Bitter and twisted

I’m reading my first ever Raymond Chandler, and I must say the man writes like Bogart talks. At least, I suppose I always thought that those cheesy old detective films, that I’ve probably seen taken off more than actually seen, were a genre all of their own; that the movie people had created the atmosphere of smoky rooms and depressed people with gravelly voices. But Chandler’s whole tone is just one long sleazy draw on an extra-tar-filled cigarette. It’s great. He’s like Hemmingway, but with adjectives. I love Hemmingway because he’s such a bastard and he does it with so few words.

But it all just goes to make me feel I can’t possibly be a writer. There was this sentence, something like: “I felt like a half-digested meal eaten in a greasy-spoon diner.” I reread it in awe. I would have said “I felt awful.” Or “I felt horrible.” Or possibly “I felt exceptionally disgusting”, but never in a million years would I have come up with such a perfectly repulsive image. Or if I did, it would have been reworked to death and probably would just stand out as forced. But then, maybe Chandler started out with “I felt really rough” and rehashed and rehashed until he finally got what he wanted, the way I did with the sentence about my head and the pillow the other day.

Maybe I just have to work on my attitude, in order to acquire a voice that naturally comes out so bitter and twisted. And take up smoking.