Telling lies for fun & profit

2009-03-02 16:34:59 来自: ItoNaoki(哥讀的不是エロ，是寂寞。)

PREFACE

IN THE summer of ’75 I hit the road. I gave up my New York apartment, sold or gave away most of the possessions of a lifetime, packed the remainder into the back of a diseased station wagon, and set out for Los Angeles.

It took me about eight months to get there. I followed the coast down to Florida, then drifted west. I would linger in a spot for a couple of days or weeks, then pull up stakes on a whim. Once I checked out of a motel and drove five miles down the road because the television set at the first place wouldn’t pick up a football game I wanted to watch.

During this time I continued writing. I had, after all, done virtually nothing else since college. I wrote the first draft of a novel which ultimately became Ariel. I wrote several books that withered and died after fifty or sixty pages; when I think of them now I imagine them as mummified fruit on a tainted tree.

I wrote short stories, too, something I hadn’t done in years. And I wrote an article which I called “Where Do You Get Your Ideas?” I did a mental first draft in the car heading west from Wilmington, North Carolina, typed it the following morning in a motel room, and mailed it the next afternoon from a branch post office in Greenville, South Carolina.

And had not the slightest idea what I was getting into.

Half a year later I was living at the Magic Hotel in Hollywood. One day I remembered that article I’d sent to Writer’s Digest. I’d never heard from them. I wrote, asking wha hoppen, and got a phone call in reply from WD’s editor John Brady. He’d been attempting to buy the piece for months but some secretary had garbled my address and the correspondence had gone awry. We discussed a couple of changes he wanted me to make. I mentioned I’d be driving east sometime in August, and he invited me to say hello if I got within hailing distance of Cincinnati.

By August I decided Writer’s Digest needed a fiction column. I made a point of stopping in Cincinnati on my way back to New York, and after a hearty lunch continued east with an assignment to write a column every other month on the techniques of fiction. After I’d done five or six columns there was some editorial reshuffling and my column went monthly. I’ve been at it ever since.

Looking back, I found myself wondering what ever prompted me to write that piece on the genesis of fictional ideas in the first place. I can think of a couple of factors. I’d been deprived entirely of the company of other writers for a few months at that point, and I guess I was feeling the isolation; it must have concentrated my mind upon the nature of my work and its underlying processes. For another thing, I was writing short stories again after a long layoff, and my mind was serving up plot ideas one after the other. I found the process interesting enough to write about.

I certainly never suspected that a few pages on the development of ideas would eventually transform me into someone who spent a significant amount of his time writing about writing. But that is what has happened, and it has had interesting effects above and beyond my monthly check and the ego gratification of a regular column.

It’s a commonplace in the profession that writers work twenty-four hours a day. (See Chapter 13, “Writer’s Hours.) I don’t know about that, but I do know that my column keeps me working far more than the time I devote to its actual composition. Everything I read is potentially grist for this particular mill. Does a particular author foreshadow a coming plot development in an interesting way? Hmmm. Should I consider a column on foreshadowing as a literary device? What other examples come to mind? Examples, say, of ineffective foreshadowing as well?

Similarly, I’ve become more interested than ever in what other writers have to say about writing, whether they’re discussing their writing methods, offering tips, or commenting upon the nature of the profession. I’m forever clipping things?and, more often than not, losing the clips.

Once or twice a year WD’s capable Rose Adkins writes me a plaintive note asking for a list of my prospective column topics for the next however many months. Once or twice a year I try to make her understand that I could more easily supply maps of the far side of the moon. More often than not, I complete each column convinced I’ll have to give up the job, that I’ll never again be able to come up with a viable theme for a column. Somehow within the next thirty days a topic suggests itself and I find a way to approach it. I’ve learned to take it on faith that this will happen.

Even more than writing in general a monthly column is a two-way street. From the column’s inception I have received letters in a steady stream?letters offering suggestions, letters seeking advice, letters thanking me or calling me to task for something I did or didn’t say. Both the volume and the fervor of this correspondence continually impress me with just how important all of this business of stringing words together is to all of us who do it. Whatever our degree of commercial or artistic success, whether we be fresh as paint or older than rust, writing appears to be an imperative.

Letters from readers often furnish me with ideas for future columns. Equally important, the feedback they constitute keeps me in touch with my audience and with my material. I read every letter I get, and I reply to most of them. I almost always reply to those accompanied by a stamped self-addressed envelope. A word to the wise…

This present volume had its origin in correspondence. Any number of readers have written suggesting that my columns might be collected and published in book form. While I have to admit that the very same idea did occur to me all by itself, the letters helped assure me that a market for such a book existed.

It has been an interesting experience editing four years’ worth of columns for book publication. I have done relatively little editing, largely confining myself to changing “column” to “chapter” now and then, and deleting occasional duplications from one column to the next. I have, too, been able to correct mistakes, both grammatical and factual, although I don’t doubt for a moment that I have unwittingly left numerous examples of both sort uncorrected.

Sometimes, rereading this material, I’ve been struck by a tendency to say the same thing over and over. At other times it seems to me that I give conflicting advice from one month to the next. Ultimately I’ve decided not to apologize for either the redundancy or the contradictions. They strike me as inescapable in material written at various times and from various perspectives.

Several persons deserve my thanks in this venture. The good people at Writer’s Digest, especially John Brady, Rose Adkins, Bill Brohaugh, and publisher Dick Rosenthal, have been unfailingly helpful and supportive since the column’s inception. Book publication might not have happened but for the encouragement and enthusiasm of Don Fine of Arbor House; I know no one in the industry who cares more about fiction, or publishes it with greater conviction and respect.

Jared Kieling, my editor at Arbor House, is responsible for the book’s scheme of organization. It was he who was able to see that the columns grouped themselves naturally into four general areas?fiction as a profession, as a discipline, as a structure, and as a craft. I embraced this plan wholeheartedly, finding it potentially more useful to the reader than the two organizational modes which had occurred to me?viz., chronologically and alphabetically.

When I write a column, it’s impossible for me to know if anyone will find it useful. The nuts-and-bolts columns of Part Four seem to me to offer the most real help to a writer, and yet it is almost invariably the more general inspirational columns which draw the heaviest reader mail. Of course what’s helpful and what prompts one to respond may not be the same thing.

In any event, it’s similarly impossible for me to know how valuable readers will find this book. I know that it’s been enormously valuable to me to write it, column by column, and I have all of you who read it to thank for the opportunity.

New York City
March 9, 1981


前言

　　一九七五年夏天，我上路了。放棄我在紐約的公寓，賣了或扔了跟了我大半輩子的傢私，剩下的東西打包成隨身行李，扔進行將解體的旅行車後車廂，朝著目的地洛杉磯，殺奔而去。

　　我整整花了八個月的時間，才開到目的地。我沿著海岸一路來到佛羅里達，然後漂泊往西，覓個住處，盤桓個一兩天或是幾個星期，隨遇而安，隨興而至。有一次，我結帳離開一間汽車旅館，開了五英里，找了另外一家，理由是頭一家的電視收不到我想看的足球比賽。

　　在這段時間裡，我寫作不輟。坦白說，打從離開大學開始，我好像也沒幹過別的事情。我完成一本小說的初稿，修改了幾次，最後成為《大氣精靈》。我還開了幾個頭，但寫個五六十頁，不是無以為繼，就是無疾而終。每次想到這些胎死腹中的作品，我的腦海裡總是會浮現染色樹旁放的一堆蠟像水果。

　　我重拾數年之內不彈的舊調，試寫了幾個短篇小說。此外，還寫了一篇名為《點子打哪來？》的文章。這篇文章的草稿是我在北卡羅萊納州威明頓開車西去的路程上，在腦海裡盤算好的，第二天早上在汽車旅館房間裡繕打出來，隔天下午在南卡羅萊納州的格林威爾寄出去。
我完全不知道接下來要幹什麼。

　　半年之後，我客居好萊塢魔法旅館。有一天，我突然想起寄給《作者文摘》的稿子，不知為何沒了下文。我寫了一封信去問，結果接到《作者文摘》編輯約翰．布雷迪的一通電話。幾個月前，他就想要刊登這篇文章，但不知道哪個秘書弄錯了我的地址，信不知道寄到哪兒去了。我們討論了幾處他希望我能修改的地方。我跟他說，八月左右，我會開車往東邊去；他則是希望如果我晃到辛辛那提附近，就順道過來跟他打個招呼。

　　那年的八月前，我決定問問《作者文摘》，能不能讓我開闢一個小說專欄。在回紐約的路上，我真的繞道辛辛那提，在一頓豐盛的午餐之後，啟程東返，並且得到一個隔月發表的小說寫作專欄。寫了五六個月之後，編輯部人事改組，專欄改為每月推出，我也就這麼一路的寫了下來。

　　回頭想想，我還有些狐疑，不知道當時的我，為什麼會想寫這些有關小說理念的專欄文章，琢磨半晌，只得到兩個原因：我的公司把我的工作交給別的作家，一連好幾個月，在那當口，我覺得很孤單，必須要把心思集中在工作的本質上。還有一件理由是：我在歇筆許久之後，重新開始短篇小說的創作，一個又一個的情節浮現腦海，此起彼落。我覺得這個過程很有意思，值得提筆。

　　我真的沒想到，也不過是談談點子怎麼跑出來的幾頁小文章，讓我就此我投下大量時間，去寫該怎麼寫作的課題。事情就這麼發生了，除了每個月的支票、開了專欄的小小自得，還有一些超乎其上、無可羈勒的有趣效果。

　　我不大確定，說「作家是種二十四小時工作的行當」，是不是有些迂腐（請見第十三章「作家的工作時間」），我只知道：除了實際寫作之外，我花了更多的資源經營這個專欄。不管我讀了什麼，它都會變成這個特殊磨坊的粉末。有沒有哪個作家可以用有趣的角度觀察世情，創意信手拈來？嗯。我該不該寫一個專欄討論該有哪些文學能力，才能偵測靈感呢？有沒有什麼可以用來說明的例子呢？萬一，偵測不到靈感又該怎麼辦呢？

　　同樣的道理，對於別的作家怎麼討論寫作，我也開始有興趣起來：他們會不會討論他們的寫作方法、會不會提供點創作竅門、或是評論這門行當的本質？我總是喜歡把東西夾在一起──但我卻老是把夾子給弄丟了。

　　《作家文摘》那位能幹的編輯，蘿絲．阿德金每年免不了寫一兩封哀怨的信，要我告訴她接下來的寫作大綱，期數越多越好。而我每年也都要回個一兩次信，想要讓她明白：要我畫出月球背面的地圖還容易些。經常，而且非常經常，我覺得寫完這篇專欄，就要辭去這份工作，因為我腸枯思竭，再也想不出任何像樣的主題了。但是，接下來的三十天裡，總會有個題目，附帶一個呈現的手法，冒出頭來。我於是相信，這種奇蹟總會發生。

　　更有意思的是：每個月固定的專欄，其實是建造了一個雙向交流的平台。從這個專欄問世之後，我開始接到流量大致穩定的讀者來信──有的是提供建議，有的是尋找建議，有的是感謝我，還有的是要求我去做一些我曾經提過或是我壓根沒說出口的事情。雪片般飛來的信件，滿載著熱情，讓我相信舞文弄墨這個行當，對我們作家來說，還是很有價值的。不管我們在商業或是藝術上取得怎樣的成就，不管我們是如漆之新，或是如鏽之舊，寫作是作家揮不去的宿命。

　　讀者的回饋，補充了我逐漸枯竭的專欄內容。更重要的是：透過這批信件，我接觸到了我的讀者、掌握到他們對我作品的看法。我每封信都讀，絕大多數有回，特別是那些附了回郵信封的朋友。忠言寄語智者…

　　這些信件可以說是這本書的源頭。好些讀者建議我把專欄內容結集成為一本書，公開發行。我沒有花太多功夫去修訂，多半是把「專欄」改為「章節」。從自成段落的專欄改為前後呼應的專著，重複的地方，也趁便刪去。我當然也改正了文法的錯誤或事實上的出入，雖然我心裡清楚，這種修補掛一漏萬，依舊會留下許多未盡之處。

　　有的時候，我重讀這批文章，不免覺得我不斷在重複同樣的事情。有的時候，我又覺得我的建議，因時勢轉，前後矛盾。但是，最後我還是決定保留這些枝蔓與牴觸的地方，主要是因為我認為由於時空變化、觀點不同，難免會出現推論之間的不一致。

　　在我創作的過程裡，有幾個人我要特別感謝：《作者文摘》的工作同仁，特別是約翰．布雷迪、蘿絲．阿德金、比爾．布洛賀以及發行人狄克．羅森瑟，他們從專欄跟讀者打照面開始，始終無怨無悔的支持、幫助我。而少了安伯書屋唐．范恩的鼓勵，這本書也終究無法問世。在業界，大概沒有比安伯書屋，更熱心支持小說創作的公司了，對於發行這類作品的信心與尊重，更是罕見其匹。

　　負責編輯大綱與章節安排的是安伯書屋的編輯賈雷德．凱林。由於他的慧眼獨具，看出這批專欄內在的邏輯，區分為四大領域──小說專業、學科、結構與技藝。我完全贊同他的分類。這樣的分法比我最初研擬的兩大排序法──發表日期與字母先後，對於讀者來說，可要實用得多。

　　在我寫專欄的時候，我不可能知道這些文字能不能幫上讀者的忙。在我個人看來，這本書的第四部分，是真正派得上用場的實戰手冊。一般來言，越是概括性的內容，越會引來大量的讀者來信。當然，讓人提筆寫信的刺激，未必等同於作家創作的助力就是了。

　　同樣的道理，我也不知道讀者對這本書作何感想。我只知道，維持這個專欄對我來說有多珍貴，同時謝謝你們撥冗閱覽、謝謝你們給我這個機會。
紐約市，1981年3月9日　　勞倫斯．卜洛克

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