Style and Content: Which one matters the most?

I have long been fascinated by this question – not just as a writer, but as an avid (and pretty indiscriminate!) reader. I have often joked that I would read the covering of a pack of toilet rolls if I had nothing else available!

I have never been able to hang my hat on the peg of just one genre. Having said that, however, I think I have a distinctive writing style. Irrespective of my subject matter, something about its delivery is recognisable as an Alienora!

I flitter between topics, rarely staying in one area for long. I tend to go with whatever grabs me at the time, though there are certain areas which preoccupy me more than others. There are also ways of writing which are more inspiring, or fun than your run-of-the-mill Daily Prompt.

How would I describe my own writing style? Taut. Descriptive. Honest. I tend more to the in medias res mentality than strict narrative. I am inclined to plunge straight in with very little lead up – and am not, in that sense, a natural writer of stories which have a beginning, middle and end.

I would say that I am economical with words. This may sound strange given the length of my posts, but it is true. I don’t blather. I don’t take several paragraphs to say what could be expressed succinctly in a single sentence. I try not to be repetitive.

I have long described my style as more akin to prose-poetry, particularly my descriptive works. I say this because I think there is an underlying rhythm – and I often use poetic techniques (alliteration, internal rhyme, basic cynghanedd) to create the effect I want.

I devour books – and have never been a literary snob! I do not feel I have to read the classics and ignore everything else. In terms of relaxation and enjoyment, I am as happy with Chick Lit as I am with, say, P.G.Wodehouse. I adore crime fiction and detective stories and humorous books and true-life weepies and erotic novels and…

There is always that little critic at work, however – and I am perfectly capable of thoroughly enjoying the story-line whilst thinking that the actual writing was mediocre. At the other end of that spectrum, some of literature’s Greats have bored me to tears, though I can see the fine skills of the writer in the technical sense.

Occasionally, we all come across that rare phenomenon: The brilliantly-written, totally absorbing work of literature. ‘Lord of the Flies’ is in that category. The early Tom Sharpe books also, to me, are a prefect marriage of sublime writing ability and eminently readable stories.

I have recently read ‘The Coral Island’ by R.M Ballantyne. William Golding’s dystopian novel of young boys crash-landing on an island was a bitter, and brilliant, parody of Ballantyne’s book – and, for that reason, it has taken me a long time to work my way up to reading it. Slightly to my surprise, I loved it, though I prefer the darkness at the heart of man which Golding evokes so terrifyingly.

Do I think Ballantyne as good a writer as Golding? No, not in the technical sense. He does not sweep with poetic genius upon the nub of it all the way Golding does. His prose, though told in the first person, seems curiously divorced, almost external, from the characters in some ways. Golding, by contrast, frequently writes as if he had hitched a lift behind key character’s eyes or in the centre of their hearts.

This, to me, exposes a fundamental truth about writing: That there is a vast difference between competent tellers of stories, and writers who, in some way, transcend that and mould it into something buzzing and tingling and alive and exciting and totally outside the box as we think it!

Often I will finish a book, and think, ‘Yes, liked that – might find a few more by Author A…’

Occasionally, when I turn that final page, I think, ‘Wow! That was out of this world!’

Is it the style which makes the difference or the content? Ideally, a seamless blend of the two, I suspect: Content dreamed up by a traveller with only one foot upon the Earth as we know it – and style so exquisite that it might easily have been penned with moonlight upon a dream.

That’s what I aspire to!

Blogaholic Status: The Drawbacks to Blogging!

I have been a blogger now for almost exactly four years – started on June 19th 2012 – and, in that time, to be perfectly honest, have never really come to terms with, let alone flourished in, the more social sphere of the art.

I have always been shy, awkward, a bit strange, uneasy in large groups of people. I have long been the sort of person who thrives with a small group of intimates. As a writer, and as a person, I have a strongly solitary nature – and a strongly addictive one too. Not a good mix, let me tell you!

Many of my traits are, I think, borderline Spectrum: My difficulties with people; my strange ability to tell a person’s birth sign, even birth date, accurately – and to remember those of children I taught up to three decades ago; my obsessive and, at times compulsive, nature – and, in the context of blogging, the genuine problems I have relating to most other denizens of the Blogosphere.

My problem has always been the vast gulf between writing and social ability – and the need, in some way, to blend them flawlessly on here. I am neither a purist nor a snob. My friends offline come from many different places, and only a few of them are writers. In ‘real’ life, a person’s IQ and literary ability does not make an iota of difference to the depth of the relationship.

But on here, I have a dilemma. Many people do, I am sure. Does one follow people one likes, those who are a good laugh and might be kindred spirits? Or does one hone in on those one respects – and can learn from – as writers? I have never reconciled these two extremes.

My trouble is that I am not a convincing liar – and, since the Following Game on here is reciprocal at its best, I find I cannot make heart-felt comments upon posts which are trite and poorly written. Even if the fellow blogger is a pal.

Not everyone who blogs is, or even wants to be, a writer. That is fine. I do not have a problem with that at all. Writing, for whatever reason, should be open and free to all. But I do have a problem with the popularity versus good writing front, as I call it. We all know who they are – or at least some of them: Those who have honed their marketing skills to the finest point, who draw others in because they are top status, and yet, as often as not, whose writing is hackneyed and populist.

I have said this before: The hits system, and the Fresh Pressed, seem to reflect social success first and foremost, with writing ability almost an afterthought.

There are, of course, many who are both excellent writers and have a social ease I lack. I admire and respect such individuals. They have achieved a balance I have struggled all my life with.

But – and this, to me, is the crux of the matter – a writer should not be obliged to be a highly successful and sophisticated social animal as well as a wordsmith.

Over the past four years, I have seen all too many examples of people praising dull, badly written posts – and, even more worryingly, novels – in a clear attempt to please and to have their own works lionised in return.

I know. I have done it myself. Mea Culpa. My bad!

On here, I am a writer. Off here, I can be merry and social and empathetic and kind and an excellent listener and supportive and all the rest of it – with people I know and trust.

But, Ali the private person and Alienora the writer are two very different animals – and their meshing on here has always been fraught with tension, ultimately unconvincing and, in the following/followed sense, both short-lived and highly stressful.

I am driven to write. I am not driven to socialise in the same way, or to the same extent. Friends are crucial to me – but not if I have to falsely praise their chosen artistic skill in order for that friendship to continue.

The drawback to blogging is that we are all so dependent upon, and thus vulnerable to, the social side of the coin that failing to engage at that level can mean that we disappear without trace in the wider world’s eyes.

We depend upon others to help us get out there – but, sometimes, the cost is huge. Nice, kind, caring, helpful – I can be all those things in private. But, as a writer, such traits are often unhelpful and irrelevant. They are a distraction.

The Ali soul is naturally gentle, but the part of it that controls the writing does contain an element of steel. As it should.

But, and this brings me to the other enormous blogging drawback, I cannot give up this game, though I have tried on several occasions, because blogging is addictive. It is, if you think about it, a form of gambling – and I was a bugger for the scratch cards when they first came out!

I am a covert member of Bloggers Anonymous – unable to follow even the first of the Twelve Steps to wean myself off the incredible highs and lows of this drug!

My name is Alienora – and, gulp, sob, cringe – I am a Blogaholic!

Are you?!

Alienora: Best-selling author – shaking off aimlessness!

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/aimless/

I have been wandering aimless for quite long enough! Although my reasons have been valid and understandable, I have, in recent months, fallen by the proverbial wayside.

A year ago, the arrow of my intent was aimed securely at the bulls-eye of published author success. I had published five books, had held several book selling and signing events. I had a clear vision of my books being out in the world, attracting diverse readers, giving pleasure, making me if not wealthy at least comfortably off.

Then I took my eye off the target, became fixated by other things and other people. I conformed to my usual pattern: Terrified of owning actual tangible success, I procrastinated, let myself become a carer, a helper, a listener, a big sister, a mother. I put my own needs, desires, wants, creative growth to one side as if my arrow of intent were, in some way, flawed, not worth the nock of the string, the pull-back of the bow, the loosing of belief and self-confidence upon that colourfully-ringed target.

My attitude of, ‘Oh, I mustn’t trouble anyone with what I want! I am unworthy! Genuflect! Genuflect!’ has been utterly unnecessary and counter-productive.

Of course my books are worth reading! I wouldn’t have published the damn things had I not believed in them! I would not have given up a well-paid, secure teaching job to be a writer in the first place if I hadn’t thought I had a gift for writing!

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Alienora-Taylor/e/B00QGUIHFI/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1466342193&sr=1-2-ent

But I have consistently sold myself short, both as a person and as a writer. I have, to continue the archery metaphor, used toy arrows which break easily, are shoddy and cheap. That is to say, my ability to project myself into success has been nullified by a fundamental inability to believe that anyone would want me, as Alienora, or my books unless I used the Special Offer as some kind of lure. Unless, that is to say, I were prepared to agree to a bargain, money off, a gift in return.

Bugger that!

The fact that I am self-published does not mean I lack talent. The fact that I am not the world’s best marketer does not invalidate the worth of what I have written.

I do not have to sell my soul in order to be loved. Those who have true value will love me as I am regardless – and DO.

Aimless no longer, I am re-siting my target – in the heady meadows of success and recognition – and have crafted the very best bow out of fire and passion, love and energy, belief and inspiration. The arrows – rare, high-quality, fashioned from all that is best in me – lie in their embroidered quiver, ready to be fired.

Watch the tension of the strings, the muscles standing out in my arms; look at the warm blue of the sky, the buttery sun spreading on landscape’s perfectly cooked ‘bread’; watch me aim – and hear the wind whistling like a tune through a Bard’s harp as the arrow, free now from restraint, begins its journey…

Aimless?

No!

The Breath of Life and Passion’s Aliveness…

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/discover-challenges/raison-detre/

Ah! Raison-d’etre: Formidable!

Writing is the breath which inflates my lungs and keeps the woman, slapped into life on January 9th 1958, alive. It is the oxygen in my system. Without it, I would suffocate, wither, die…

Writing is my voice. Infinitely flexible, bending to the extremes of heights and depths, it exults for me, screams when I cannot, cries when the tears become jammed; its laughter is a wave of joy; its sensuality is Tantric in its subtlety and raucous in its earthy reach.

I am Earth. I speak with hands, eyes, facial expressions and pen. My tongue flickers, falters and fades when in competition with other, more fluent, talkers. My words, ululated through larynx, become strangled and stressed, catching and cawing in my throat, crushing my spirit with inferiority and hopelessness.

Writing, I am free! Free to fly, my wings extended, colourful feathers dipping into the gold of sunrise, or the milky-gilt perfection of the Moon’s fullness. Writing ignites the fires in my soul. I become the Hephaesta of Creation, framing words, beating out the Mystic Hallows of literary Logres upon the flame-sparking forge.

Writing was my first love, aged eight. For fifty years, it has nourished me, inspired and delighted me; it has given solace and comfort during the darkest hours, and had me singing in ecstasy when the sky shines in radiance.

I write for love. I write because I must. I write because, without it, I cannot breathe or express myself. I write to channel others from distant places and times, and to adorn the landscape of the mind with fresh new shades of colour and symbolism.

I write to sell my books, of course – but that is not my primary raison-d’etre, nor should it be. For, in our world, fragments of the Divine Spark (however one sees it) are sleeting through constantly, though we cannot see them, buy them, steal them or beg for them. Sometimes, if we are lucky, we catch them in the folds of our wings, in the mysterious runnels of our corrugated brains, in dreams and meditations, love-making and childbirth – and we transmute them into richness, into novels and poems, concertos and symphonies, sculptures and paintings.

And so it should be, for man cannot survive on money alone, nor can the exchange of metallic coinage nurture the spirit within.

And yet, sad to say, the symbol of bartering (the notes and clinking pennies and pounds) have become too many people’s to-kill-and-maim-for raison d’etre in this precious life of ours.

Words, all the gifts of the creative process, are worth infinitely more than the biggest bank vault, the blankest cheque!

This is me, Alienora, at a Fire Festival, watching Fox Dancers – and filling the Grail of my Soul with magic, magic which spilled into six blog posts:

Igitur ego sum me scribere!