us to furnish a second that will harmonize with it and be unworthy of its supernatural elder brother” (xv). The scientific method employed in empirical investigations finds its parallel in the four stages of creative production – preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification – or the more pared-down two phases – inventive and selective/critical (de Ungria xvi). So writers labor, as Horace pointed out, hoping they do not produce a mere mouse. And the operative word is labor. For writers and other artists do not just pull out of thin air and present with a flourish a poem or a novel or painting; rather, they toil over their creations – poring over the lines they wrote, changing a word or two, or applying more paint onto the canvass. And this striving benefits a writer’s psyche more than the pocket. So the question asked of writers, why do they write? As Gémino H. Abad explains in “Why I Write,” originally published in his Manila Chronicle column and later compiled in a book entitled State of Play: Letter-Essays and Parables (1990), he writes because he is “obsessed with Writing” (13). He elaborates: “Writing is what I’ve always wanted to do, and believed I could do best … I was curious how one could look with words and see things clearly again” (14). But that is the seasoned poet speaking there. How about you? Why do you write? I ask this question because we usually begin our critical preface by explaining why we write, how we got into this "business" of "artfully arranging words on paper." Why do I write? Perhaps I can illustrate my “obsession” by quoting a passage from Ricky Lee’s Trip to Quiapo: Scriptwriting Manual (2001): "The writer’s task is to see, and to show others what s/he sees. When we watch a magic show, we just don’t enjoy it with jaws hanging in amazement. We go backstage because we need to see how the magic is done. And if we aren’t allowed backstage, we imagine what is there. We writers like going backstage" [translation added]. (3) Perhaps that's one way of beginning your critical preface: find a good quote that somehow resonates with your ideas about why you write. Here's one site you can pick quotes from: Writers on Writing. |




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