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Late in the evening, early in this century, to twist the opening lines
of Zadie Smith's first novel White Teeth, I
went to the first class of my postgraduate creative writing degree at
the University of Technology, Sydney (UTS). Most of us in the room had
worked as writers in journalism or advertising or film and television,
but had never written fiction before and we wanted to know how to start.
Do you start with a man or a woman? A place? A colour? A phrase? What
were the rules? Our lecturer Jan Hutchinson calmed us down and said, 'There
are no rules'. Of course, this left us totally confused but it also freed
us to start, to end, to start again from whichever place we chose, with
whomever we chose. Some years later, I am about to hand in to my agent a manuscript of my
first novel that I hope will tempt some publishers. And what I have come
slowly to realise is that while there are no rules when writing fiction,
in fact good fiction is about breaking rules, as most will agree; there
are forces at play that helped shape my path towards becoming a
writer. What are these forces and how did they shape my practice? To make sense of my development as a writer, we have turned to the work of the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu. Bourdieu was a prolific and influential writer - his theory of practice has found applications in fields as diverse as:
In the domain of writing and literature, part of what Bourdieu refers to as 'the field of cultural production', his theory sees the writer as both free and constrained: the writer creates but this creative practice exists in a field which is a social space of competition. The field shapes and constrains the writer's attitudes and strategies, or what Bourdieu calls the habitus. Since field and habitus are important concepts in Bourdieu's theory, I will explain them more fully.
The field and habitus of literary production Let's first talk about field, in this case the literary field which is
made up of publishers, booksellers, agents, editors, critics, book clubs,
writing schools such as the UTS writing program, newspapers and magazines
that publish articles about books and writing, professional groups like
the Australian Society of Authors and the NSW Writers Centre, support
groups like Varuna Writers Centre, and of course, writers and readers.
The basic idea is writers do not work in a vacuum - they work 'in concrete
social situations governed by a set of objective social relations (Johnson
1993: 6). Writers occupy different positions within the literary field
depending on the type and amount of 'capital' they possess. There is,
of course, economic capital, as measured by sales, profits and royalties,
but other forms of capital that can mark the position of a writer include
cultural capital such as knowledge and skills, social capital in the form
of connections or membership in networks, and symbolic capital,
the form these other types of capital can take on when they are regarded
as legitimate (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1992). Symbolic
capital in the literary field can take the form of prestige, status or
autonomy. Bourdieu has described the literary field as:
Writers who subscribe to the latter principle see economic success 'as
a sign of compromise' (1993: 40). Thus, we see Jonathan Franzen famously
refusing to have his book listed on Oprah Winfrey's book club a few years
ago, presumably because he associated Oprah with market production. In order to become a writer, to enter the literary field, a person must have developed the relevant habitus - a structuring mechanism that operates within her or him that generates the desire and motivation to acquire the 'knowledge, or skill, or "talent" to be accepted as a legitimate player' (Johnson 1993: 8). The habitus provides a 'feel for the game'. It generates:
For novice writers, the process of learning the craft,
of acquiring the practical sense, the habitus, of a competent writer can
be slow and complex (cf Chan, Devery and Doran 2003
on the socialization of police recruits). In my own experience, the metamorphosis
from wanting to know the rules of fiction as a first-time fiction writer,
to being about to submit a manuscript to prospective publishers did not
happen in a vacuum or, as Dubois says 'as a kind of transcendent mystical
activity' (2000: 87). This evolution was utterly social,
and the production of my manuscript involved some major shifts in my own
attitudes and values - changes in my own habitus. As Dubois points out,
'the text
ceases being the isolated product of a largely overlooked
process; it is the moment of creation, the culmination of a long and largely
socialized genesis' (2000:97). I now have a feel for the game the way I see it as being played. For
example, I now have a sense of whether my writing is workable or needs
to be rewritten, an increased confidence in my own ability to evaluate
my work. This in no way means that my way of seeing or my feel for the
game is right, or the only one. It's simply an accumulation of influences
particular to my life and my position in the literary field. This increased confidence to self-evaluate, and indeed to find a publisher, comes from the acquisition of capital: not economic capital, that hasn't happened yet, but cultural capital, which is the accumulation of knowledge and know-how about what writing requires. It also comes from the slow and ongoing accumulation of symbolic capital, recognition such as being selected for mentorships at Varuna Writers Centre, being shortlisted by Peter Bishop for the Varuna-Harper Collins Awards for Manuscript Development a couple of years ago, or securing a literary agent who already knew of my work. As Dubois points out, Bourdieu's theory:
My evolving habitus and writing practice So how did I acquire this 'feel for the game'? Let me quote a poem written by a contemporary Indian poet and fiction writer, Eunice De Souza, who used to be the Head of the English Department at St Xavier's College, Bombay, where I did my undergraduate studies. This poem reflects the habitus of many aspiring writers in Bombay who for a long time didn't think Indians could be taken seriously as writers. It is entitled My students:
Bombay, the city that has been home to and written about extensively
by Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry, Vikram Chandra and so many other internationally-acclaimed
writers, did not have a creative writing program until last year when
Bombay University introduced a writing course. As we grew up and went
to school and university, those of us who wanted to study something creative
studied English literature, and then we all wanted to work in a creative
field, make use of our love of words - and for most of us that translated
to either journalism or copywriting in advertising. So, while my interest in writing was nurtured and began to evolve in
Bombay, in actual fact my literary habitus was better nourished when I
moved to Sydney and began to study at UTS where I received both encouragement
and formal training. I immersed myself in the literary field and began
to think of myself as a writer. This immersion in one city rather than
in another, while seemingly a chance decision, is actually largely determined
by the availability of opportunity to acquire cultural and symbolic capital.
Let me add here that the literary field is not geographically bound,
especially in the age of broadband internet connections. So when I speak
of the agency of readers or booksellers or literary prizes, I speak of
these agents on a global scale, not just locally in Australia, although
one could speak narrowly of the literary field in Sydney, or the literary
field in Bombay. With reference to my own writing practice, while some
agents may be local (eg, editors or support organizations like the ASA
or Varuna), most agents in the literary field operate globally (eg readers,
booksellers, publishers). Hazel Smith in her book The Writing Experiment observes:
There are many strategies that I learnt from many sources, the most valuable being, as all my writing teachers and most writing workbooks say in different ways, 'Show up on the page'. Writers write, they don't just think about writing. And in the process, one word will lead to another, and eventually it will lead to a scene, a chapter, a first draft, as Kate Grenville suggests in The Writing Book:
So I started off, and wrote the following somewhere in the year 2000. It was to be the beginning of my novel:
In one of the many workshops at UTS, the most common criticism I got
was 'Roanna, your writing is good but you have too many characters, it
is very confusing for the reader.' This made me think about cutting down
my characters, but I risked throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
After all, I am writing a social realistic novel about a country with
one billion people; I can't possibly write about a few characters in isolation. Then Debra Adelaide, my teacher at UTS, read this work and gave me one of the most important pieces of feedback I have ever had. She said that while it was an interesting voice, could I sustain a whole novel in the limited voice of a child interpreting an adult world? I decided I couldn't do so: that I couldn't write the way Uzodinma Iwealla did in his brilliant book Beasts of No Nation. So I kept the characters and just changed the voice from first person to third person. It was still going to be the start of my book. But as you can imagine, it lost its punch in the third person and so, many thousands of words later, my friend and fellow writer Manisha Amin, at one of the writing group sessions where I had workshopped large amounts of my fiction, suggested that this was not a story about the children Ella and Melanie, it really was a story about the adults, about their aunty Lydia and her mother Felcie. So the first paragraph should really be about the main characters. I was stuck for a beginning and then Cathy Cole, my supervisor at UTS, suggested that I look at some of my favourite books and use the first line from each as a starting point and then write my own first paragraph. So, at the end of much frustration, I came up with this first paragraph by 20 December 2002:
By then I had been selected to go to Varuna for a week-long workshop with Charlotte Wood. Then in early 2003 I was selected again for a six-month Varuna mentorship, again with Charlotte Wood. It was during this period that I really started believing that I was a writer, pampered by the whole Varuna experience. Charlotte suggested I map out the events of my, by now, second draft. She also helped me see that the story really was about Lydia and Patrick. So, by 28 July 2006, my first paragraph looked like this:
Some months later I was accepted by a literary agent, Sophie Hamley from Cameron Cresswell. But she said that the beginning and end of the story were too rushed. By then I too had realized that my themes of death and desolation needed to be foreshadowed at least in the beginning. So by 4 April 2007, this is what the start of my novel looked like:
While the beginning of my novel changed in a linear fashion (the examples I gave above changed from one year to the next), I found it useful to think of the evolution of my habitus as being like that of a rhizome, to borrow Deleuze and Guattari's (1988) famous term, each influence feeding off while at the same time enriching the other in a totally non-linear way. For example, when I read Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, I was completely entranced by the magic realism and the localized references to my own hometown, Bombay. In his book of essays Imaginary Homelands Rushdie writes:
And before long the tentacles of magic realism crept unnoticed into my work. I wrote in December 2002:
This bit about a character becoming transparent didn't really fit in
with the rest of the novel, with its quite realistic tone. I soon realised
I had a case of what the author Pankaj Mishra calls 'Rushdie-itis' and
rewrote this section in a way that was more socially realistic. Some time later I read an article in the journal Race and Class, entitled 'Indo-Anglian fiction: the new Orientalism' by Anis Shivani. In it he observes:
It is significant to note here that reading a piece of literary criticism
such as the above was a relief for me because I felt that my work was
not and should not be the sort of exotic orientalism with which Shivani
takes issue. My work has very little hot food in it, has no Bollywood
in it and is set among the Catholic community in Bombay - Catholicism
being the least exoticised of India's religions. In fact, at one UTS workshop
a fellow student returned my work and in no uncertain terms corrected
the grammar and syntax of my carefully reconstructed Bombay argot, and
told me that there was no Christianity in India and what was I thinking
when I decided to have characters with Western names going to, of all
things, Sunday Mass? Apart from resisting the pressure of fellow writing students to write in particular ways, writers often have to resist their own habitual practice. Chan et al make this point in relation to painting:
To translate this to creative writing practice, writers have continuously to fight against any automatic tendency, be it the use of clichéd metaphors or overly exoticised characters or, for that matter, realistic characters who suddenly grow transparent in the vein of a magic realistic novel. While Sidney Nolan felt the need to fight against the bodily hexis of a master painter, as a writer I have felt the need to fight against my literary / intellectual / mental hexis by, for example, trying out a new voice, writing in the third person instead of the first person, as illustrated earlier.
Conclusion The making of a creative writer is a social process often limited by the constraints and conventions of the literary field. Students develop a 'feel for the game' by investing their time and energy in pursuing cultural and symbolic capital, and practising the craft of writing. My experience has demonstrated that creative writing as a practice is constituted by the many players in the field of literary production; a new writer learns the craft by interacting with other players to acquire the habitus necessary for entering this field. I have described how these forces have partly shaped my selection of ideas and words, my creation of sentences, characters and plot, and my process of editing and rewriting. To paraphrase Danto, to be a writer is 'to occupy a position in the field ... which means that one is objectively related to the positions of' critics, publishers, editors, agents, etc. 'It is the field which "creates the creators" who internalize what is possible in reference to the other positions' (Danto 1999: 216).
Notes 1 This paper is a product of collaboration between a writer (Gonsalves) and a sociologist (Chan). It draws on the personal experience of Gonsalves as she moved from being a student of creative writing to an author of a nearly finished manuscript. The paper is presented in the first person as Gonsalves describes her journey of learning to be a writer and the processes of her writing practice. Chan's voice is heard between the lines as the authors both try to make sense of Gonsalves' creative process. The authors would like to thank the comments of two anonymous reviewers on an earlier version of this paper; they appreciate especially the generosity of the first reviewer in explaining a subtle point of interpretation missed in the original paper. return to text 2 He is referring to the recent novels of Pankaj Mishra, Amit Chaudhari and Manil Suri. return to text
List of works cited Bourdieu, P 1993 The field of cultural
production, New York: Columbia University Press return
to text Bourdieu, P and LJD Wacquant 1992 An
invitation to reflexive sociology, Chicago: University of Chicago
Press return to text Chan, J, C Devery and S Doran 2003 Fair
cop: learning the art of policing, Toronto: University of Toronto
Press return to text Danto, A 1999 'Bourdieu on art: field
and individual' in R Shusterman (ed) Bourdieu: a critical reader,
Oxford: Blackwell return to text Deleuze, G and F Guattari 1988 A
thousand plateaus: capitalism and schizophrenia, London: Continuum
return to text De Souza, E 1994 Selected and new
poems, Mumbai: St Xavier's College return to text Dubois, J 2000 'Pierre Bourdieu and
literature', Substance 29.3, 84-102 return to text Grenville, K 1990 The writing book:
a workbook for fiction writers, St Leonards: Allen & Unwin return
to text Iwealla, U 2005 Beasts of no nation, London: John Murray return to text Johnson, Randal 1993 'Introduction'
in Bourdieu, P 1993 The Field of Cultural Production, New York:
Columbia University Press return to text Lamott, A 1995 Bird by bird: some instructions on writing
and life, New York: Anchor Books Rushdie, S 1992 Imaginary homelands:
essays and criticism 1981-91, London: Granta Books return
to text Shivani, A 2006 'Indo-anglian fiction:
the new Orientalism', Race and class 47.4, 1-25 return
to text Smith, H 2005 The writing experiment:
strategies for innovative creative writing, Crows Nest: Allen &
Unwin return to text Smith, Z 2000 White teeth, London: Penguin return to text
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Roanna Gonsalves has worked in journalism, and filmmaking in India and Australia. She is currently working on her first novel. She also works as a researcher on Janet Chan's creativity research projects at UNSW. Janet Chan is leader of a major ARC-funded research program on creativity and innovation. This includes longitudinal studies of creative artists, scientists and collaborations between new media artists and computer scientists. She is also working with Leon Mann and others on a project with the Academy of Social Sciences in Australia on creativity and innovation. She is currently Associate Dean (Research) of the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences and Professor of Social Science and Policy at UNSW.
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TEXT Vol 12 No 1 April 2008 http://www.textjournal.com.au Editors: Nigel Krauth & Jen Webb Text@griffith.edu.au |