The Words Purple
Reading a forum today, I came across another in a long line of discussions centered around the evils of purple writing.
If there is one thing beyond the absolutism of the “rules” that bothers me about writers, it’s the almost reflexive antipathy many of them have for anyone who takes pleasure in showing their craft to the audience. It seems that the general opinion these days is that writers should be invisible, a conduit for the story no different than the fraudulent medium relating the thoughts of the dead. I’m sorry, but I can’t buy into this line of thinking, no matter how many times or how loudly it is repeated.
When I think about writing, there is one thing that sticks out to differentiate the best writers from those who aren’t as skilled; the ability to craft language into memorable art. It pains me to think we are training a generation of writers who think their most desirable skill is to disappear into the page, to be subservient to the God-like story.
Have we ever told a painter that their work is too skilled? Told them their subjects look too lifelike on the canvas?
It seems stupid to level such criticism, but that is where writing is headed. We lash out and denigrate anyone who attempts to showcase their craft with language. Taking pleasure in turning inventive phrases and showing the beauty in language is now a disease, not a talent. Adverbs are hunted down and burned at the stake, traitors to the cause of storytelling. Descriptions are pared down until the bone of the story juts through and exposes the cold whiteness reflected in readers’ engrossed eyes.
Perhaps it comes from a difference of terminology. Storytelling and writing have become conflated, when they are two distinct things. Stories are wonderful, they fuel all good writing, but they are not the only thing that matters when we put our words on the page. Anyone can tell a story. Nailing down the pieces of a plot to move the narrative along isn’t the most difficult of skills. Mastering the craft of wrapping that story in an inviting and memorable vessel is the art of writing. Writers use their words not just to tell the story of the plot, their words tell stories about themselves, about all of us.
Lest you think I’m trying to rationalize away my own offenses, I find it hard to believe I could be considered purple, although I’m sure there are those extremists who would compare me to a bruise upon the good name of writing. I certainly enjoy seeing words come together, using them to be something more than a deliberate recounting of a plot. We’re surrounded by stories all the time, from the most grandiose movie to the starkness of the newspaper.
I ask: what’s wrong with finding a balance?
cmcolavito
