flashquake Editor's Corner

The Art is in the Craft
by David Shapiro

I've always been a nut about studying the mechanics of writing, to the derision of my writing friends of the artiste persuasion. They accuse me of reducing our art form to a hacker's craft as I fall sucker to every new how-to book on writing and creativity.

To me, the argument about whether what we do is art or craft is silly and misses the obvious answer: Writing becomes art when we master the craft so well that it becomes invisible to reader and writer.

As readers, we notice the absence of craft in bad writing far more than its presence in good writing.

I enjoy a good muse as much as the next guy. There's no greater high than when she visits and gifts us with brilliant stories that write themselves. But when a deadline looms and the muse is off flirting with the barista at Starbucks, it sure is nice to be able to fall back on competent mechanics to wring out the art.

I come to this obsession with craft from more than three decades in daily journalism.

Try fitting a muse into your schedule when a full jetliner has crashed into the Potomac and you're working rewrite on deadline with a tall stack of notes in front of you, three TVs tuned to different networks blaring overhead, a phone on each shoulder connected to reporters at the scene, and a bank of frantic editors breathing down your neck.

The 1,800 words of clear, concise drama I produced in less then an hour under those circumstances maybe didn't quite sing like an aria from Rigoletto, but I would definitely call it one of my finest works of art.

I know that what we do is art because I often find myself looking to other art forms to understand craft and how it's applied to summon the muse.

When Eric Clapton performs his soaring blues riffs, he's not thinking about scales. He's practiced those until his fingers bled, and now the guitar becomes an extension of his being sounding the music he hears in his head.

When PF Bentley sizes up a fleeting photograph, decisions on f-stops, shutter speeds and lighting come automatically as he focuses on capturing the image he sees in his imagination.

When Tiger Woods must have a perfect drive on the 16th hole at Augusta to close in on another Master's title, he's not fretting about his setup and takeaway. He's worked that out on the driving range and now simply visualizes the sweeping draw shot he needs, trusting his ingrained muscle memory to hit it.

In the crush of daily journalism, I ingrained the "muscle memory" of my craft — habits of accuracy, context, plotting, characterization, description, dialogue, foreshadowing, imagery and grammar. Since shifting from breaking news to the more deliberate pursuits of essay writing and fiction, the challenge is getting started without the forced inspiration of pressing deadlines.

Once more, the answer lies in understanding craft — and again, the other arts provide guidance. The issue has never been whether writing is art, but where we individually see the art in our writing.

The "photographer" finds the art in the writing itself, and needs to get composition, focus and texture just right before "snapping the shutter" on one paragraph and moving on to the next. This writer starts by drawing that first paragraph into precise focus, then perfects another and another and another.

The "sculptor" sees the art in rewriting. The first draft is merely the act of throwing a gob of clay onto the table to be shaped through repeated and loving revision. This writer starts with a brain dump and doesn't worry about perfecting anything at first, trusting that it will all come together in the end.

The "painter" sees art in the planning, like Picasso sketching in pencil before applying the oils. This writer starts by outlining the story's main components before hitting the keyboard in earnest.

Understand the mechanics of the writer's art and you'll always know exactly how to start setting it free.

David Shapiro can be reached by email at davids@aloha.net.

Copyright 2002 by David Shapiro

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