Writing to Weave the Spell…

One of my favorite authors is the Canadian writer, Robertson Davies. So, when I’m looking for inspiration and ideas, I turn to his articles and those of other authors on writing.

Davies asks: What makes a novel good or even really great, so that it will be read one hundred years from now [or more]? What takes a novel out of its own time, so to speak, and become universal?

I have to quote Davies from his speech where he talks of an essential quality he calls

To weave the spell, the writer must have within him something comparable to the silk spinning and web-casting gift of a spider; he must not only have something to say, some story to tell, or some wisdom to impart, but he must have a characteristic way of doing it which entraps and holds still his prey, by which I mean his reader.

When reading this, I first think of shamans [i.e.: shamanstvo]—some sort of mystic, a healer, with powers not given to mere mortals. Perhaps a trickster or someone claiming to communicate with gods!

A tall order for us who toil before our computers, hoping for inspiration to just wrap up the plot or get a bit of dialogue right!

But it’s true! Remember the last time you picked up a novel and from the very first sentence, you were transfixed, inexorably drawn into the world the writer had created. I suppose that’s the “un-put-down-able” quality we all seek.

Somehow, I don’t think Davies meant the quality of a real “page turner.” He knew the value of lingering over a passage and the savoring of language. It’s got to be something else.

I really like this quote from Davies. The silk to make the web comes from within the spider and is produced naturally from it. The spider doesn’t know how it does this. It is just its inherent ability. And so, Davies must be talking about the grand sum of our whole self which produces this story—or silk. It is a product of the writer’s being.

And it should have a story to tell or some wisdom to impart. But I think the real secret is contained in the last few phrases— a characteristic way of doing it which entraps and holds still his prey, by which I mean his reader. Obviously, it has to be highly personal and individual to the writer. And it must be a story or a thought, which virtually impales the reader with its significance.

How can the writer hope to do such a thing? After all, my experience is personal to me, just as yours is to you. How, by drawing on my own personal experience, can I hope to ensnare you into my web? And better still, capture thousands of readers, all of whom have their own personal worlds? How can I ever hope to enchant a reader with my world?

Immediately, I think of the Swiss psychiatrist, Carl Jung and the collective unconscious—which we all share. If a writer can access that level of the unconscious, perhaps he can bring into his writing that which is common or universal to all humankind. Of course, the writer interprets that material and adapts it to his own personal experience of life. But still, he has drawn upon emotions, thoughts, archetypes, symbols and signs, even myths from that great library of human experience we all share—the collective unconscious.

Perhaps that is how we come full circle to the idea of shamanstvo. That charmer, enchanter quality. Shamans are indeed mystics. They have special access to inner
worlds—as I understand it—by way of gift. But that does not mean we can’t try to enter those worlds where the creative materials of universal appeal are buried.

But Davies would not likely agree with me. To him, you either have shamanstvo or you don’t. Of course, he says that everyone has a personal unconscious, which is rooted in the collective unconscious.

But the difference is this. The kind of writer he means is one who has

the ability to invite it, to solicit its assistance, to hear what it has to say and impart it in a language that is particularly his own. He may not be—very probably is not—fishing up messages from the unconscious which astonish and strike dumb his readers. It is more likely that he is telling them things that they recognize as soon as they hear them.

There you go! If its something they recognize immediately, then it must be drawn up [dredged up?] from the collective unconscious shared by all of us. Put in more mythological terms, it sounds just like the ability to court the muse.

So, next time we’re writing and get stuck, perhaps it’s best to just take a nap. Why? Because dreams, they say, are the gateway to the unconscious…


About Mary E. Martin

Mary E. Martin grew up in Toronto, Canada. After earning an Honors Degree in History at the University of Toronto, she graduated with her law degree from Queens University, Kingston, Ontario. In 1973, she was called to the Bar of Ontario and began the general practice of law in Toronto, with emphasis on real estate, wills and estates and elder-care law. This law practice of more than 30 years was a great inspiration for The Osgoode Trilogy ("Conduct in Question," "Final Paradox" and "A Trial of One.") Her fourth novel, “The Drawing Lesson,” will be the first in the next trilogy, provisionally entitled “The Trilogy of Rmembrance.” She is also a photographer particularly with respect to her travels. She has had two commercial photography shows. Married in 1973, she and her husband live in Toronto. They have three adult children.
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