On the subject of observing and being observed, I must mention the long, grim gander I took at myself in the bathroom mirror this morning. Usually these days I do not dally before my reflection any longer than is necessary. There was a time when I quite liked what I saw in the looking-glass, but not any more. Now I am startled, and more than startled, by the visage that so abruptly appears there, never and not at all the one I expect. I have been elbowed aside by a parody of myself, a sadly dishevelled figure in a Hallowe�en mask made of sagging, pinkish-grey rubber that bears no more than a passing resemblance to the image of what I look like that I stubbornly retain in my head.

I quote the above passage from pages 127-8 of John Banville�s novel The Sea in the context of an interesting article, entitled �The Fiction Machine,� bemoaning the influence of creative writing workshops on American fiction. (click here for the link to the New York Press site). The author of the piece claims that the kind of insipid prose and narrative being churned out by MFAs (Master of Fine Arts) who graduate from writing workshops can be blamed on a number of factors, not least the fact that teachers faced with large numbers of students substitute rules and doctrine (the �craft� of writing) in place of meaningful mentoring. According to the article, budding writers are told they should �Never begin a story with a character waking up in bed. Never write a scene where a character looks at himself in a mirror. Never use the word “stuff.”�So I suppose if you really wanted to attract the hooting derision of your fellow writers, you could kick off your precious short story with the following line:�Regaining consciousness, he opened his eyes and caught sight of himself in the ceiling mirror�his thin, sweating body was tangled up in white sheet speckled with blood and other stuff he couldn�t identify.� And the prohibition against mirror gazing is vehemently supported by a blogger at slushpile.net, who rages �One of the first things we all learned in workshops was to try and develop character. Make the reader visualize the character. Make the reader sympathize and understand the character. Define the character. And sure enough, next week, everyone one of us turned in a stinking mirror scene in our stories. But usually it got drummed out of us and by the end of the semester, we knew better than to do this. At this point, I�d rather the author never give me a single detail about the character than to see this freshman writing 101 device used.�Obviously, Banville�s failure to enroll in �freshman writing 101� has been a major break on his career as a novelist.Anyone else think of some major mirror gazing scenes in contemporary fiction? If I remember correctly Updike in his latest book, Villages, has his protagonist assessing himself in the glass (and also not coming to a happy conclusion).