Inspiration and Influence

I read Reunion. And I finally saw how inspirational John Cheever is, because my immediate response to the text was “I want to write a story like that.” Despite studying his work for six weeks (and enjoying doing so), it was only when I read this particular one that I understood his mastery over the short story. In a mere four pages, Cheever unearths so many complex questions of family, human decency and goodwill to all men. I found myself savouring the final sentence.

            One writer I find myself constantly inspired by is Candace Bushnell, author of (amongst many other brilliant books) Sex and the City. Please let it be known right from the off that I am addressing the book, not the successful television show. Whilst that is to be appreciated for its own charm, it shows very little about the perceptive comments Bushnell makes on human behaviour and gender politics within the book. Being inspired leads to aspiring. It is my dream to write a novel that is so comically accurate and philosophically probing as Sex and the City.

            I’m aware of seeking inspiration and the previous influences that emerge almost subconsciously in my creative work. It does make me stop and think about how much influence I am returning to the writing world and if I might be providing inspiration to others without even recognising it.

            One can dream; an idea encourage by my degree, but they are already preaching to the converted. 

An Unwanted Superpower

Why should a writer hide away when they can use their influence for good?

            Their work can prompt a shift in the social canvas, challenge old ideas and bring about awareness for new issues. Although Melvyn Burgess was slammed when his controversial book, Junk, was published, his delicate insight has changed previous misconceptions about drug addicts.

            Similarly, Jacqueline Wilson has also shed new light on domestic issues, mainly through the viewpoint of teenage girls. Her characters have struck a chord with readers who recognise their own reality within the pages. They have stopped feeling isolated and have become empowered instead.

            Terry Pratchett’s public battle with Alzheimer’s has allowed him to single-handedly reduce the stigma previously attached to the disease. As seen in this article, he’s reversed the negative aspect of contracting the disease, to positively raise awareness and fight against it.

            Many writers make monetary donations to their chosen charities, JM Barrie’s support of Great Ormond Street Hospital being a prime example. This could be done anonymously of course, but then there would be no one to admire. There is not much personality to just a name.  By having a public persona, they become positive role models, not only to future writers but to humans in general. I for one think it’s nice to have role models that are not revered purely due to their looks.

            Writers deserve to be recognised for their talents and have a collection of fans. On the other hand, they hold a responsibility to use their powers for the forces of good.  

Disagree

You walk into a book shop, a charity shop even, and pick up a book. For me, it’s not the author you take note of first, but the title of the story and the cover design. The author has a snippet either at the back or front of the book, outlining their prior achievements. On the first page of my copy of Cheever’s stories, his alcoholism and struggles with sexuality are not mentioned and they don’t need to be.

            We are “students of the pen” as my friend, Miss Hobbs, so elegantly puts it, and we have a habit of seeking out authorial information. We turn our Sherlock-esque magnifying glass onto a chosen text and sniff out contexts like bloodhounds. But we are in the minority for doing so. Reading for enjoyment means reading the story as it is in front of you, not reading because an interest in the author drives you to. That may come later with a quick Google search, like you do when you watch a movie and you want to know what else the main character has been in, or how old they are.

            An author’s flaw might be echoed in one of their characters, but this isn’t detracting. It’s purely using personal experience in an imaginative sense to create a well-rounded and believable character. I don’t think of the man Cheever as I read his stories. I’m too enraptured by his wonderful wording and encapsulating symbolism. I have no care for the author, purely a selfish interest in their work. 

No hope please, we're British

John Cheever’s characters are active. Evarts Malloy has seized the opportunity of having his play published with both hands, rushing off to New York with wild abandonment. Similarly, Neddy Merrill begun his quest across the pools in his neighbourhood in earnest. He sticks with it, through the struggles and even when he starts to realise that the eventual outcome may not be the desirable one.

            There is a naive optimism shown in many of Cheever’s characters. The degree of hope that clings to that founding idea in America that hard work can conquer anything. Whether that work involves persuading one’s brother to lighten up or yearning to be the perfect family, America is a nation that is continually striving and Cheever’s characters reflect this.

            British characters, on the other hand, are passive, seeking the familiar norm wherever possible. The Darling family return to their home comforts, despite their fantastical adventures in Neverland. Bilbo Baggins is reluctant to leave at all. The Pevensie children go back through the wardrobe. They all have an air of cautiousness around them so common in British culture. The protagonists are rarely go-getters, more likely to be hesitant underdogs who carry on throughout the conflict by sheer will of clinging on.

            And food. That’s what makes British stories. Feasts in the Great Hall, tea with Mr Tumnus or hot breakfast at 221B Baker Street before a day of investigatory work. And lashing and lashings of ginger beer. 

Everything But The Truth

I wonder if the tale of Harry Potter would hold the same excitement if we all deemed Hogwarts to be a real place. I wonder if Emily Dickinson’s poems would be as intriguing if they were a true recollection of her life. I wonder if truth and realism has any place in fiction at all.

           

            Escapism is a key reason to read. We read to forget the mundane reality and fall into unrealistic yet thrilling worlds. If our favourite stories only featured the bland truth of our lives, why would you bother to read them? The truth can be a harsh mistress. It would be impossible for Sleeping Beauty to be revived by a kiss, doctors would have eventually turned off her life support. Why kind of comforting bedtime story is that? I like stories that feature optimistic hope, as so often, true life can be just the opposite.

           

            Elements of truth can be engaging; the quest to find the identity of Dickinson’s “master” a case in point. But if every tale followed the moral code of truth, then there would be no story. Juliet would have attended Romeo’s funeral, attended bereavement counselling and then attended a speed dating evening. Truth cannot elbow its way into fiction. The space is already filled by romantic naivety, hopeless daydreaming and the love of an unrealistic happy ending. Just the way it should be. 

How is it that I became a writer?

I became a writer because my overactive imagination needed an outlet. At bedtime, it would be fed with pages from Dahl, Blyton, King-Smith and later, Rowling, Skidmore and Wilson. I would read for hours, dividing my after school time between being hunched over a book or hunched over my beloved GameBoy Advance. Books influenced me so much that by the time I was eight, I wanted to be a vet, due to the envy of Mandy’s lifestyle in the Animal Ark series. Then we watched Animal Hospital on Thursday nights and I didn’t want to be a vet anymore.

            I bought pretty notepads with my pocket money and filled them with scribbled, unending stories. But that didn’t matter that they had no end, no plot, no character arc. They were adventures and made me excited to put pen to paper. When I had the opportunity to write stories for homework, I took it very seriously. Selecting my best pen and positioning myself at the dining room table, I would concoct wondrous worlds of dragons and fairies. I always got a gold star sticker for those assignments.

            The continual praise for my writing as I went through school added fuel to the fire.  My passion grew and took hold of my decision making. Choices became geared to whatever would assist my writing career and they were the right choices. I will have a blissful life indeed if I can play imaginary games for a living. The hard part is writing them down.