The debate over who's the "better" writer among the anchors of the Western canon tend to devolve into arbitrary designations: Homer was first, therefore...; or, Milton was so allusive, therefore...; or, Shakespeare gave us a plethora of new words, therefore.... All of these claims are fine, but they're like having an academic debate whilst in line at Cold Stone to determine which gourmet ice cream is actually superior.*
Regardless of who is the Best, Shakespeare is in the running. But as a writer, what does Shakespeare provide that fellow writers can learn from? I've been asking myself this question for a long time, and though I'm sure there are additional reasons, I've figured out at least three: language as a tool, interior depth, and variation in consistency. I'll approach the first here. Language as a Tool One of the many paradoxes about Shakespeare is that he's simultaneously adored and feared for his robust language. It's not just the supposed vastness of his vocabulary that intimidates and inspires, it's how he uses them. Shakespeare would "verb" nouns to powerful effect. Check out this brilliant bit from Coriolanus (5.1, emphasis mine): ...Go, you that banish'd him; A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy: or from Hamlet (4.3, emphasis mine): But indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. Shakespeare, of courser, was a poet, so he used countless poetic devices to add a vibrancy and passion to his plays. As a result, he would be considered "overwritten" by most of our publishers today. Modern-day writers, particularly disciples of minimalism (I think of Chuck Palahniuk), tend to want to cut down the writing, making it lean and sharp. I think that's wonderful, and there are some fantastic minimalist writers out there. But Shakespeare points to the beauty of the language that can only be seen when allowed to marinate, to germinate, to flower. Alan Moore's recent book Jerusalem is one that wallows in its largess, often to effective degree. Like Shakespeare, Moore is in no hurry to get "to the point" of his imagery. For the Bard, part of the purpose of his play is to play with what his words can purpose. This is a description of the time of day, from Julius Caesar (2.1): Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, Which is a great way growing on the south, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence up higher toward the north He first presents his fire; I'm not saying that all writers need to have as florid or empurpled (?) prose as Moore, nor do ought they to invest every description of dawn with a note that the sun will be in a different part of the sky when it's summer time. Instead, I feel that too often writers remain in comfortable territory, places where the words turn transparent to the story. Brandon Sanderson noted his tendency to avoid rendering things poetically. His point is that telling a good story ought to be the focus, and purple prose interferes with that. Shakespeare disagrees. Now, again, I'm not encouraging all writers to write as Shakespeare did. His ability to turn a phrase or express a thought is unparalleled, but that doesn't mean that writers couldn't stand to improve how they write. Language ought to be more consciously and conscientiously constructed on the page, where it can be revised and rewritten and calculated for maximum impact. In contrast to Sanderson's points in his essay, I would like to point out that the phenomenal storyteller Patrick Rothfuss' work is as smooth and polished and well-wordsmithed as you could want. Consider this line of prose, taken at random from Sanderson and Rothfuss. Sanderson first (Way of Kings 441): He began to whistle softly to himself, inspecting his tattoos and ignoring those observant enough to gawk. I remember writing something somewhere....he thought, looking over his wrist, then twisting his arm over and trying to see if there were any new tattoos on the back. Like all Aimians, he could change the color and markings of his skin at will. There's nothing wrong with this segment. It does its job well and moves on with the story. I'm not criticizing that, especially because this is what Sanderson has consciously chosen to do. By making the verbiage limpid, he focuses on the story that he wishes to tell. By comparison, here's Rothfuss (The Name of the Wind, 442) We settled on a bench beneath a great spreading willow, then abandoned it and found more comfortable seats on the ground at the foot of the tree. The bread was thick and dark, and tearing chunks of it gave us distraction for our hands. The wine was sweet and light, and after Denna kissed the bottle it left her lips wet for an hour. In general, there are more interesting verbs in Rothfuss' writing (tearing, kissed) and the descriptions are more vivid (spreading, sweet and light). These are small samples, of course, and I'm sure I could find Sanderson waxing poetic every once in a while. But Rothfuss keeps this tone throughout his books, demonstrating that an eye toward wordcraft can enhance fantastic stories (which Rothfuss does). Even early on, Shakespeare's ease with words was noticed. In the Second Folio, the young John Milton wrote a dedicatory, laudatory poem called "On Shakespeare" that includes this idea: For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art, Thy easy numbers flow... Having read a lot of both Milton and Shakespeare, I can attest to Milton's claim here: Shakespeare has an effortlessness to his writing that is enviable. The idea of "slow-endeavouring art", in this case, is the loaded, laborious writing of others (with Marlowe, perhaps, being an exception). Even Ben Jonson had a problem with overburdening his lines. Shakespeare, however, rarely made that mistake--and much of it was in his earlier work. He creates a smoothness in his writing that ought to be emulated more often, though perhaps it is simply the work of genius. Milton, no slouch on the intelligence department (more so, it could be said, than Shakespeare), nevertheless knew that others' writings lacked that Shakespearean difference. The point I'm driving at is that writers ought not to be afraid of the language they're tasked to master in order to tell their story. I respectfully disagree with Brandon Sanderson's** opinion that writing should eschew linguistic beauty in favor of the story. I also would argue that Moore is not where most writers ought to be in terms of their prose. Somewhere in between is a likely Goldilocks-zone. Nevertheless, the Bard teaches an aspiring writer that there is beauty in the language and that ought to be embraced, rather than avoided. ---- * For the record, the sweet cream-raspberry-brownie-caramel in a waffle cone is the most superiorest of iced creams. So say we all. ** I know that I, an unpublished, aspirational-only writer whose most widely-read work was an essay on why I didn't like Trump, am hardly speaking with popular authority. Sanderson's books sell--and sell very well. Patrick Rothfuss' works have done very well, too. Besides, commercial viability isn't a particularly good barometer of quality. I'm not dismissing Sanderson--I use a lot of his advice and I really enjoy his work. But I disagree that story is paramount to delivery, particularly in the genres that I love the most: Fantasy and science-fiction. ---- This post was originally published here. Before I begin to finish my exploration of Shakespeare as a writer, I wanted to add a reminder/clarification: Shakespeare is a good writer. But there's a peril when looking at the Bard as an exemplar. "Shakespeare did it, so I can do it, too," is probably the wrong way to approach it. I feel like it isn't that Shakespeare wrote a particular way, therefore it's good writing; rather, good writing works a particular way, so Shakespeare utilized those techniques; therefore he wrote well.
It's also important to realize that understanding how something is done is not the same as being able to do that thing. I understand how Shakespeare wrote--I understand blank verse, classical allusion, and the difference between "thou" and "you"--but that doesn't mean I could create the same way he did. I find it similar to the guitar: I can learn how to play "Enter Sandman" or some other excellent piece of rock music, but I couldn't write a song of the same power and appeal. What we're exploring here is what good writing looks like, using Shakespeare as a guide. No more ado... The final analysis of Shakespeare's trifecta of advice for modern writers (having already explored Shakespeare's language and his interiority), I'll make assay with the final, knotty, paradoxical concept of consistent variability. Confining ConsistentNot every character in Shakespeare is worth the same. The world would be impoverished without Iago, but losing Peter (the manservant of the Capulet family in Romeo and Juliet) would matter significantly less. And losing out on Two Gentlemen of Verona would be a lesser tragedy than losing out on Richard II. It's important to remember the same thing as a writer: Some characters don't need the interiority nor the variability of the leads. Nevertheless, of the over 1,200 characters in the entire body of Shakespeare, many of them--a huge portion of them--have something in them that points toward a humanity that is beyond the stage and infuses themselves as individuals. The primary idea here is in two parts: the consistency and the variability. Pairing the ideas together is a paradox, but that's part of the point. Still, consistency within the text--a character behaves in a way that is predictable once the basic philosophy of the character is revealed--is something Shakespeare does well. It isn't a consistency that the character is the same at the end of the play as at the beginning (though that can be the case for some of the more minor and clown characters, the ones who aren't the focus of the story); it's a consistency of their personality. Jaques (the primary one, not the randomly inserted one with the same name near the end) from As You Like It is defined by his melancholy. He pursues that perception throughout the play. The same can be said of the malevolence of Iago (Othello), the goodness of Regan (King Lear), the irreverence of Gratiano (Merchant of Venice), and more. These characters have consistent, clear characteristics that imbue them with a sense of reality. We all have friends who are inherent Slytherins (like Richard III) or charming Hufflepufs (like Nick Bottom from A Midsummer Night's Dream). They have certain behaviors and worldviews that are natural to them and, while instrumental to the plot, don't have the feeling of a plot device. That is, Dogberry would be his malapropism-hurling self regardless of the goings on in Messina. Yes, he works well as the bumbling guard of the prince's watch, but we get the sense that his purview doesn't necessarily end or begin within the confines of the story. As a writer, I try to think of what my characters were doing before the story starts. What are they in their core, the pieces of themselves that comprise their most essential parts? By exploring the untold backstory and revealing to myself (as author, not reader) what my characters think and feel, I can start approaching that consistency of a character that Shakespeare modeled. Vagaries of VarietyVariety in characters is crucial. Shakespeare is not a "diverse" writer in our modern sense; he has a handful of non-White European characters, who vary between diabolically perverse (Aaron; Titus Andronicus) to stereotypically malevolent (Shylock; The Merchant of Venice) to stereotypically stereotypical (Prince of Morocco; The Merchant of Venice) to desperately insecure (Othello; Othello). These characters are almost never rendered in a sympathetic light, and the only one who is a protagonist is Othello, whose play ends in tragedy. There is something to be said for him attempting to add some color to his plays, particularly in a society and situation that didn't necessary demand that nor really permitted a lot of humanization of minorities. And, particularly in the case of Shylock, he goes to great lengths to create an ambiguous character--one who falls into the expected mores of behavior that an Elizabethan audience would understand while at the same time subverting those expectations. There's also something to be said about the women in Shakespeare. His female characters are surprisingly robust and thoughtful, but there are too few of them, and they all--no matter their wit and vivacity--capitulate to the expectations of their society. It should be said, however, that it's remarkable how many he put in. We all know about how the Elizabethan/Jacobean stage disallowed women from enacting any part. Despite the fact that it would be easier to write male-only plays (like Julius Caesar), Shakespeare still chose to incorporate females into his work as frequently as possible. He also has women running all sorts of desires, from the Machiavellian Lady Macbeth (Macbeth) to the thoughtlessly sluttish Phoebe (As You Like It) to the thoughtfully beneficent Regan (King Lear), he has a variety of women that populate his world. This kind of diversity, though not as robust as a modern readership might appreciate, is an example of how to continue progress. Some people read Antonio as being a closeted gay man, pining for Bassanio throughout The Merchant of Venice. There are instances of cross-dressing (usually played for laughs, of course) between both genders. Drunkards rub elbows with royalty; those with sagacious, magical powers give them up before the power of forgiveness. There are manifold examples of characters from sundry walks of life, each playing their part, each enhancing the story told. A modern writer could do worse than learn that lesson. Consistently Eclectic Despite analyzing the two terms separately, the thesis of this piece is that his characters themselves are "consistently variable". This doesn't apply to all of his characters, and in some ways it's about having a strong character arc. There is a consistent characteristic that comes under pressure and the character has to change as a result. These are the massive consequences of the plots of the plays--the story tells us how and why, for example, Macbeth is one way at the beginning of the play, yet different at the end. In fact, Macbeth is a great example of what I'm talking about. Macbeth is consistent in many things--skill, ambition, and reflection. That consistency shifts, with the same amount of attention, as his tragedy unfolds. He uses his skill for good--until he uses it for ill. He exercises his ambition in favor of Duncan and the quashing of a rebellion--until he exercises it against the same. He seeks others' opinions and ideas, requesting Banquo and his wife to advise him--until he seeks only the demoniacal advice of the Weird Sisters and then, ultimately, his own understanding. Part of the power of Macbeth is that all of his characteristics remain, but they change him. Hamlet's vacillation, one of the most perplexing puzzles of the play, is actually part of his consistent character. Not surprisingly, Hamlet becomes the paradox in and of himself: He is consistently at odds with himself and the world, an ambiguity which fuels the play and adds depth and complexity. It should be noted that Hamlet's ambivalence is a difficult task to do. One of the reasons that there aren't additional Hamlets in the world is, in part, because of how hard it is to make a character be sympathetic and odious, rash and thoughtful, wholesome and vile. FinThere are more lessons that can be learned from Shakespeare, as much in life normally as in writing. His love of language, his ability to craft and express human feelings, and the way in which he had variation, consistency, and diversity throughout his works are all pillars of his writing style and ability. While there is more to say (there is always more to say about Shakespeare), I think I'll leave it here with a quote from the Bard himself: ...so, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. I wrote about how Shakespeare can teach modern writers a thing or two, saying that, at the very least, we can learn three things from Shax: embracing the language, understanding the interior, and having a consistent variety. This essay is focusing on the second concept, the interior mind, conceits, and expressions of a human being. I'm calling this effect interiority.
"The Inward Man"The subtitle of this essay is a quote to Hamlet 2.2, in which the King says of Hamlet, "Sith nor the exterior nor the inward man/ Resembles that it was." It's that idea I wish to explore. While the editors at Arden make a compelling argument that Hamlet's soliloquies in particular weren't originally understood as explorations of an inner feeling (25-32), our modern readings of the play are rife with this concept. And, since this is supposed to be an essay in which a modern writer could learn from Shakespeare, it seems like this is the best angle of instruction. The interiority of Shakespearean characters is always vocally expressed--a natural concession of the form. Nevertheless, there are ways that we, as an audience, can understand the internal considerations of a character. As novelists, this is usually shown through italics, which indicate the internal monologue. Shakespeare presaged this, using asides to expose the genuine feelings of the speaker. A small example from The Merchant of Venice (4.1) has Shylock inwardly stewing about the betrayal of his daughter by eloping with a Christian. No one but Shylock (and the audience) knows his thoughts, however: [Aside] These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter; Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband rather than a Christian!-- We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence. At the dash is where Shylock's inward ruminations cut free and he speaks the last line to the other actors on the stage. We can see the reason for his impatience: The gathered Christians have done something to remind him of a painful wound, one so profound that he utters what to Christians would be a blasphemy. The interiority of Shylock is exposed and his actions gain clarity and motivation. This is the key advice and shows the power of interiority: Motivations can become clear, along with the choices that the character makes. I'm not likely to be one who wants to carve up a person's chest because I dislike him, so I don't resonate with Shylock on that level. But the idea of being reminded of an injury and being short and impatient with others because of it? That makes sense. The general behavior is clearer thanks to the asides. Sole SpeakerThe idea of a soliloquy is that one speaks whilst alone. Elizabethan and Jacobean drama rested on this ability, and Shakespeare manages to "unpack [one's] heart with words" (Hamlet 2.2) by utilizing the soliloquy. Modern day writers have other tools at their disposal: I already mentioned the italics as being one, but diaries, first-person narratives, and epistolary motifs all help to bridge that gap that Shakespeare crossed with monologues. It's important to remember that learning from Shakespeare doesn't mean writing like him. Aside from the fact that no one could, it isn't the iambic pentameter or blank verse that made Shakespeare so powerful. It's how he used his tools to best effect. One of the traps that novelists fall into is the soliloquy on the page, a malady called "navel-gazing", as it invokes the idea of the character contemplating deeply whatever it is that troubles her while doing nothing else. Some Romantic novels (like Les Miserables) will spend pages deep in the thoughts of the character, rolling the ideas around in their mental hands like well-worn stones. Depending on the skill of the writer, these can be tedious or intriguing, but they're always trying the same thing: To leaven the interior and get it to rise to the exterior. Shakespeare has some speeches in his oeuvre, to be sure. People will wander, verbally, for lines before getting to a point--and sometimes not even then. But the best monologues, the best interiority, is always helping us to understand the story better. Think of the fantastic ruminations of Richard II from his play. At the end (5.5), imprisoned and usurped, Richard considers which is better: to be a king, or a beggar. ...Sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am: then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again: and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing... These musings are necessary to understand how broken Richard has become, of showing the consequences of the actions of others throughout the play. Richard's speech--which goes on for a good while--furthers his character while remaining tightly connected to the play's primary plot. This is a crucial piece to making interiority work. It demonstrates the way the "inward man" is affected by what is happening throughout the story. Move Shakespeare often folded his stage directions into what characters said. These give the lines a sense of movement and reality, that the words are mirroring what the actor is doing and the two are together, rather than separate entities. Novelists can do a similar thing, particularly when it comes to plumbing the depths of interiority. Brandon Sanderson does this well in his massive tome, The Way of Kings. In one part, a primary character, Dalinar, needs to do some heavy thinking. Rather than having him simply stare and think, he gets to work carving out a latrine. The action of this royal man doing something so debased causes ripple effects throughout those who observed him, we as readers are given something to imagine aside from the man's thoughts, and his deeper self emerges. The idea of Hamlet's, that one ought to "suit the action to the word, the word to the action" (3.2), applies to writers, too. Characters need to move about on the page as much as they do on the stage. Gestures, nods, blinks, and tics all help make a character feel more alive and real--but there's always a caveat. As Hamlet also says, Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness...Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor... His advice is to a player, but I think to a writer. Not every gesture must be described, not every quote must be exclaimed upon. I think this also goes a long way to encouraging novelists to avoid said bookisms, as it acts like a reminder that describing how dialogue ought to be read ("whispered", "rejoined", "giggled", "groused') can become tedious and over-done. As Hamlet points out, "let your own discretion be your tutor". Much of our communication is through body language and vocal inflections, none of which happens on the page without direct explanations from the writer. Shakespeare could rely on his actors to give voice to his lines, to rest assured that they would communicate clearly the story they were telling. Writers have to rely on their audience's intelligence--and, fortunately, that's something that's easy to do. Readers don't have to have every little nuance spelled out for them, but they also can't be watching static images. Finding a middle ground helps pull the character off of the st/page and into the minds of the audience. This is where the character will "feel alive", with an internal world of recognizable, if not perfectly applicable, thoughts and feelings. It's what makes the inward man visible. ---- This post was originally published here. |
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