Ray Bradbury on Zen and the Art of Writing (1973)

ray-bradbury-zen

The pro­lif­ic Ray Brad­bury, author of Fahren­heit 451The Mar­t­ian Chron­i­cles, and many oth­er works both inside and out­side the realm of sci­ence fic­tion, appar­ent­ly suf­fered no short­age of cre­ativ­i­ty. Pro­lif­ic in his fic­tion writ­ing, he also proved gen­er­ous in his encour­age­ment of younger writ­ers: we’ve pre­vi­ous­ly fea­tured not just his twelve essen­tial pieces of writ­ing advice but his secret to life and love. He even wrote enough on the sub­ject of writ­ing to con­sti­tute an entire book, the col­lec­tion Zen in the Art of Writ­ing: Essays on Cre­ativ­i­ty. In the 1973 title piece, Brad­bury, hard­ly known as a Bud­dhist, explains his use of the term zen for its “shock val­ue”: “The vari­ety of reac­tions to it should guar­an­tee me some sort of crowd, if only of curi­ous onlook­ers, those who come to pity and stay to shout. The old sideshow Med­i­cine Men who trav­eled about our coun­try used cal­liope, drum, and Black­foot Indi­an, to insure open-mouthed atten­tion. I hope I will be for­giv­en for using ZEN in much the same way, at least here at the start. For, in the end, you may dis­cov­er I’m not jok­ing after all.”

He breaks down his own idea of zen in his writ­ing process by first ask­ing him­self, “Now while I have you here before my plat­form, what words shall I whip forth paint­ed in red let­ters ten feet tall?” He paints the fol­low­ing, and after each we include selec­tions from the essay:

  • WORK. “It is, above all, the word about which your career will revolve for a life­time. Begin­ning now you should become not its slave, which is too mean a term, but its part­ner. Once you are real­ly a co-shar­er of exis­tence with your work, that word will lose its repel­lent aspects. [ … ] We often indulge in made work, in false busi­ness, to keep from being bored. Or worse still we con­ceive the idea of work­ing for mon­ey. The mon­ey becomes the object, the tar­get, the end-all and be-all. Thus work, being impor­tant only as a means to that end, degen­er­ates into bore­dom. Can we won­der then that we hate it so?”
  • RELAXATION. “Impos­si­ble! you say. How can you work and relax? How can you cre­ate and not be a ner­vous wreck? [ … ] Tense­ness results from not know­ing or giv­ing up try­ing to know. Work, giv­ing us expe­ri­ence, results in new con­fi­dence and even­tu­al­ly in relax­ation. The type of dynam­ic relax­ation again, as in sculpt­ing, where the sculp­tor does not con­scious­ly have to tell his fin­gers what to do. The sur­geon does not tell his scalpel what to do. Nor does the ath­lete advise his body. Sud­den­ly, a nat­ur­al rhythm is achieved. The body thinks for itself.”
  • DON’T THINK! “The writer who wants to tap the larg­er truth in him­self must reject the temp­ta­tions of Joyce or Camus or Ten­nessee Williams, as exhib­it­ed in the lit­er­ary reviews. He must for­get the mon­ey wait­ing for him in mass-cir­cu­la­tion. He must ask him­self, ‘What do I real­ly think of the world, what do I love, fear, hate?’ and begin to pour this on paper. Then, through the emo­tions, work­ing steadi­ly, over a long peri­od of time, his writ­ing will clar­i­fy; he will relax because he thinks right and he will think even righter because he relax­es. The two will become inter­change­able. At last he will begin to see him­self.”
  • FURTHER RELAXATION. “We should not look down on work nor look down on the forty-five out of fifty-two sto­ries writ­ten in our first year as fail­ures. To fail is to give up. But you are in the midst of a mov­ing process. Noth­ing fails then. All goes on. Work is done. If good, you learn from it. If bad, you learn even more. Work done and behind you is a les­son to be stud­ied. There is no fail­ure unless one stops. Not to work is to cease, tight­en up, become ner­vous and there­fore destruc­tive of the cre­ative process. [ … ] Isn’t it obvi­ous by now that the more we talk of work, the clos­er we come to Relax­ation.”
  • “Have I sound­ed like a cultist of some sort? A yogi feed­ing on kumquats, grapenuts and almonds here beneath the banyan tree? Let me assure you I speak of all these things only because they have worked for me for fifty years. And I think they might work for you. The true test is in the doing. Be prag­mat­ic, then. If you’re not hap­py with the way your writ­ing has gone, you might give my method a try. If you do, I think you might eas­i­ly find a new def­i­n­i­tion for Work. And the word is LOVE.

You can read much more about Brad­bury’s method of work­ing, relax­ing, not think­ing, and relax­ing fur­ther still — and his thoughts on the joy of writ­ing, keep­ing the muse fed, estab­lish­ing a thou­sand-or-two-words-a-day habit, and “how to climb the tree of life, throw rocks at your­self, and get down with­out break­ing your bones or your spir­it” — in the book, Zen in the Art of Writ­ing: Essays on Cre­ativ­i­ty.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ray Brad­bury Gives 12 Pieces of Writ­ing Advice to Young Authors (2001)

The Secret of Life and Love, Accord­ing to Ray Brad­bury (1968)

Ray Brad­bury: Lit­er­a­ture is the Safe­ty Valve of Civ­i­liza­tion

Ray Brad­bury: “The Things That You Love Should Be Things That You Do.” “Books Teach Us That”

Ray Brad­bury: Sto­ry of a Writer 1963 Film Cap­tures the Para­dox­i­cal Late Sci-Fi Author

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on cities, lan­guage, Asia, and men’s style. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall or on Face­book.

Music That Helps You Write: A Free Spotify Playlist of Your Selections

AliceColtraneUC

What music puts you in the mood to write? At the moment, I have on Alice Coltrane’s “Bat­tle at Armaged­don” from her 1971 Uni­ver­sal Con­scious­ness, a work of psy­che­del­ic free jazz that makes my fin­gers skit­ter over the key­board and sends thoughts rac­ing through my mind. Should Coltrane’s mys­tic jazz counter the mood I want to sum­mon, I might find some­thing less syn­co­pat­ed, more lugubri­ous, omi­nous, melan­choly, serene, etc. (Per­haps Grouper’s atmos­pher­ic suite of reverb-drenched tone-poems The Man Who Died in His Boat.)

This inter­ac­tion between the ears, the fin­gers, and the writ­ing mind struck our inter­est back in 2012, and we put out a call to read­ers to sug­gest the best pieces of music to write by. Some read­ers found that silence made for the best—or only—accompaniment. Many more made rec­om­men­da­tions rang­ing from Miles Davis, to min­i­mal­ist com­pos­er Steve Reich, sitar mae­stro Ravi Shankar, the clas­sic Krautrock sound of Neu!, the dub reg­gae of King Tub­by, the vio­lin Sonatas of Bach, and the ambi­ent sound­scapes of Bri­an Eno. We took it upon our­selves to com­pile a sam­pling of your sug­ges­tions with Youtube videos at the time. Now we offer above a more portable Spo­ti­fy ver­sion of our “music to write by” playlist—over 13 hours of music. (Stream it above. Or find it online here. If you need to down­load Spo­ti­fy, grab the soft­ware here.) I’ve added Alice Coltrane, Grouper, and the beau­ti­ful …Until We Felt Red (2006) from one of my favorite gui­tarists, Kaki King.

I hope this playlist inspires you, or at least inspires you to make your own. While it could go on indef­i­nite­ly, the key to a good mix­tape is the art of judi­cious selec­tion. Please tell us in the com­ments, what would you absolute­ly have to add? What artists, com­posers, and musi­cians get you in the mood to write, help you shift tem­pos, or move you from major to minor keys while you com­pose, whether you write non­fic­tion, poet­ry, tech­ni­cal man­u­als, or the Great Amer­i­can What­ev­er? We’ll add many of your sug­ges­tions to the playlist over the next few days.

Relat­ed Con­tents:

The Best Music to Write By: Give Us Your Rec­om­men­da­tions

The Best Music to Write By, Part II: Your Favorites Brought Togeth­er in a Spe­cial Playlist

Lis­ten to Philip K. Dick’s Favorite Clas­si­cal Music: A Free, 11-Hour Playlist

62 Psy­che­del­ic Clas­sics: A Free Playlist Cre­at­ed by Sean Lennon

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness.

How Vi Hart Makes Her Viral Videos: A Look Inside Her Creative Process

Spend some time pok­ing around on the Khan Acad­e­my, or this site for that mat­ter, and your chances of run­ning into math­e­mu­si­cian Vi Hart are extreme­ly favor­able. 

I’ve tried—and failed—to keep up with her high­ly digres­sive, rapid fire, doo­dle-based expla­na­tions on such top­ics as net neu­tral­i­ty and the space-time con­tin­u­um. I had bet­ter luck fol­low­ing her direc­tions for turn­ing squig­gles into snakes, a math-based par­lor trick that seems more like mag­ic to me.

What I real­ly want­ed to know is how does she make those fun­ny lit­tle videos of hers?  Doubt­less, any sev­en-year-old who’s logged two or three hours in an after-school pro­gram devot­ed to stop motion ani­ma­tion would have the chops to explain how to make sim­ple draw­ings ren­dered in Sharpie on a spi­ral bound note­book come to life, but what if I still did­n’t get it? I would­n’t want to give the short­ies the impres­sion that the lay­men and women of my gen­er­a­tion are too dim to keep up with mod­ern tech­nol­o­gy.

Then on a whim, I typed “how does Vi Hart make her videos” into a search engine and voila! The video above, in which the doyenne her­self reveals exact­ly how she does just that.

Actu­al­ly “exact­ly” might be over­stat­ing things a bit, giv­en that she does so in her imme­di­ate­ly rec­og­niz­able style. If I under­stand cor­rect­ly, she starts with a script, which she pares to the essen­tials, before shoot­ing the seg­ment with a team of interns, some of whom serve as body dou­bles for her hands, their arms encased in funky, detach­able sleeves. Then she speeds things up by delet­ing the frames in which the mov­ing hand obscures the page. I’m pret­ty sure she wings it when record­ing her voiceover nar­ra­tion, but I could be wrong.

She also seems to have a thing for pin­ning her long brown hair up with a turkey feath­er. Even so, I’ll bet the deci­sion to give her ador­ing pub­lic a glimpse of some­thing beyond mere hands cement­ed many a celebri­ty crush. She’s a Tina Fey for the geek set. (Not that Tina Fey isn’t already serv­ing that func­tion for the same demo­graph­ic.)

As win­some as she is, I have to say, I pre­ferred her 14-year-old intern Ethan Bres­nick’s con­sci­en­tious behind-the-scenes look at how these things come togeth­er. Have a look above if you’d like some straight dope on soft­ware, cam­era posi­tions, and the like.

(Depend­ing on how much work you’ve got to get done today, you may also enjoy the extreme­ly infor­mal, hour-plus inter­view Ethan con­duct­ed via Skype, dur­ing which Hart eats her din­ner and invites fans to join them via Twit­ter.)

The only thing lack­ing is the nit­ty grit­ty on how and where Hart stores her enor­mous video files. With­out a benev­o­lent Khan Acad­e­my to over­see my work, such tech­ni­cal specs would def­i­nite­ly come in handy for a begin­ner such as myself. The Sharpies on spi­ral bound I can fig­ure out on my own.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vi Hart Uses Her Video Mag­ic to Demys­ti­fy Stravin­sky and Schoenberg’s 12-Tone Com­po­si­tions

Vi Hart Explains & Defends Net Neu­tral­i­ty in a New Doo­dle-Filled Video

Math­e­mu­si­cian Vi Hart Explains the Space-Time Con­tin­u­um With a Music Box, Bach, and a Möbius Strip

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is the author of sev­en books, a cou­ple of which have mor­phed into ebooks. Fol­low her @AyunHalliday

“The Periodic Table of Storytelling” Reveals the Elements of Telling a Good Story

periodic table storytelling

Dmitri Mendeleev might have designed the orig­i­nal peri­od­ic table – a graph­ic rep­re­sen­ta­tion of all the basic build­ing blocks of the uni­verse – but artist James Har­ris has done some­thing way cool with that tem­plate — the Peri­od­ic Table of Sto­ry­telling.

That’s right. Har­ris has tak­en all the tropes, arche­types and clichés found in movies (not to men­tion TV, com­ic books, lit­er­a­ture, video and even pro­fes­sion­al wrestling) and syn­the­sized them into an ele­gant­ly real­ized chart. Instead of group­ing the ele­ments by noble gas­es or met­als, Har­ris has orga­nized them by sto­ry ele­ments — struc­ture, plot devices, hero arche­types. Each ele­ment is linked to a vast wiki that gives def­i­n­i­tions and exam­ples. For instance, if you click on the ele­ment Chk, you’ll go to a page explain­ing the trope of Chekhov’s Gun. And if you click on Neo, you’ll go to the page for, of course, the Cho­sen One.

Below the chart, Har­ris has even cre­at­ed sto­ry mol­e­cules for a few spe­cif­ic movies. Ghost­busters, for exam­ple, is the com­bi­na­tion of an atom con­sist­ing of 5ma (Five Man Band) and Mad (Mad Sci­en­tist) and one con­sist­ing of Iac (Sealed Evil in a Can) and Hil (Hilar­i­ty Ensues).

So if you’re in film school or if you have a copy of Robert McKee’s Sto­ry on your book­shelf or if you’re one of the rough­ly three dozen peo­ple in the Los Ange­les cof­fee shop where I’m writ­ing this arti­cle who are bang­ing out screen­plays, you need to check this table out. But be warned: it will suck away a good chunk of your day.

via No Film School

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Pixar’s 22 Rules of Sto­ry­telling

Ira Glass, the Host of This Amer­i­can Life, Breaks Down the Fine Art of Sto­ry­telling

World’s Small­est Peri­od­ic Table on a Human Hair

“The Peri­od­ic Table Table” — All The Ele­ments in Hand-Carved Wood

Free Online Chem­istry Cours­es

Jonathan Crow is a Los Ange­les-based writer and film­mak­er whose work has appeared in Yahoo!, The Hol­ly­wood Reporter, and oth­er pub­li­ca­tions. You can fol­low him at @jonccrow.

The Secret of Life and Love, According to Ray Bradbury (1968)

“Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.” This—writes Sam Weller in his intro­duc­tion to a 2010 inter­view with sci-fi and fan­ta­sy lumi­nary Ray Brad­bury—was the author’s “life­long cre­do.” Weller writes of dis­cov­er­ing an unpub­lished Paris Review inter­view from the 1970s in Bradbury’s garage, with a note from edi­tor George Plimp­ton that read “a bit infor­mal in places, maybe over­ly enthu­si­as­tic.” The irony of this judg­ment is that it is Bradbury’s enthu­si­asm, his lack of for­mal­i­ty, which make him so com­pelling and so copi­ous a writer and speak­er. Brad­bury didn’t self-edit or sec­ond guess much—his approach is best char­ac­ter­ized as fear­less and pas­sion­ate, just as he describes his writ­ing process:

I type my first draft quick­ly, impul­sive­ly even. A few days lat­er I retype the whole thing and my sub­con­scious, as I retype, gives me new words. Maybe it’ll take retyp­ing it many times until it is done. Some­times it takes very lit­tle revi­sion.

It’s that unfet­tered expres­sion of his sub­con­scious that Brad­bury dis­cuss­es in the short clip above, in which he re-invig­o­rates all the sort of carpe diem clichés one hears so often by fram­ing them not as self-help sug­ges­tions but as imper­a­tives for a full and healthy life. Respond­ing in the moment, says Brad­bury, refus­ing to “put off till tomor­row… what I must do, right now,” allows him to “find out what my secret self needs, wants, desires with all its heart.” For Brad­bury, writ­ing is much more than a for­mal exer­cise or a spe­cial­ized craft—it is a vital expres­sion of his full human­i­ty and a means of “cleans­ing the stream” of his mind: “We belong only by doing,” he says, “and we own only by doing, and we love only by doing…. If you want an inter­pre­ta­tion of life and love, that would be the clos­est thing I could come to.”

Brad­bury doesn’t lim­it his phi­los­o­phy to the writ­ing life; he advo­cates for every­one an unabashed emo­tion­al engage­ment with the world. For him, the man (and woman, we might pre­sume), who can­not “laugh freely,” cry, or “be violent”—which he defines in sub­li­mat­ing terms as any phys­i­cal or cre­ative activity—is a “sick man.” Bradbury’s “over­ly enthu­si­as­tic” explo­rations of cre­ative pas­sion were almost as much a part of his out­put as his fic­tion. His inter­views, tele­vised and in print, are inspir­ing for this rea­son: he is nev­er coy or pre­ten­tious but push­es oth­ers to aspire to the same kind of authen­tic joy he seemed to take in every­thing he did.

By the way, the first per­son we see above is leg­endary Warn­er Bros. ani­ma­tor Chuck Jones (as one Youtube com­menter says, we get in this clip “two vision­ar­ies for the price of one”). Bradbury’s “vital­i­ty,” says Jones, “rubs off on the peo­ple who work with him.” And, he might have added, all of the peo­ple who read and lis­ten to him, too.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Ray Brad­bury: “The Things That You Love Should Be Things That You Do.” “Books Teach Us That”

Ray Brad­bury: Sto­ry of a Writer 1963 Film Cap­tures the Para­dox­i­cal Late Sci-Fi Author

Ray Brad­bury Gives 12 Pieces of Writ­ing Advice to Young Authors (2001)

Ray Brad­bury: Lit­er­a­ture is the Safe­ty Valve of Civ­i­liza­tion

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

A Reading of Charles Bukowski’s First Published Story, “Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip” (1944)

BukowskiStoryCover

“Everyone’s got to start some­where,” a banal plat­i­tude that express­es a tru­ism worth repeat­ing: wher­ev­er you are, you’ve got to get start­ed. If you’re John Updike (who would have been 82 years old yes­ter­day), you start where so many oth­er accom­plished fig­ures have, the Har­vard Lam­poon. If you’re Charles Bukows­ki… believe it or not, you actu­al­ly start in an equal­ly renowned pub­li­ca­tion. Bukowski’s first fic­tion appeared in Sto­ry, a mag­a­zine that helped launch the careers of Cheev­er, Salinger, Saroy­an, Car­son McCullers and Richard Wright.

But if you’re Charles Bukows­ki, you come out swing­ing. Your first pub­lished work in 1944  is a non­sense sto­ry writ­ten as an eff you to the edi­tor, Whit Bur­nett. You fea­ture Mr. Bur­nett as a char­ac­ter, along with a cat who shakes hands (sort of), a pros­ti­tute named Mil­lie, a few card-play­ing drunks, an impe­ri­ous “short sto­ry instruc­tress,” and a mys­te­ri­ous “bleary-eyed tramp.” Oh, and you open the sto­ry by quot­ing ver­ba­tim one of Burnett’s rejec­tion let­ters:

Dear Mr. Bukows­ki:

Again, this is a con­glom­er­a­tion of extreme­ly good stuff and oth­er stuff so full of idol­ized pros­ti­tutes, morn­ing-after vom­it­ing scenes, mis­an­thropy, praise for sui­cide etc. that it is not quite for a mag­a­zine of any cir­cu­la­tion at all. This is, how­ev­er, pret­ty much the saga of a cer­tain type of per­son and in it I think you’ve done an hon­est job. Pos­si­bly we will print you some­time but I don’t know exact­ly when. That depends on you.

Sin­cere­ly yours,

Whit Bur­nett

I won’t spoil it for you—you must read (or lis­ten to below) “After­math of a Lengthy Rejec­tion Slip” for yourself—but the let­ter sets up a typ­i­cal­ly Bukowskian punch­line: wry and sar­cas­tic and wist­ful and lyri­cal all at once.

Bukows­ki was 24 and had only been writ­ing for two years by this time. He lat­er recalled being very unhap­py with the pub­li­ca­tion. For one, writes Book­tryst, “it had been buried in the End Pages sec­tion of the mag­a­zine as, Bukows­ki felt, a curios­i­ty rather than a seri­ous piece of writ­ing.” How­ev­er, Bukows­ki had already sent Sto­ry dozens of what he con­sid­ered seri­ous pieces of writ­ing before pen­ning “After­math,” which he admits he tamed for the sake of Burnett’s sen­si­bil­i­ties. In an inter­view near the end of his life, Bukows­ki remem­bered sub­mit­ting to the mag­a­zine “a cou­ple of short sto­ries a week for maybe a year and half. The sto­ry they final­ly accept­ed was mild in com­par­i­son to the oth­ers. I mean in terms of con­tent and style and gam­ble and explo­ration and all that.”

Bukows­ki may have been bit­ter, but his first pub­li­ca­tion, and last sub­mis­sion to Sto­ry, might deserve cred­it for inspir­ing a life­time of boozy mate­r­i­al: look­ing back, he recalls that after the per­ceived slight, he “drank and became one of the best drinkers any­where, which takes some tal­ent also.” Everybody’s got to start some­where.

Book­tryst has more to the sto­ry, as well as sev­er­al images of the rare 1944 Bukows­ki issue of Sto­ry. Above, in two parts, lis­ten to the sto­ry in the won­der­ful­ly dry bari­tone of Tom O’Bedlam, whom you may already know from our pre­vi­ous posts on Bukowski’s poems “Nir­vana” and “So You Want to Be a Writer?

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Three Inter­pre­ta­tions of Charles Bukowski’s Melan­choly Poem “Nir­vana”

Lis­ten to Charles Bukows­ki Poems Being Read by Bukows­ki Him­self & the Great Tom Waits

So You Want to Be a Writer?: Charles Bukows­ki Explains the Dos & Don’ts

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

William S. Burroughs Teaches a Free Course on Creative Reading and Writing (1979)

Accord­ing to Ted Mor­gan, author of William S. Bur­roughs biog­ra­phy Lit­er­ary Out­law (which Bur­roughs hat­ed), the hard-liv­ing Beat writer added “teacher” to the list of jobs he did not like after an unhap­py semes­ter teach­ing cre­ative writ­ing at the City Col­lege of New York. He com­plained about dimwit­ted stu­dents, and dis­liked the job—arranged for him by Allen Ginsberg—so much that he lat­er turned down a posi­tion at the Uni­ver­si­ty of Buf­fa­lo that paid $15,000 a semes­ter, even though he des­per­ate­ly need­ed the mon­ey. That Bur­roughs had recent­ly kicked hero­in may have con­tributed to his unease with the pro­sa­ic reg­u­lar­i­ties of col­lege life. What­ev­er the sto­ry, he lat­er remarked that the “teach­ing gig was a les­son in nev­er again.”

What then could have lured Bur­roughs out to Boul­der Col­orado five years lat­er to deliv­er a series of lec­tures on cre­ative writ­ing at Naropa Uni­ver­si­ty? He’d picked up his hero­in habit again, and his friend­ship with Ginsberg—who co-found­ed Naropa’s writ­ing program—must have played a part. What­ev­er the rea­sons, this assign­ment dif­fered great­ly from his City Col­lege stint: no stu­dent writ­ing, no office hours or admin. Just Bur­roughs doing what came naturally—holding court, on lit­er­a­ture, para­psy­chol­o­gy, occult eso­ter­i­ca, vio­lence, aliens, neu­ro­science, and his own nov­els Naked Lunch and The Soft Machine.

Bur­roughs’ lec­tures are heav­i­ly philo­soph­i­cal, which might have turned off his New York stu­dents, but sure­ly turned on his Naropa audi­ence. And if you stopped to lis­ten, it will prob­a­bly turn you on too, in ways cre­ative and intel­lec­tu­al. Osten­si­bly on the sub­ject of cre­ative read­ing, Bur­roughs also offers cre­ative writ­ing instruc­tion in each talk. His dis­cus­sions of writ­ers he admires—from Car­son McCullers to Aleis­ter Crow­ley to Stephen King—are fas­ci­nat­ing, and he uses no short­age of exam­ples to illus­trate var­i­ous writ­ing tech­niques. For­tu­nate­ly for us, the lec­tures were record­ed. Says Dan­ger­ous Minds, who pro­vide help­ful descrip­tions of each lec­ture: “now you can have your very own cre­ative writ­ing class from William S. Bur­roughs, all thanks to the won­ders of YouTube.” Hear all three lec­tures above, and be by turns inspired, instruct­ed, enlight­ened, and warped.

You can find Bur­rough’s lec­tures on Cre­ative Read­ing list­ed in our col­lec­tion of Free Online Lit­er­a­ture Cours­es, part of our larg­er col­lec­tion, 1,700 Free Online Cours­es from Top Uni­ver­si­ties.

If you would like to sign up for Open Culture’s free email newslet­ter, please find it here. Or fol­low our posts on Threads, Face­book, BlueSky or Mastodon.

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Relat­ed Con­tent:

William S. Bur­roughs Explains What Artists & Cre­ative Thinkers Do for Human­i­ty: From Galileo to Cézanne and James Joyce

William S. Bur­roughs on the Art of Cut-up Writ­ing

William S. Bur­roughs Reads His Con­tro­ver­sial 1959 Nov­el Naked Lunch

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

Stephen King’s Top 20 Rules for Writers

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Image by the USO, via Flickr Com­mons

In one of my favorite Stephen King inter­views, for The Atlantic, he talks at length about the vital impor­tance of a good open­ing line. “There are all sorts of the­o­ries,” he says, “it’s a tricky thing.” “But there’s one thing” he’s sure about: “An open­ing line should invite the read­er to begin the sto­ry. It should say: Lis­ten. Come in here. You want to know about this.” King’s dis­cus­sion of open­ing lines is com­pelling because of his dual focus as an avid read­er and a prodi­gious writer of fiction—he doesn’t lose sight of either per­spec­tive:

We’ve talked so much about the read­er, but you can’t for­get that the open­ing line is impor­tant to the writer, too. To the per­son who’s actu­al­ly boots-on-the-ground. Because it’s not just the reader’s way in, it’s the writer’s way in also, and you’ve got to find a door­way that fits us both.

This is excel­lent advice. As you ori­ent your read­er, so you ori­ent your­self, point­ing your work in the direc­tion it needs to go. Now King admits that he doesn’t think much about the open­ing line as he writes, in a first draft, at least. That per­fect­ly craft­ed and invit­ing open­ing sen­tence is some­thing that emerges in revi­sion, which can be where the bulk of a writer’s work hap­pens.

Revi­sion in the sec­ond draft, “one of them, any­way,” may “neces­si­tate some big changes” says King in his 2000 mem­oir slash writ­ing guide On Writ­ing. And yet, it is an essen­tial process, and one that “hard­ly ever fails.” Below, we bring you King’s top twen­ty rules from On Writ­ing. About half of these relate direct­ly to revi­sion. The oth­er half cov­er the intangibles—attitude, dis­ci­pline, work habits. A num­ber of these sug­ges­tions reli­ably pop up in every writer’s guide. But quite a few of them were born of Stephen King’s many decades of tri­al and error and—writes the Barnes & Noble book blog—“over 350 mil­lion copies” sold, “like them or loathe them.”

1. First write for your­self, and then wor­ry about the audi­ence. “When you write a sto­ry, you’re telling your­self the sto­ry. When you rewrite, your main job is tak­ing out all the things that are not the sto­ry.”

2. Don’t use pas­sive voice. “Timid writ­ers like pas­sive verbs for the same rea­son that timid lovers like pas­sive part­ners. The pas­sive voice is safe.”

3. Avoid adverbs. “The adverb is not your friend.”

4. Avoid adverbs, espe­cial­ly after “he said” and “she said.”

5. But don’t obsess over per­fect gram­mar. “The object of fic­tion isn’t gram­mat­i­cal cor­rect­ness but to make the read­er wel­come and then tell a sto­ry.”

6. The mag­ic is in you. “I’m con­vinced that fear is at the root of most bad writ­ing.”

7. Read, read, read. ”If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write.”

8. Don’t wor­ry about mak­ing oth­er peo­ple hap­py. “If you intend to write as truth­ful­ly as you can, your days as a mem­ber of polite soci­ety are num­bered, any­way.”

9. Turn off the TV. “TV—while work­ing out or any­where else—really is about the last thing an aspir­ing writer needs.”

10. You have three months. “The first draft of a book—even a long one—should take no more than three months, the length of a sea­son.”

11. There are two secrets to suc­cess. “I stayed phys­i­cal healthy, and I stayed mar­ried.”

12. Write one word at a time. “Whether it’s a vignette of a sin­gle page or an epic tril­o­gy like ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ the work is always accom­plished one word at a time.”

13. Elim­i­nate dis­trac­tion. “There’s should be no tele­phone in your writ­ing room, cer­tain­ly no TV or videogames for you to fool around with.”

14. Stick to your own style. “One can­not imi­tate a writer’s approach to a par­tic­u­lar genre, no mat­ter how sim­ple what that writer is doing may seem.”

15. Dig. “Sto­ries are relics, part of an undis­cov­ered pre-exist­ing world. The writer’s job is to use the tools in his or her tool­box to get as much of each one out of the ground intact as pos­si­ble.”

16. Take a break. “You’ll find read­ing your book over after a six-week lay­off to be a strange, often exhil­a­rat­ing expe­ri­ence.”

17. Leave out the bor­ing parts and kill your dar­lings. “(kill your dar­lings, kill your dar­lings, even when it breaks your ego­cen­tric lit­tle scribbler’s heart, kill your dar­lings.)”

18. The research shouldn’t over­shad­ow the sto­ry. “Remem­ber that word back. That’s where the research belongs: as far in the back­ground and the back sto­ry as you can get it.”

19. You become a writer sim­ply by read­ing and writ­ing. “You learn best by read­ing a lot and writ­ing a lot, and the most valu­able lessons of all are the ones you teach your­self.”

20. Writ­ing is about get­ting hap­py. “Writ­ing isn’t about mak­ing mon­ey, get­ting famous, get­ting dates, get­ting laid or mak­ing friends. Writ­ing is mag­ic, as much as the water of life as any oth­er cre­ative art. The water is free. So drink.”

See a fuller expo­si­tion of King’s writ­ing wis­dom at Barnes & Noble’s blog.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Stephen King Cre­ates a List of 96 Books for Aspir­ing Writ­ers to Read

Stephen King Writes A Let­ter to His 16-Year-Old Self: “Stay Away from Recre­ation­al Drugs”

Ray Brad­bury Offers 12 Essen­tial Writ­ing Tips and Explains Why Lit­er­a­ture Saves Civ­i­liza­tion

Kurt Vonnegut’s Eight Tips on How to Write a Good Short Sto­ry

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. Fol­low him at @jdmagness

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