Can non-fiction writers borrow techniques from poets to set their writing apart?
Last night, I finished Rob Bell's explosive and polarizing book about heaven and hell, Love Wins. While I don't want to review or comment on a book that has been reviewed and commented on en extrema, I do want to make some observations as a writer.
First of all, the book itself is beautiful. Bell uses a sans serif font in all his books which makes it very distinct. “This will be a light, fun breezing through,” I thought as I looked at the title page, which has the feel of a snappy marketing piece rather than a tome of Christian theology.
What is most striking about Bell's prose is his freedom with line breaks. Here are a few “paragraphs”:
It is a brutally honest,
exuberantly liberating story,
and it is good news.
That kind of God is simply devastating.
Psychologically crushing.
We can't bear it.
No one can.
He treats prose more like poetry, putting line breaks wherever he wants. He also has a penchant for fragments. “Psychologically crushing,” is not a complete sentence.
Obviously.
He also likes to use line breaks to set off lists and repetitions. Such as:
It's a part,
a celebration,
an occasion without beginning and without end.
It goes on,
well into the night,
and into the next day,
and the next
and the next.
Without any finish in sight.
If you've ever listened to Bell speak, his writing actually mirrors his speaking closely. He likes to spit out long rapid sentences and then punctuate them with short phrases.
His style annoys some people. One reviewer on Amazon said the book was “a little ‘over written' in the dramatic, one-sentence paragraph style.” I remember one friend who was reading Bell's Sex God said, “We know what you're doing, Rob Bell. And stop it.”
I just laughed. As potentially distracting as his style is, I credit him for taking risks and doing something unique in a genre (Christian self-help) that doesn't have much going for it except the thousands of people who “have” to read the books for religious reasons.
He's being creative
in a very
uncreative
field.
PRACTICE
Practice writing like Rob Bell. For fifteen minutes, write about your own personal “heaven,” punctuating your sentences with lots of line breaks and fragments.
My heaven:
It’s warm. The grass.
It slides in between
my toes.
I walk through the trees. Slowly.
I don’t bother to look down.
I stare up into the canopy.
the spaces between the leaves.
White oak. Hickory. Elder trees.
I blink. The brightness hurts my eyes.
You can only look so long.
I sit against a dogwood and eat lunch. An apple and handful of almonds. It feels scratchy on my bare back. My skin is brown from a thousand summers. The leaves stretch over me. An umbrella.
I am on a journey.
From Korea
to Spain.
I can’t remember how long
I’ve walked.
How many suns have set on my face.
How many suns have risen behind my back.
I go west. Slowly.
I eat the fruit of trees.
Wild dogs and feral cats sometimes pace beside me. They lick my feet
in greeting.
We speak
in
whispers.
I will walk for all my life.
For all time.
It’s full of music.
This place which I find perfect.
All kinds of music,
Jazz,
Blues,
Rock,
Metal.
Just not country
Or rap,
Because
Well
Ew.
With all this music, though
There is a peaceful silence.
A sort of soundfulless contradiction,
Where one hears both everything
And nothing.
A sunny night
A starry day.
Taking a little of everything
And making them one.
Making them new.
Making them different.
The winter is warm.
As is the summer.
And the spring
And the fall.
There is no coldness here.
I don’t like cold
It is not welcome here.
The cities are packed with emptiness,
The fields are open with people.
You go to one,
Yet you desire the other.
Here, you find what you are looking for.
You are able to know all,
Yet, something eludes you.
Something to strive for.
Something mysterious.
Something
Exciting.
The perfect contradiction.
An impossible possibility.
My heavenly perfection.
Ha, I love the way you start:
Just not country
Or rap,
Because
Well
Ew.
It’s such the cliche, “I like all kinds of music except country or rap.” And the idea of heaven being the same is hilarious. I like it.
This is interesting:
You are able to know all,
Yet, something eludes you.
Something to strive for.
Something mysterious.
Something
Exciting.
What a fascinating idea of heaven, that there is this paradox–you are completely satisfied but completely anticipating.
And I like your language of the senses here:
The winter is warm.
As is the summer.
And the spring
And the fall.
There is no coldness here.
I don’t like cold
All in all, good stuff Alex
It’s full of music.
This place which I find perfect.
All kinds of music,
Jazz,
Blues,
Rock,
Metal.
Just not country
Or rap,
Because
Well
Ew.
With all this music, though
There is a peaceful silence.
A sort of soundfulless contradiction,
Where one hears both everything
And nothing.
A sunny night
A starry day.
Taking a little of everything
And making them one.
Making them new.
Making them different.
The winter is warm.
As is the summer.
And the spring
And the fall.
There is no coldness here.
I don’t like cold
It is not welcome here.
The cities are packed with emptiness,
The fields are open with people.
You go to one,
Yet you desire the other.
Here, you find what you are looking for.
You are able to know all,
Yet, something eludes you.
Something to strive for.
Something mysterious.
Something
Exciting.
The perfect contradiction.
An impossible possibility.
My heavenly perfection.
Ha, I love the way you start:
Just not country
Or rap,
Because
Well
Ew.
It’s such the cliche, “I like all kinds of music except country or rap.” And the idea of heaven being the same is hilarious. I like it.
This is interesting:
You are able to know all,
Yet, something eludes you.
Something to strive for.
Something mysterious.
Something
Exciting.
What a fascinating idea of heaven, that there is this paradox–you are completely satisfied but completely anticipating.
And I like your language of the senses here:
The winter is warm.
As is the summer.
And the spring
And the fall.
There is no coldness here.
I don’t like cold
All in all, good stuff Alex
The music is in
the silence.
All around me
soft white wallpaper, cushions
wooden desk inlaid with rose carvings.
Light shines through my window
through the veils, fluttering drapes
and lends my bedroom a soft glow.
I have next to my pillow
books of all shapes and sizes
shiny paperbacks, solemn dark maroon hardbacks.
They are closed
but their contents await me and tempt me.
The door to my room is shut.
I am alone.
The curtains over my bed protect me
even when they are drawn back.
At this time all is cool and quiet
because the sunbeams are icy in their brilliant light
and because my soft white bedroom is like snow.
Unplayed music,
strings which are not vibrating,
are soon going to play.
My snowy world of pleasure
exists in my own mind
only I live in it
and have what nobody can ever find.
These self-inflicted shackles
bind my wrists, my neck.
I was told by someone long dead
“They are for your own protection.
“The shackles are your value
“Without them, you will perish.”
Heaven is a state of mind;
My own, not imposed.
I’m afraid, but crawling forward
Until I reach Heaven
and can take the shackles off.