“Perilous to us all are the tools of a science we do not ourselves possess” — J. R. R. Tolkien

In part one I spoke about what I called my Sorcerers and Wizards Theory of Creative Writing, the seeming conflict between those who favour training, organisation and discipline and those who prefer intuition, exploration and unbridled creativity.

Or to borrow another allegory from dungeons and dragons, people who are on different ends of the lawful-chaotic end of the alignment spectrum. In particular, how sorcerers and wizards tend to disagree about Learning to Write, and the rise of the Creative Writing academic scene.

It is question that has been asked often in the media (Well, the Guardian at any rate) ‘Can Writing Be Learned?’
The knee-jerk reaction of sorcerers is to say ‘No, of course not! It’s a gift from the gods’ (Kurt Vonnegut actually said this in the New York Times).

I sympathise, I’ve always been a make-it-up-as-I-go-and-damn-the-rules kind of writer, but we do have to face the awkward truth that very few babies are born fully literate. It was Shakespeare, Ursula K. Le Guin, maybe Bukowski but that’s pretty much all of them.
The rest of us probably learnt how to write at some point.

For all your creative flair, the likelihood is that you picked up the ruminants of a formal writing system somewhere along the lines.

The reasons sorcerer’s are hostile to the idea of formal writing tuition are various, nuanced, but true to sorcerer form, they aren’t always entirely rational.

I think the biggest problem is one of fear. Sorcerers can never quite shake the worry that if we work out what it is we’re doing, we’ll stop being able to do it.
When I give people my writing to read they often tell me I have a “voice” that always comes through. Sometimes they ask me how I have achieved this. It scares the hell out of me because I haven’t got a clue. I just put pen to paper and it happens.
I got some feedback on a critical commentary suggesting that I should look at the ‘nuts and bolts’ of how my jokes worked, and I immediately thought ‘not a chance!’ To your sorcerer the suggestion of close-analysis of our method sounds similar to the suggestion that we take apart an expensive car or computer. Just because we use it all the time doesn’t mean we understand it, or could put it back together again.

The problem is, if you don’t learn to deconstruct what you do well then you probably won’t be able to deconstruct what you do badly either.
When the car/computer/broomstick breaks down and you’re stuck halfway down the A1, you’ll be at the mercy of the fates. (and believe me, I’ve TRIED phoning up RAC for suggestions about my next chapter, it doesn’t work.)
Sooner or later you have to learn to assess your own work, and this requires an understanding of how your work works. You don’t have to get this from academic training, but you do need to have it. It’s what makes the difference between a talented amateur and a professional.

What I’ve found is that my ability to write hasn’t suddenly vanished under analysis

Another gripe Sorcerers have is Wizards obsession with rules and procedure… I think this one stands pretty true. There is amoung wizardy-types a kind of learnt-illiteracy, where they’re unable to read something if it doesn’t follow certain pedantic rules and procedures.
They get obsessed with commas, with tenses, with conventions. A book like Naked Lunch or Clockwork Orange would probably give them a stroke.

I’ll come right out and say that something like 17 years in the British education system hasn’t altered one iota my disdain for grammar snobs, who tend to just come across as overeducated classist bigots.

What people see as inalienable rules of punctuation &c. are generally just conventions, many not very old at all.

*deep breath* BUT, with that out of my system.
There IS a difference between not caring about the rules and not knowing about them. Just because you’re learning the formal ways and rules, doesn’t mean you are bound by them. A book like Finnegan’s Wake (which I hate, by the way, but its well known and serves as a good example) seems to throw convention out of the window, but it is still based in a massively comprehensive knowledge of philosophy, etymology, language, the Novel, literature… Joyce knew which rules he was breaking and this better armed him to break them.

It’s a misconception that people on writing courses are being forced to write in a particular way. We can break any rules we like (in fact, it’s encouraged, we don’t have publishers to kowtow to, so the MA is the perfect time to experiment), what we can’t do is be ignorant of the rules we’re choosing to break.
What we’re learning is to be disciplined and deliberate in our writing.

Just like learning the basics of how to write as children, this gives us a medium through which to channel talent.
Without that training, talented people are like Anakin Skywalker at the pod races… full of latent power, but going in circles.

Whether Sorcerers like it or not… someone with very little talent, and a lot of control over their writing, can probably perform more impressive literary feats than someone that has a lot of talent, and no knowledge of how to harness it.
Again… this doesn’t have to be learnt in a university or workshop… but it can be, and its integral to moving beyond amateur writing into professional writing.

Essentially, I think that learning wizard-tricks is good for sorcerers and that its possible to learn such things, in a formal environment, without compromising your sorcerer sensibilities.

Its true that you can’t learn creativity but personally I think most people have latent-creativity and it’s just a case of unlearning. Everyone has some natural creativity and studying writing formally allows you to make use of that.

“Are you offering to teach me something?”
“Teach? No,” said Granny. “Ain’t got the patience for teaching. But I might let you learn.”
– Equal Rites, Terry Pratchett