A few note on writing as a system of signs
Writing is a system of signs intended to convey a meaning or discourse (logos). This discourse is assumed to be endowed with meaning as well as its own internal coherence (consistency). This is the prerequisite for a literary work to be defined as such. There are different approaches to writing that those in the writing profession are more or less familiar with. To write means to convey a meaning or discourse in a clear, intelligible and coherent manner in such a way that the reader can understand it in terms of an average understanding without which the very purpose of writing understood as communicating is defeated. Having said this, the approach to writing is undoubtedly conditioned by the genre, i.e. the type of document or text one writes: one can write fiction, poetry, non-fiction (meaning works of a specialised nature dealing with one of the infinite fields of human knowledge: chemistry, physics, medicine and so on) or works of a scientific and research nature (papers, academic dissertations). However, the main divide here is between ‘fictional’ works, i.e. novels and poems, and research works, i.e. non-fiction and manuals in all their forms. These two types of writing require very different approaches and skills as well as a different forma mentis. Those who write fiction or ‘fantasy’ novels must be naturally inclined or inclined to it, i.e. be able to give free rein to the flow of their imagination and be able to give it a suitable form of expression. A non-fiction writer must firstly be at least aware of what he is writing about and secondly be able to convey original and complex thoughts in an intelligible and clear manner. But what the two types of writing have in common, in my opinion, is the writer's need to convey a message and secondly the fact that he knows what he wants to communicate or the raison d'etre of his writing. Writing without a reason or without having anything to say produces only useless, long-winded literary works destined for oblivion and rubbish. Hence the age-old querelle about ‘creative writing’ or ‘forced writing’, that is, the approach to writing that prescribes writing a certain number of pages or words a day, almost as if it were a job of compiling a spreadsheet, because by doing so, sooner or later the ‘novel’ comes or would come out. This may be true, provided that those who practise this style of writing like it. Such a way of writing, however practicable, in my opinion empties writing of its real value and true meaning as a discipline of the spirit aimed at the transmission of knowledge or a real message, and transforms it into a forced procedure aimed at producing dubious stylistic exercises or ‘variations on a theme’, as well as being a type of writing that can prove boring, repetitive and extremely frustrating. As far as I am concerned, one can very well write nothing, and do something else with one's life. Forceful writing does not always produce good fruits and good results: indeed, for a logical reason, a literary work should be a ‘living’ object, as if it were a semblance of the voice of a spirit that is embodied in it or that ‘speaks’ through it. The production of a work in an ‘industrial’, mechanical manner. mechanical manner, in my opinion, is not capable of producing the same result. Not only that, but I see a danger in it, namely that of diverting the writer's mind from what he could or would really like to write as ‘his own’, pushing him into unknown and vague territories, from which he may even come out badly put.My personal writing technique is ‘writing by expansion’ and consists of writing a narrative structure or scattered thoughts, and then re-launching them by expanding and deepening them ad infinitum, as if they were plants that are watered and then grow. Starting from a single paragraph or essay, it is possible to delve into it, not to say infinitely, but certainly to the point of unearthing the thought to which it refers, bringing to light that substratum that is intimately connected with the structure of discursive or reasoning thought on the one hand and memory itself on the other, since the work of writing often overlaps with that of remembering, or reorganising thoughts or sentences on the basis of reasoning and memory. Thus proceeding by expansion from one topic, the starting point for another emerges; from a memory or an image, the starting point for writing other similar or related ones, as in a constantly changing fractal that perhaps truly represents the true structure of human thought and discursive reasoning, as well as the structure (if one can call it that, but one could also call it the essence itself) of memory as the basis for writing, since the writer in his proceeding often goes back in time to review what he has lived and thought. Proceeding in this way, the writer understands what he can write, what he can write or keep silent if the subject matter goes too far. To write ‘on command’ as they say is to contravene this rule and make it a matter of principle that he can write ‘on command’ about anything by exerting his willpower in the manner of a miner who breaks rocks and sooner or later manages to break them. This ‘effort’ is, according to the writer, useless, but even more wrong in principle, because the narrative discourse should emerge on its own if the circumstances are right; if the substratum in the writer's mind is sufficiently laden with thoughts and memories on that particular subject, which then translated means: if he has something to write about. If he has, above all, a reason to do so other than to meet a deadline with the publishing house. This approach, however, is typical for those who write fiction, i.e. novels and short stories, which often serve commercial rather than stratagmatically artistic purposes. In a certain sense, those who write non-fiction are exempt from this burden, since one cannot write an essay ‘on command’ without first being at least aware of the subject one wants to deal with in it; just as those who write poetry have no reason to write in the absence of true inspiration, and those who write technical manuals only do so if they are willing to undertake the long and laborious research and synthesis work necessary to produce them. Hence, the problem of writing shifts solely to the genre of fiction in all its sub-species and variants (detective, noir, romance, etc.), demonstrating that what is at stake is not the problem of writing as an exercise in style or stylistic or linguistic competence, but rather the content, or rather the material of fiction, or imagination itself. Writing on command ultimately means soliciting an effort of the mind to imagine new scenarios and situations to describe, then applying the author's own style to them. That this can yield good results is doubtful, even if thousands of books are written in this way. I believe, however, that the best of them are actually written in another way, i.e. by following the author's vocation to seek out themes and subjects in which he is comfortable and in which he believes, so much so that certain themes often return in the different works of the same author, demonstrating that they constitute the true centre of his interests. Frederick Forsythe for instance is considered a master of the espionage genre. In all of his first ten novels, several commonalities can be seen that characterise them and form this writer's own style, such as his in-depth knowledge of the world of intelligence. Forsythe's early novels (those from Jackal Day to Icon) are masterpieces and remain authentic works; later, when Forsythe turned to the more commercial genre, his novels gradually began to resemble each other and to seem to be based on the same set patterns: the good guy, the bad guy, the hero, the villain, and so on. Sure they sold on the publishing market, but Forsythe's quality as a writer plummeted. This is an example of what it means to write on command following a strictly commercial logic, which may well work of course, just as many products of the entertainment industry such as films are written and mass-produced in a mechanical manner. But this way of writing empties the writer's work of any artistic meaning, i.e. concerning the creation of a work that is in itself beautiful, original, useful, and written with style.
