Don Draper on Journal-keeping vs. Strategic Writing


What is good writing? Why and when should we write? What should it do for us? The representation of writing in a season-four episode of Mad Men — Blowing Smoke — and in the episodes leading to it throws some light on the answers the dominant ideology of writing in our culture provides for these questions.

The episode depicts a crisis in the newly founded advertising agency. The agency has lost its major client, Lucky Strike, a tobacco company, is not successful in landing new accounts, and is on the verge of bankruptcy. To defy the agency’s seemingly inevitable demise, without consulting the other partners, Don Draper, the pensive, mysterious, and incredibly creative protagonist who is a founding partner at the agency, decides to do something which in the eyes of others has nothing short of a business suicide. In what that seems like a fully-fledged fuite en avant, he writes an open letter stating that he is happy that his agency no longer advertises tobacco, a product that he knows kills customers, and posts the letter as a full-page ad in the New York Times.

But writing the letter is not the only act of writing Draper is shown to undertake. Before he decides to write the open letter, we see him picking up the habit of writing his thoughts and memories in a journal. In fact, while the journal-keeping practice is meant to steady his mind after the death of a close friend, swimming as well as reducing alcohol consumption are meant to help him improve his physical health. In other words, we see that before the NYT open letter, Draper is a good old diarist who takes on writing to maintain his sanity — to fix something inside him. But when he wants to actually do something in the real world outside himself — to alter the fate of the agency and solves a problem by writing the open letter — we see that he affectedly rips out his journal entries and throws them into the garbage.

But why should he throw the journal pages in the garbage before writing the open letter? Could not he find a fresh page in the journal to pen a draft, put a blank paper in his typewriter, and start writing the open letter? Is it not true that the scene with ripping out of the journal entries exists because the creators of the show want to tell us that writing a journal is boring and uncreative? Don Draper is a cool guy and his character is all about creativity. It is simply his job to be creative. Do the series’ creators then not want to convey that writing a journal is out of character for Draper and that when the time is right, he abandons the boring task of writing a memoir and emerges as the cool and creative person he truly is?

In the eyes of the creators and probably in our eyes, what Draper does is totally in line with his character. He is a forward-looking person who always creates new opportunities for himself. He once did it by changing his own identity, because he hated his past, and now he is doing the same thing by writing the letter. Someone of Draper’s caliber knows that nothing valuable can be created by writing a journal.

Is it not then like what faithful journal-keepers have most likely heard at some point from friends and family: “Why do you waste your time writing diaries? Do something useful with your life.” “You are a good writer; why don’t you use your talent to write a novel? Why do you keep that all for yourself?” “If you had spent that much time studying, you could have got two PhDs by now!” “Dairy writing? That’s a children’s hobby. No. That’s what retired people do. Either way…productive people don’t waste their time writing journals.”

Also, the series’ creators show us in details that for writing the letter, Draper goes through a meticulous process. After giving it a good thought while staring at his friend’s painting, he initially, writes a handwritten draft on a fresh page in the journal before typing a first draft on his typewriter. He then carefully reads and revises the typed draft. We even see a shot of the page with actual mark-ups. By contrast, Draper’s journal-writing scenes show that writing a diary is both effortless and also inconsequential to the outside world and moreover does not involve any precision and care. The creators do whatever they could to convince the audience that the open letter, in contrast to the diary entries, is a well-thought and serious piece of writing with real-world consequences.

If the episode reveals the dominant ideology of writing in our culture, cannot we conclude that in this view writing is valuable only if it does something; and it does something only if it changes something in the future? The dominant ideology of writing manifests itself in the episode by contrasting two types of writing: (1) writing a journal which does not need to be thought and whose humble goal is to steady the writer and (2) writing a strategic and even deceitful open letter whose goal is to achieve a planned business advantage. While the former revolves around the self and is pointed inward, the latter is written for others and looks outward. Also, while the former is directed towards one’s past history, the latter looks forward to future business. Finally, while the former is thought to be unaffected, the latter is deliberately constructed and worked on. As a result, whereas the former is a reflection that creates nothing new as it only at best fixes an already made self, the latter creates new opportunities as it seeks to change the world outside. In other words, in our dominant view of writing, when it is untouched, directed inward, and towards the past, it is not considered to achieve anything in real world and is therefore eventually futile.

I will write more about the dominant ideology of writing and its consequences for how people understand their practices of writing.

Originally published here.

Regimes of Writing: A Shift in Our Relationship with Written Words

In possibly his most famous short story, East of Violet (Šarq-e Banafše)Iranian novelist, Shahriar Mandanipour (1999) recounts a love story that takes place in Shiraz of post Iran-Iraq war when romantic relations are still deemed to be a sin that must be kept hidden from the eyes of inquisitive public and interrogating moral police. Celebrated for its remarkable prose that bears the unmistakable marks of several illustrious Persian poets and prosaists, Mandanipour’s highly intertextual story narrates the romantic pursuit of Zabih and Arghavan, two strangers, who fall in love with one another at the wrong time in history. The two primarily communicate through secret codes they place inside the borrowed books of the library housed inside the Hafeziyeh — a garden with both touristic and spiritual significance in the northern edges of Shiraz, where the tomb of Hafez, the fourteenth century legendary poet, is located. Members of the Hafeziyeh library, Zabih and Arghavan convey their romantic messages by leaving small purple dots underneath the letters printed within the borrowed books, ranging from Leyli and Majnun, a long love poem by the twelfth century poet Nezami Ganjavi, to the Persian translation of Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The narrator who might be the spirit of Hafez himself[1] gets to know the protagonists by putting the marked letters next to each other and deciphering the codes. The story’s language alters to reminisce the language of the books the two borrow.

East of Violet, a very well-known short story among the fans of Iran’s contemporary fictional literature, is usually construed as a tale that brings the mystical love of the classic Persian literature — a love characterized by becoming one with the beloved — to the contemporary life of the readers, the purportedly undeserving progeny of the said classic poets, who know nothing about true love. The lovers in the story, although living in the late 1980s, in fact belong with the chapters of the twelfth century prose book, Tazkirat al-Awliya, or Biographies of the Saints. It is therefore not a coincidence that Biographies of the Saints is the last book the couple shares as it implies that the lovers’ life (singular, as they are united in a death, the mystical fanā, that is much worthier than any imaginable life) must be understood in relation to those of famous Sufis and their miracles depicted in Biographies of the Saints — an indication that Zabih and Arghavan’s love which like other true loves needs no cause and reason has nothing to do with the this-worldly and calculated present-day notions of love known to the readers of the story.

It however is not simply the different meanings of love in the two periods of time that are contrasted in the short story. The story also alludes to a shift in the regimes of writing — a shift in the relations between the self and writing from material expression and mimicking to an emphasis on meaning and understanding. Contrary to us (i.e., the readers who primarily look for meaning of the short story, like what I am doing here) the meaning of the words in the library books is at best secondary in the eyes of Arghavan and Zabih. All they care is the purple dots. They may not even read the books they borrow from the library, since for example Arghavan conveys in code: “I must have studied the Conference of the Birds for my exam; but all I saw were the marked letters inside the book. I understood nothing of the book itself” (p. 23). For the couple, the books are therefore stripped of meaning and dealt with in their mere materiality as they are first and foremost a constellation of meaningless printed letters underneath some of which they put the dots. Nevertheless, the dotted books affect Zabih and Arghavan as they become the hapless heroes of the borrowed books whose words are paradoxically emptied out and whose content, meaning, and story are bypassed. The story, for example, ends with the couple dying the well-known death of the Little Prince through whose book they have exchanged a message at one point in the story: the lovers are sent home by two snakes Zabih finds at his house earlier in the story and like in The Little Prince, the narrator is unable to find the bodies. In other words, the library books are not in fact read for their meaning and content; but are unconsciously imitated by the lovers.

The common analysis of the story is therefore not wrong in discerning that Zabih and Arghavan belong to a time and age different from, and in a nostalgic way better than, that of ours — the readers who are more or less their contemporaries. However, what this common understanding gets wrong is that this asynchrony is not simply a result of the different cultural meanings of love upon which the protagonists and we, the readers, draw. It is instead a consequence of the fact that protagonists’ relation with writing is different from our (i.e., the readers’) relation with written words. Comfortably detached from it, we read East of Violet, or any other text, and analyze its discourse and cultural meaning, while Zabih and Arghavan’s life is tied in with the library books whose effect is rooted in the materiality of the written words and whose heroes are unconsciously or otherwise mimicked by the couple. Whereas those particular books in the Hafeziyeh library in their material form with dots in them are the only copies important to Zabih and Arghavan and other copies of the same books are of no value to them, to us it does not matter which copy, print, or edition of the literary works Mandanipour uses to create his intertextual story as the content, the only thing required for us to decipher the short story, is similar in all prints and editions. Finally, while our minds seek the meaning behind Mandanipour’s words, the printed letters inside the library books affect the protagonists’bodies­ and their very life and death.

Similarly, in one of his most representative pieces epitomizing the originality of thought in what later came to be known as the German media theory, Friedrich Kittler (2015) looks at a parallel shift in the relation between individuals and words by contrasting Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Wertherand the story of Francesca and Paolo in Dante’s Divana Comedia, to conclude that whereas the Francesca and Paolo’s “story speaks of bodies” and the power-effect of books on bodies, the Werther and Lotte’s story, written some 450 years later, “speaks of souls” and the reader’s incessant search for a meaning (p. 18). Following Lacan who writes “slightest alteration in the relation between man and the signifier […] changes the whole course of history” (cited in: Lacoue-Labarthe & Nancy, 1992, p. 104), Kittler argues that the change in the relation with written words illustrated in the contrast between Dante and Goethe, represents a shift in history.

But how well do the two — relations between the self and writing which is part of an era’s regime of writing on one hand and historical periods on the other — correlate? Have written words totally lost their “power over bodies” (Kittler, 2015, p. 17)? Do we, the so-called moderns, merely “process texts as deposits of meaning” (Winthrop-Young, 2015, p. 4)? Are written words no longer all about “power, and not knowledge or information” (Favret-Saada, 1980, p. 9)? It might be true that presently meaning, and therefore the signified, is paramount in our relation with written words; but is it also not true that our understanding of East of Violent, for instance, equally depends on the written intertextuality in the story that reshapes the already established meaning (Briggs & Bauman, 1992)? Answering a question about the story’s audience, in an interview with BBC’s Persian Service (2012), Mandanipour declares that his audience does not already exist, but he creates it with his stories. Is his response not an indication of the fact that, in spite of our focus on referential function of language, the written words have not lost all their power-effect as they are able to create people — just like the written words of the library books that created (or exterminated, depending on our view) the lovers?


Works Cited:

BBCPersian. (2012). Tmasha’s Interview with Shahriar Mandanipour. Retrieved from http://www.bbc.co.uk/persian/arts/2012/10/121012_mandanipour_tamasha

Briggs, C. L., & Bauman, R. (1992). Genre, Intertextuality, and Social Power. Journal of Linguistic Anthropology, 2(2), 131–172. doi:10.1525/jlin.1992.2.2.131

Favret-Saada, J. (1980). Deadly Words: Witchcraft in the Bocage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Kittler, F. (2015). Authorship and Love. Theory, Culture & Society, 32(3), 15–47. Retrieved from http://tcs.sagepub.com/content/32/3/15.abstract

Lacoue-Labarthe, P., & Nancy, J.-L. (1992). The Title of the Letter: A Reading of Lacan. Albany: State University of New York Press.

Mandanipour, S. (1999). East of Violet (Šarq-e Banafše). Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz.

Mandanipour, S. (2009). Censoring an Iranian Love Story: A Novel (S. Khalili, Trans. 1st ed.). New York: Alfred A. Knopf.

Winthrop-Young, G. (2015). On Friedrich Kittler’s ‘Authorship and Love’. Theory, Culture & Society, 32(3), 3–13. Retrieved from http://tcs.sagepub.com/content/32/3/3.abstract


Footnotes:

[1] He makes another appearance in Mandanipour’s (2009) first English novel, Censoring an Iranian Love Story.

Originally published here.