The Beholder’s Share*

06 Wednesday Oct 2021

Posted by in Contract with the Reader, Creative Process/Craft, Qualities of Good Fiction

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The idea is this: part of the meaning or significance of a work of art is provided by the viewer. The viewer of the work, by the act of consuming the work, is granted a share of the art’s intent. There is a creative co-op that occurs between the artist and the audience.

In the Westside Writers Workshop, the writing workshop I facilitate, we have begun to use this term when we speak of our written work. We ask ourselves, what is the beholder’s share? How will a reader engage with this piece of writing? What will they take away from it, what will they make their own? How does the writing leave room for the reader to engage?

Creative writing may be started, but it isn’t finished in solitude. A written story is finished in public, out in the wild, where readers take it in, internalize, and share in it. This is when the work is finished, when it has found harbor with a reader. Readers complete books. Readers complete stories. 

*‘The beholder’s share’ is a term from the art world. Coined by Austrian art historian Alois Riegl and popularized by another Austrian-born, British art historian, Ernst Gombrich.

Reading at Speakeasy

22 Wednesday Sep 2021

Posted by in Contract with the Reader, Writing Life

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Last Thursday evening here in Danville, Indiana, Speakeasy Books and More held their inaugural reading, and I was privileged to be one the four authors who read. There were thirty or forty readers who stopped in to listen and to chat afterward. Celebrating this new indie bookstore and the power of story, in a live environment, was oxygen. Thank you to the readers who attended and made this happen. 

There is an axiom among writers, “readers finish books.” This means a reader completes a book by translating it into their imagination and integrating it into their personal experience. A book isn’t meeting its potential except when it’s being read. 

This is doubly true at a live reading. Readers turned listeners, gather to hear an author read, and become a creative jury. They listen to and judge the story—it’s truth laid bare for their consideration. The story is brought before the public square and when readers engage with the author, it becomes a collaboration like none other. The story is finished in these moments.

Until just three or four hundred years ago, when European readers began to read silently to themselves, reading aloud was the primary way in which writing was consumed. Readers (author or reader) read writing aloud. This was a social activity, it was the way reading happened––just as it did Thursday evening at Speakeasy.

For this writer, few aspects of the writing life bring more joy than spending an evening with readers maintaining this ancient tradition.

Speakeasy

25 Wednesday Aug 2021

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A writer has several needs that must be met in order to practice his craft. He needs a physical place that is solely his where he can go and write, a small circle of other trusted writers who can call him out when he’s writing poorly and encourage him when he’s writing well, and a reading life that supports his craft by consistently injecting good sentences into his head.

But there’s one more thing a writer needs, and that’s a forum in which to connect with readers.

A local bookstore is ideally that forum, and I’m delighted to have, for the first time in over twenty years, an indie bookstore here in my town.

Speakeasy Books and More is cozily located just off the square, and Tommy Vickers is a friend to local authors and readers. Central to his mission is a local authors’ shelf. He is scheduling book releases, readings, and book groups. He is committed to making Speakeasy a place where people who love story can find each other.

Bookstores in other cities have filled this need for me from time to time, but now I truly have a local bookstore, a home base. A hole has been properly filled in my writerly life. And I am grateful.

Fist

11 Wednesday Aug 2021

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It has happened twice now, toward the end of the final draft of a project. There it is, a glaring typo discovered at the beginning of the story. A typo that has been there all along––or at least for several drafts––but completely overlooked.

We were very close to finalizing the galleys of The Confessions of Adam when it was discovered, in the first chapter, instead of referencing the trunk of a landmark tree, there was referenced a tree truck.

And once again, just a few weeks ago, a beta reader, at this late stage in my current project, found––in the preface–– that the word first had been written as fist.

The point here is you must engage beta readers and editors. Both of these were found by such collaborators. Neither was found by me, my publisher or my agent. And in the case of Confessions, most had poured over the manuscript, some of us many, many times.

Being the author, you will become utterly blind to such errors. Your brain will determine what is on the page instead of your eyes. Your only hope is collaboration with others before your manuscript is out in the wild and such mistakes are found by readers. For readers miss nothing.

Fire

28 Wednesday Jul 2021

Posted by in Creative Process/Craft, Qualities of Good Fiction, Technicalities

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I am finishing a late draft of my current long-form project. The setting of the story is agricultural, pre-electricity. The family uses open flame for light. A couple of days ago, I was working on edits to the manuscript when I realized I had all the elements needed but had fully missed an opportunity for tension, conflict, and story.

A fire.

For some mysterious reason it had never dawned on me that a fire should occur in the story. I thought I’d mined the story line for all the tension it could offer, but in doing so I’d overlooked an obvious option.

Now there’s a fire. 

And now that it’s occurred, it’s hard to imagine the story without it. The conflict opened up another facet of characterization––for more than one character––and gave the reader another reason to turn the page.

What opportunities for conflict or tension are you overlooking in your current story? It could be as simple as taking the existing elements of the world you’ve built and letting them naturally interact.

If You’re Bored

30 Wednesday Jun 2021

Posted by in Contract with the Reader, Creative Process/Craft, Role of the Writer, Writing Discipline

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If you’re bored, no…if you’re not thoroughly riveted by the piece you’re writing, it’s not ready for a reader. And until this criteria is met, it never will be.

If you're not thoroughly riveted by the piece you're writing, it's not ready for a reader. Click To Tweet

In my 2 June post I wrote about a different situation––one in which the writer has a pair of contrasting positive emotions about the piece s/he is creating. But here I’m speaking to when the project, no matter how much you’ve tried, holds no interest for you. The material doesn’t draw you in. The project is utterly failing to take on a life of its own.

So what to do?

Option #1: Narrow the Scope

There’s likely something that brought you to the project to begin with, some nugget, some core. Go and reimagine the project based on that core. What brought you to the project? Perhaps what has happened is you’ve lost that initial excitement as you’ve sought to develop the story and it’s become diluted, cluttered, overgrown. Find that core, narrow the scope to only that core, and start again.

Option #2: Abandon the Project

You may have to abandon the work. Recognize that this is not about you, your work ethic, or your ability to finish. This is about the work. The work either functions or it doesn’t. And you don’t have time to focus on work that isn’t begging you to.

In the end, you are writing for a reader. The first step in gaining a reader’s trust starts long before you encounter them. You must write work that pulls you to the edge of your creative seat, work that grabs you by the collar and doesn’t let go. Anything less is not worth your precious time. And won’t be worth your reader’s precious time either.

That Counter-Cultural Somersault

16 Wednesday Jun 2021

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I’ve concluded that it’s not the writing that’s difficult. What is difficult is making and maintaining space in our lives in which creativity can occur.

I've concluded that it's not the writing that's difficult. What is difficult is making and maintaining space in our lives in which creativity can occur. Click To Tweet

Creative work isn’t necessarily difficult. Such effort is a matter of tenacity, the acquisition of a skill––not unlike learning to play the piano, leaning French, or learning to weld. But creative work requires two elements: 1) focused attention on a task and 2) solitude. Our culture does not promote either of these. There are a hundred demands for our attention at any given moment and antidotes for being alone are just as plentiful. We have come to believe the myth that multitasking is not only possible, but a desirable skill. Being alone is seen as a state to be avoided, and boredom has been all but eliminated from our experience.

Great results can come from being alone and bored. Focused attention on a task allows for deep learning. Solitude reduces stress and allows us to hear past all the noise our society generates. And this is the space in which creative work gets done.

Creativity is in our DNA. It is part of our created design. Thus, the greatest task is not doing the creative work, it is routinely performing that counter-cultural somersault of building a fortress in which to focus, alone.

Crush or Commitment?

02 Wednesday Jun 2021

Posted by in Creative Process/Craft, Role of the Writer, Starting a Novel, Writing Discipline, Writing Life

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I have a long-form fiction project I’d like to discuss for a moment. Let’s call it Fabula. (Fabula is Latin for story.) When I’m working on Fabula I enjoy it very much. I enjoy the discoveries I make as I cobble it together and the connections inside the story that are generated. The characters, especially the protagonist, have me hooked. The writing really clicks. This could all be interpreted as a reason to stay with the project, evidence Fabula has legs.

But there’s an issue. A nagging, always present, issue.

I am missing an underlying motivation for Fabula. I don’t know why I’m writing it. I don’t know what question I’m seeking to answer, what curiosity I’m exploring.

Completing a novel is a great deal of work. The project must create fire-in-the-belly for the writer. The micro-delights I’m experiencing will occur with any project and can’t take the place of the story’s reason for existence. Any confusion on the author’s part of a crush (being enamored with the daily writing) and commitment (the depth of underlying, long-lasting, motivation for a project) will be sniffed out by the reader and impact their experience as well. A reader can tell when the author found this deeper purpose in creating a manuscript. They can also sense a missing core. Such energy (or lack of it) translates. As always, the reader’s experience comes of the author’s.

Experiment: A Beta Reading Group

19 Wednesday May 2021

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It is key to the late-stage development of any piece of long-form creative writing to engage beta readers. These are individual readers who read widely and are adept at giving constructive as well as appreciative feedback. My previous work has benefited greatly from such thoughtful readers, and I wouldn’t consider moving a project forward without them.

But a beta reading group?

Sunday evening, May 2nd, I provided six copies of my latest manuscript to a group of ladies who will be spending the next several weeks reading and discussing the book. I will go and sit in on these conversations, take notes, and listen to their exchange about the reader experience.

This is a well-established, cohesive group of women. They are avid readers and critical thinkers on matters of faith who care deeply about words. They are my reading demographic.

Establishing this beta reading group is an experiment for all involved. I’ve never had a beta group and they’ve never beta read a manuscript. 

I have a hunch this is going to be invaluable.

From the Archives: About the Blurred Line

05 Wednesday May 2021

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[This blogpost first appeared here on 4 May 2016]

I’m going to get a bit academic on you here. Bear with me. The post is only 430 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.