Why are John Cheever’s stories uniquely American and what would make a story uniquely British?

What makes John Cheever’s stories so uniquely American, aside from the obvious geographic setting of east coast America in the majority of his stories, is the way in which he writes, the so called New Yorker style narrative. This style is based around extraordinary stories about ordinary people which is also the crux of the American dream; that any person can, with hard work and determination, improve their position and quality of life. The land of a million opportunities for those with enough true grit to see their ambitions realised. In Cheever’s stories then we see the American dream projected onto the page as well as the American spirit of family values, capitalism and a classless society.

If we were to look at what makes a story uniquely British however, we could throw out the old clichés of cricket on a Sunday afternoon followed by warm ale and fish and chips down the pub. Or we could throw in the new clichés of multiculturalism, of the Tate modern and chicken tikka massala. However neither picture represents an authentically British experience, they are both opposite extremes of one another. For a novel to be truly authentically British I think instead of focusing on the physical attributes of our society it would be best to focus on the British spirit; of the central theme of humour and banter, talking about the weather and endless cups of tea, which though may be labelled clichés, are largely true to everyone I know. As Cecil Rhodes once said, “To be born British is to win the lottery of life,” and by Jove I agree with him! There are so many things that would make a story uniquely British, and what is considered uniquely British varies from person to person depending on family background, geographic location etc but fundamentally I would have to say tea, weather, banter, some kind of outdoor sport and a distrust of foreigners (particularly the French) are what would make a novel, or indeed a character, uniquely British.

Does gender play a role in contemporary writing?

Maybe the days of Emily Dickinson writing innuendo poetry, whilst fulfilling the dutiful role of a spinster stay at home daughter, are over. But one must ask oneself does gender still play a role in contemporary writing? If we look at the chick lit genre one would have to say, “yes ... to a certain extent,” because it would be hard to imagine a man writing a Helen Fielding type of novel, how many copies would Dave Jones diary have sold? Not quite the same impact. Men and women are different. This is a biological and psychological fact. We think on a different level; women tend to focus more on feelings and emotions, men on what is said, what can be seen etc. Of course this can be a generalisation, after all do male writers not also get in touch with their feelings and emotions to write fully rounded characters of all ages and both sexes? The sign of a good writer I think is to disguise their sex. I do think it is possible for a man to write from a woman’s point of view, and be successful at it without being too cliché. Women too can write successfully from a male’s point of view, if we look at Harry Potter for example you would find it hard to say that it was written by a woman. Rowling captures the boy and adolescent Harry’s voice perfectly; from the way he talks to the way he thinks, to the little jealousies and rivalries that boys have which are based on a whole different emotional level to that of girls. One famous scene that sticks in mind is when Hermione explains the complexities of the female psyche to Harry and Ron only for the two guys to be shocked that, “One person could feel so many emotions at one time and not explode,” to which Hermione replies aghast, “We don’t all have the emotional range of a teaspoon!” And that I think sums up this blog post, gender does play a role in contemporary writing however it is up to the skill of the author to either disguise, or show their gender blatantly, to their advantage based on their desired audience.

Ian McEwan, Saturday and pretentious writing

Why I hate Ian McEwan and other pretentious, post-modern writers

When set the task of reading Ian McEwan’s Saturday in late 2009 as part of our Critical Reading module I didn’t know what to expect. I was rather naive at that point of what I would call “pretentious literature’ - my reading experience in the previous year led me to read authors I hadn’t known before but that came from recommendations from friends. In this way I was introduced to such greats as Oscar Wilde, Evelyn Waugh and Donna Tartt. I therefore presumed and hoped, especially giving the gratuitous reviews, that this book from the author of ‘Atonement’ would at least give me some level of enjoyment, of escapism, of relation to character, of feeling my heartbeat increase as the pace and pages of the novel went by (which are my own personal definitions of what makes a book readable). However, it did not. What it did give me was a bitter after taste that has still to leave my literary palate. Reading ‘Saturday’ was one of the most torturous experiences of my life, and I’ve had four teeth out at once. What made it even more irritating were the fawning reviews on the front: “Dazzling...profound and urgent’ (The Observer), “Ian McEwan has triumphantly developed into a writer of outstanding subtly and substance...” (Sunday Times) and “Ian McEwan is one of the greatest masters of our time and Saturday is a brilliant feat” (Die Ziet). A brilliant feat of what, Die Ziet doesn’t say but boredom and pretentiousness as well as egotism comes to mind. So before you even read the first page you have all this hype surrounding it but, eager to read on, you gradually begin to wonder, as the pages painfully hobble by, whether the cover of the book had been replaced at some point and you are in fact reading “A detailed day in the life of a Neurosurgeon with extra surgical details and a recipe on how to make Bouillabaisse.” That is basically the unofficial blurb minus the original clichés that McEwan has thrown in; the artistic rebellious daughter Daisy who is political and writes poems about her politics and bla bla yawn bla. Then the jazz musician son, Theo, who is also so talented and artistic, and let us not forget Baxter (named after the rather delightful brand of soup perhaps?) the sufferer of Huntington’s disease who is thwarted in his attempts to rape Daisy not by a violent struggle, or even a tricky conundrum but by her reading lines from Matthew Arnold’s ‘Dover Beach.’ The words stun him into letting her go. I’m surprised that the police have never taken up McEwan’s advice and issued copies of ‘In Flander’s Field’ or ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ instead of giving out those useless rape alarms, Wordsworth’s the way forward obviously. I’d imagine McEwan wanted to show the power of art defeating barbarism but instead he paints a ludicrous and absurd scene, destroying any chance of tension or drama whatsoever.  I’m sure if this was submitted as a creative piece it would have the words cliché or absurd scrawled all over it in that dreaded red ink, perhaps even underlined with one or more exclamation marks.

It is obvious that McEwan is acting on his desire to write a book commenting on recent-ish events in Iraq as well as alluding to the first post-modern novels of Ulysses and Mrs Dalloway. Fair enough. Not the way I write, but you could possibly write a novel of interest set in 24 hours in the life of one man - after all, the television series 24 does this admirably. But not McEwan. It seems he got so involved in researching neurosurgery that he forgot he was actually writing a novel for people to read and, supposedly, enjoy. The obsessive and microscopic detail of a neurosurgeon’s life leaves you wondering whether McEwan discovered during his research that writing was not his real vocation in life; perhaps he became jealous of the neurosurgeon's world and in Saturday he wrote his ideal life for himself. We can never know.

Another thing that also grates me about Saturday is the egotistical, condescending tone and style of McEwan. It isn’t a book that makes you happy or cheerful but a book that tries to make you feel that this is how you should act and think and inspire to be. For the critics and the people who liked it (believe me there are some!) I guess this effect worked. For the rest of us however, we trudged through the pages as the infantry did at Passchendaele and the Somme, arriving at the end exhausted and disenfranchised.

It’s the tedious details and repetitions in this novel that really grind down your soul, the squash game that lasts 10 pages and feels like 100. The minute details that add nothing to the story, the plot, even the general ambiance of the piece but just remind you of the rave reviews on the front and back and make you think whether they actually reviewed the same book as the one you’re reading. As an amazon reviewer sums up perfectly:

“It takes the hero the first seventy pages of the book to wake up in the middle of the night, go back to bed, have a quickie with the wife, go back to sleep and eventually get up and get out of the house! Well, draw your own conclusions.”   

McEwan started as a short story writer and there he should have stayed. The world of full length novels is not for him I think, or writing in general to be honest unless it’s an essay on neurosurgery. He fails to grasp, and sadly so do a lot of post-modern writers, what the point of writing a novel actually is. You’re writing a story. Not a minute by minute account of a man’s movements and thoughts. It doesn’t matter whether you haven’t memorised a thesaurus, or worry that you haven’t described every tiny detail and thought - think back to those stories that you love. That you come back to again and again. I’m sure you go back to them because they possess the key qualities of the real novel; of escapism, relation to character, beauty of language, flow of words and dialogue. This is what a real piece of literature should possess; forget the hidden meanings, the multi-layers of intertextuality. Writing isn’t a process of how many other pieces of work you can reference; you write for the reader and for yourself, not to show off your intelligence or please a few critics. Leave the analysis and so called “hidden meanings” to critics and English literature students. As creative writers our job is to create, to entertain, to satisfy ourselves and those who can really get immersed in the worlds that we create and want to be in them. Wherever they are set, a sense of adventure, of the unknown, of personalities should transcend all genres and all styles of writing, leaving you with the core and everlasting attributes of the true masterpiece. The main lesson we can learn from Saturday therefore is simply how not to write if you want to create something that will stand the test of time.

Why do I write?

Why do I write? I would love to be dramatic and say, “But writing is breathing to me! Ink is my blood, paper my skin,” and other such metaphors but honestly I began writing seriously as it was the only artistic thing that I was any good at. I was a very, very amateur guitar player and certainly wouldn’t be the next Kurt Cobain. I had no interest in Art but I loved to read. When I was younger I had problems reading but since I got into the habit of reading regularly I’ve been a ravenous reader except, ironically enough, in the last two years where I’ve dedicated what used to be my reading time to writing. I couldn’t stand the thought of working in an office for the rest of my life until I died a grey sludge in a suit and tie, which was the place my business studies degree was taking me. So I decided to become a Creative Writing student to hone my skills and give me the time I needed to write my first novel or two.  

I always had an over-active imagination and was prone to daydreaming. When I was younger I had written comic book stories in the vein of Tintin and Asterix the Obelix so the desire to create my own world, to escape the mundane realities of life, was always there. The fact that you could actually make a career out of it (if you were very good and fortunate of course) was the icing on the cake really.

I write therefore for a number of reasons; because I want to get good and make a living out of it, avoiding all office work, or a job where I have to get up/go to bed early. Because I want to give other people the same sense of escapism as I felt from reading such books as Harry Potter and the Hobbit. But equally important, potential money and small notoriety aside, is the fact that when you really get into a story you are writing its bloody good fun! And after you have finished you feel as if you’ve achieved something, it’s time well spent and I would certainly recommend it to anyone whatever their literary ambitions.