Kurt VonÂnegut had many endearÂing qualÂiÂties, one being that he liked to travÂel to uniÂverÂsiÂties where he delivÂered a talk called “How To Get A Job Like Mine.” The subÂstance, howÂevÂer, was always difÂferÂent, and the conÂverÂsaÂtion often didÂn’t focus on the writÂing life, or anyÂthing like it. The talk was realÂly a vesÂsel for whatÂevÂer hapÂpened to be on VonÂnegut’s mind, and it probÂaÂbly wasÂn’t uncomÂmon for him to meanÂder through his talk, as he did here, then pause and say, “Now, let’s see what the hell else I’ve got here. Where did I even start? I don’t know.”
The talk will give you a glimpse into the quirky perÂsonÂalÂiÂty that was VonÂnegut’s, some non sequiturs on sex & genÂder, anecÂdotes about his uncle Alex, and then a few heartÂfelt thoughts on the life worth livÂing. EvenÂtuÂalÂly, we finalÂly get to writÂing, or someÂthing remoteÂly approachÂing it. VonÂnegut was known for givÂing a humorÂous spiel on the “shape” or “blueÂprint” of the stoÂry, explainÂing what Kafka’s MetaÂmorÂphoÂsis, ShakeÂspeare’s HamÂlet and CinÂderelÂla all have in comÂmon. If you want to zero in on that famous bit, feel free to jump ahead. But be warned that you’ll be missÂing a lot of sweet ranÂdomÂness and good fun.
Like felÂlow genre icon Stephen King, Ray BradÂbury has reached far beyond his estabÂlished audiÂence by offerÂing writÂing advice to anyÂone who puts pen to paper. (Or keys to keyÂboard; “Use whatÂevÂer works,” he often says.) In this 2001 keynote address at Point Loma Nazarene UniÂverÂsiÂty’s Writer’s SymÂpoÂsium By the Sea, BradÂbury tells stoÂries from his writÂing life, all of which offer lessons on how to hone the craft. Most of these have to do with the day-in, day-out pracÂtices that make up what he calls “writÂing hygiene.” Watch this enterÂtainÂingÂly digresÂsive talk and you might pull out an entireÂly difÂferÂent set of points, but here, in list form, is how I interÂpret BradÂbury’s proÂgram:
Don’t start out writÂing novÂels. They take too long. Begin your writÂing life instead by crankÂing out “a hell of a lot of short stoÂries,” as many as one per week. Take a year to do it; he claims that it simÂply isn’t posÂsiÂble to write 52 bad short stoÂries in a row. He waitÂed until the age of 30 to write his first novÂel, FahrenÂheit 451. “Worth waitÂing for, huh?”
You may love ’em, but you can’t be ’em. Bear that in mind when you inevitably attempt, conÂsciousÂly or unconÂsciousÂly, to imiÂtate your favorite writÂers, just as he imiÂtatÂed H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, Arthur Conan Doyle, and L. Frank Baum.
ExamÂine “qualÂiÂty” short stoÂries. He sugÂgests Roald Dahl, Guy de MauÂpasÂsant, and the lessÂer-known Nigel Kneale and John ColÂlier. AnyÂthing in the New YorkÂer today doesÂn’t make his cut, since he finds that their stoÂries have “no metaphor.”
Stuff your head. To accuÂmuÂlate the intelÂlecÂtuÂal buildÂing blocks of these metaphors, he sugÂgests a course of bedÂtime readÂing: one short stoÂry, one poem (but Pope, ShakeÂspeare, and Frost, not modÂern “crap”), and one essay. These essays should come from a diverÂsiÂty of fields, includÂing archaeÂolÂoÂgy, zoolÂoÂgy, biolÂoÂgy, phiÂlosÂoÂphy, polÂiÂtics, and litÂerÂaÂture. “At the end of a thouÂsand nights,” so he sums it up, “Jesus God, you’ll be full of stuff!”
Get rid of friends who don’t believe in you. Do they make fun of your writerÂly ambiÂtions? He sugÂgests callÂing them up to “fire them” withÂout delay.
Live in the library. Don’t live in your “godÂdamn comÂputÂers.” He may not have gone to colÂlege, but his insaÂtiable readÂing habits allowed him to “gradÂuÂate from the library” at age 28.
Fall in love with movies. PreferÂably old ones.
Write with joy. In his mind, “writÂing is not a seriÂous busiÂness.” If a stoÂry starts to feel like work, scrap it and start one that doesÂn’t. “I want you to envy me my joy,” he tells his audiÂence.
Don’t plan on makÂing monÂey. He and his wife, who “took a vow of poverÂty” to marÂry him, hit 37 before they could afford a car (and he still nevÂer got around to pickÂing up a license).
List ten things you love, and ten things you hate. Then write about the forÂmer, and “kill” the latÂer — also by writÂing about them. Do the same with your fears.
Just type any old thing that comes into your head. He recÂomÂmends “word assoÂciÂaÂtion” to break down any creÂative blockÂages, since “you don’t know what’s in you until you test it.”
RememÂber, with writÂing, what you’re lookÂing for is just one perÂson to come up and tell you, “I love you for what you do.” Or, failÂing that, you’re lookÂing for someÂone to come up and tell you, “You’re not nuts like peoÂple say.”
Today is the 110th birthÂday of writer John SteinÂbeck, whose great novÂel of the 1930s, The Grapes of Wrath, gives an eloÂquent and symÂpaÂthetÂic voice to the disÂposÂsessed. In 1962, SteinÂbeck was awardÂed the Nobel Prize in LitÂerÂaÂture “for his realÂisÂtic and imagÂiÂnaÂtive writÂings, comÂbinÂing as they do symÂpaÂthetÂic humour and keen social perÂcepÂtion.” You can watch him delivÂer his Nobel speech above.
And for insights into how SteinÂbeck reached that pinÂnaÂcle, you can read a colÂlecÂtion of his obserÂvaÂtions on the art of ficÂtion from the Fall, 1975 ediÂtion of The Paris Review, includÂing six writÂing tips jotÂted down in a letÂter to a friend the same year he won the Nobel Prize. “The folÂlowÂing,” SteinÂbeck writes, “are some of the things I have had to do to keep from going nuts.”
1. AbanÂdon the idea that you are ever going to finÂish. Lose track of the 400 pages and write just one page for each day, it helps. Then when it gets finÂished, you are always surÂprised.
2. Write freely and as rapidÂly as posÂsiÂble and throw the whole thing on paper. NevÂer corÂrect or rewrite until the whole thing is down. Rewrite in process is usuÂalÂly found to be an excuse for not going on. It also interÂferes with flow and rhythm which can only come from a kind of unconÂscious assoÂciÂaÂtion with the mateÂrÂiÂal.
3. ForÂget your genÂerÂalÂized audiÂence. In the first place, the nameÂless, faceÂless audiÂence will scare you to death and in the secÂond place, unlike the theÂater, it doesÂn’t exist. In writÂing, your audiÂence is one sinÂgle readÂer. I have found that someÂtimes it helps to pick out one person–a real perÂson you know, or an imagÂined perÂson and write to that one.
4. If a scene or a secÂtion gets the betÂter of you and you still think you want it–bypass it and go on. When you have finÂished the whole you can come back to it and then you may find that the reaÂson it gave trouÂble is because it didÂn’t belong there.
5. Beware of a scene that becomes too dear to you, dearÂer than the rest. It will usuÂalÂly be found that it is out of drawÂing.
6. If you are using dialogue–say it aloud as you write it. Only then will it have the sound of speech.
“As you write,” SteinÂbeck says, “trust the disÂconÂnecÂtions and the gaps. If you have writÂten what your eye first saw and you are stopped, see again. See someÂthing else. Take a leap to anothÂer image. Don’t require of yourÂself that you underÂstand the conÂnecÂtion. Some of the most brilÂliant things that hapÂpen in ficÂtion occur when the writer allows what seems to be a disÂconÂnectÂed image to lead him or her away from the line that was being takÂen.”
Here’s one way to become a betÂter writer. LisÂten to the advice of writÂers who earn their daiÂly bread with their pens. DurÂing the past week, lists of writÂing comÂmandÂments by HenÂry Miller, Elmore Leonard (above) and William Safire have buzzed around TwitÂter. (Find our TwitÂter stream here.) So we decidÂed to colÂlect them and add tips from a few othÂer vetÂerÂans — nameÂly, George Orwell, MarÂgaret Atwood, and Neil Gaiman. Here we go:
1. Work on one thing at a time until finÂished.
2. Start no more new books, add no more new mateÂrÂiÂal to “Black Spring.”
3. Don’t be nerÂvous. Work calmÂly, joyÂousÂly, reckÂlessÂly on whatÂevÂer is in hand.
4. Work accordÂing to the proÂgram and not accordÂing to mood. Stop at the appointÂed time!
5. When you can’t creÂate you can work.
6. Cement a litÂtle every day, rather than add new ferÂtilÂizÂers.
7. Keep human! See peoÂple; go places, drink if you feel like it.
8. Don’t be a draught-horse! Work with pleaÂsure only.
9. DisÂcard the ProÂgram when you feel like it–but go back to it the next day. ConÂcenÂtrate. NarÂrow down. Exclude.
10. ForÂget the books you want to write. Think only of the book you are writÂing.
11. Write first and always. PaintÂing, music, friends, cinÂeÂma, all these come afterÂwards.
1. NevÂer use a metaphor, simÂiÂle, or othÂer figÂure of speech which you are used to seeÂing in print.
2. NevÂer use a long word where a short one will do.
3. If it is posÂsiÂble to cut a word out, always cut it out.
4. NevÂer use the pasÂsive where you can use the active.
5. NevÂer use a forÂeign phrase, a sciÂenÂtifÂic word, or a jarÂgon word if you can think of an everyÂday EngÂlish equivÂaÂlent.
6. Break any of these rules soonÂer than say anyÂthing outÂright barÂbarous.
MarÂgaret Atwood (origÂiÂnalÂly appeared in The Guardian)
1. Take a penÂcil to write with on aeroÂplanes. Pens leak. But if the penÂcil breaks, you can’t sharpÂen it on the plane, because you can’t take knives with you. ThereÂfore: take two penÂcils.
2. If both penÂcils break, you can do a rough sharpÂenÂing job with a nail file of the metÂal or glass type.
3. Take someÂthing to write on. Paper is good. In a pinch, pieces of wood or your arm will do.
4. If you’re using a comÂputÂer, always safeÂguard new text with a ÂmemÂoÂry stick.
5. Do back exerÂcisÂes. Pain is disÂtractÂing.
6. Hold the readÂer’s attenÂtion. (This is likeÂly to work betÂter if you can hold your own.) But you don’t know who the readÂer is, so it’s like shootÂing fish with a slingÂshot in the dark. What ÂfasÂciÂnates A will bore the pants off B.
7. You most likeÂly need a theÂsaurus, a rudiÂmenÂtaÂry gramÂmar book, and a grip on realÂiÂty. This latÂter means: there’s no free lunch. WritÂing is work. It’s also gamÂbling. You don’t get a penÂsion plan. OthÂer peoÂple can help you a bit, but ÂessenÂtialÂly you’re on your own. ÂNobody is makÂing you do this: you chose it, so don’t whine.
8. You can nevÂer read your own book with the innoÂcent anticÂiÂpaÂtion that comes with that first deliÂcious page of a new book, because you wrote the thing. You’ve been backÂstage. You’ve seen how the rabÂbits were smugÂgled into the hat. ThereÂfore ask a readÂing friend or two to look at it before you give it to anyÂone in the pubÂlishÂing busiÂness. This friend should not be someÂone with whom you have a ÂromanÂtic relaÂtionÂship, unless you want to break up.
9. Don’t sit down in the midÂdle of the woods. If you’re lost in the plot or blocked, retrace your steps to where you went wrong. Then take the othÂer road. And/or change the perÂson. Change the tense. Change the openÂing page.
10. Prayer might work. Or readÂing ÂsomeÂthing else. Or a conÂstant visualÂisation of the holy grail that is the finÂished, pubÂlished verÂsion of your resplenÂdent book.
1. Write.
2. Put one word after anothÂer. Find the right word, put it down.
3. FinÂish what you’re writÂing. WhatÂevÂer you have to do to finÂish it, finÂish it.
4. Put it aside. Read it preÂtendÂing you’ve nevÂer read it before. Show it to friends whose opinÂion you respect and who like the kind of thing that this is.
5. RememÂber: when peoÂple tell you someÂthing’s wrong or doesÂn’t work for them, they are almost always right. When they tell you exactÂly what they think is wrong and how to fix it, they are almost always wrong.
6. Fix it. RememÂber that, soonÂer or latÂer, before it ever reachÂes perÂfecÂtion, you will have to let it go and move on and start to write the next thing. PerÂfecÂtion is like chasÂing the horiÂzon. Keep movÂing.
7. Laugh at your own jokes.
8. The main rule of writÂing is that if you do it with enough assurÂance and conÂfiÂdence, you’re allowed to do whatÂevÂer you like. (That may be a rule for life as well as for writÂing. But it’s defÂiÂniteÂly true for writÂing.) So write your stoÂry as it needs to be writÂten. Write it ÂhonÂestÂly, and tell it as best you can. I’m not sure that there are any othÂer rules. Not ones that matÂter.
William Safire (the author of the New York Times MagÂaÂzine colÂumn “On LanÂguage”)
1. RememÂber to nevÂer split an infiniÂtive.
2. The pasÂsive voice should nevÂer be used.
3. Do not put stateÂments in the negÂaÂtive form.
4. Verbs have to agree with their subÂjects.
5. ProofÂread careÂfulÂly to see if you words out.
6. If you reread your work, you can find on rereadÂing a great deal of repÂeÂtiÂtion can be by rereadÂing and editÂing.
7. A writer must not shift your point of view.
8. And don’t start a senÂtence with a conÂjuncÂtion. (RememÂber, too, a prepoÂsiÂtion is a terÂriÂble word to end a senÂtence with.)
9. Don’t overuse exclaÂmaÂtion marks!!
10. Place proÂnouns as close as posÂsiÂble, espeÂcialÂly in long senÂtences, as of 10 or more words, to their antecedents.
11. WritÂing careÂfulÂly, danÂgling parÂticiÂples must be avoidÂed.
12. If any word is impropÂer at the end of a senÂtence, a linkÂing verb is.
13. Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixÂing metaphors.
14. Avoid trendy locuÂtions that sound flaky.
15. EveryÂone should be careÂful to use a sinÂguÂlar proÂnoun with sinÂguÂlar nouns in their writÂing.
16. Always pick on the corÂrect idiom.
17. The adverb always folÂlows the verb.
18. Last but not least, avoid clichÂes like the plague; seek viable alterÂnaÂtives.
Let’s let The Paris Review give you the backÂstoÂry:
In 1963, a sixÂteen-year-old San Diego high school stuÂdent named Bruce McAlÂlisÂter sent a four-quesÂtion mimeoÂgraphed surÂvey to 150 well-known authors of litÂerÂary, comÂmerÂcial, and sciÂence ficÂtion. Did they conÂsciousÂly plant symÂbols in their work? he asked. Who noticed symÂbols appearÂing from their subÂconÂscious, and who saw them arrive in their text, unbidÂden, creÂatÂed in the minds of their readÂers? When this hapÂpened, did the authors mind?
EarÂliÂer this month JenÂnifer Egan, the newÂly-mintÂed Pulitzer Prize winÂner, paid a visÂit to Google to talk about A VisÂit from the Goon Squad, her experÂiÂmenÂtal novÂel that won the Pulitzer, among many othÂer awards. That’s the ostenÂsiÂble focus. But the conÂverÂsaÂtion moves quickÂly into othÂer areas that will interÂest writÂers and readÂers alike — how Egan first develÂops ideas for her novÂels, why she writes her first drafts in illegÂiÂble handÂwritÂing on legal pads, why she wrote a chapÂter of her new novÂel in PowÂerÂPoint (withÂout ever havÂing used the softÂware before), what her novÂel has in comÂmon with The Who’s QuadropheÂnia (I’m hooked), and how techÂnolÂoÂgy might change the novÂel as we know it.
In late 1920, the Dadaist writer TrisÂtan Tzara wrote “dada manÂiÂfesto on feeÂble love and bitÂter love,” which includÂed a secÂtion called “To Make a Dadaist Poem,” and it gave these instrucÂtions:
Take a newsÂpaÂper.
Take some scisÂsors.
Choose from this paper an artiÂcle of the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the artiÂcle.
Next careÂfulÂly cut out each of the words that makes up this artiÂcle and put them all in a bag.
Shake genÂtly.
Next take out each cutÂting one after the othÂer.
Copy conÂsciÂenÂtiousÂly in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemÂble you.
And there you are — an infiÂniteÂly origÂiÂnal author of charmÂing senÂsiÂbilÂiÂty, even though unapÂpreÂciÂatÂed by the vulÂgar herd.
Decades latÂer, the Beat writer William S. BurÂroughs took this basic conÂcept and put his own twist on it. Between 1961 and 1964, BurÂroughs pubÂlished The Nova TrilÂoÂgy, a series of three experÂiÂmenÂtal novÂels fashÂioned with his own cut-up method. Often conÂsidÂered his definÂiÂtive work of cut-up writÂing, The Soft Machine, the first novÂel in the trilÂoÂgy, stitched togethÂer pages from a series of manÂuÂscripts that BurÂroughs himÂself wrote between 1953 and 1958.
You can watch BurÂroughs demonÂstratÂing his cut-up techÂnique above, and forÂevÂer find this clip in our colÂlecÂtion of CulÂturÂal Icons, which lets you see great writÂers, filmÂmakÂers, and thinkers talkÂing in their own words.
If you would like to supÂport the misÂsion of Open CulÂture, conÂsidÂer makÂing a donaÂtion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your conÂtriÂbuÂtions will help us conÂtinÂue proÂvidÂing the best free culÂturÂal and eduÂcaÂtionÂal mateÂriÂals to learnÂers everyÂwhere. You can conÂtribute through PayÂPal, PatreÂon, and VenÂmo (@openculture). Thanks!
ThouÂsands of pubÂlic school teachÂers won’t be returnÂing to the classÂroom this fall, thanks to budÂget cuts nationÂwide. And that means more than a few Jay Criche’s won’t get the chance to tap the hidÂden talÂents of young stuÂdents. Jay Criche, in case you’re wonÂderÂing, taught EngÂlish at Lake ForÂest High School and countÂed Dave Eggers (A HeartÂbreakÂing Work of StagÂgerÂing Genius and What Is the What) as one of his stuÂdents. Criche passed away recentÂly, and, writÂing in Salon, Eggers rememÂbers his teacher’s deep influÂence:
He was kind to me, but I had no sense that he took parÂticÂuÂlar notice of me. There were othÂer, smarter kids in the class, and soon I fell back into my usuÂal posiÂtion — of thinkÂing I was just a litÂtle over averÂage in most things. But near the end of the semesÂter, we read “MacÂbeth.” Believe me, this is not an easy play to conÂnect to the lives of subÂurÂban high schoolÂers, but someÂhow he made the play seem elecÂtric, danÂgerÂous, relÂeÂvant. After proÂcrasÂtiÂnatÂing till the night before it was due, I wrote a paper about the play — the first paper I typed on a typeÂwriter — and turned it in the next day.
I got a good grade on it, and below the grade Mr. Criche wrote, “Sure hope you become a writer.” That was it. Just those six words, writÂten in his sigÂnaÂture handÂwritÂing — a bit shaky, but with a very steady baseÂline. It was the first time he or anyÂone had indiÂcatÂed in any way that writÂing was a career option for me. We’d nevÂer had any writÂers in our famÂiÂly line, and we didÂn’t know any writÂers perÂsonÂalÂly, even disÂtantÂly, so writÂing for a livÂing didÂn’t seem someÂthing availÂable to me. But then, just like that, it was as if he’d ripped off the ceilÂing and shown me the sky.
Over the next 10 years, I thought often about Mr. Criche’s six words. WhenÂevÂer I felt disÂcourÂaged, and this was often, it was those six words that came back to me and gave me strength. When a few instrucÂtors in colÂlege genÂtly and not-so-genÂtly tried to tell me I had no talÂent, I held Mr. Criche’s words before me like a shield. I didÂn’t care what anyÂone else thought. Mr. Criche, head of the whole damned EngÂlish departÂment at Lake ForÂest High, said I could be a writer. So I put my head down and trudged forÂward.
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