The Philosophy of Literary Creation — Part 1
by Dominic Ward
Although it is certainly true that every writer may have his or her own method of writing, it is, of course, only the end product that really counts. Graham Greene may have forced himself through five hundred words every morning and two tabs of codeine washed down with strong coffee, Flaubert may have tortured himself to the half-rest of death with his own over-blown method that emphasised style, and Joyce may have gone near blind with his attention to the shapes of his words, but the publisher, first, and the world, second, were only ever interested in the outcomes of these terrible practices – the finished work. However, for the sake of adding something to the discussion of methodology, I will submit my own bit. And over the course of the next five articles, I will examine the different stages of the literary creative process, first focusing on the primary concerns of a larger philosophy of writing.
Why can we say that there is, at all, a process to writing? Don’t we all acknowledge the fluid ocean-state of the human sub-conscious, the primary organ system through which all creative activity is regulated? Does this intangible force of affairs proscribe straight-out the existence of an observable, demonstrable process to art? Some would argue, perhaps having read too much of Nietzsche while dramatically intoxicated, that there can be no further dialogue on the subject; that all notion of creativity and the creative process lies somewhere death-sharp and clouded to the eyes, but nevertheless certainly over the precipice of the abyss. Successful objective annihilation of the self may prove this theory for them one day, but for now, I think it is a ridiculous notion at best. While it is certainly true that the sub-conscious is a washpool, writing can necessarily only rise to become an art form when these Dionysian forces are controlled and programmed onto paper. Automatic writing, as practiced by Georgie Hyde-Lees (esteemed wife and soul mate of William Butler Yeats), describes the nihilistic version of creativity, in which no process exists. Yet, it was Yeats himself, not Georgie, who won the plaudits for writing ability. Why? Because it is only through process that inspiration, intuitions, and the imagination can become melodious to the human heart. There is a definite stage of conceptualisation that defines the literary practice as a human process and not an automatic one.
It is largely dependent upon the individual temperament as to what form this process of conceptualisation takes. Hunter S. Thompson was in many ways the perfect nihilist. His strong energies pulled him towards transformation at the deepest level through utter destruction. He chose drugs as this vehicle for self-destruction. Accordingly, much of his work at the conceptual stage was characterised by madness. That he had to rely on his editors to pull his works into shape is telling. Yet his works do have a great shape to them, and this was all his design, whether by practice or by proxy. There are two or three sublime passages in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas that contain such a vibrant poignancy that they could have only been written by a genius in full control of his talents. That these passages are set immediately pro- and preceding sections of manic energy and comic cynicism is further testament to his abilities in scripting: he knew exactly when and where to place these quieter passages of gentle introspection.
Stay tuned for part 2 of “The Philosophy of Literary Creation”,
which will be published next month.
Dominic Ward currently has a novel and poetry in print. Balloon Cotton Bush was published by Small Dogma mid-2009 and represents a risk taken in literary development. He lives in Brisbane, Australia, with his partner and two children.
February 14th, 2010 at 10:16 pm
[...] (part 1 was published in January.) [...]