The term ‘abstract art’ is certainly from a different era, and although the term is still used today, what was once called ‘abstract art’ is now as much mainstream as any of the other ‘plastic arts’. What was once regarded as ‘abstract art’ is now simply ‘art’; and, similarly, these days to single out ‘atonal’ pieces — although the term ‘atonal’ does have a technical use — from contemporary music and thereby to indicate it is less than usual might be veering on eccentric.
So: could there, using the essence of ‘abstract’ as in, say, ‘abstract art’, be ‘abstract’ writing as in an ‘abstract novel’?
I am not here necessarily talking about ‘experimental writing’, although, I suppose, ‘abstract writing’ might be regarded as ‘experimental’. I have read accounts of ‘experimental writing’ — most recently, notably and ludicrously biographer Michael Reynold’s claim that Hemingway was ‘experimental’ and in Green Hills Of Africa ‘took writing to the fourth and fifth dimensions’ (and I have not idea what that might mean) — though I have not attempted to read much of it, and I have not been attracted to reading much more.
In fact, when I see that word ‘experimental’, I inwardly shudder and consider on or two things or both might be at play: here again someone is kidding himself on (or herself, though in this world, himself is far more likely) and that he/her won’t be short of acolytes all keen to praise the ‘experimental work’ and thereby stress their aesthetic chops.
Cynical ole’ me is inclined to see self-conscious claims by a writer that he is now attempting ‘experimentation’ in his writing as nothing more than a bid to cut a dash with the impressionable. As for occasional descriptions in the Sunday lit sups of an ‘experimental writer’, I suspects there’s a little more going one than just ‘talking about writing’.
There’s also this question: does someone with a mind to breaking free from hitherto conventional techniques and trying novel ways of creating her or his purposes and effects differ in any particular from being ‘experimental’? What if that writer doesn’t bother describing his or her work as ‘experimental’ and simply wants to get on with it? It’s a fine point I’m trying to make, but I think it’s a valid one.
Furthermore, the word ‘experimental’ does imply that the ‘experiments’ might or might not succeed. An added hurdle is that deciding whether an ‘experiment’ was a success is rather difficult: given that literary appreciation and judgment are wholly subjective — it’s not a question of adding six eggs to a bowl of another six, counting them up and confirming you now have a dozen eggs in your bowl — the view of one critic, academic or reader that this or that did or did not succeed is of no greater intrinsic value than that of others.
As I point out above, though, I am not here considering ‘experimental’ writing as such but what ‘abstract writing’ might be and trying to distinguish between the two. Certainly, ‘abstract’ writing need not necessarily be experimental, though it would certainly be seen as such, and no doubt the Sunday lit sup hacks would — if the writer is one in favour and has not fallen out with them — gush over ‘this fearless and dangerous attempt to breathe new life into contemporary literature’ or something fatuous along those lines.
. . .
Whether or not writing is ‘abstract’, I suggest there are certain imperatives that would have to be observed. First of all: don’t forget your reader. Don’t leave your reader behind. Keep in touch with your reader.
It seems to me ‘the reader’ is all too often taken for granted, but doing so is not just shortsighted and arrogant, but puts the cart well before the horse.
OK, the writer is crucial — of course he or she is: the work has to created in the first place. But ‘the reader’ is arguably equally, though not quite as obviously, important. Unless a piece of writinf is subsequently read by at least one reader, its existence tends to become a little pointless. Certainly, once completed it will now ‘exist’ — but would that even matter?
Along those lines I can never understand folk who say the verse they write is ‘only for themselves’. I don’t doubt I am missing something here — I tend to miss a great deal — but if that is the case I would quite like someone to tell me what. I write first and foremost because I enjoy writing — it’s pretty much why I do it (and have even written a poem about ‘writing verse’ which you can read below).
As for being ‘engaged’ or ‘entertained’, I’m sure you know what I mean by being ‘engaged’. As for being ‘entertained’, that is intended to be understood in a rather broader way than usual. Let me provide an analogy. When we have friends around for a meal or a drink, we are said to ‘entertain’ them, and the meaning of the word in that sense is rather different to what many might take it to mean: some lad or lass warbling a song, performing conjuring tricks, telling jokes and so on. So so a writer ‘entertaining’ a reader is rather as a host might ‘entertain’ a guest.
The analogy is useful in another way: the host and guest both have ‘obligations’ and ‘privileges’ (and if I could at this point use other words, I would — please don’t take those two words too literally and ‘murder to dissect’); and similarly, I suggest, do the writer and the reader.
By ‘being the host’ one is obliged to put oneself out a little, provide, perhaps at some cost, food and drink to treat the guest as ‘honoured’, let him or her feel your home is their home, make sure they feel welcomed and so on.
But the host is also entitled to expect his or her guests — and these are the guests’ ‘obligations’ in return for the hospitality — to behave themselves (not steal the cutlery or get so drunk as to puke all over you carpet and generally not to misbehave). Crucially, both host and guest must make a little effort.
Such ‘entertaining’ is a two-way and symbiotic relationship, and I feel the analogy does reasonable service in describing the relationship between the writer and reader, the composer or performer and listener, the painter or sculptor and viewer and so on.
But please let me repeat: the above is merely analogy, not some sodding holy writ! It is intended as a possible way of looking at the matter in hand, and there are surely many others. I repeat, don’t, as the man said, ‘murder to dissect’.
As regards ‘the writer’ and ‘the reader’, I suggest that in what he or she writes, the writer is obliged in to provide the reader — in some way or other and there are no hard and fast rules — with the necessary ‘means’ or ‘clues’ to grasp what he/she is trying to do, trying to convey, what effect he/she is trying to achieve and so on.
What is intended to be conveyed and what effects are attempted can, of course, be anything, whatever the writer chooses — ‘art’ is surely one of the last areas in life where there are no rules of any kind.
Thus the writer is ‘obliged’ to treat the reader with a modicum of respect; in return he or she can assume the reader will apply a modicum of intelligence, intellect and taste to try to ‘comprehend’ what the writer is hoping to achieve and trying to do.
Thus — the inverse obligations — the reader must be prepared to put in a little intelligent effort and to ‘try a little’, on the assumption that if he or she does put in some effort, the work will ’succeed’.
. . .
Equally as important is that the reader is be carried along, made to feel still ‘part’ of the book and that his or her attention is needed. That is quite obviously as true of conventional literature as it might be of ‘abstract writing’ (and even ‘experimental writing’).
If some bod chooses then buys a thriller, a romance or an adventure yarn in a station bookshop to read on the train, starts reading and soon loses interest, that book might broadly be thought to have failed (and the publisher will duly take note and bear that in mind when the time comes to renew the writer’s contract).
It does, of course, very much depend upon the reader’s expectations and the book’s intentions. Some readers might soon give up and toss the book aside; others might give it more time but then also abandon the book.
Others still might for some reason continue giving the book benefit of doubt and carry on reading, putting a little trust in the writer; and having carried on reading, the book might eventually persuade them they were right to carry on. It is up to the writer to provide such readers with sufficient reason to give him or her the benefit of doubt and to justify the trust given.
As far as putative ‘abstract writing’ is concerned, that ‘trust’ would certainly not just be useful feature but pretty much essential.
Look at it this way: what you have read so far inclines you to carry on reading, even though you do not have the slightest clue as to what is going on. Somehow — and that ‘somehow’ will come down to how gifted (or even cynical) the writer is you have been persuaded you to do so and continue to be so persuaded: you are ‘engaged’ enough and feel you are being successfully ‘entertained’ that continuing to read on is easier and more welcome than giving up.
The longer such a piece of ‘abstract writing’ is, of course, the harder — the far, far harder — it would be to keep the reader on side, however much successful ‘engaging’ and ‘entertaining’ is going on. I can only speak for myself, but there are some books I look forward to carrying on reading. If nothing else, that book has ‘succeeded’ with me. Carrying on with other books might well be something of a chore: not quite as successful.
As for length (and as the lass says, it isn’t everything) we might well be prepared to read 500 words of what seems to us at first blush to be complete gobbledegook; we might even settle for attempting 1,000 or even 2,000 words.
But if the work is the length of a short novel, about 80,000 the task of gaining the reader’s trust and confidence that he or she is not completely wasting their time is immense. But that is not so say it is not possible.
The ‘abstraction’ could take any form, but that is the beauty of it all: there are no rules. The one, the only proviso is if it works, it works. If it doesn’t, well don’t kid yourself — try again and again or take up bricklaying or knitting with yoghurt.
I believe there is a third factor which might be important, not just with ‘abstract’ writing but with all fiction writing. Whatever you do, put the reader centre stage, for that is where the reader puts him and herself.
Whatever they might think, at the end of the day, they don’t give a flying fuck about you and your feelings and your history and your notions and all the rest (or those of your central character which, nine times out of ten is just the writer’s alter ego).
What they care about — and most will not even realise this — is that your feelings, history and notions resemble theirs: THEY want to be who YOU are writing about. Bear that in mind and you are more than halfway there. Each of us is the king or queen of the world as far as we are concerned.
. . .
If — and a huge if at that given that I’ve not even attempted much conventional writing — I ever try my hand at composing an ‘abstract novel’, I don’t yet have a title for it, but do have an opening line, which would also be the opening paragraph and opening chapter: ‘Where to start?’
But I have no idea what else I would write. And — well, I’m still not too convinced I’m not talking out of my arse (subs please check).
NB In 1939, one Ernest Vincent Wright published his novel Gadsby in which, he claimed, no word containing the letter E was used. Me, I can’t quite see the point of that. What I have in mind would be a little less whacky. In fact, I quite dislike gratuitous whackiness. Whackiness should always have a purpose, even though quite what that purpose is might not immediately be apparent.
Of course, there is always ‘abstract cooking’. If ‘abstract writing’ doesn’t catch on, I’ll give that a whirl. My mate tried ‘abstract driving’, but he was killed in a rather bad pile-up.
Some call it poetry
Why write verse (or, as some call it, poetry)?
It’s simpler than you think.
When I was very young,
then not so very young
then less very young than that
I talked a lot and would not, could not shut up
and silence from my corner of the room
was always valued and encouraged,
so rare it was.
‘All right now that’s enough’
was a constant refrain
‘now pipe down, please, just a little’
was another. But I did, could and would not listen.
My father complained more than once
’you’re for ever on transmit, my lad’
and made it very clear
it was not the preferred mode he wanted me to adopt.
But we are young just once,
just the once, then just the twice,
then just the thrice,
until, perhaps, two heart attacks, a little grief,
(some, though not all, of it romantic)
two parent deaths
(and the Lord knows what else)
drop the penny finally, and we wise up.
Wise up? You say ‘wise up’?
Was that ‘wise up’ as in ‘wise up’?
I did and do, but thereby I mean not
the ancient socratic or reputed
Far-Eastern kind of wisdom
of sitting still and staring into vacant space,
but just the simple kind,
the fact of not being quite as stupid
(or aloud) as once we were.
It happens, it does, you know.
It happens quite often, apparently
and it has happened to me.
I am not wise (no, leave wisdom to the fools),
but I am perhaps not quite as stupid as once I was
and I now appreciate
that as Bucolic of Wessex once observed
‘Less is more, dear boy, and more is less’.
Ah, so wise, so wise!
(Or, better, not quite as bloody stupid).
But old ways die hard and never die young,
and the yapping of which my father
more than once complained
when I was six and he was himself still young
has not been abandoned, no, just modified.
So still I yap, but no longer out aloud.
Now I yap on paper (so to speak)
and I write my verse
(or, as some call it, poetry).
