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David J. Marsh

~ Biblical Narrative ~ Literary Fiction

Category Archives: Qualities of Good Fiction

The Power of Place

29 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by davidjmarsh in Character in Fiction, Qualities of Good Fiction, Role of the Writer

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Among the elements of fiction – conflict, character, and place – I could argue for any one of them being the more palpable, the key to quality story. Conflict is the engine. No question about that. But place…world-building…the environment in which the story happens – that is central.

I have a fellow writer who recently wrote a poem about walking through the Atlanta airport and how alone she felt among so many people. There is so much truth in that. How does that happen? How does a place illicit universal feeling and emotion? How do our psyches and souls become intertwined with physical spaces?
And it seems that the further you go back, into youth and then into childhood, the greater this phenomena becomes. Pause in those memories and place will tug, transport, and consume.

Place is unique among the elements of fiction. Practice reverence in constructing where your stories will unfold. And know that if the place you create lifts off the page it could, just maybe, transform into a character.
And that would be a gift.

Read Aloud

07 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by davidjmarsh in Creative Process/Craft, Qualities of Good Fiction, Role of the Writer

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Do you read your writing aloud to yourself? Is this part of your writing process?
Yes? Good. You can stop reading here. Well done. Carry on.
No? It should be.
Why? Two reasons:
It will improve your writing. You can hear problems in your writing that you can’t see. Language is processed differently by the ear than it is by the eye. We can hear what we can’t see. Likewise we can’t fully imagine the sounds of language when reading in silence. There is music in well-written prose. There is rhythm and tone. These are important aspects of high-functioning prose. But you can’t see them. And you can’t write-in these elements effectively if you don’t read and listen for them.
Reading your work aloud is a skill that you will need if you achieve any significant success as a writer. All writers who have published more than a little will be asked at least a few times to read their work aloud. You may read to a high school lit class, a book club of a half-dozen souls, or to several hundred devout fans in a university lecture hall. In any case, your ability to read your work in an entertaining and captivating way will increase your readership and exposure. Conversely, if you don’t develop this skill it will prove limiting. You’ll be frustrated. And if you’re successful as a writer you’ll experience the misery of developing this skill as your readers sit in the flesh before you and watch.
So make reading your work aloud a part of your creative process now. It will benefit your writing and you’ll be preparing for future success.
Besides, reading stories aloud to your kids or to your spouse after dinner, is wonderful. Try it.

How to Say You’re Lonely

08 Wednesday Feb 2017

Posted by davidjmarsh in Character in Fiction, Emily St. John Mandel, Qualities of Good Fiction

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On November 30th, at Butler University I had the privilege of hearing Eric Freeze read from his collection of stories called Invisible Men. During the introduction, one of Eric’s students stated that Eric gave the following writing advice during a recent graduate fiction workshop:
“If you’re feeling lonely, don’t tell us you’re lonely. If you describe your surroundings with enough care the emotion will surface.”
This bit of advice struck me as profound. I think it is the first time I’ve heard the ancient writing adage “show don’t tell” adequately explained.
Eric’s advice proves out. Descriptions are never neutral, never objective. They always bear the mark of the one doing the describing – they always (if done “with enough care”) make the mind of the character visible. The emotion comes through in the details that are provided as well as those that are not. Description is a series of choices – both conscious and subconscious.
How about a quick example?
Here are the first two sentences of Emily St. John Mandel’s Station Eleven. “The king stood in a pool of blue light, unmoored. This was act 4 of King Lear, a winter night at the Elgin Theatre in Toronto.”
What does this description reveal about the mood of the narrator and the tone of the novel that follows? What do these opening choices suggest? What do you make of the description’s mention that it’s act 4 and wintertime? Are we reading a romance? I doubt it. Detective fiction? Not likely. You’ll not be surprised to learn that this is a literary post-apocalyptic novel.
The mood is set from the first line. No tell. All via careful description.

Simon Says Avoid Teleology

16 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Contract with the Reader, Qualities of Good Fiction, Role of the Writer

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In the preface to his book Jerusalem, Simon Sebag Montefiore states, “I have tried to avoid teleology – writing history as if every event were inevitable.”
My second novel-in-progress deals with the life of a historic character. Under the form that I’ve given it, it is essentially historical fiction. Montefiore’s callout was an epiphany for me. It is precisely the concern I’ve been struggling with – ensuring that at no point in my story does the narrative seem to anticipate a particular outcome or be aware, even subconsciously, of what comes next.
Isn’t this the concern of every writer of fiction? The story must not seem canned. It must not seem preconceived. The story must seem to be unfolding organically, containing nothing preset – nothing engineered.
This is difficult. It is difficult because we writers of fiction become convinced. We become very, very sure of the plot of our story (even (especially?) when it’s not based on history). And while we build our story toward the plot turn that we’ve conceived, the rules of good character demand that we not create androids but that we allow characters to appear to walk of their own free will toward the cliff.
To know the ending is a curse, but it’s the price the story-teller pays to occupy his office.

But It Is Fundamental

02 Wednesday Nov 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Character in Fiction, Qualities of Good Fiction

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Tags

Characterization, Fiction, Writing

I know that I’ve written on this in at least one other post, but it is fundamental, so I trust you’ll humor me.

Yesterday I made the following note in my commonplace book.

“I think that most of the power in fiction comes of revelation to the reader and keeping characters in the dark.”

It is rare, but there are times as a writer (or practitioner of any craft) that you realize you have come to know a small but critical thing about that which you strive to do; and that you know this small thing with utmost confidence.

Yesterday I had such a moment. And it was at that moment that I wrote the above phrase in my notebook.

This statement is true. I have learned it as a mathematician learns the Pythagorean Theorem, a chemist learns the Meissner Effect, or a carpenter learns the terrific benefits of the dovetail joint. I have applied it and it works. Every time. It is a law of the craft. It is a fact that I can count on. It is an objective truth. I did not invent it or imagine it. I cannot exploit it nor fully explain it. It does not belong to me. It is simply a characteristic of the nature of successful fiction.

So be on your way. Go, and test this truth yourself.

Crepuscule

27 Wednesday Jul 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Georges Simenon, Qualities of Good Fiction

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In 1955, Georges Simenon said the following to the Paris Review*.

“…Instead of writing just the story, in this chapter I tried to give a third dimension, not necessarily to the whole chapter, perhaps to a room, to a chair, to some object. It would be easier to explain in terms of painting. A commercial painter paints flat; you can put your finger through. But a painter – for example, an apple by Cezanne has weight. And it has juice, everything, with just three strokes. I tried to give to my words just the weight that a stroke of Cezanne’s gave to an apple.”

Good stuff, right? Great stuff! But listen to what he says next!

“That is why most of the time I use concrete words. I try to avoid abstract words, or poetical words, you know, like ‘crepuscule,’ for example. It is very nice, but it gives nothing. Do you understand? To avoid every stroke which does not give something to this third dimension.”

Look at how Simenon takes us from the theory to the application**. He moves from the abstract directly to the craft point. He states that concrete language will actually heighten the sensation the reader experiences. This is counter-intuitive, but it is true. Abstraction kills story. It cripples characters. It washes color off the page. It does exactly the opposite of what you think it will do.

Every time.

*I am slowly reading all of the interviews in the Paris Review backlog. They are all available online. http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews. I am glad I got an MFA. Reading these I feel like I’m earning my doctorate.

**He also takes a lesson from the visual arts and applies it to writing. If this jump is difficult for you it is likely because you’ve not written enough yet. For the experienced writer words take on tactical quality. They combine to build objects that stand up on the page – that can be seen and heard, tasted and touched.

Specificity = Believability

09 Saturday Jul 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Qualities of Good Fiction

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Here are two sentences:

A. The man stood in front of me holding the gun.
B. The veins in his neck bulged as he stood half-turned toward me, the gun lying across his open palm.

These are both fully functional sentences. Both are true to the author’s intent. The basic action is clear, the threat is easily identified. But what makes sentence B so much more interesting? We see that the man holding the gun is under stress and his body language suggests that he is about to make a move – toward or away from using the gun. Sentence B is pregnant with possibility. Sentence A is too, but in a one-dimensional way.

We could end the blog post here. All of this is true and good, from a craft perspective.
However, a reader is hopefully going to pick this story up one day. Why is sentence B better for them? Because, there is magic in the detail. Such specifics earn your reader’s belief. Readers believe a narrator who sees much. As readers we trust the story teller who has a grasp on the intricacies of what is happening. The better the snapshot the more wholly we will invest in the action that is taking place. And the more we know, the more we want to know. And we turn the page.

So pick your specifics thoughtfully. Be accurate and concrete. Do your job. Your readers will happily follow.

Alignment, Not Agreement

15 Wednesday Jun 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Contract with the Reader, Joyce Cary, Qualities of Good Fiction, Role of the Writer

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What are we trying to do as writers of story, especially long-form story? I recently read an interview Joyce Cary gave to The Paris Review in 1954*. Here is a bit of what he said in that interview.

“I don’t care for philosophers in books. They are always bores. A novel should be an experience and convey an emotional truth rather than arguments.”

This is the entire point of fiction. As soon as a story begins to tell the reader what they should think – beyond expecting them to accept the story that is being told – the story becomes a treatise.
Of course we must allow characters to speak and even say things that demand us to consider our beliefs. But the craft concern is for the writer not to step onto the page. We must never sense that we are reading the author’s perspective or thoughts. Characters will say things, but we shouldn’t feel, as readers, that we are being expected to accept such things as statements of argument for a cause.

Our goal as writers of fiction is not intellectual truth. Our goal is to write emotional truth. We are not seeking agreement with our reader, we are seeking something else. We are seeking alignment. We are seeking a mutual recognition of the truth that is driven out of the human experience – good, bad, or somewhere in-between. Let the philosophers, lobbyists, and activists do their work and let’s do ours.
Let’s tell stories that throw light on the condition of the human heart.

* http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5071/the-art-of-fiction-no-7-joyce-cary

It Seems Like a Good Blog Post

01 Wednesday Jun 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Qualities of Good Fiction

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“Seems to me…” “You seem to feel that…” “This one seemed to be more difficult than…”
Seem/Seems/Seemed – we use it as a way to avoid dogmatic judgment and display flexibility – to soften our potential read of what we think we see happening, to leave ourselves wiggle-room. It keeps the conversation open and moving.
But be aware: None of this sort of thing is good for fiction. What fiction likes is concrete dogmatic clarity with as little between the observer and the observation as possible.
If you’re like me you use these words too often. Here is an exercise for you. Search a piece of your fiction for the word seem. This will bring up seem and all its forms. Below is what my search yielded. I’ve given each use a grade and a comment. (This word is so very nearly useless that I won’t ever give it an A):

He comes toward us at something between a hobble and a limp. He lurches to one side in such a way that it seems he might tip over. (B – Here seems is used to indicate the possibility of something happening over which the observer has no control. I might let this one go. We’ll see.)

Our foreheads touched. Conversation fell silent and we stayed like this for a few brief moments. It seemed, frozen in this scene, the cookery a delightful mess, Seth lying on the floor with a kitten he had found, it seemed possible to reclaim ourselves. (C – This is pretty rough stuff, too many clauses. Seemed is used twice and is part of a section that needs a general overhaul. While such uses of seemed are about as acceptable as you’re going to find, in the clean-up I’ll still look to get rid of them.)

Each leaf is shaded such that it seems to flutter in a sunny evening breeze. (C – Why not use ‘appears’ instead? Here the character is describing what he sees in a piece of art. Calling out the visual descriptor would bring clarity to his comment. I’ll likely recast the sentence while I’m at it as its awkward and indirect.)

Tales like this one are easily dismissed. The purveyors of such talk are often deemed ignorant or delusional. But this man seems to be neither of these. He is confident and the details he gives are rich. He seems to know of what he speaks – he carries authority. (C – Weak at best. Why does the speaker not take a firm position? Wouldn’t that be a lot more interesting? Cut – ‘seems to be neither of these. He’)

Cain had seemed restless all evening. (D – Using the word to offer an interpretation of someone else’s point of view makes for boring fiction. There is plenty of room for me to delete the word, replace it with been, and be descriptive.)

The question seemed to please Him. He smiled and turned to look at me… (D – The speaker is making the judgment (kind of) and then giving the evidence that He is pleased. This is unnecessary. No reader is going to disagree. Change to: The question pleased him.)

As we sat, the smoke from the fire curled into the trees, seeming to quiet the calls and chirps. (F – Delete the word and rephrase the sentence. Seeming is bringing no value. Besides, is it likely that the smoke is actually causing the birdsong to silence? No. The word is injuring the truth of what is happening and deadening the clarity.)

The scent was full and crisp; it seemed to spread inside me, filling my chest. (F – This is the worst possible usage. The speaker is in his own point of view. Seemed is carrying zero weight and adding no clarity. Hit the delete key. Cut ‘it seemed to’.)

You seem to get the idea.

A Creator of Wants

18 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by davidjmarsh in Contract with the Reader, Qualities of Good Fiction

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Fiction is unique among the story-telling arts. Fiction offers no visual images. Unlike film, photography, stage, or oral interpretation, fiction provides only the still and silent words. In all these other forms the audience is passive. The story goes on in front of and external to the viewer.
But with fiction, the story is rendered in the private and silent meeting between the maker of the words and the mind of the reader. If the reader dozes off, the story stops. The story is completed by the reader. When there is no reader the story lies dormant and unfulfilled – unrealized in every sense. The reader brings the necessary action and imaginative power to make the story real. All the writer can provide are the needed words in their precise order.

So, the goal is clear. Do not try to ensure the reader’s knowledge by telling and showing them everything that you think they need to know. This is failure. This is forgetting the reader altogether. Know that at the height of your powers you are a creator of wants. Make the reader want. That is all. See to it that not everything is given but that it is deeply and longingly wanted.
It is what is left out, and the desire this omission stirs in your reader that will lend the story its power.

Note: This post is again the result of a conversation with Ben H. Winters, at LePeeps, 10 March 2016.

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