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In 1954, Ralph Ellison told the Paris Review* that a character’s development must proceed through three states: from purpose, through passion, to perception^.

The beauty of this construct is that it demands action. And action is the stuff of story. No action = no story. A character will, by their very creation, exist; however action will give the character purpose, a reason for existing. Through further action the character will declare their passion – their want – the target of their desire. Finally, out of this character’s action, and reaction to conflict, will come a perception, maybe even an epiphany. The character will be reinvented, forever changed. The character will be unable to return to that early state of simple purpose even if he wished, for purpose and passion are permanently altered due to the new found perception.
An example would be good here, but you don’t need me for that. Think of your favorite novel or short story. Think of Huck Finn or Goldilocks, think of your favorite TV show or movie. From purpose, through passion, to perception – it is right there.
It’s why you love that story.

*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.

^Ellison says in the interview that he is quoting Kenneth Burke.

Crepuscule

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

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.

Hemingway Took A Question

Interviewer: How much should you write a day?
Hemingway: The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next.

It is a weak question. It is the sort of question that doesn’t have an answer but is asked all the time. Variants of the question are: How much do you write each day? Do you write in the morning or evening?
The answers to these kinds of questions are usually flat useless. Suppose Hemingway had said “Four. Four hours make a writer’s shift,” or, “As much as you can.” I’ve heard writers give variants of both answers. But we can’t blame the inquisitor for failed answers. They’re simply trying to understand what makes the writer tick. It is up to the writer to say what needs to be said.

This quote is from a book called Earnest Hemingway On Writing. It is a slim volume of Hemingway’s comments on the craft of writing, collected and categorized. This quote is the only one I remember from the book. I suppose this is because it has served me so well. This idea has become a central part of my writing process.
I write every day. Starting is the hard part. But I have made this advice my own. I always stop when I know my start, what my first move will be the next day. I always know which paragraph, page, or section holds my starting position. In fact, I leave that document open on my laptop – ready and waiting.

Hemingway took a question he’d no doubt been asked hundreds of times and was unselfish in his answer. He was instructive. Listen. It’s good stuff.

Alignment, Not Agreement

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

“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

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.

About the Blurred Line

I’m going to get a bit academic on you here. Bear with me. The post is only 433 words (including the footnotes and the title), so I suppose I’ll not try your patience too greatly.

Like you, I am often amazed at the length and breadth of a novel. Take a book like “All the Light We Cannot See” by Anthony Doerr. What a sweeping achievement. The characters, the great sense of place, the language – as readers we are in awe that the author has written such a wonderful, super-long story.

But this is an illusion.

As practicing writers we know something about such a book that the average reader doesn’t realize. This novel is not a single super-long story. It is a collection of related short-stories that are strung together, crafted in such a way that they read within one massive arc.
In fact no novel is one long story. A novel is always a litter of small pieces joined together so that they stand as a whole.

It is for this reason that there is so much discussion (in writing circles, of course, not in the real world) about the blurred line between a collection of short stories and a novel. Take a look at “Jesus’ Son” by Dennis Johnson, or “Kentucky Straight” by Chris Offutt, or “American Salvage” by Bonnie Jo Campbell. These are commonly considered short story collections. However, the case can easily be made that these are novels. The stories in each carry a similar weight, the setting is in focus throughout, and the voice is distinctive*. We soon see that such distinctions serve the Marketing Department far more than the reader.

Here’s the take-away. Don’t get caught up in a tug-o-war with yourself or anyone else about whether you’re writing a novel or a collection of short-stories. Focus on the writing. Let the material on the page decide what it will be.
And if you’re really successful the Marketing Team will argue the point for you.

*The trend toward short chapters in long books – even the titling of each chapter – as Doerr has done, continues to fuel the fire of this distinction. Other than the character development spanning the entire book (although this is seen in “short-story collections” too – see Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried”), this book is perhaps the best example I’ve seen recently of the blurring between these two genres from a traditional novel perspective.

Note: This post is again the result of a conversation with Ben H. Winters, at LePeeps, of 71st St. in Indianapolis, 10 March 2016.

Backstory Isn’t Story

You will try to make your reader care about the character you’ve created. You’ll do this by telling your reader all about the character’s background, family, where he lives, his personality, clothing, job, and who knows what else. You’ll lay all of this out for your reader in great detail. You’ll do this at the top of the first page. You’ll do this before you tell them the story. You’ll do this because they have to know. They have to know all of this before they can appreciate what you have to tell them.

Go ahead. Do this. Tell them all of it.

Now, delete it.

There. You’ve gotten that out of your system.

Now start again. Show the reader your character in the heat of the moment, dealing with conflict, caught in the middle of some action. Do this starting in the first sentence.
Do this well and your reader will care about the character you’ve created while knowing nothing else.

How do we know that this is true? We know because before we were writers we were readers. And this is why we care about characters. This is why we’ve cared about characters for years.

If you still want proof, go to the library and check out Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
You’ll meet Llewelyn Moss at the top of page one hunting antelope. It will not be until page 20 that you’ll find out he lives in a trailer with a woman. And even then you won’t know anything else, except they aren’t part of the social elite and Moss isn’t a sissy. On page 12 Moss will find a bunch of dead guys and on page 17 he will find another dead guy and a bag full of cash. And this stuff matters. It matters because back on page one, during the hunt, you started caring about this guy. You didn’t start caring on page 20.

As Ben H. Winters said over lunch on March 10, 2016 at LePeep’s on 71st St. in Indianapolis – always put backstory in later, and if possible, never.

Wedding Speech

On April 2nd, I gave a speech at my eldest daughter’s wedding. In writing the speech I determined that there are four tasks a speech like this must perform. I thought I’d share those here in case you find yourself in the same situation – or a similar one.

Humor. The speech must bring a measure of laughter. One should avoid standup comedy, embarrassing either the bride or groom, or self-deprecation. The material here should in fact not be hilarious, but rather come naturally of the delight of the events surrounding the wedding.

Affection. The speech must be a bit sweet. This should not be avoided. There is an opportunity here to show the heart-felt emotion you have for the bride and/or groom. Love is in the air. Don’t ignore it.

Inclusiveness. The speech must pull in everyone in the room. Even a simple reference to the guests, a “we’re all in this together” sort of comment is perfect. At a wedding, the married couples in the room already feel a certain affinity for the new couple and are reflecting on their own nuptials. Why not bring this out in the speech?

Blessing. The speech must include a word of forward-looking hope for the new couple, a wish for the years to come. The speech is a rare opportunity, if for no other reason than to deliver a word of blessing. How often do you get to do that?

A final thought – these are not stand-alone elements, especially the first three. They are perhaps best when woven together. Let the power of the moment carry you. Mazel tov!