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GOOD WRITING, BAD ADVICE: An occasional series from a professional on writing, being a writer and how to be better at both. The aim is to promote good writing and debunk bad advice. There’s a lot of bad advice out there, so this could be a long series.  There’s a lot of advice out there for writers. Do I intend to add to the enormous didactic dump-bin? You bet I do. As someone who earns a living from writing books and advising others on their works in progress, I’m a little disturbed by the quality of some of the advice that’s floating around out there, much of it coming from people who ought to know better. It’s hard enough to develop oneself as a writer, without wasting time being guided by bad rules and principles.
I’m beginning this occasional series with massive chutzpah, by taking on a literary colossus who has become a giant in the world of writing advice. Kurt Vonnegut was fond of giving out advice to budding writers. He published his opinions in the form of at least two lists of “rules” for good writing: his “Creative Writing 101” (which was part of the Introduction to his book of short stories Bagombo Snuff Box) and a more serious magazine article, “How to Write With Style”. Both are reproduced in various forms online, and both of them have issues – elements of bad advice. Any novice writer attempting to stick by all of Vonnegut’s cardinal rules will come badly unstuck. First let me say that a lot of Vonnegut’s tips are very good. As a writer he knew what the hell he was doing. But some – including a few that get quoted frequently and admiringly (and out of context), even by some of my fellow professionals – are just nonsense. The one that’s exercising my ire here and now is this one, his Rule 4 from Creative Writing 101:
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“A Genius Bar for Books” – interview with Jeremy Dronfield, author, ghostwriter, book consultant Wonders, Curiosities and Found Facts: The British Empire's first successful caesarean delivery15/11/2017 Wonders, curiosities and found facts. An occasional series exposing the dimly lit recesses of history. In the course of writing books set in various historical periods, I continually come across remarkable incidental details which rarely make it into the books. Here I bring them out of the margins and explore them in more depth. Today: Pioneering surgery by a woman in disguise!  THE NIGHT OF 25 JULY 1826 was cold and wet. In the small settlement of Wynberg, nine miles from Cape Town, Mrs Wilhelmina Munnik’s pregnancy was coming to a traumatic conclusion. The baby – for which Wilhemina and her husband Thomas had waited for ten years – refused to be born. The midwife had done all she could, and was forced to concede defeat. A doctor was needed.
Thomas Munnik ordered a servant to ride to Cape Town to fetch the very best surgeon available, a man known for his obstetric skill. Dr James Barry was a Staff Surgeon with the British Army garrison, as well as medical attendant to many of the Cape’s rich families and personal physician to the former Governor, Lord Charles Somerset. A fine medical practitioner, James Barry was known not only for his skill but also his eccentricity – particularly his appearance and manner. What was not well known about Dr Barry was that beneath his male attire he was a woman. James Barry's real name was Margaret Bulkley. Born in Cork in 1789, Margaret had decided at the age of 19 that she wanted to study medicine (under the influence of her tutor and a maverick Venezuelan revolutionary who was living in exile in London). In 1809 such a course was firmly closed to women, and so Margaret made a courageous, audacious decision. She disguised herself as a man and adopted the name of her late uncle, the eccentric painter James Barry. After successfully gaining the MD degree at Edinburgh in 1812, “Dr James Barry” became a member of the Royal College of Surgeons of England (the first woman to do so) and joined the British Army as a military surgeon. In 1816 Assistant Surgeon Dr Barry was posted to the Cape Colony, where he would make a great name for himself. When Dr Barry arrived at the Munniks’ house on that rainy July night in 1826, he found Wilhelmina Munnik in a terrible state. An examination showed that the baby could not possibly be delivered in the normal way. This left only one option – an option dreaded by all doctors in that era. A caesarean operation would have to be performed. Wonders, curiosities and found facts. An occasional series exposing the dimly lit recesses of history. In the course of writing books set in various historical periods, I continually come across remarkable incidental details which rarely make it into the books. Here I bring them out of the margins and explore them in more depth. Today: Cheshire Cats, with bonus British imperialism!
The Cheshire Cat is one of the most memorable characters in a book which is largely famous for its memorable characters. The Cat’s grin has become part of the language – to “grin like a Cheshire Cat” is a stock expression, with or without vanishing. But, as with the madness of hatters, Lewis Carroll didn’t actually invent the Cheshire Cat – at least, not all of it – though you wouldn’t guess that from the book, in which Alice has clearly never heard the expression:
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