Let’s start with this passage from the science fiction novel Babel-17 by Samuel R. Delany…
She said something unprintable. When she finished there were tears starting on her lower lids. “What I want to say, what I want to express, I just…” Again she shook her head. “I can’t say it.”
“If you want to keep growing as a poet, you’ll have to.”
She nodded. “Mocky, up till a year ago, I didn’t even realize I was just saying other people’s ideas. I thought they were my own.”
“Every young writer who’s worth anything goes through that. That’s when you learn your craft.”
“And now I have things to say that are all my own. They’re not what other people have said before, put in an original way. And they’re not just violent contradictions of what other people have said, which amounts to the same thing. They’re new, and I’m scared to death.”
“Every young writer who becomes a mature writer has to go through that.”
I think this is almost entirely true.
The “almost” comes in the form of young writers who do indeed have new ideas, something new to say. I feel like that happens more often than Mr. Delany seems to assume here, but still, yes…
Writing is something we get better at, and not because we age, or as we age, but as Delany said, as we mature—if, that is, we allow ourselves to mature. Unfortunately not everyone does. That makes the idea of “a mature writer” a tricky one.
Is it as simple as an accumulation of wisdom—whatever that word even means anymore? Or is it simpler than that? In her essay “The Power of Detail” in Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg wrote:
Our lives are at once ordinary and mythical. We live and die, age beautifully or full of wrinkles. We wake in the morning, buy yellow cheese, and hope we have enough money to pay for it. At the same instant we have these magnificent hearts that pump through all sorrow and all winters we are alive on the earth. We are important and our lives are important, magnificent really, and their details are worthy to be recorded. This is how writers must think, this is how we must sit down with pen in hand. We were here; we are human beings; this is how we lived.
Might a more mature author simply have a bigger set of lived experiences to draw from? A larger group of friends, acquaintances, coworkers, brief encounters… children and grandchildren… from which to draw upon for characters, for offhand remarks, for slang, for jokes, anecdotes, and tragedies? Hirose Tonso seemed to say as much in the 19th century…
People nowadays love writing up the smallest, most vulgar details, thinking these are what “real” is all about. What I take to be “real” though is something else: the actual situations and real emotions of people narrated with no ornament. Young writers today will sketch out the hazards of infirmity and old age, or concentrate on representing mountain landscapes even while they toil daily as public officials.
What results is something they have neither seen with their own eyes nor felt within their hearts: nothing more than rote imitation of words by the ancients. In such cases, even if they’ve represented a scene precisely as if one had seen it, the effect is no different from an actor dressed up in costumes. How can you say this is what’s “real”?
If we can call all the accumulation of real life experiences, books read and written, tragedies endured, as so on “wisdom,” is that actually a good thing? Is there such a thing as too much wisdom? In “Poetry has lost its violence,” Justin E. H. Smith wrote:
Life grows less eventful as we age, and the gap between our quotidian experience and the heroic register into which we spent our youth projecting ourselves only seems to widen.
I can relate to that. My life is definitely “less eventful” now than it was in, say, my twenties—and you couldn’t pay me to go back. I’d hate to have to gather all that wisdom all over again.
But hey, younger writers, never fear—you will gather wisdom whether you damn well like it or not. If you keep your eyes and ears and mind open and keep reading, living, and writing, you might just hit that terrifying place where you realize you’ve got something original to say. How old will you be when that happens?
I haven’t the slightest idea. But didn’t Fran Lebowitz say it best?
Think before you speak. Read before you think. This will give you something to think about that you didn’t make up yourself—a wise move at any age, but most especially at seventeen, when you are in the greatest danger of coming to annoying conclusions.
And yeah, I will turn sixty-two this year so I think about shit like this now.
—Philip Athans
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