Leonard Bishop

Be careful how many sex scenes you use in the novel, and the type of sex scenes you allow the characters to experience.

Limiting contemporary writers to two or three lusty graphic sex scenes is not censorship or catering to priggish preferences. An uptight morality is not the issue. It is one of craft and function in writing. Merely because publishers and public tastes support sexual license in novels is no reason for a writer to use what is not useful in the novel.

The purpose of the sex scene is to change the lives of characters and their relationships. To cause conflicts, or to resolve them. To reveal depths in character that cannot be revealed through another type of action. In fiction a sexual interval is a situation of physical\emotional\intellectual pressure. It is unique. It is noticeable. It is dramatic.

Unless the writer strains to put the sexual participants through remarkably erotic logistics, what they are doing is only a repetition of what they have done before. “Oh well, the jokers are at it again.”

Readers hurry into becoming involved in all of what the characters are experiencing. Their ambitions, romances, successes and defeats. Their dangers, intrigues, violences, desires, etc. Although the reader escapes into the adventures of the novel, they know it is all make-believe. But when the sex scenes appear, the reader/character relationship changes. The writer is now touching the nervous, real-life depths of the reader.

If the reader’s personal sexual experiences are gratifying, then watching the characters perform is more amusing than arousing. If the reader’s sex life is miserable, then the sexual pleasures of the characters cause resentment. If the sexual unity of the characters is ugly, the reader becomes annoyed for two reasons. First, it mirrors their own sex life. Second, watching people suffer in a natural function is not pleasant.

If characters become extreme and their coupling is a muscle spraining calisthenic, the reader is distressed because they are too lazy or decrepit to duplicate the positions. They can’t find someone to join them in such an unconventional effort. If the sex is bland and without graphic emphasis, then it is mechanical and the reader thinks, “Come on, get on with the story, please.” The writer doesn’t have to invent new types of sex scenes-he must give a newness of meaning to each scene he writes.

Inexperienced writers should realize that the sexual practices, preferences, and performances of the reading public are not lofty or ideal. They are either grim, fearful, incompetent, dark with ignorance, perfunctory, painful with guilt and intimidation, unsanitary and hurried, exploiting and perverse. Only a minor percentage of readers are gratified by their own endeavors in the sexual realm. It is miraculous that humanity has not become an endangered species.

There are more sexual behavior manuals in every library than diet, physical fitness, or home repair books. These guides are sold in the millions. Not because of their effectiveness-but because readers are in constant search of sexual fulfillment, and are incurable hopers.

Readers are not dirty-minded voyeurs who read with one hand and indulge in vicarious sleaze. Most readers read to escape-not to be reminded or accused of what they are escaping from. There is a difference between the erotic and pornographic. Eroticism creates a delight and appreciation for the sensations expressed in your body. Pornography urges you to lunge at the first public object available.

Some Guides for how Sexual Scenes Should Be Used in Novel writing.

(A) They should not startle or be outstanding from the texture of the novel. They should be integral to its content.

(B) For the purpose of humiliating characters (brutality, indifference, etc.).

(C) To have characters manipulate each other through sexual guile, prowess, deceit.

(D) To offer insights into character that cannot be provoked through another, less exciting or dramatic activity.

(E) To provide character-relationship intimacy not achieved before.

(F) To offer inner revelations proving to the characters themselves that they are happily or unhappily mated

(G) For the purposes of duty propagation. “Yes, darling, tonight we begin our family.”

(H) To reveal genuine love.

(I) To overcome the fear of each other.

Whatever type of sex scene is used, if it does not further the story or change relationships, don’t use it. The graphics of sex should be of a secondary interest. It is the emotional\mental reason for having sex that should be explored. After the first subdued or volcanic sexual encounter, allow other sex scenes to happen “off scene”, as references. When another sex scene is vital to the novel, depict it-but again-only because it changes the people and furthers the story.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published November 30, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

One of the most important devices a writer uses is dialogue. Writing a novel without a plentiful amount of dialogue is like trying to create a gourmet omelet with yokeless eggs. To the reader, dialogue is just a flow of statement issuing from the characters. To the writer, dialogue contains many concealed functions which he must control and direct.

There are six basic functions for dialogue in fiction writing. (1) to inform.(2) to reveal attitudes.(3) to express responses.(4) to make inquiries.(5) to offer insight.(6) to change situations.

To inform: “I’m flying to Paris for some escargot – that’s snails.”

Attitudes: “Abe Lincoln was a repressive depressive, with bad teeth.”

Responses: “Don’t sniff at me. I just bathed and deodorized.”

Inquiry: “Is the governor really a child molester?”

Insight: “Charlie is rich, I agree. But he’s not intellectual.”

Changing situations: “You think I’m the killer, but I’m not. Start thinking about Gimpy. Remember Gimpy? Think on him.”

“Gimpy is dead. How can a dead man be a killer?”

“Who saw Gimpy die? Was Gimpy’s body ever found?”

“Hey, that’s right. Yeah. That changes things.”

If a writer is not gifted in creating dialogue that sounds authentic, keep it short. Brevity often covers up the writer’s deficiency. Do not keep the reader’s eye and ear on the dialogue for too long. Set yourself a rule: If the character speaks longer than four average sentences, he is delivering a speech. Have another character interrupt him with a question or contradict him, or add to his information. Break up this dialogue with an external description, or physical action.

Avoid the natural interjections of real speech.(Ahem, um, uh, but-but-but, etc). In the speech of fiction, they are cumbersome, annoying, and indicate either amateurism or negligence.

The sound and tone of dialogue (anger, resentment, command, plea, passion, etc.) is established by the descriptive prose that precedes it.

Example: He slammed his fist on the table, shouting, “Stop putting sugar in my coffee.” Or: She kicked off her shoes and giggled, “Prune juice gets me so sexy.” Or: Sunny’s lower lip quivered, “I didn’t stab the Canary, I swear.” Or: The preacher wept, “Sinners.”

The speaking of a character carries more conviction and immediacy than a description of what a character says. “I’m innocent!” Is stronger than “He declared that he was innocent.” Dialogue should be described only when the characters are revealing important information about themselves, or their circumstance. Described dialogue diminishes its value.

Example: Emma gripped the ships railing and said she would not move. Waves slammed against the hull, causing the yacht to buck. Jim stood beside her and said he would not leave her. He braced himself when he saw another wave coming towards them.

Described dialogue does not individualize or offer emphasis. It is not separated from the fixtures of the sea, the boat, the rail. What the characters are feeling and doing and saying and what is happening is blended. The description of dialogue is muted and always one second behind. Stated dialogue is instant, and visible.

Example: Jim stood beside Emma as she gripped the ship’s railing. “I’m standing here and I won’t move. Let the storm rage – let it!” Jim trembled. “All right, darling, I’ll stand here with you. We’ll drown together!” He braced himself when he saw another wave coming towards them.

Dialogue can be used for quick shifts from one character’s thoughts to what another character is thinking. The transition is not noticeable.

Example: Will knew his three aces would win the hand. Now Susie could see the orthodontist. He tossed in two blue chips. “I’ll raise it fifty.” Calvin shrugged. It wasn’t his money. He could always steal more. He pushed in two red chips. “I see the raise and up it a hundred.”

Dialogue can be used for preparing an action or an event that will happen later on: “I tell you that if we don’t get Jenny a new car, she will kill herself. She’s tried it four times before, you know.”

Dialogue can be used for returning characters into the past so the reader can know what happened before the novel began. (Background).

“Let me tell you what happened to me when I was 12 years old. You won’t believe it, but listen anyway.” (The writer describes the past).

There is seemingly idle use for dialogue. Lengthily described scenes can dull the reader’s vision. They become inclined to skim–thereby missing important details. To avoid this, the writer deliberately pulls the character’s voices from the scene, to make them speak. The dialogue breaks up the monotony of reading lengthy passages.

There are many more uses for dialogue than ever reach the reader’s ear.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published November 23, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

If the writer doesn’t write for his own Time, she is not ahead of her time, she is way behind. In this era the opening of the novel is the most important chapter that is written. Characters should be placed in critical situations that conflict with their interests you or welfare. There is no time to dawdle with lengthy “preparations for situation” to eventually emerge. The novel must begin immediately.

If this novel was being written in the 1920s up to the 1950s. The writer would open with the character sitting inside a train window thinking about his predicament. His background would be explored. How he met his wife, the birth of their children, his ambitions, why he desires the sexy young woman, etc. After 10 pages he would leave the train and drive home, and continue thinking. The writer is preparing the reader for a big scene.

An opening of that type, today, would not get past the first reader of any publishing house. A literary agent’s assistant would reject it. The opening chapter should begin with an incident that places the character under unique pressure – – causing him to behave dramatically.

The purpose of the opening chapter is to compel the reader to want to read further. While today’s reader may not be more literate than those of former eras, they either read more than those of a former era, or have more to read. With the prolific duration of television and other portable home entertainments, the public has become exceptionally visual and impatient. They want what they want when they want it – right at the opening.

An attitude that is obsolete is: if I tell what my novel is all about, right away, I will eliminate my chances for creating suspense. You interest the reader by what you reveal, not by what you promise reveal. Suspense, in fiction, is not created by evasion or elaborate preparations for a dramatic event. Suspense is gained from content that urges the reader to want more of that content – and still more.

The opening chapter begins with an event that moves the character and plot-line in a noticeable direction. (Arthur preparing to leave his wife.) Then an incident occurs that suggests the idea of a secondary plot. (A phone call that troubles Arthur.) The chapter returns to the original direction and still another incident occurs that opens up another secondary plot line. (His wife gives him a letter.) Then the chapter ends.

The writer has opened with the tense situation. As that action continues, he has planted another plot-line that complicates the action and reveals more about the character. As the chapter continues, he further complicates the action with another plot-line, revealing still more about the character. So much is happening in the first chapter that the writer has given himself material for a second and third chapter.

In the contemporary novel, the character development is accomplished while the character is performing the action. The writer does not first “character develop” and then produce an action. Nor does the writer stop the action to “character develop” and then continue the action. Characterization and action happen simultaneously. The dramatic pressure imposed on the character reveals his depth by what he does and how he responds to the crisis of conflict.

If there are changes in the tradition of writing, or in the general rules–they are established by the Time in which writing is being created. Writers can be as creative and artistic as they choose, but they must also be realistic. A novel is written to be paid for, published, and read. But if you can not get the reader to finish the first chapter, they will not begin the second chapter.

© 2013 the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published April 20, 1986 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

All unpublished writers, at some time, commit themselves to a foolish decision that ruins their publishing potential. They bring themselves to the threshold of “the deadline.” They decide, “I’ll give myself two years to write a novel. If I don’t complete it in that time, and have it published, I’ll quit writing.” The decision is impractical. The deadline is unreasonable. Such deadlines create unbearable pressure.

Being a writer is a wageless employment. His relationship with  “time productivity” is not the same as that of the and employed non-writer. While a writer may work the same amount of hours, he does not create a uniform product, with prescribed regularity. The writer rarely knows the amount or the quality of what he will create in a work day.

Nor are there any discernible signs that reveal when a writer should quit or continue.  One day he writes with a talent so lyrical and sweeping that it seems to pour from the end of a rainbow.  And the next day’s writing reads like it’s seeped from the inside of a yawn.  Some days he adores his work with such passion he creates an altar to its existence.  Other days his work leaves him with the taste of predigested spider webs. A writer lives on the see-saw of imponderables.

Nor can a writer rely upon the stability of publishers. Regardless of the quality of the writer’s novel, its publication depends upon current publishing trends. Well-written novels, completed at the wrong time, are unpublishable novels. The tastes and evaluations of publishers are as erratic as epileptic rats jiggling on hot griddle.

The “sex-romance” novel is in and the “super-spy” novel is out. Last year the “generational” novel did not sell as well as the “historical” or “panorama” novel. The first person novel has been over-published and the character novel is coming back. The introspective novel is obsolete. The big-city, corporate-intrigue novels are in demand. And what if you make your deadline and your novel is not of the fashionable ilk? Has it all come to an end for you? “Oh well, at least I tried.”

A deadline is a drastic imposition on your creative resources. It is a self-installed limitation. It does not allow for all the unpublishable writing that must be done before acquiring a personal structure of craft values. Prose experiments, character probes, runs of dialogue that will be condensed, speculative scenes, secondary conflicts within dominant conflicts, deliberate plot line diversions, etc. A deadline does not serve as a prod, but as a Nemesis.

There is an inherent discouragement existent in this self-imposed deadline. It is like assigning yourself to a diet to lose 50 pounds. With an accompanying resolve to maintain a slender figure all your life. Discouragement happens when you realize that for all your life you will deprive yourself of many loved foods.

You do not think of the diet as a “one-day-at-a-time” sacrifice of specific foods. You imagine your entire life without these foods. The realization drives you into eating those ruinous foods, now.

When the writer, like the dieter sees all at once, all that he will have to do and experience before meeting the deadline, it is a frightening expectation. He gives up–he just gives up.

The adage “Writers keep learning how to write,” is a lasting wisdom. The craft of writing is not complicated. It is only when the human complexity of the writer is coupled to the simplistic beauty of the craft that writing becomes difficult. Writing is a living experience, an evolving profession. When the growing writer makes demands on the static structures of the craft, he begins developing his content, his vision, his style.

This requires more time than the deadline allows.

A deadline is not lenient, or elastic. It does not provide time for a week-long cold, an abscessed tooth, or other physical disorders that require minor or major surgery. There are family obligations and distractions that must be considered.

A “make-it-or-quit” deadline can become a cruel stupidity. Your second novel may be the novel that startles society and brings you the wealth and fame you desire. But how can you write the second novel if you did not meet the deadline for your first novel? Establishing a deadline for the finishing of a novel is like putting a dried girdle on a constantly swelling elephant.

The clincher to all this comes with the fact that the writer is not experienced enough, in writing, to know how long his first novel will take. The only time a deadline serves as a prod, a necessary pressure, is when you are being paid to finish on time.

The hope to be a famous novelist is like a tiny voice buried in your core. You always want to be one, even if you do not work for its fulfillment. The belief that “I could’ve made it,” becomes an echo clattering about the caverns of your soul. Just before they lower you into the grave, you pop the coffin lid and shriek to the mourners, “If I hadn’t come up with that “make-it-or-quit” deadline I could’ve made it–real world blasting big!”

©2013 Estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published February 2, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

Fiction writers are alchemists. They draw together scraps of illusion and transform them into readable realities. Major characters must have size. Great ambitions, exaggerated passions, fascinating minds, superhuman capacities for love and hate, and monumental capabilities. If a major character is not heroic, why read about her? If villains are not superbly evil, they cannot experience excruciating defeats. If the villain is a push-over, then the hero is not exceptional. If the villain is merely a sly wimp, he is not a believable challenge for the hero.

Heroes and villains must have “size” and take great risks to achieve superlative goals. The separating factor is always revealed in the moral realm. They must be placed in at least four life-and-death situations, so their moral choices can be revealed. The hero always chooses the moral act proper for his Time. The morality of the villain proves to be episodic, concealing his inherent corruption.

The sooner the writer invents a circumstance that sets the hero and villain into a clash of purpose, the sooner the story becomes tense and exciting. It is through dramatic situations. peril, injury, violence, treachery, death, etc., that the stature of the characters grow. To create suspense and expectation in the plot, the villain should be winning the confrontations for about three quarters of the novel.

The villain should have more material resources, more contacts, an amoral ruthlessness and hatred. The hero is a veritable battering post which seems about to be irreparably shattered. The remaining quarter pivots the hero. Here she begins succeeding, to finally become victorious.

In the writing of fiction, there is a stark difference between heroism and being a hero–between villainy and being a villain.

Heroism can be a one-time action committed through impulse, panic, or in an contemplated decision. Being a hero is a sequence of conscious choices that increases a person into becoming extraordinary. Villainy can be a one-time act of destruction, committed through impulse, panic, or in human pressure. Being a villain is a sequence of destructive behaviors that are committed with conscious deliberation–usually for personal gain, revenge, or uncontrolled jealousy. In the writing of fiction, all heroes and villains should be complex people. If they are one-dimensional, they cannot bear up under intrigue or anticipated events. Their resources for remaining interesting become exhausted. If they are complex, they can always be dramatic and surprising.

©2013  the estate of Leonard Bishop

(first published February 9, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

I’m going to view what I write now, through a long-standing memory. Some will be about myself, some about what I have learned.

Until I was 18 years old I was just a street punk who only thought about surviving and keeping out of jail. I had no noticeable ambitions, no splendid hope. From the ages of 20 to about 24, I trained and worked as a draftsman to avoid a stint in the Army. When the war was over I drifted about the country as an itinerant worker and hobo. But wherever I was–waiting in a police station, eating hero sandwiches on a construction site, drying my socks at a fire in a hobo jungle–one phrase that everyone used was,” Hey, if I could only write, hey, the stories I could tell.”

I have just learned that the Manhattan Mercury has a large circulation. There are, in fact, thousands of people who read the “arts and leisure” section. They actually care about photography, paintings, opera, the theater,  jazz, and many of the cultural programs put on by the University and private groups. This information both startled and encouraged me. It supports my belief that there are thousands of people who are interested in becoming writers. If I appear obsessed or even seemed fanatic about writing, I am justified. Whatever saved my life is a valid philosophy, a humane endeavor. Whatever saved my life deserves attention and serious interest. Because though I am not an unusual or exceptional man, there is one extraordinary connection I have with all people, one that unites me with everyone. Whatever resurrects my life, whatever makes me happy, whatever provides me with purpose, must do the same for many other people.

There I was, hiding while the cops chased around looking for the thief. Alone and afraid. There I was pounding nails, fixing pipes, shoveling garbage, scrounging for food and working as a dumb muscle under conditions that would humiliate a donkey. Angry and exiled from the “respectable” people. While in my guts, in my lacerated soul, I cried,” I am nobody, and it hurts. Someone please look at me, know my name.”

Though I am changed now, the world is the same. Only the costuming of the year, the terminology, the mechanics have changed–the people are the same. They hurt from anonymity, they are dying from lack of expression, they are hating because they feel exiled. And if they live as they are living now, they will be evaporated like a  mist and their potential contribution, great or minor, will vanish with them. Over the years more than 1000 people have attended my classes  in writing, and have been changed, have been increased. It was not my classes–not me–that caused the changes it was their involvement with becoming writers. They opened themselves to themselves, then to other people, then to the world. They did not all become writers, but all who wrote became happier and better people.

The fragile became strong, the timid turn bold, the unloving risked giving themselves to be loved were fulfilled, the rejected found a place, the humorless gained laughter–the self-presumed dumb and crass regained their inherent intelligence and sensitivity, the lonely were no longer alone, this self-abased discovered worth through their accomplishment. While” writing” is not the panacea to all dilemmas and misery, it is a partial solution. It is a beginning. And all anyone needs for reviving their depressed, inarticulate lives, is a beginning. Most people do not write because they believe they cannot write. And this belief is founded not on proof but on presumption.

Nine tenths of all grief, inner ugliness, guilt, shame, hatred, violence, bodily ailments and spiritual aridity, emerges from a person’s inability to find self-expression. (Cramps soon ulcerate and become cancerous). This knowledge has been around since the first language was conceived. From organized religion to E. S. T. to  theatrics: the reciting of some mumbo-jumbo mantras and psychoanalysis and square-dancing, all are founded on the bringing out of self-expression. All encounter and confrontation groups, counseling services, and the full array of mind-screw schools of therapy, are based on the expression of self. But writing is more than that. It is giving yourself to other people, and many times you can earn money.

It has been suggested to me that I deal with the craft, technique, and general aspects of writing. I have not consulted my editor, Margaret Allen, about this. For all I know, she may dump all I have just written and demand that I titillate, amuse, and occasionally write something serious. Yet, if I can get this passed her astute eye and far-reaching know-how, I will happily respond, once a month to anyone who writes to the Manhattan Mercury about some difficulty, problem, or concerned that is involved with the accomplishment of writing. If I do not have the answer then I will correspond with other professional writers who may–and then pass them on to you.

I am just touched, deep within me, with the knowledge that as I wandered about searching for my “talent” and career, there are thousands of others who are in the same search. I thank God that the dark was not so overwhelming that I could not see some light.

(first Published  Sunday, December 9, 1984 the Manhattan Mercury)

©Leonard Bishop, 1984

Leonard Bishop

Writers are considered ‘intellectuals’ when, in reality, and they are ‘emotionalists.’ Intellectualism is provocative, but emotions are dramatic. Thought is a result of feeling. If someone flings the torch into your filled gasoline can, you do not first think about the inevitable chemical reaction. You get away, fast, and with feeling.

Writers use their thinking abilities to administrate what their feelings create. They feel the story, then think about. They respond to the emotional theatrics of the seeing, then think about how to arrange it into a readable drama. All writing is both feeling and thinking.

Which came first–the major creator (you) or the plot (some events in your life)? They both came first. They happen simultaneously, and they influence each other. Without a character, an event is merely an historical statistic. Without an event, a character is an inert personality.

Return to the model story-structure of a Red Riding Hood. The moment she goes on her errand, she is a character involved in an event. To bring out the depths in her character, you must put her under pressure. Without the pressure of circumstance, (a threat, a cause for fear,) she cannot reveal what she is feeling and thinking. Let her lose her way in the forest.

Every situation in which you place your character, (yourself,) you first explore the obvious reactions. Then, reveal the more intimate reactions. The obvious allows the reader to identify with the conditions. When the intimate reactions are described, the reader can then relate to the person. This helps the reader to participate and care about what is happening.

If Red Riding Hood gets lost in the forest, her obvious reaction will be panic. The reader can relate to that. If she decides to calm herself by eating one of her grandmother’s pastrami sandwiches, she is responding individually to her panic. While she is eating, you switch to the hungry wolf. He loves pastrami sandwiches. The aroma leads him to the girl. You have begun to set up another situation of danger for Red Riding Hood.

Major characters carry the novel. They should be complex. The plot-line is the sequence of events. They should be complicated. Complexity belongs to character because the longer you stay with her, the deeper she gets. Complication applies to events. One event leads to another and around and around it goes. Events fix characters into situations that cause them conflict. The conflict is any circumstance or person that thwarts the character from achieving success.

There are three types of conflicts:

1. The individual against society (an economic depression, an earthquake, social aggression against personal principles)
2. The individual against the individual (an enemy or enemies)
3. The individual against him or herself (a destructive trend in character that threatens the individuals goals and objectives)

As in the Red Riding Hood plot line, place your characters into situation after situation. The betrayal by a friend, the rejection by a female, a drunken driving accident, finding a lot of money, developing a physical deformity that estranges them from people. Each situation they overcome deepens them, but also provokes other, more complicated situations. Use your own experiences as the start. Then allow them to lead you and others.

The novel is simply the story of what happens to people and how it happens to them. In the process of unfolding the situations you devise, you cause clashes, conflicts, and changes in character. No one ends the same way they began. This ” Youth\Odyssey” novel is the most credible and readable novel anyone can write. It not only gives your past reality it never had before, but it enriches and offers perception into your present. You also give the readers depths and insights into the variousness of life, through your personal experience. But there is one more requirement.

You will never be a true writer unless you drive yourself lunatic by wondering if you have talent. Many splendid novels are never written because people do not believe they have the talent for writing. Yet consider this: if talent was essential for the writing of novels, then three quarters of what is written today would not be published. Talent is important, but passion and work is more important. You are self-employed, and the boss. You will never know if you have the talent for writing a novel if you peck and poke at writing, now and then. Talent appears over a substantial length of time. You are not talented today and untalented tomorrow. You are either always talented or not ever talented. But you will never know which you are, until you are bold enough to try.

©Leonard Bishop, 2013

(first published November 24, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

What I intend to say, and how I say it, are not always the same. I received a letter from a Mr. D. of Manhattan. He stated that my attitudes to “being a writer” were aggressive and cynical. I will agree to being aggressive, but not cynical. The tone of what I say often conceals the feeling with which I say it. Still, I finally answered Mr. D’s letter. He also made some statements about “being a writer.” What follows now are excerpts from my reply to Mr. D.

Mr. D writes: “I believe that great writing evolves naturally without forcing it.” My answer denied his belief.

“I don’t believe any writer deliberately writes great writing at all. He or she merely writes. Greatness is dumped, whacked, or blanketed upon them by a constituency of critics who happen to be around at the time the writer is published. You will find that nine-tenths of what is considered great writing is almost unreadable, in this time. Which defeats the mantle of “greatness” since if it is truly great it must transcend the centuries because of the vibrant universality of its content. Re-read the books you once considered great and you will experience a dreadful disappointment.

“If you are in fact, Mr. D., a writer, then you know it is a daily job. There is no glitter, no tinsel, no romance. It is what you do. The writer is engaged in craft not art. How do I get a character across the street? If I use introspection here, will it slow the action–and if it does, is the content of the introspection worth the interruption? Can I end this chapter with a “hanging moment” and begin the next chapter with a summary of what happened in the last chapter when I left it–and thus save unnecessary exposition and documentation? Is the setting more vivid than the action it is meant to authenticate?  And on and on.

“This is what writers do. They conceived through the abstract and use their senses of drama to bring it into the tangible experience. If they are concerned with “greatness” while they write, they are fools. If they are concerned with art while they write, they are equally foolhardy. They are, in the reality of experience, writing for their lives. And when they are done, it is no longer theirs. The strata of the society lays judgment on their work.

“In your letter, Mr. D., you seem to be dealing with “therapy” rather than creativity. A writer doesn’t find themselves in the writing. They are a self when they begin. I have lived through the ugliness, the pain, the despair that students reach when they try to write; when they keep writing; and I grieve for them. In whatever I write (a column, a review, my own work) or whenever I teach, I always indicate that writers write for two reasons only. For fame, and for wealth. I am perhaps lying through omission.

“They also write because they must fit themselves into their time. They are castoffs, malcontents, exiled–because they are talented. Because they are dramatic. Because they see in the common, the rare. The talent, that odd and alien vein that carries sweet and bubbly blood to their hearts, estranges them from the time in which they want to belong–and yet, not really belong, because it is oppressive; it is grinding; it is wrong. There are roses and they learn the petals are sour. There is a magic kiss and then the astonishment that all the teeth are loose.

“They write because they cannot fit into the world and they want to change it; or write to change their own lives so they need not fit into the world, and yet live. Yes, they want fame and wealth and awards, but they also want to touch what always seems unreal, and shape it into a reality they can live with.

“You write about “theme”… and I have come to despise the word because I have seen it mislead and corrupt so many talented writers. The theme is born into writers long before they bring a pen to paper. If they have to think of themes they are consciously limiting the expanse of their work. If what they write doesn’t have a multitude of themes then they have written a duty. You find the theme after you finish the work… People who are everyday writers do not think of themes, they think of craft, of sentences, of backgrounds, of drama… Whatever you write must be published, or it is not written. It is merely notated. That is a crass and hard fact, but it is not cynical. If it is not published it is not read. Writers are not some bone-heads, egg-heads or effete intellectuals who inhabit some esoteric dimension not open to the community of commons. They write to be published.

“What you say about writers entering a dark room when they begin, and they adjust to the darkness and become less fearful because there is nothing in the room that can harm them, is right. But you leave out a significant detail. Writers bring someone into the dark room with them–themselves. They bring in their restraint, their shame, their anger, their doubts, their parents, their friends, and all the terrors they tried to hide all their lives. And unless they write about this, they may find light in the room, in time, but none in themselves.

“That’s what you’re for, Mr. D., and what I’m for. To help them see some light in themselves. If an ex-drifter like me can do it, then it can be done. If someone like yourself can teach and offer helpful comments and instruction, then that is what you are there for–to bring them some light. Light chases the gloomy guilts and arcane fears and long intervals of self-torment. And if you are not loved for it–does it really matter? We are paid for what we write and teach and if we demand love as part of the compensation, we are performing in a clattering conceit.”

That was some of what I wrote to Mr. D.

©Copyright Leonard Bishop,2013

(first published October 13, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

Is your life dull, because you are a dullard? Are your days one drab dragging into another drab? Do you avoid standing against the gray wall in fear you will not be noticed? When invited to a party are you used only to fill space? Hold on–don’t despair–there’s still hope for you!

You don’t have to be an actual writer to gain the attention a published writer gets. All you need to do is say you are writing, and you are given regard. The kind of social stature you want to attain depends upon what “type” of writing you pretend to do. If you are asked, “What kind of work do you do?” And you reply, “I’m a writer.” The next question is, “Oh, what do you write?” Your social stature hinges on how you answer that question. If you remark, “I write letters to the editor,” you have just given yourself a social coronary. If you continue with, “Someone has to inform the public of the injustices that…” You have given someone a shovel to bury you with.

Running second to the lowly “letter to the editor” are greeting cards, industrial manuals, bank brochures hustling people to open accounts, or “meaningful essays.” Not only are essays ignored, but few are published and those that are, are rarely understood. Essays are lambs for slaughter.

“I write poetry” might cause a twitch of interest. If you identify the category of poetry you claim to write, make it exotic. “I write Gothic ballads,” or “Renaissance lays are my forte. Though on occasion I compose a Petrarchan conceit, or a Miltonic sonnet. I improvise on the use of trochaid, pyrrhic, or  Alexandrian hexameter.” If anyone knows what you’re talking about, avoid such crazy people.

Revealing that you write short stories is more acceptable. But never carry any of your mythical work with you. There is always a vile person who might ask, “You have one with you? I’d like to read it.” Writing short stories gives you an aura the serious, yet still innocent “artist to be” stature.

It is in the “I am writing a novel” where you gain size and artistic charisma.

The first question you will be asked is, “What’s the novel about?” Edge back as though in the presence of the diseased and reply, “Do you tell anybody about what you do on your income tax return?” Or become tense, “I never discuss my novels. I might talk them away.”

These are the attitudes and identifying behaviorism’s to use when trying to be branded as a writer. If you write “non-fiction novels” carry a tape recorder. While chatting with someone, suddenly hold it up and say, “My, you have an interesting speech pattern. Do repeat that, please,” then loudly snap on the machine and squint intensely. You will either fluster the person into silence or bloat him into believing he is interesting–so you will be thought interesting. Do not be surprised if he asks, “Will you mention my name?” or “When it comes out, can I get a copy?”

The public is either a paradoxical or contradictory people. If you are a genuine struggling writer, they give you little respect. All manner of ridiculous and unfounded stigma accompanies the identity of “struggling writer.” You are an idler, a drinker, a lecher, an irresponsible dim-dip, an opium smoker, an incurable psychotic, a repugnant necrophile preparing to experiment with incest.

But at a party, you create uncertainty in other people. They are all brought up on myth and superstition. Life is illogical, disorderly, unpredictable. They cannot be absolutely certain you will always be a failure. “What if he makes a big one day?” they think.

People at a party or a gathering are obligated to be proper and conventional–but they find a touch of madness delightful, interesting. It’s all an act anyway, isn’t it? Nobody knows what anybody is really like–deep, deep down. Why let them believe you’re dull just because you might be dull? Make it up, put it on, have the laughs you never had before; do a little dance. Nobody really cares and everybody wants to enjoy and be enjoyed–and who knows, you might really be interesting–deep down.

Copyright Leonard Bishop

(first published Sunday, September 15, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Let characters live in a constant state of “Scream!”  (2/12/98)

The first thing that gets sacrificed in the interest of good writing is the truth (2/26/98)

©Leonard Bishop

This is an” advertisement for myself.” It is directed to those people who are interested in improving their writing abilities and becoming professional writers. I cannot be falsely modest or self-effacing. It is an advertisement. I am also grabbing some space and not paying for it. Ha!

All I need is 52 more pages to complete my first non-fiction book on professional fiction writing. It will have a short, realistic introduction, an index which will serve as a “table of contents” and a photograph of my blunt face on the book jacket. It will also contain a promise. “If you do not learn more about how to write a short story or novel after reading it, then give up writing because you don’t even know how to read.” When the book is finished, I will announce it, and begin taking pre-publication orders. You will probably save about five dollars. Don’t send any money now. Just a note claiming you want the book. Here’s how it all began.

In about 1970 I began teaching a private writing class in Berkeley on Monday nights. They were interesting classes and writing knowledge was coming out of me that I did not realize I contained. Socrates once said,”How do I know what I think until I hear it.” There was an elderly woman, Helen Brown, who was–and still is–a marvelous prose writer and poet. She was always taking notes. She wrote strange novels. One was about a skinny woman who was in love with a whale and wanted the enormous mammal for her lover. Helen was the traditional Berkeley “free spirit.”

One day she just disappeared. She disencumbered herself of worldly possessions and wandered. She traveled to Mendocino, a small town near the ocean. One month after I had moved to Herington she sent me a large volume, The Interpreter’s One-Volume Commentary on the Bible, with the note, “I am unburdening. I know you have always wanted this book.”

In January of 1985, I received another parcel from her. It contained 750 typewritten pages of the notes she had taken while I was teaching. The accompanying note stated:”I am still unburdening.” I was astonished. Celia said, “It was so good of her to send it,” then clasped her hands in joy. “This is a God-send. You’ve always wanted to do a book on writing techniques. You’ve just finished re-writing your novel. Instead of doing another novel, why not do your book on writing.” After some days of mulling, I accepted Celia’s advice. But I was hesitant, I was troubled.

I have no knowledge of grammar. My educational background was industrial high school, and no more. I can mortise a joint and solder an electrical connection, but if asked to analyze a sentence, I feel as foolish as if I had stumbled into a nudist colony wearing a green tuxedo. Celia sensed my discouragement, “You’re having a self-pity party, Hon,” she said.

“Look at all the years you’ve been writing. Just about every kind of writing there is. Not knowing grammar never phased you before. Write the book the way you teach. Honestly. Bluntly. You know what unpublished writers need. Give them what they can’t get in other books. Your expertise is in the craft of writing, not the theory of writing. Think of what you’ve disliked in all those “how-to-write” books you’ve read, and leave that blather out.”

I began reading Helen Brown’s notes on what I taught. They were incited and instructive, but disorganized and related only to particular manuscripts I had criticized. My instruction did not apply to everyone. I put the notes aside and used a format Celia had suggested. “Leave yourself completely out of it. Deal only with technique. People who write want specific techniques and examples. Tell them how to do it, then demonstrate how it is done through examples and actual writing.”

And now the book is almost complete. There is no lard in what I have written. Only protein. It is jammed with craft-insights that other writers have either ignored or were unable to articulate. Here’s a quick sample.

There are eight basic functions for the use of dialogue. They are: to inform, to gain information, to begin relationships, to reaffirm relationships, to express feelings, to state thoughts, to provide insight to character, to alter the meaning of a situation. But dialogue can be used for structural functions that have nothing to do with what is spoken. To change character viewpoints, to cause transitions in place and time, to relieve the “eye” from reading tedious blocks of prose, as a substitute for narration, to alter disposition, etc.

How is the structure of a historical novel, horror novel, and adventure/thriller/backsplash spy novel developed? Or the family novek, the saga novel, the generational novel, the romantic novel, the contemporary novel? What is the purpose of the sex scene? How do you write a sex scene without being pornographic, yet not pressy? Why should you use a recollection and not a flashback? Because a flashback is an abrupt interruption to the flow of the plot. It forces the reader back in time and impedes the flow ahead of the present. What is double and triple foreshadowing? When you are fulfilling the story as compared to unfolding the plot? How do you deepen a major character and how much depth do you give to secondary characters. Is there male prose, and female prose?

Whee, whee,! I am too restrained within my aged dignity to giggle and jiggle with the elation of accomplishment, but I am happy. I have written the book I wish had been written when I first began to write

I will have this book for the span of time it takes me to write 50 more pages. Then it is no longer mine. I will have my name on it, but I will feel no attachment to it. It is a finished book, but not completed. There is still so much to write about writing. I’ll write another novel, next. And learn some more. Then, perhaps, do another book on the craft-techniques of writing. Yeah, yeah. Wow. Dear God, there’s so much more to do.

© Copyright Leonard Bishop

first published Sunday, September 8, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

Before addressing myself to letters I have received about questions on writing, I will first state my attitude. I read each letter carefully and regard each letter seriously. I’m not argumentative or tyrannical, assertive, cynical, or belittling. Out there, wherever the Manhattan Mercury is distributed, there are people who are interested in writing or want to become writers. I am not some how-to-write book-thumper evangelizing that writing is the way to salvation. I have some information writers can use. I am happy to part with it. I am not arrogant, but I am not exceptionally tactful. I am a professional writer and I care for people who want to write.

The first letter is from someone who states he doesn’t remember my name, where I live, nor the name of the column. He has misspelled the name of the newspaper and signs his name as though an ill chicken was squatting on the paper:

From: a nebulous inquiry: “Who is the author of the work of, recurring phrase, if not the title… “The heathen Chinee”…?

Answer: I know the author and work, but I do not intend telling you. I am a writer, not a library researcher. Any fact that I can find for you, you can find for yourself. If you are unable to get around because of physical disability, I’ll direct you to some agency that will provide you with assistance. They will even bring you the books you need. If you have no, “literate” friends to appeal to, there are many correspondence clubs to contact. They are eager to fulfill the needs of lonely, isolated, or socially timid people. Thank you for your inquiry.

There are two parts to the next letter which I will answer in two parts. This reader is in vigorous disagreement with the statement I wrote about the joy and happiness there is in being a writer. He claims to know that writing is “hard work” and says  “I hate hard work. Hard work is hard. It’s painful. It causes suffering.”

Answer: Report the one who is standing over you with the shotgun and forcing you to write. That should relieve you of the suffering you are experiencing when writing. Then you no longer have to aspire to be more than what you are now. You can use the remainder of your time sagged before the TV set, glutting on food, letting your spine turn to warm noodles and your mind into melting Vaseline.

Work is hard only when you are working at what you dislike, what shames you, what leaves you ungratified. There are two essential requirements that writers must begin with before they begin “making their mark” as writers. Character and interest. They must have both, at the same time. One without the other is like having a hand without a wrist. Go into dentistry: it’s always more fun pulling out someone else’s tooth.

This letter writer also claims “I write about tragic confusion… About the catastrophes of ordinary life. I write about impoverished minds.” He also states that he has even spent seven years–”because I hate hard work”–completing a 600 page novel and “If the book is never published at all, I will still know in my heart of hearts that I have created a work of art…”

Answer: The primary intention of the writer is to tell a story, reveal depths of human character, to entertain, to create an interesting fictional reality. Reading about tragic confusion or catastrophes of ordinary life and impoverished minds is about as interesting as watching a beetle urinate on a gladiola. It is abstract, vague, and tasteless as numbed teeth.

People want to read about magnificent catastrophes cities leveled by hurricanes and bombs, and about the people caught in the disasters. They want horror and terror stories in which people are helpless against the supernatural, the homicidally insane. They want to read about love, about heroes and heroines. They want romantic sagas, enchanting fantasy novels, dazzling ministries, astonishing galactic events. They are not interested in mite-minded writers who wallow in whining and banality. They don’t want to read about the troubles they already have in exactly the way they have them. They want entertainment, not reminders of their perpetual misery.

As for the “work of art” you have created–you are diddling with yourself. Most publishers are dense, without business acumen, and devoid of “literary taste”. But even they can recognize a “work of art.” There has not been a work of “writing art” published in the last 20 years. I doubt if you are the one who will break that deplorable record.

This letter is from a woman who wants to write children’s books and is stalled in her efforts because there are no people she can talk to about writing. “Would you perhaps know of any group of reasonable, sane and well behaved people in the area who meet in order to read or talk over their writing?”

Answer: I know your problem (having lived in Kansas for over a year) and it is serious. But I do not know of any writing groups in the area. I’m sure there must be some. Why they keep hidden is beyond me. People need each other. Writers need other writers. It keeps them from feeling exiled and alone. In their struggle to learn, they heal hurts and help each other learn. The only way I can help you is to publish your entreaty and hope that some people who belong to a writing group will respond. I will keep your letter and forward any replies that are sent to me.

I appeal to any writing groups in the area to contact me so I can apprise her of your existence. Remember, you were once in the same desperate spot she is in now. Writers should care for each other.

©Copyright Leonard Bishop

(first published June 30, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

Leonard Bishop

 When speaking before groups who are interested in writing–or a classroom of students–there are two questions I am always asked. Here are the questions, and my answers.

“Is the hallmark of a genuine writing talent only when writers get so deep into their novels that the characters start writing them?”

That is a myth. Characters are dead images. Only the writer can give them life. If the writer doesn’t put them onto paper they cannot exist. Characters speak, act, think and feel, only when they are written to do so. Writers must always be in control of their writing.

Characters have no minds, no relationships, and do not traipse about the pages in self-motivated search of the story. They cannot analyze, interpret, reveal or create themselves.

Writers are not some bogus mediums sitting in dumb trances biding time until the spirit character wakes them, demanding,”Hey, wake up, I’m here.” If characters were floating around in some incorporeal state, until they locate a wishy-washy writer to express them, they would want to dominate the novel. They would obsess on being the stars, and overwrite.

This long-standing myth that “characters write the writer” is a cheap bid to romanticize the act of writing. It is a mistake promoted by writing instructors who have graduated from creative writing classes but have hardly written, and rarely published. They are unworldly academics shrewdly sustaining their employment. They are breeding other creative writing instructors who will also victimize naive students with this asinine myth. From the beginning to the end–the Alpha and Omega–the writer does it all.

“Is my writing without merit because I enjoy writing? I keep trying to suffer for the sake of art, but it doesn’t happen. I just love writing. It makes me happy. Am I kidding myself?

Keep writing with that attitude and you’ll accomplish splendid works. Whatever suffering the writers are supposed to experience is the living they have undergone before they begin writing. Anyone who deliberately causes an abscessed tooth is an idiot. It is impossible for any human being to remain within a profession for perhaps 30 years in a continual state of suffering.

People should not misunderstand the hurting they go through as they live, with the feelings they experience when they write. Everyone suffers. It is our worldly inheritance. But there are basic reasons for why people want to become writers. None of the reasons have to do with an ecstasy for suffering.

Some writers find the world too much for them and they turn to writing for the joy of self-expression, the discovery of an identity. Others find the world is not enough for them. They want to fatten it with themselves. Enrich it with the marvel and wonder of their knowledge, their perceptions, their understanding of “what is truth.” Other writers find the world disgusting and corrupt. They want to perform surgery on its guts, its purposes. I could go on for pages listing the reasons why people become writers. Not one of them would contain a desire to suffer.

I have been involved in many jobs, occupations, professions. Not one of them ever established in me the happiness I feel while writing. Not only because writing is what I do best–but because it is the last stage in my search for “self.” I am constantly involved with my life and do not feel vanity, conceit, or an overbearing elitism.

My mind interests me, my feelings fascinate me, my concepts are constantly provocative and changing. What I take from people and give to people is always enchanting. There is no event, sensation, response, or relationship that is ordinary to me. I am a unique melange of differences and varieties. I am an adventure, an operetta of boisterous melodrama, an exiled strand of music waiting to be symphonized, a lark gushing freely to the heavens. I am a lonely child studying a leaf, an aged man held in a loving memory, a mother giving birth, a whore flaunting her contours, a priest weeping in the confessional. I am a time of grief, an exotic aroma spilling from the jungle plant. I am a nasty cab driver, an ulcerated headwaiter, and I can even be a rainbow.

I know who I am and I am learning more about myself every day I write. My suffering happens when I am not writing.

© Leonard Bishop

(first published Sunday, April 21, 1985 the Manhattan Mercury)

(A great glimpse into how Leonard Bishop keeps affecting the lives of writers! )

Great writers…as they write, books get shorter, but the plot isn’t shorter.  Like a painter, full detail is brought to the minimum.  Paint that which is exact.  (4/13/95)

To keep a novel alive, use adventure.  Have a highly credible character that performs highly incredible things.  (8/26/98)

A reader’s interest is captured by what you tell them, not by what you promise to tell them.  (11/5/98)

Then reread your ms. If the chapter reads better without that scene, then leave it in the file.

Janice~

The writer’s mind is a steel room with a bullet ricocheting inside (12/15/98)