Descripció de les dimensions i dels ítems

Journalism may attract creative people who are interested in reading and writing but, as observed in this chapter’s introduction, the occupation is not conducive to creative expression. There are, of course, exceptions. Chapter 4 detailed the importance of feature writing and New Journalism as textual and experiential landmarks for those seeking to make the transition to fiction. Many critics say journalist-novelists tend to write autobiographically and use prosaic language in doing so. The inference is they are not sufficiently imaginative to invent new worlds and their narratives are punctuated by well-tested phraseology. Journalism is seen as giving them something to write about and the confidence to do so, but not much else.

According to Hemley, many writers are suspicious of autobiographical fiction, believing it represents a failed imagination (1994: 1). But as noted in Chapter 4 and in Appendix XVII, journalist-novelists flavour their novels with journalistic experience. This is especially evident in their early fiction. This is unremarkable given that several writers and scholars have noted first novels tend to be autobiographical. Courier-Mail journalist-novelist Kris Olsson says she is a “privileged witness” of news. It enriches her fiction, and journalism taught her to write amid newsroom chaos (2002-3: 7). McKay says it is sometimes true that journalistic writing is mundane and hackneyed but this is understandable given the conditions under which it is produced:

Sometimes the cause is not that the writer doesn’t have a way with words. It may be because of the constraints which surround the writing of news. If everything has to be done quickly, under pressure and with minimum of fuss then it’s quick and easy to adhere to the formulae and that may be what editors want. It doesn’t necessarily follow that other kinds of writing by the same person under different constraints can’t be written to the highest literary standards (2000: 60).

Of equal interest is how these conditions might influence a journalist- novelist’s approach to fiction. Numerous examples can be cited of those who write with velocity and volume, almost as if they have never left the newsroom. This will be seen in the examination of George Johnston’s work in Chapter 7. Other journalist- novelists known for large outputs range from Defoe and Dickens to Zola, Dreiser, London, O’Hara and Binchy.

Binchy may be typical in saying she never suffers writer’s block and does not fear deadlines. Her problem, she continues, is restraining herself. She relates this to her journalism background: “I’m not afraid of the empty page … papers don’t come out with big empty spaces because the reporters weren’t hit by inspiration that day” (Sands, 1998: 7). Michael Jacobson wrote his first novel during three months long- service leave from the Gold Coast Bulletin: “I had 90 days and decided I would write four pages a day. That would be 360 pages and that would be a novel. And I went down to Burleigh Heads every day and that is exactly what I did” (Chester, 2002: 6). His novel is based on his grandfather, who he had written about journalistically. The first third of the text went smoothly because he knew what to write. These were autobiographical embellishments he found unproblematic. A critical moment ensued when invention was needed: “That’s the point where I changed from being a feature- writing journalist to a novelist and having to go into my imagination. And it was a fairly cathartic moment” (Chester, 2002: 6).

Condon says much the same thing. He was writing his third novel, the semi- factual The Ancient Guild of Tycoons (1994), when he discussed creativity with Malouf. According to Condon, Malouf said: “The real test for you will come when you dive purely into your imagination and abandon all the old aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters, mother and father and all that veiled biographical stuff.”

Creativity and imagination are, of course, difficult to define. Whether imaginative writing can be taught or even objectively identified also raises vexed questions. To what degree, if any, can they be enhanced? As discussed by Wolfe in Chapter 4, feature writing can be improved by scene-by-scene construction, using symbolic description and recording dialogue in full. While such strategies might give feature writers like Condon and Jacobson an advantage when they begin writing novels, the question remains whether they can meet Malouf’s test in activating the imagination.

Flesch cites instances of writers who found creative solutions to narrative tasks through dreams and sudden, unexpected inspiration when engaged in other tasks (1949: 55-8). He is convinced “bright new ideas” are really combinations of old ones: “So what you have to do is draw upon all your ideas, experiences, memories, and move them about until you feel the click, the electric spark, the sensation of ‘that’s it’” (58). This thesis tests that notion. If writers can develop strategies to increase their creative outputs it might suggest that journalists, when faced with a “real test”, can adapt and survive as novelists even if their innate writing ability does not match that of others.

The 12-week pilot study proposes an original contribution to this field of study. It is important in regard to the traditional debate about the degrees to which creativity is innate or learned. Notions of creativity also speak to a commonly cited division between journalism and fiction, in that the former is frequently seen as regimented and the latter is seen as more inventive and imaginative. This, in turn, speaks to the question of whether journalistic textual practices enhance or discourage creative writing. In other words, do journalism’s writing formulas compel some frustrated reporters – especially feature writers – to attempt fictive writing? Or do they provide the textual confidence and communication values to engage in more ambitious prose forms? Although the study was not intended to answer these questions, it was expected to help inform answers to these questions.

The study was based on a classroom model used by American journalism professor Mitchell Land (1995). In testing his model for creating metaphoric language in feature writing, it sought to measure student progress in developing striking phraseology through narrative sketches about specific topics. The model involves a six-step, group-based brainstorming process founded on synectics, a Greek word meaning, “understanding together that which is apparently different”. Sixteen students were randomly selected from a group of 59 journalism-student volunteers. They were divided into three groups based on pre-study writing exercises. The aim was to evenly distribute creative ability among the groups. Group A had no treatment, Group B some treatment and Group C full treatment.

The synectics process (Appendices XXI-XXII) encourages students to take risks with language instead of relying on hack-worn phrases. A session takes less than 30 minutes. After 15 minutes of brainstorming, students have 10 minutes to write a

sketch on the topic discussed. The model provides a framework for creating symbolic analogies. It pairs polar-opposite words and concepts in order to cast new light on a topic. This dynamic occurs in literature, from Maugham likening a woman’s voice to a pneumatic drill to Hunter S. Thompson comparing a song to a Studebaker throwing a rod. Can a woman’s voice really sound like a drill? Can a song really sound like a thrown rod? Stein describes such “compressed conflicts” as the essential paradox: they summon exaggerated images that, though technically inaccurate, are aesthetically satisfying (1975: 189).

Gordon believes that synectics theory conflicts with a belief attempts to train and analyse imagination can destroy the creative process (1961). In agreeing with Gordon, Joyce and Weil argue the creative process is not mysterious: “It can be described, and it is possible to train persons directly to increase their creativity” (1996: 24).