Spheres of Influence
I once heard the author Walter Moseley speak. He is awesome. He is commonly referred to as a mystery/thriller writer (he writes the Easy Rawlins mysteries, one of which was made into a film starring Denzel) but he has also written straight-up fiction. He himself identifies as a writer in the “black heroes” genre.
Walter said several things that have stuck with me, the most important of which was “the art of writing is really the art of re-writing.” That is some truth.
He also said what might be the most important thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about the influences on a writer’s work. He spoke about a time when he’d gone to hear an up-and-coming Af-Am woman writer speak. She was asked who her writing influences were. She gave completely predictable answers. Maya Angelou. Zora Neale Hurston. Toni Morrison.
Walter said that he thought to himself that day, “Sister, I have read your books, and that is some bullshit. Your biggest influences as a writer were the Nancy Drew books you read for three years straight starting when you were a kid.”
There are the writers we aspire to be like, the writers who inspire us. But these are usually not the writers who have actually influenced our writing, the ones who shaped what we know of character, plot, and word construction. These are the patterns in our minds that are laid down early, with the books that shaped how we think of literature, what we understand to mean when we say “writing.” The day I heard him speak, Moseley straight-up said that his biggest writing influences were the pulp comics he got from his dad.
So who are the authors who inspire me? David Mitchell. Mark Salzman. Joyce Carol Oates.
But who are the authors who influenced me the most? Stephen I-Regret-Nothing King and V.C. Fuck-The-Police Andrews. These were the books I owned that had the most beat-up covers when I was thirteen. Critics of my writing would probably roll their eyes and say yes, that’s painfully obvious.
Andrews is the less defensible admission, the one that’s the hardest to drag out of me. These books were the Twilight of their time (I would maintain that the writing is better, at least for the books Andrews actually wrote herself). The woman wrote the treacliest Gothic horror romances imaginable, but damn could she make you turn a page. And I have to give it up for the author with the brass cojones and the narrative chops to make you actually root for the incestuous relationship. One also has to admire the work ethic of a woman still turning out books despite being dead for thirty years (ha ha). I still hear echoes of her voice in my writing. I sometimes try to tamp them down and scootch them under the rug. Sometimes not.
King, though. Oh, Stephen. Stephen is my King. I read my first Stephen King book in the seventh grade. It was “Cujo.” Not an auspicious beginning. Not his worst book by a long shot (“The Tommyknockers” wins that one in a walk) but probably not a recommended first read. It didn’t matter, I’d soon read them all. They wore into my brain twin grooves of story, story, story and character, character, character. Write people the reader cares about and then make shit happen to them. Every scene and every sentence should either advance the plot or develop a character. Chuck all the coffeehouse analytical crap over the side.
He would later codify these sentiments and others in his often-recommended book “On Writing,” which he published at a time when I had myself been writing for many years. Reading it was a strange experience. I already knew everything in it, you see. Stephen had already taught me all his lessons with his own writing.
Now when I read other authors, I learn new lessons. But those grooves in my brain with the King’s name on them are too deep to fill in and sod over with new grass. They’ll always be there, ruts in the dirt, and my wheels will inevitably settle into them no matter how much gravel I shovel over the top
And in the end, I don’t really want to hide them. King’s sold a few books, after all.
Walter said several things that have stuck with me, the most important of which was “the art of writing is really the art of re-writing.” That is some truth.
He also said what might be the most important thing I’ve ever heard anyone say about the influences on a writer’s work. He spoke about a time when he’d gone to hear an up-and-coming Af-Am woman writer speak. She was asked who her writing influences were. She gave completely predictable answers. Maya Angelou. Zora Neale Hurston. Toni Morrison.
Walter said that he thought to himself that day, “Sister, I have read your books, and that is some bullshit. Your biggest influences as a writer were the Nancy Drew books you read for three years straight starting when you were a kid.”
There are the writers we aspire to be like, the writers who inspire us. But these are usually not the writers who have actually influenced our writing, the ones who shaped what we know of character, plot, and word construction. These are the patterns in our minds that are laid down early, with the books that shaped how we think of literature, what we understand to mean when we say “writing.” The day I heard him speak, Moseley straight-up said that his biggest writing influences were the pulp comics he got from his dad.
So who are the authors who inspire me? David Mitchell. Mark Salzman. Joyce Carol Oates.
But who are the authors who influenced me the most? Stephen I-Regret-Nothing King and V.C. Fuck-The-Police Andrews. These were the books I owned that had the most beat-up covers when I was thirteen. Critics of my writing would probably roll their eyes and say yes, that’s painfully obvious.
Andrews is the less defensible admission, the one that’s the hardest to drag out of me. These books were the Twilight of their time (I would maintain that the writing is better, at least for the books Andrews actually wrote herself). The woman wrote the treacliest Gothic horror romances imaginable, but damn could she make you turn a page. And I have to give it up for the author with the brass cojones and the narrative chops to make you actually root for the incestuous relationship. One also has to admire the work ethic of a woman still turning out books despite being dead for thirty years (ha ha). I still hear echoes of her voice in my writing. I sometimes try to tamp them down and scootch them under the rug. Sometimes not.
King, though. Oh, Stephen. Stephen is my King. I read my first Stephen King book in the seventh grade. It was “Cujo.” Not an auspicious beginning. Not his worst book by a long shot (“The Tommyknockers” wins that one in a walk) but probably not a recommended first read. It didn’t matter, I’d soon read them all. They wore into my brain twin grooves of story, story, story and character, character, character. Write people the reader cares about and then make shit happen to them. Every scene and every sentence should either advance the plot or develop a character. Chuck all the coffeehouse analytical crap over the side.
He would later codify these sentiments and others in his often-recommended book “On Writing,” which he published at a time when I had myself been writing for many years. Reading it was a strange experience. I already knew everything in it, you see. Stephen had already taught me all his lessons with his own writing.
Now when I read other authors, I learn new lessons. But those grooves in my brain with the King’s name on them are too deep to fill in and sod over with new grass. They’ll always be there, ruts in the dirt, and my wheels will inevitably settle into them no matter how much gravel I shovel over the top
And in the end, I don’t really want to hide them. King’s sold a few books, after all.