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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Sentimentality is, by dictionary definition, the "affectation of sensibility, exaggerated insistence upon the claims of sentiment." And I particularly want to underscore the latter phrase — the exaggerated insistence upon the claims of sentiment — to distinguish between sentimentality, on one hand, and sentiment on the other, and examine ways in which writers can "insist" on the infusion of sentiment in their stories while making certain that insistence does not become "exaggerated." In her contributory essay to the anthology, Why I Write, Joy Williams says, "Good writing never soothes or comforts. It is no prescription, neither is it diversionary, although it can and should enchant while it explodes in the reader's face." It may seem on first reading that Williams is describing an especially uncharitable art, detailing as she does all the things that good writing is not inclined to do. A sort of aesthetic tough love, should we as readers agree to the conditions. But actually that's not what Williams is saying at all. As she makes implicitly clear, she's speaking of the gratuitous gestures of commercial pap as opposed to serious writing's more intricate charity and echoing generosity. She's defining the kind of writing which requires the engagement of both emotions and intellect and, asking for this double commitment, rewards readers doubly or, at the top of its form, exponentially. The qualities that Williams identifies are at the same time exact and encompassing in suggesting the duties of worthy fiction. And even more fortuitous, they provide an invaluable checklist to help writers make sure their work stays free of sentimentality. And so, good writing, writing that is free of sentimentality but infused with sentiment:
(I salute her distinction between diversion and enchantment. The latter, it seems to me, requires charm, captivation that touches the mind and the senses. Diversion can be accomplished crudely. You can make a noise, turn on a light, if all you need to do is divert someone's attention, but you need to enchant him if you wish to hold it.) If writing of merit involves both our emotions and our intellect, we can combine the first three items on the list — doesn't soothe or comfort, prescribe, or divert — to make the point that sentimentality is by its nature simplistic, inviting readers to surrender the intellectual, the mindful, aspect of their makeups. Indeed, sentimentality goes beyond the invitation to surrender one's intellect; it relies on it in order to accomplish its effect, which is, if momentarily powerful, inevitably ephemeral because sentimental writing exclusively targets the visceral, the membrane of pure feeling, forever ready to be touched and agitated. But, one might say, isn't it the goal of the storyteller to evoke a world so compelling and credible that readers are willing to suspend their disbelief and eagerly enter it? Isn't that what John Gardner had in mind when he wrote that writers must strive to create worlds which readers experience as uninterrupted dreams? |
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