How do your inspirations affect your writing, and is their influence beneficial for a piece?

As an eleven year old I started writing short stories about a suave secret agent, sometimes explicitly Bond, sometimes with the name changed, and it was the sense of writing into a world that I was so enamoured by which sparked my initial excitement for writing. I can’t honestly say that I’ve written any Bond related stories/scripts in quite a number of years, and yet recently I noticed that I was able to trace the Bond influence through the scripts that I write now, even if it’s only in the tiniest of details.

This shouldn’t come as any great surprise. Of course our inspirations and influences affect our writing, it’s an inevitable fact, just as it is that the rest of our culture also shapes our work.  The question then is, is it a good thing to pick out the influences from a person’s work, or should it remain a detached and solitary piece? My answer is undoubtedly yes. All texts whether fictional or not are connected through Barthes’ tissue of quotations. Take Emily Dickinson for example, her references to Shakespeare in ‘Drama's Vitallest Expression is the Common Day’ only serve to enrich the text, connecting it and her other work to pre-existing stories and associations and allowing it to interact with a whole history of work and criticism. 

Not that it is possible, but if a writer managed to cut their piece off from any associated texts then it would only be a death knoll for their writing. A text lives and breathes through its interaction with other works, it’s what makes it exciting. Why would you deprive your writing of that?

Hauptbahnhof

The crisp and freshly cut digits displayed 11:03 above the station, confirming that time had already been set against me. Berlin’s Hauptbahnhof buzzed with an untapped energy, a great sense of movement restrained; each person below walked with purpose, but did so calmly. Trains pulled in and out smoothly, and yet there is a constant inaudible rumbling of cogs turning and determined voices calling out for progress, manifesting themselves as the endless cranes that litter the city’s skyline. Commuters’ voices reflect off silver walls and polished glass, to merge into a single sound that bounced back to where I stood. It is thrilling.

A blurred list of places filled the page in front of me; do I revisit those that I know well, or go to places that are new to me? Do I take a train to the cathedral that was so blissful on a summer’s afternoon a year ago, or do I wait until night when it becomes majestic? Should I for the first time venture inside, or walk past and climb the Fernsehturm? There’s the Astro Bar, or lonely Dorit Schmiel at The Wall, the cafes, the Reichstag, there’s pretending to be a Wenders’ angel, or climbing down to look at the bullet riddled wall. There’s checking out Nefertiti. 

I hold all of those thoughts in my head as I buy a packet of cigarettes and walk outside. Right now I don’t want to be at any one of them, but instead just simply to walk these streets again, and let my feet find me a destination.

Is there any place for the truth in writing?

Dave Eggers plays with, and exploits the desire for truth in his memoir A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genius. Being postmodern to its core, the work has characters rejecting their position as metaphors within the novel, announcing the falsity of the text, and generally disturbing the reader’s assumptions of ‘truth’s’ place within memoir writing. The illusion of truth it seems then is a very useful important literary technique; some texts such as Frank’s The Diary of a Young Girl rely almost exclusively on our belief that they report perceived events as honestly and integrally as possible. The respect given to ‘authentic writing’ can in turn be used to sell an idea that’s purely fictional and outlandish, gaining a certain suspension of disbelief when presented as true, such as the Coen brothers did with their crime film Fargo.

If the author is dead anyway, then what can their ‘truth’ possibly offer? The intentions of the writer, now having been thrown aside by Barthes, are in many respects irrelevant. Any other truth that can be found within a text is purely a product of the reader’s ideologies, their political bent etc, and is therefore only relevant as a truth, not the truth. So despite ‘the truth’ not actually existing, the suggestion of it certainly has a place within writing; whether you subvert it or use it to give credence to a situation. In the case of using writing to explore a truth about its author, such as John Cheever and his sexuality, then the search is valid, but it’s still a reading that’s being imposed upon the writing, and must never take precedence over any another interpretation.