Monday, October 4: The Scribbler
PHONING IT IN
by James Lincoln Warren
I read a novel last week by a best-selling mystery writer, which I found myself not liking very much. In keeping with my invariable practice of not criticizing living writers, since I begrudge no writer his success, I will withhold the author’s name, but the problem with the book is amply illustrated by the title of this week’s Scribbler.
Not even the ring tone was original. I wrote about my take on the book to a friend and realized I couldn’t even remember its title without reading it on the front cover. You can’t get much more forgettable than that.
What’s a writer to do when things get stale? Especially wildly successful things?
There are two common solutions, both inadequate as far as I’m concerned.
First, you can phone it in, like this book. This means writing your last story over again but changing the names. Telling the same story all over again isn’t necessarily a bad thing. My friend claimed that James Lee Burke, who is surely a giant in the genre and one of the best-loved men in the crime fiction community, has been doing it for years. But somehow a new James Lee Burke is always worth reading. Maybe it’s because you don’t really read JLB for the story, but for the power of the prose.
Allow me to analogize. (Really? Warren analogizing? He’s doing it again.)
The Gentle Reader may recall that I’m a big time classical music junkie. In late-19th century Germany and Austria, there was a famous rivalry between Richard Wagner and Johannes Brahms. This was slightly mitigated by the fact that Wagner never wrote symphonies and Brahms never wrote operas.
But one of Wagner’s disciples, Anton Bruckner, was every inch a symphonist. He wrote two symphonies, now numbered “No. 0” and “No. 00”, before actually offering up his “Symphony No. 1”. He then wrote eight more.
Brahms only wrote four symphonies. Brahms’ symphonies are each unique, very different from each other, every one a masterpiece. Bruckner’s symphonies, although all wonderful and epic and justifiably still played, have a certain undeniable uniformity.
One of my friends, who loved Bruckner, told me, “Brahms waited until he was forty to write his First Symphony, which was perfect, and then wrote three more perfect symphonies. Bruckner wrote his First Symphony at forty-two, and then rewrote it eight times.”
I mentioned this to another friend, an even fiercer Bruckner partisan, who bristled at the comment. “That’s not true! Bruckner did not write the same symphony nine times! He wrote the same symphony eleven times!”
Bruckner’s symphonies are all very complex and dense, and took a long time to write. Before Beethoven, composers were much more prolific and had no trouble recycling material when they got lazy. As one of Margaret’s professors, the late eminent Johnson Scholar Donald Greene, told her, “Life is too short for Vivaldi.”1
In fine, while there may be nothing wrong with trying to crack a problem from different angles, there is a problem when you crack the same problem the same way several times in a row.
But moving on. The second method is to apply out-of-the-box thinking. This also usually goes wildly wrong. For example, when one of my cats solves a problem out of the box, there’s usually some cleanup involved. (Now you know why I hate that expression “out of the box.” Take away one of the walls and the roof can fall down.) But I digress. (Really? Warren digressing? He’s doing it again.)
In Hollywood, this leads to the phenomenon known as jumping the shark, from an episode of Happy Days that attempted to resuscitate sagging ratings by having the Fonz perform a motorcycle stunt over a pool containing a man-eating fish. Aside from being excruciatingly dumb, this was not very consistent with the show’s originally nostalgic premise, and was accurately seen as the show’s death knell. More recently, we’ve had nuking the fridge, a direct reference to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, where Indiana Jones survives a nuclear blast by taking refuge in a lead-lined refrigerator. The refrigerator inexplicably is not reduced to atoms but is blown several miles from ground zero, with Indy tumbling inside without being reduced to purée of archaeologist. This sounds pretty ridiculous, and it is pretty ridiculous, but it was actually pretty consistent with Indiana Jones’s previous adventures. I mean, how exactly did Indy stow away on the outside of a German submarine in Raiders of the Lost Ark without drowning? Just a little over the top.
I don’t think I’m as good as James Lee Burke, so if I ever start to phone it in or jump the shark, will you, my Gentle Readers, stop me before I kill again?
Phoning it in is like phone sex. Phony.
So I guess if I ever do go stale and have to change things up, I probably shouldn’t switch to romance.
- I might add that among other Things the World Does Not Need are more recordings of Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons, Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, and Gustav Holst’s The Planets, all of which I love, but give it a rest. [↩]
I have read every Dave Robicheaux novel JLB has penned. I love them all. Some much more than others. But despite the “weaker” ones, despite the similarity in story or theme, one thing that I always, always know when the latest one hits the stands, is that Burke will not be phoning it in.
Every book is written with as much passion and heart and confidence as the one before, and the one before that, and so on.
His rich, layered, poetic (some would say purple) prose is legendary. And yes, at times it is beautiful. Stunning. I will read a sentence and think, “Never, ever will my brain or heart be big enough to come close to that.” And other times I exhale and think, “Okay, James, the cane fields are lush, I get it.” But I am never, ever bored. Not ever.
And it doesn’t have to be elegant, unconcerned prose for me to feel this way about a book. There are many authors writing much more economically than JLB who are working just as hard with each novel, and entertaining me just as much. Almost as much.
Bob Crais’ Elvis/Joe series. These books will never be compared to JLB, but I love them. And even though there were a couple that I loved less than others, I know Crais will never type through the phone lines. Same with a guy named Connelly.
I get angry when I read an author’s work like the one you described. How would we feel if our plumber or mechanic or doctor phoned it in? If our favorite sports team did? Or our own kids on the soccer field?
Artists of all types are at risk of feeling entitled. Occupational hazard. Some, usually those with strong character (I’m looking at you, Mr. Burke) would never think of it. But others, names withheld, welcome it. They swim in it. And often end up drowning.
Okay, I’ve blathered on long enough, but just to be clear – I’m talking about (and I think Warren is, too) authors who can and have written well. Invested in their product, pushed themselves at one time. And now, for whatever reason, have decided to take it easy on the next one. Or three.
I’m not talking about those poor slobs who bust their hump every time out, yet still manage to produce pages best suited for the floor of a birdcage.
Though, between the two, give me the birdcage writer every time.
“Life is too short for Vivaldi.” I would agree with that, but probably not for the same reason as the speaker. Remember Twain? “Wagner’s music is better than it sounds.” I think a lot of people feel (or think they are supposed to feel) that way about mainstream literature.
Some Wednesday I may write about a trick Rex Stout seemed to have for dealing with the repetition problem. He would use a device exactly twice, and usually improve it the second time.
Great column, JLW. How true! I also agree with you and Paul regarding James Lee Burke. I once heard someone say that JLB writes “literary mysteries” because of his descriptions and the beauty of his language. I never tire of Dave Robicheaux.
Rob, I for one would like to see you do a piece on Rex Stout’s methods. That’d be an interesting topic.
James, beautifully worded. Not only did I enjoy the column and get several chuckles out of it, but I also enjoyed the follow up comments from readers.
Rob, by all means, write about Rex Stout’s devices in writing. I’m always glad to learn a new trick.
Another very interesting column.
I find this generally the case with Hollywood characters. Once an actor creates a stereotype, it is very difficult for him to break out of his character (eg., Al Pacino, Robert De Nero). The reason is because these stereotypes are readily recognizable to audiences; they work, and they’re memorable. Thus, Hollywood actors often recycle the psyche of their previous characters to build the depth of their new role (“writing your last story over again but changing the names”). The same often occurs with painters and sculptors who build a reputation by working with the same subjects in different contexts. In most cases, artists and actors become experts in their very specialized fields (who can topple Al Pacino as the Godfather? Who can contest Michelangelo in the depiction of Christ?). It is a process of creating a personality and building on its depth for your own art.
I see “phoning it in” in many literary writings as well. The works of Richard Yates are very much the same. Young Hearts Crying (and almost all of his works after this) is a permutation of the same plots and characters from Revolutionary Road. The works of Raymond Carver are also often derivative. But I recognize a difference between creating permutations of old materials from lack of creativity, and building on an experience that is very close to a writer’s being.
But it is indeed unfortunate when there really is not enough time to be consistently innovative. This is often the case with commercial authors who must publish rapidly to make a living. What intrigues me more is the mentality of the writer who sits down to write, knowing that he is recycling old materials out of despair.