Monday, March 9, 2020

Revising and Combining Favorite Texts As A Writing Exercise

I love to annotate the books I enjoy reading. Underline key words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs. Jot down profundities (or at least what seem to be at that moment) in the margins. Question marks, stars, and even smiley faces adorn my books' pages. Interacting with a text has a productive energy about it that I just can't ignore.

The more I read, the bigger collection of literary highlights I accumulate. Of course, I try to back and reread them from time to time, those little morsels of knowledge that reteach my mind and reinvigorate my soul. But I wondered if there was any way to use them besides simple reabsorbtion. After all, these are not household cleaning supplies that we are talking about. Rather, these are nuggets of sage wisdom, units of soulful measurement.

So, I came up with a plan, and honesty, I'm not sure how novel it is, but I'm going to share it anyway:

Turn your favorite authors' words into your own. Reorder the syntax, rephrase the vocabulary, and combine them with other such experiments to create something brand new: a new message, a fresh perspective.

For example, I read Watership Down for the first time this year and absolutely adored it. I'm purposefully reading novels chock full if nature description in hopes to gain some skill in that area of my own prose. Here are a few of my favorite passages:

1a) "...their staunch ability to withstand disaster and let the stream of their life carry them along, past reaches of terror and loss."

2a) "Along the western horizon the lower clouds formed a single purple mass, against which distant trees stood out minute and sharp. The upper edges rose into the light, a far land of wild mountains. Copper-colored, weightless and motionless, they suggested a glassy fragility like that of frost."

3a) "A wild animal that feels that it no longer has any reason to live reaches in the end a point when its remaining energies may actually be directed toward dying."

Here is how I paraphrased and reworded them:

1b) They are steadfastly adept at overcoming hardship and letting the rushing river that is their time on this earth surge them right by stretches of fear and disaster.

2b) Out in the distance near the ominous border of the earth and the sky, a violet globule of vapors made shape. Trees keenly outlined those clouds as if they were etched into the air by a master illustrator who specialized in realism, an artist who carefully connected the tips of the mountains with the light of the heavens. Those whispy white shapes stood featherly-still, intimating an impermanence reminiscent of aged rice paper.

3b) The earthly beast understands when its time of death has approached. In place of the struggle to hunt and scavenge, it turns its attention to the act of departing. There is an inherent sense of satisfaction in this shift of spirit from life to death.

I'm also reading an excellent non-fiction book called The Abundance of Less. When picking a second book to draw ideas from, choose one with a similar theme. The nature quotes from Watership Down blend well with the philosophical musings about simple living in the countryside that are present in The Abundance of Less. Two of my favorite quotes from that book are these:

1c) "I remember she once told me she wanted to be like plants are, producing an uncountable number of seeds, or like wildflowers in a meadow, not thinking of herself as so unique or special. 'I admire how they simply sacrifice themselves, hundreds of thousands of seeds, and only a few grow into plants. I'd like to be more like that myself.'"

2c) "He asked himself the question: 'What is beautiful?' And the answer, for him, was: 'Everyday things; things that are used in daily life by ordinary people.'"

And here they are rephrased:

1d) As I recall, he muttered to me once that he wanted to embody the life-essence of plants, to create from seemingly nothing an endless hoard of seeds, unleashing life unto the world with the intent to affect truly lasting change, the same as the man who planted a tree a day for eighty years only to find his dusty dry field had become a lush forest, a veritable ecosystem of wonder. To be a seed and inject simply one's potential into the soil of the world was enough for him, for he didn't care if his seed were to become a giant redwood or if it were plucked quickly out from the ground by the massive black beak of a raven, digested, and put someplace else. In both cases, the potential would merely be transferred, never killed.

2d) Beauty to him was not a rare illustrious stone, nor is it a once in a lifetime sunset of rich hues that melt the heart. To him, true beauty is made up of everyday items and occurrences: the castiron skillet that was pounded into existence thanks to the sweaty toil of the blacksmith four generations prior, or the weathered lines on the face of his better half that seem to reveal themselves only when she's at her most tired and weary moments, like when she's just returned to the cabin with a basket full of freshly cut timber on a crisp February morning.

Finally, with some other minor tweaks (including an original idea or two), I am able to create my own piece of writing. I'll need a thesis of some sort. In this case, I choose to... I also need a synthesis to wrap it all together:

They were steadfastly adept at overcoming hardship. The Forest People were those who let the rushing river that was their time on this earth surge them right by stretches of fear and disaster.

Out in the distance near the ominous border of the earth and the sky, a violet globule of vapors made shape. Their medicine man, humming an archaic tune, watch the scene unfold with interest. Trees keenly outlined those clouds as if they were etched into the air by a master illustrator who specialized in realism, an artist who carefully connected the tips of the mountains with the light of the heavens. Those whispy white shapes stood featherly-still, intimating an impermanence reminiscent of aged rice paper. The medicine man clapped his hands together firmly, part signal that his meditation was complete, part applause.

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The earthly beasts that are the Forest People understand when their time of death has approached. In place of the struggle to hunt and scavenge, they turn their attention to the act of departing. There is an inherent sense of satisfaction in this shift of spirit from life to death.

As I recall, he, the medicine man that is, muttered to me once that he wanted to embody the life-essence of plants, to create from seemingly nothing an endless hoard of seeds, unleashing life unto the world with the intent to affect truly lasting change, the same as the man who planted a tree a day for eighty years only to find his dusty dry field had become a lush forest, a veritable ecosystem of wonder. To be a seed and inject simply one's potential into the soil of the world was enough for him, for he didn't care if his seed were to become a giant redwood or if it were plucked quickly out from the ground by the massive black beak of a raven, digested, and put someplace else. In both cases, the potential would merely be transferred, never killed.

He hummed his tune even louder now and he slowly walked barefoot down the earthen road.

Beauty to him was not a rare illustrious stone, nor was it a once in a lifetime sunset of rich hues that melt the heart. To him, true beauty was made up of everyday items and occurrences: the castiron skillet that was pounded into existence thanks to the sweaty toil of the blacksmith four generations prior, or the weathered lines on the face of his better half which seemed to reveal themselves only when she was at her most tired and weary, like when she had just returned to the cabin with a basket full of freshly cut timber on a crisp February morning.

No, he was not in a rush to meet the moment of his transformation from life to death, but he was most definitely in anticipation of it. He would one day smile upon it like a long-lost friend, and that thought curled the corner of his mouth upward slightly. And his hum grew ever louder, for he was at peace with the world that would provide him shelter and grain manifested by nothing besides sweat and toil. And love of course. There was always love.

His tune was carried along the wind as if a message sent to his faraway friend, Death, whom he knew less than a stranger, but loved like none other.

What do you think?

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