A few months ago I was reading the Good Reads newsletter which contained a short
interview with John Irving. Irving, as I’m sure you know, is the famous, bestselling author of such literary works as The World According to Garp and The Cider House Rules. A light went on as I read this paragraph:
New England settings, violent tragedies, wrestling, and even the occasional bear attack are thematic elements in many of John Irving’s novels. The ingredients may be unorthodox, but the books are iconic.
You see, I’d been going through this painful stretch of self-consciousness because readers had commented on similar elements in my work. Er, similar to my other work, not similar to John Irving’s. For me, the similar thematic elements were California settings, murders and mysteries, cops, characters with disabilities, and humor. I doubt in my case that any of this is iconic or even unorthodox, but these themes, motifs, had become my “canon.”
And it worried me.
It worried me that I repeated the certain phrases, that I liked writing sex scenes with certain acts, that apparently and actually I had favorite words. It worried me that even when I tried to stop writing about the things that interested me, they kept creeping back into my stories. They were like my fingerprints. Apparently (oops) it would take acid to eradicate them from my work.
And I wasn’t even sure I should — which worried me even more.
Repetition is bad, right? Some of these readers seemed to think it was a flaw, anyway. Yet these were the familiar signposts of the road I liked to travel. The road I needed to travel to make the story worth my taking the time to tell. But as I read Irving’s comments, it all clicked.
For a serious novelist, there are recurring obsessions; repetition is the natural concomitant of having something worthwhile to say, and repeatedly needing to say it. Bears, wrestling, New England boarding schools, violent accidents—these are the mere landscape details in much of my fiction. But loss, and the fear of losing someone dear to you—these are obsessions. Anxiety, grief, the passage of time, the perils facing children (and other loved ones)—these are huge, and lingering, obsessions, and they are oft-repeated in my novels.
My obsessions are sexual identity, our secret lives, the importance of family, the effort involved in building lasting relationships, dynamics of weakness and strength…many gentle and not so gentle obsessions thread my work. I write about the things that interest me, that concern me, that are important to me. I write commercially, true, but it’s a little more complicated than that. If it were just about making money…there are easier ways to make money. No, we write because something drives us to do so. And tinkering too much with the inner workings of inspiration is a dangerous thing. Like the philosopher said, If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Around about the time I read the Irving interview, I was watching a PD James mystery starring Martin Shaw. Shaw is one of my favorite actors. I’ve loved him ever since The Professionals, which was this funky 1970s British crime drama. Anyway, as I was watching him acting so smoothly and so beautifully and so believably, I noticed how familiar a few of his gestures and expressions were. The character of Adam Dalgliesh was very different from Ray Doyle, but Shaw still used many of the old tics and tricks to build his case for Adam Dalgliesh. Those little mannerisms of face and voice were his signature. His style. Much like George Harrison or Eric Clapton’s style of playing guitar or Ansel Adams way of taking photos. Every artist has his signature whether it’s in the type of subject he chooses to paint or photograph or a riff on a guitar or Hugh Grant’s adorable stammer.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I was fretting over something that couldn’t be changed and, more importantly, shouldn’t be changed. Because just as my handwriting signature is unique to me, so is my style of writing — including the things I choose to write about. Trying to change the things that interest me or are important to me is like signing up for a personality transplant. Expensive and rarely successful.
Once I made that perhaps obvious connection, a weight seemed to slip from me. No, you can’t please all the people all the time. I don’t even want to. But if the majority of my readers feel the same affection for my stories that I do for Martin Shaw when he laughs that deep, wicked — and so familiar — laugh, I think we’ll all be happy.
Josh Lanyon
http://www.joshlanyon.com
http://jgraeme2007.livejournal.com/
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/JoshLanyon