The Michelangelo Moment: Reading for Invention, Not Imitation

I recently came across this interesting discussion starter on LinkedIn: “Stephen King says to be a great writer, you should read, read and read more. Do you agree with his statement?” Given my background as a high school English teacher and aspiring writer/journalist, my initial knee-jerk reaction was “Well, duh! Of course.”

Then I began reading the comments. It seems that many fiction writers are reading simply t0 acquire ideas for their next story/novel. 

I quickly revised my reaction, “Well, not that kind of reading!”

Several people implied that reading the classic literature stunts a writer’s vision. Others claimed that reading emerging authors curbs one’s taste and appreciation for “good” literature. Another group insisted that to improve your writing non-fiction, you should only depend on instructional books.

To all of which, I reply, “Horse hockey!”

Reading is good. Period. Good literature, bad literature. Fiction, non-fiction. All reading stimulate the brains. Just check out the number of psychological reports available via Google search “Effects of Reading on the Mind”—117 million results! 

And a stimulated brain makes for inspired writing. Often a work of art.

So let me attack the three observations above: the effect of classic literature, the value of emerging writers, and  the benefit of writing manuals. (There is a point to this. I promise.)

Classic literature is not the bogeyman. If you find the bulk of it racist and sexist, I understand. The piles upon piles of books written by “dead white men” support that impression. If the time periods represented don’t speak to the modern era, if classical=old for you, I get it. If everything assigned by your high school or freshman English teacher bored the plaque off your molare and made you want to eat a bowl of maggots, I emphatically agree.

But that’s not the issue for some people. These wanna-be authors find the classics daunting because their excellence sets the bar far too high for those trying to copy their success. Let me make this suggestion: Stop trying to imitate them. Just read ‘em!

Read novels/plays/poems/tales. Visualize the characters. Hear their voices. Become part of the stories yourself. Let the subtle writing lessons seep into your brain subliminally, rather than dissecting each paragraph for word choice, analyzing the font choice for a dream scene, or doubting the eating habits of the caterpillars on page 53. Never, ever, EVER think, “How can I use this?”

Moving on to the adage “New literature is garbage and has nothing to teach me,” again I say, “Horse hockey.”

In all those books published each year, there are amazingly alive and incredibly deep characters, intricate and intriguing plots, and descriptive images that could never be replicated by today’s most sophisticated photographic equipment, many more powerful than reality itself.

That doesn’t mean everything new is gorgeous and worthwhile. There is also garbage. But both good and bad can be the spark of how to and how not to write your next novel.

Concerning the value of writing manuals, oh, my goodness! There are so many good writers that have shared their expertise and methods to stimulate the brain that if every promising authors read them, there would never be another bad book written. 

For example, Stephen King, Anne Lamott, and K.M. Weiland explore the techniques of stimulating creativity, focusing on your task, and exploring characters. Books on mythological archetypes like Gods in Everyman and Goddesses in Everywoman by Jean Shinoda Bolen reveal the psychological forces driving all human beings.  And then there is always the indomitable Elements of Style by Strunk and White. Great as these books are, however, they are most effective when the writer relates the advice to actual literary examples. 

The important thing to remember about reading is to use it solely as inspiration for your own writing, to create writing that is uniquely yours, not a rehash of what somebody already did, is producing now, or will be mimicking in the future.

Let me further illustrate.

Several years ago, I took a group of high school students to Rome for a world studies class trip. One of our first stops was at St. Peter’s Basilica, mainly because I wanted to see Michelangelo’s Pieta. One of the girls, a senior, stood before the masterpiece nearly in tears.

Concerned, I asked her what was wrong. 

“I can’t do it,” she explained.

I shook my head. “Do it? Do what?”

Her chin quivered. “I always wanted to be an artist, but now …”

She crossed her arms, shook her head and turned away.

I touched her shoulder and asked, “You always wanted to be an artist, but now what?”

She flung a hand at the statue. “I can’t do that.”

I stifled a laugh, caught a quick breath, pasted on my most serious teacher/counselor/wise-old-man expression, and pronounced, “Of course, you can’t. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. I …” 

“Yes, it is. As I said, of course, you can’t do that. Better yet, you don’t have to. It’s already been done.”

Stunned, she looked at me a moment, thought, then smiled.  She glanced at the Pieta and nodded. “I should just be me.”

She got it.

Artists observe the masters—new and old—and study a multitude of techniques, but their aim should never be to imitate styles or content.Why copy what has already been accomplished? Rather than envy the success or failures of others, the goal should be to invent real art that portrays unique subjects, employs ground-breaking techniques, and maximizes the artist’s God-given talents.

The lesson for writers is the same.