Concerning "the trigger," is this something that people really wonder about? I don't think I've ever read a story or a novel and thought, "Huh. How did she come up with THAT, I wonder." As in who cares? Nor would I ever really want to know, I don't think. Something is lost, some magic maybe, when you hear where a story came from, its impetus or inspiration. It's like reading a lot of Tobias Wolff's "fiction." You're bound to go, "Boy, I wonder if this guy teaches writing for a living and went to a prep school as a kid," and kind of roll your eyes and feel cheated. I do, at least. Anyway, it just seems like something a non-writer might wonder about. Someone who doesn't . . . someone who's never written anything before. There's material EVERYWHERE. The world is FULL of material. It's how we turn it into beautiful prose that's important, no?
I think the idea of the essay is not just what triggers a story idea, but what triggers a story idea that has legs. On p. 16 Spark says, "Triggers give rise to questions. They're triggers because they're incomplete, because they require elaboration." This is what I think is important to consider for a story: what questions does it raise? what questions does it consider? what answers does it posit? While I prefer reading something beautifully written, I would sacrifice beautiful prose for a compelling story pretty much every time. For examples I'll revert to Ms. McCabe's list of "classic lit": _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ is a compelling story, asking questions on almost every page, and so well written I could read it any day of the week (even multiple times in one day) and still find things to think about or apt descriptions. In contrast, what saves _Brave New World_ in my opinion, is the questions it asks. The story itself is deeply flawed. It's the ideas that are great. And then there's _Lolita_... it's asking so many questions of the reader, of our assumptions, AND it is a joy to watch Nabokov play with language. I'd read all three repeatedly. Will I read _The Devil Wears Prada_ or _The Da Vinci Code_ ever again? No. The first is well written for what it is, but really , the questions it posits aren't that deep. The second poses interesting questions, but isn't well-written.
I thought the point was to post questions on this blog? Paul, I'm almost there with you. I'm rarely interested in what starts a story and am more concerned with how an author turns material into beautiful prose. I think this essay is a like a diet book in that it will work for some people. Some of these people may even be pretty good writers. There is material everywhere. My old creative writing professor was fond of saying that each of us experiences more in a single day than we can ever write about. To examine a trigger is to examine what you were saying about Wolff and that delves more into biography than craft. A trigger only takes you so far and a great idea fails without a story to back it up. The questions, as Erin points out, are what matter, that impulse or drive that makes us want to keep turning the pages because we are interested in finding out the answers to the questions that a story proposes. And speaking of questions...I love the line on page 18 of The Trigger essay that goes, "The problem may actually be that a true story provides too much material; it doesn't leave enough out." So what is it that is left out of the Gass story that makes it so amazing. The place he is writing about certainly feels true, real and out of his experience, so how does he whittle it down to the neccesary story elements that propose questions and make us want to keep turning the pages?
I'm also wondering what keeps us turning the pages, especially after reading "The Tower and the Net," which basically tells us that unless we master plot, we will be failed writers merely focusing on our own personal visions. So what is plot exactly? The most basic definition states that plot is simply a series of events, events in a related sequence. Which is incredibly simple, and yet what must these events do to keep us reading? According to this article, the events must perpetuate the conflict between desire and danger and increase tension to the end (the story as war!). This almost seems too linear--I'm thinking plot has more possibilities, more complications. How else does plot function in a story? I'm trying to decide how desire and danger fit into Orozco's story, "Orientation," for example.
Not to bring in another text, but in "Aspects of the Novel," Forster makes a good distinction between story and plot. The linear progression of events, he states, is not plot but story. A plot must contain an element of causality, it's not the what but the why. A story involves only curiosity (what happens next?!), a plot involves memory and intelligence, he says, thus plot is a higher-level thing. The desire and danger in "Orientation" is in that repeated line, "you may be let go." I think "Orientation" comprises a bunch of mini-plots or mini-stories, we get Russell Nash's story, Barry Hacker's story, etc., and they all add up to this implied story of what day-to-day life will be like working in this office. It's a great voice-driven piece, and I wonder would it still work without those individual/personal anecdotes?
The biggest question on my mind these past months has been how important IS story or plot to a novel (or, I suppose, a short story)? Can voice alone carry a text? In Gass's story, nothing actually happens, per se, though the protagonist does "want, and want intensely," as Burroway claims must happen. I'm tired (or at least wary) of the emphasis on events and happenings. Give me emotion and language. Or just give me language. Shoot.
First of all I would like to say that I absolutely loved Orozco's "Orientation." I found it a cleaver way to show the blending of the "realistic" world with the captivating specifics of fiction that make something so enjoyable to read. It's the specifics here, something that was mentioned by Burroway, that bring this story past the mundane and actually made me laugh out loud. My question for this posting was how do you feel about this author's choice to highlight these specifics? For me it added something to page, I found it interesting to read something that was so blatantly looking at what makes the typical interesting. How do you feel about this?
Also, I wanted to ask a question about Burroway's essay specifically. He talks about the mistake of using obvious dangers in writing, commenting that the "profound impediments" can be found from something much closer to home. I was wondering what people thought of this. I personally have a hard time with such a harsh criticism in terms of literary freedom and what one person might like over another. In other words, maybe he isn't in to monsters and what not but someone else might be. I cannot help thinking about classics such as "Dracula" and "Frankenstein."
"The Mechanics of Sex" and "The Whole Messy Issue of Attraction"
Spark's discussion of "triggers," I think, is less about coming up with an event and more about how one writes something meaningful. To borrow her own metaphor, a trigger is less about the "mechanics of sex" and more about "the whole messy issue of attraction," meaning a trigger is less about "story" and more about "plot."
When Spark discusses her two friends who were having trouble turning "ideas" into "stories," she tells them to "forget about the story." Rather, Spark offers, one needs to imagine situations that make characters meaningful (or vice versa). Imagination, here, is distinct from "trigger;" imagination is what turns a trigger into a story.
What, then, is a trigger? In poetry we talk about "image complexes" and in light of prose I would say "schema." A trigger is the recognition of a schema, or a syntax, or a structural design. For example, I discussed with someone recently how DeLillo's impetus, his trigger, for White Noise seems to come from some sort of syntactical anomaly.
More than a recognition of a schema, however, a trigger has an intrinsically emotional or meaningful imperative. In this way, a trigger is a private response to something, it can be anything. The impetus of a trigger can either be evoked by an object or grounded in an object: to borrow Chekhov‘s example-object, the ashtray either evokes an emotional/intellectual response, or the existing impetus finds a reason to impose itself on the ashtray.
Imagination, then, works to form a story from the disjuncts in one's trigger.
A question about IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY:
This was my least favorite reading, HOWEVER, I was really digging on how Gass inserts poetry, or at least rhyming, into his thick, heavy-handed prose.
Some of my favs:
"I'm led to think that only those who grow down live..., but I find I write that only those who live down grow; and what I write, I hold, whatever I really know."
"Many small Midwestern towns are nothing more than rural slums, and this community could easily become one."
How do people feel about using a device like this in (their) prose?
I was interested in the “value of specificity” mentioned in Conflict, Crisis, and Resolution – I think we can all agree that specific detail is a good and necessary thing, but do people think it is possible to go too far?
In the Gass story, for instance, I had to force myself to read (rather than skim) many of the sections, particularly the Vital Data bits. It felt like each detail was specifically chosen and important, but the density of information made it difficult to focus.
Is one of the dangers of specificity then the possibility of overwhelming and alienating the reader? It seems a very fine line between just enough detail to intrigue, and so much that it bores.
(A side note: Firefox won't let me post comments, I had to use IE, if anyone else is having difficulty.)
I can't help thinking that the level of significance to the details in a story might be linked to, you might say, the scale of the story. We're told again and again that every word written is useful and significant, and in an extremely short piece like one of Amy Hempel's that's certainly accurate, but I can't believe that this is absolutely true -- at least not in the entirely literal way that it sounds. Language operates on a much broader and more colloquial scale in fiction, and it's often in the moments of unfamiliar construction or abstract thinking, or any sort of linguistic tic that can be described as an aspect of the story's tone, that you really start to pay attention and understand that something important is happening in the text.
In other words, I'm thinking that 'specificity' isn't necessarily the recording of concrete physical details. In the Gass story, I don't feel as if I'm supposed to actually focus on each aspect of the town listed, its layout, what kind of cars people drive, the shape of the houses, the habits of the people, but rather the pattern of viewing things at this minute scale (and in that sense, I feel like I tune out on the actual details from time to time, though I'm less comfortable with that). Could we then say that 'specificity' also refers to the peculiar way in which a writer chooses to organise the language of their story, and not just the roster of what's being said?
As someone fairly new to fiction writing, I am curious to know which camp other writers fall into: the John Irving "know the story -- as much of the story as you can possibly know..." postion,the E.L.Doctorow "driving at night" version, which involves only seeing the bit before you, or some variation on Faulkner's style which varies from piece to piece, without knowing exactly where the story will start or end. Also,does anyone rely on Eliot's "dreamy doze" for inspiration?
So, having now finished all the readings, I thought I would post an explicit question instead of just chiming in on the discussion...
I was struck when reading "Brownies" and "Orientation" at the use of (dark) humor in the stories. Which made me wonder: is the humor working a strategy to build tension or to release it?
And if we are meant to address/discuss others' questions here (as I think we are... we can't possibly get to it all in class, can we?), for what it's worth, I'd like address Risa's question by saying that I seem to know the beginning and the end and nothing of the middle when I write. So I guess I'm driving at night with a destination that I think I'm trying to get to.
I wondered what the sequence in the Gass story was supposed to add to any sort of building of conflict or plot for that matter. It is like most of the observations are kind of random and it seems like they really didn't build into anything..
In response to your question Risa, I've almost never written a short story with more than a shadowy notion of where it'll end up. That being said, (although I've never attempted writing a novel until recently,) I took countless screenwriting workshops as an undergrad and we were required to prepare an outline of everything that happens in every scene of the story and workshop the outlines before we even started writing! I think for me, the the genesis of story comes from flushing out the triggers on paper and toiling with them. Personally, I would be lost and terrified to attempt writing anything longer than 20 pages without one.
Something that struck me Sparks's essay was her discussion on the infiltration of media on young writers, describing it as an "obstacle." I have to say, a little piece of me died when I read that. I've always been inspired by movies and TV, etc, perhaps just as much (maybe even more) than I have by novels. It's always made sense to me to take a trigger, find the story, then hyperbolize it to the Nth degree-- (not to insinuate these are the only good stories, that's just what jives with me.) Does anyone have any thoughts on this?
My question has to do with yours Ryan. While reading Gass I kept thinking about Garrett's essay on Suspense an Engagement. Garrett writes, "Suspense is not merely a matter of what happens next; it is also a series of tantalizing questions." I just kept asking myself, where is this going and ultimately, do I want to get to the end? What does Gass do then, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, to make one keep reading that I apparently missed?
Later, after I finished The Tower and The Net, Burroway also stresses that unless you make the reader wonder, they will not turn the page (page 27). So what happens with plot that is somewhat ambiguous at the beginning? I, as a reader, become frustrated but also risk missing out on a good story. And I agree Joseph, what we do and don't tell runs risks and I don't want to fall into the "boring" pile.
I have very similar feelings to those expressed in Paul’s first comment in regards to Sparks’s essay on trigger. I could understand how the essay might have been more useful by framing itself around overcoming writer’s block; however, I found it a tad unfocused. I felt that the definition of what a “trigger” was was a moving target, and for that reason it was difficult to make the essay, for me, holistically useful. I think my confusion ultimately stems from how the issues of generating a story, inaugurating the writing process, continuing the writing process, plotting, and facilitating the productivity of the imagination all seem tied to the notion of what Sparks suggests the trigger is. Then she produces anecdotes and quotes from other writers who don’t exactly engage the concept she uses as the throughline of her essay. I want to thank Jamie for clearing up some of my dubiousness of what Sparks means by “trigger.”
The parts I did find particularly useful dealt more with continuing a story rather than beginning it. So in that sense, I did walk away with some useful bits. The part about guided imagination was helpful. The advice about staying ignorant to real world details to enable your imagination was helpful as well. I guess the essay got me thinking about where does one start once one thinks one has a good story.
Pairing the Burroway reading with the Lethem story generated some interesting questions for me. For starters, it got me thinking about conflict and how power relationships are manifested and managed within Lethem’s piece. There seems to be a sort of blatant hero worship between the narrator and the Vision. This dynamic is often mystified and shifted through their interactions or through the narrators conjectures and ignorance about the Vision. It is then complicated by the Vision’s paramour.
So considering the notion, provided by Burroway, that “the pattern of the story’s complications will be achieved by a shifting of power” and that the “power struggle” is between “equal forces”, how does Lethem posit the narrator and the other characters? Who or what are the antagonists? Are they equal?
Thanks everyone for posting-- I'm enjoying reading these questions and comments, and looking forward to discussing them. A question I'm hoping we can discuss has to do with this idea of internal and external conflict, and how they work together in these four stories. One of the best bits of advice I ever got from a teacher was "A story's not a story until it's two stories." By this, of course, he meant the external story--the thing that gives the piece action, suspense--and the internal story--the narrative underneath, which gives emotional and intellectual resonance to the piece. What two (or three, or four) stories do you see in these four pieces, and how do they work together, help develop the other? It's something I find challenging in my own work, so I'm curious to hear how you all deal with it when you write.
"A frequently used critical tool divides possible conflicts into several basic categories: man against man, man against nature, man against society, man against machine, man against God, man against himself. Most stories fall into these categories…"
Does the Gass story fit one of these? Man against himself? Man against society? God?
The story concludes with a Christmas song (in a section titled "Business"), possibly "one of the jolly ones," maybe "Joy to the World." But maybe not; the narrator isn’t sure. Is this a resolution?
What you've stated above is exactly what my next question was going to get at.
I was totally floored by the complextity of ZZ Packer's BROWNIES. Her mastery of internal and external conflict really made the story rise to the surface for me and your professor's advice seems key.
The external conflict: the young girls trying to understand racism in the world around them with little life experience and the ensuing fight with Troop 909 that never happens.
The internal conflict: how the narrator feels helpless to forces in the world beyond her control.
This is so beautifully done and creates a wonderful "emotional resonance," as you say. How can we perfect this skill in our own writing? Is having "two stories" the only way which we can reach that depth? In other words, are most great stories really two?
"I know you; you are an electrical penis." (True Dat, William Glass) So does IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY have enough of an emotional undercurrent to carry or pull US/THE READER page by page to the end of the story? How important is the emotional undercurrent to the story? If removed would it even be a story? Is it a story or a letter to the editor gone wrong? I did puke my mouth a couple of times but that's neither here nor there.
In re: to Gass's story, I had no difficulty unearthing the main emotional subtexts of the piece--that is, poet/writer/artist mourning the impediments/ stagnation of old age and death, returning to a time and place that is home, but yet no longer a home. Poetically mourning, crucifying, vilifying, resurrecting, and, might I say, stunning in its lyricism, the descriptive prose is astute, acrimonious, loving and wise, both in clarity and perception, in its plundering depths and emotional veracity--BUT, is it a story, in the larger sense of plot; what is the PLOT, people? I found it difficult to locate one clear conflict, one linear thread (other than the repeating headers) that kept this 'story' tight and engaging to the reader. Is this a successful story, is it enough?-- a poetic sequence of journal entries strung together to form a melancholy rumination on life's bittersweet slings and arrows? It could very well be an Ashberry poem, to my liking. Is this satisfying enough for a fiction reader, for any reader?
I viewed the William Gass story as lyrical reportage. The dissected index lead me to read each 'topic' as character. Characters without a (clear) obstacle or problem to solve do not lend themselves to story. Likewise characters who sound the same risk collapsing into the same person. If the ephemeral suggestion of love is intended to link the 'characters', is it too enigmatic? The obscure lyricism coupled with the listing device sets up the narrative for emotional distancing. As others have wondered: Why turn the page? In other words, I don't think a reader will hang out with a story if they are mystified about what's really going on, especially if there's no real emotional stake with the characters. If a reader feels that they are not in on something crucial, they'll likely stray. Also, a character without emotional consequences to the obstacles they are trying to overcome will lack connection (or believability) with the reader.
Assuming that you might consider the possibility that the 'topics' are actually characters, how do you see this device working for the narrative? Can the characters stand alone, or do they interact with each other? If one conflict does not connect to the next, are we to assume that the overarching theme strings each together? If the conflicts are superficial, can a compelling narrative build on self-indulgence? And does the (listing) device promote emotionality or cause too much interruption to establish anything beyond distraction?
Although much of Gass' writing was, to my ear, somewhat cryptic, I admired his ability to write full scenes sometimes exclusively through imagery and internal story rather than using dialogue. Dialogue expressed through imagery is inevitably richer. Is it enough? Finally, as a sidenote: "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country" was reminiscent to me, in some intangible way, of Sherwood Anderson's portrayal of landscape and 'the grotesques' in Winesburg, Ohio. Did anyone else make a similar connection?
I want to make a comment rather than pose a question, namely that I was struck by F. Scott Fitzgerald's advise to young writers "to sell your heart." I felt that intensity in "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country" as well as in "The Vision." I noticed that in "The Vision" the concept flipped of the opaque quality of the 'masques' of the two main characters and the supposedly inner truths the narrator is trying to get at when he suggests his game at the end of the evening. His attempt at intimacy backfires and in the end it is the comic book 'figures' Roberta and Adam whose truths have been impenetrable that endure, when the rest of the company disintegrates in the face of too much exposure. The 'heart' of this story being literally the aching need for an intimacy that cannot be called up with a game, despite the narrator's best intentions. The elusive nature of what makes the click between individuals, loneliness that can't be punctured just because we want to.
The narrator sells his heart in "The Heart of the Heart of the Country" for me in the ways he refers to his lost love, "Thus was I, when i loved you, every man I could be, youth and child - far from enough - and you, so sragnely ambiguous as being, met me, heart for spade, play after play, the whole run of our suits." In this piece the narrator buries his "heart" in the middle of his description of the town he lives in Indiana. Like a heart, itself, the lines about his once-love are in the center of his paragraphs, at the heart of the paragraphs, buried internally in the piece its
I’ve enjoyed reading this discussion, especially your comments regarding “triggers” and rather if that essay was useful in any way (I, too, thought it was a bit unfocused). For me, that piece brought up non-craft related questions that we could surely speculate about for hours. It made me think about what exactly it is about writers and other artists that even allows us to be triggered, to be moved to see a story flutter to life just from overhearing a conversation, seeing something, etc. I heard Sandra Cisneros say that she essentially sees herself as being nothing more than a “transmitter.” Elizabeth Gilbert—though I’m not familiar with her work—had a thoughtful, eloquent, and fascinating take on creativity (well, to me); you can look up her presentation, “Elizabeth Gilbert: A new way to think about creativity” on YouTube.
Dramatist Claudia Johnson’s was quoted in the Story Form and Structure essay as saying, “…underlying any good story, fictitious or true—is a deeper pattern of change, a pattern of connection and disconnection. The conflict and the surface events are like waves, but underneath is an emotional tide, the ebb and flow of human connection….” This comment totally reminded me of ZZ Packer’s “Brownies,” particularly the piece's ending. Her story was the one that emotionally resonated the most with me. Here’s my question for the group: what story or stories emotionally resonated the most for you? Why? How do you think the author of that piece was able to orchestra that note, that resonance for you?
"Risa said... As someone fairly new to fiction writing, I am curious to know which camp other writers fall into: the John Irving "know the story -- as much of the story as you can possibly know..." postion,the E.L.Doctorow "driving at night" version, which involves only seeing the bit before you, or some variation on Faulkner's style which varies from piece to piece, without knowing exactly where the story will start or end."
I'm of the John Irving camp. Although I've tried to write stories both ways, I think my most successful stories are the ones where I know the story before I sit down to write it. Which isn't to say that the story won't change and evolve in revisions, etc. but it definitely helps if I know the story first. I've also tried to write the way Spark is more attuned with--seeing only a little ways in front of you--but it hasn't worked as well. Those stories, for me at least, tend not to have a clear arc. (Spark essay-Trusting the Unknown) I disagree with Spark that this the best way to approach writing fiction. I think it just depends on the particular writer's style and one isn't necessarily more effective than the other. On a side note, I find it difficult to believe that Lethem just started writing "The Vision" without some vision of the point(s) he intended to make with that story.
Concerning "the trigger," is this something that people really wonder about? I don't think I've ever read a story or a novel and thought, "Huh. How did she come up with THAT, I wonder." As in who cares? Nor would I ever really want to know, I don't think. Something is lost, some magic maybe, when you hear where a story came from, its impetus or inspiration. It's like reading a lot of Tobias Wolff's "fiction." You're bound to go, "Boy, I wonder if this guy teaches writing for a living and went to a prep school as a kid," and kind of roll your eyes and feel cheated. I do, at least. Anyway, it just seems like something a non-writer might wonder about. Someone who doesn't . . . someone who's never written anything before. There's material EVERYWHERE. The world is FULL of material. It's how we turn it into beautiful prose that's important, no?
ReplyDeleteI think the idea of the essay is not just what triggers a story idea, but what triggers a story idea that has legs. On p. 16 Spark says, "Triggers give rise to questions. They're triggers because they're incomplete, because they require elaboration." This is what I think is important to consider for a story: what questions does it raise? what questions does it consider? what answers does it posit? While I prefer reading something beautifully written, I would sacrifice beautiful prose for a compelling story pretty much every time. For examples I'll revert to Ms. McCabe's list of "classic lit": _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ is a compelling story, asking questions on almost every page, and so well written I could read it any day of the week (even multiple times in one day) and still find things to think about or apt descriptions. In contrast, what saves _Brave New World_ in my opinion, is the questions it asks. The story itself is deeply flawed. It's the ideas that are great. And then there's _Lolita_... it's asking so many questions of the reader, of our assumptions, AND it is a joy to watch Nabokov play with language. I'd read all three repeatedly. Will I read _The Devil Wears Prada_ or _The Da Vinci Code_ ever again? No. The first is well written for what it is, but really , the questions it posits aren't that deep. The second poses interesting questions, but isn't well-written.
ReplyDeleteI thought the point was to post questions on this blog? Paul, I'm almost there with you. I'm rarely interested in what starts a story and am more concerned with how an author turns material into beautiful prose. I think this essay is a like a diet book in that it will work for some people. Some of these people may even be pretty good writers. There is material everywhere. My old creative writing professor was fond of saying that each of us experiences more in a single day than we can ever write about. To examine a trigger is to examine what you were saying about Wolff and that delves more into biography than craft. A trigger only takes you so far and a great idea fails without a story to back it up. The questions, as Erin points out, are what matter, that impulse or drive that makes us want to keep turning the pages because we are interested in finding out the answers to the questions that a story proposes. And speaking of questions...I love the line on page 18 of The Trigger essay that goes, "The problem may actually be that a true story provides too much material; it doesn't leave enough out." So what is it that is left out of the Gass story that makes it so amazing. The place he is writing about certainly feels true, real and out of his experience, so how does he whittle it down to the neccesary story elements that propose questions and make us want to keep turning the pages?
ReplyDeleteI'm also wondering what keeps us turning the pages, especially after reading "The Tower and the Net," which basically tells us that unless we master plot, we will be failed writers merely focusing on our own personal visions. So what is plot exactly? The most basic definition states that plot is simply a series of events, events in a related sequence. Which is incredibly simple, and yet what must these events do to keep us reading? According to this article, the events must perpetuate the conflict between desire and danger and increase tension to the end (the story as war!). This almost seems too linear--I'm thinking plot has more possibilities, more complications. How else does plot function in a story? I'm trying to decide how desire and danger fit into Orozco's story, "Orientation," for example.
ReplyDeleteNot to bring in another text, but in "Aspects of the Novel," Forster makes a good distinction between story and plot. The linear progression of events, he states, is not plot but story. A plot must contain an element of causality, it's not the what but the why. A story involves only curiosity (what happens next?!), a plot involves memory and intelligence, he says, thus plot is a higher-level thing. The desire and danger in "Orientation" is in that repeated line, "you may be let go." I think "Orientation" comprises a bunch of mini-plots or mini-stories, we get Russell Nash's story, Barry Hacker's story, etc., and they all add up to this implied story of what day-to-day life will be like working in this office. It's a great voice-driven piece, and I wonder would it still work without those individual/personal anecdotes?
ReplyDeleteThe biggest question on my mind these past months has been how important IS story or plot to a novel (or, I suppose, a short story)? Can voice alone carry a text? In Gass's story, nothing actually happens, per se, though the protagonist does "want, and want intensely," as Burroway claims must happen. I'm tired (or at least wary) of the emphasis on events and happenings. Give me emotion and language. Or just give me language. Shoot.
First of all I would like to say that I absolutely loved Orozco's "Orientation." I found it a cleaver way to show the blending of the "realistic" world with the captivating specifics of fiction that make something so enjoyable to read. It's the specifics here, something that was mentioned by Burroway, that bring this story past the mundane and actually made me laugh out loud. My question for this posting was how do you feel about this author's choice to highlight these specifics? For me it added something to page, I found it interesting to read something that was so blatantly looking at what makes the typical interesting. How do you feel about this?
ReplyDeleteAlso, I wanted to ask a question about Burroway's essay specifically. He talks about the mistake of using obvious dangers in writing, commenting that the "profound impediments" can be found from something much closer to home. I was wondering what people thought of this. I personally have a hard time with such a harsh criticism in terms of literary freedom and what one person might like over another. In other words, maybe he isn't in to monsters and what not but someone else might be. I cannot help thinking about classics such as "Dracula" and "Frankenstein."
"The Mechanics of Sex" and "The Whole Messy Issue of Attraction"
ReplyDeleteSpark's discussion of "triggers," I think, is less about coming up with an event and more about how one writes something meaningful. To borrow her own metaphor, a trigger is less about the "mechanics of sex" and more about "the whole messy issue of attraction," meaning a trigger is less about "story" and more about "plot."
When Spark discusses her two friends who were having trouble turning "ideas" into "stories," she tells them to "forget about the story." Rather, Spark offers, one needs to imagine situations that make characters meaningful (or vice versa). Imagination, here, is distinct from "trigger;" imagination is what turns a trigger into a story.
What, then, is a trigger? In poetry we talk about "image complexes" and in light of prose I would say "schema." A trigger is the recognition of a schema, or a syntax, or a structural design. For example, I discussed with someone recently how DeLillo's impetus, his trigger, for White Noise seems to come from some sort of syntactical anomaly.
More than a recognition of a schema, however, a trigger has an intrinsically emotional or meaningful imperative. In this way, a trigger is a private response to something, it can be anything. The impetus of a trigger can either be evoked by an object or grounded in an object: to borrow Chekhov‘s example-object, the ashtray either evokes an emotional/intellectual response, or the existing impetus finds a reason to impose itself on the ashtray.
Imagination, then, works to form a story from the disjuncts in one's trigger.
A question about IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY:
ReplyDeleteThis was my least favorite reading, HOWEVER, I was really digging on how Gass inserts poetry, or at least rhyming, into his thick, heavy-handed prose.
Some of my favs:
"I'm led to think that only those who grow down live..., but I find I write that only those who live down grow; and what I write, I hold, whatever I really know."
"Many small Midwestern towns are nothing more than rural slums, and this community could easily become one."
How do people feel about using a device like this in (their) prose?
I was interested in the “value of specificity” mentioned in Conflict, Crisis, and Resolution – I think we can all agree that specific detail is a good and necessary thing, but do people think it is possible to go too far?
ReplyDeleteIn the Gass story, for instance, I had to force myself to read (rather than skim) many of the sections, particularly the Vital Data bits. It felt like each detail was specifically chosen and important, but the density of information made it difficult to focus.
Is one of the dangers of specificity then the possibility of overwhelming and alienating the reader? It seems a very fine line between just enough detail to intrigue, and so much that it bores.
(A side note: Firefox won't let me post comments, I had to use IE, if anyone else is having difficulty.)
I can't help thinking that the level of significance to the details in a story might be linked to, you might say, the scale of the story. We're told again and again that every word written is useful and significant, and in an extremely short piece like one of Amy Hempel's that's certainly accurate, but I can't believe that this is absolutely true -- at least not in the entirely literal way that it sounds. Language operates on a much broader and more colloquial scale in fiction, and it's often in the moments of unfamiliar construction or abstract thinking, or any sort of linguistic tic that can be described as an aspect of the story's tone, that you really start to pay attention and understand that something important is happening in the text.
ReplyDeleteIn other words, I'm thinking that 'specificity' isn't necessarily the recording of concrete physical details. In the Gass story, I don't feel as if I'm supposed to actually focus on each aspect of the town listed, its layout, what kind of cars people drive, the shape of the houses, the habits of the people, but rather the pattern of viewing things at this minute scale (and in that sense, I feel like I tune out on the actual details from time to time, though I'm less comfortable with that). Could we then say that 'specificity' also refers to the peculiar way in which a writer chooses to organise the language of their story, and not just the roster of what's being said?
As someone fairly new to fiction writing, I am curious to know which camp other writers fall into: the John Irving "know the story -- as much of the story as you can possibly know..." postion,the E.L.Doctorow "driving at night" version, which involves only seeing the bit before you, or some variation on Faulkner's style which varies from piece to piece, without knowing exactly where the story will start or end. Also,does anyone rely on Eliot's "dreamy doze" for inspiration?
ReplyDeleteSo, having now finished all the readings, I thought I would post an explicit question instead of just chiming in on the discussion...
ReplyDeleteI was struck when reading "Brownies" and "Orientation" at the use of (dark) humor in the stories. Which made me wonder: is the humor working a strategy to build tension or to release it?
And if we are meant to address/discuss others' questions here (as I think we are... we can't possibly get to it all in class, can we?), for what it's worth, I'd like address Risa's question by saying that I seem to know the beginning and the end and nothing of the middle when I write. So I guess I'm driving at night with a destination that I think I'm trying to get to.
I wondered what the sequence in the Gass story was supposed to add to any sort of building of conflict or plot for that matter. It is like most of the observations are kind of random and it seems like they really didn't build into anything..
ReplyDeleteIn response to your question Risa, I've almost never written a short story with more than a shadowy notion of where it'll end up. That being said, (although I've never attempted writing a novel until recently,) I took countless screenwriting workshops as an undergrad and we were required to prepare an outline of everything that happens in every scene of the story and workshop the outlines before we even started writing! I think for me, the the genesis of story comes from flushing out the triggers on paper and toiling with them. Personally, I would be lost and terrified to attempt writing anything longer than 20 pages without one.
ReplyDeleteSomething that struck me Sparks's essay was her discussion on the infiltration of media on young writers, describing it as an "obstacle." I have to say, a little piece of me died when I read that. I've always been inspired by movies and TV, etc, perhaps just as much (maybe even more) than I have by novels. It's always made sense to me to take a trigger, find the story, then hyperbolize it to the Nth degree-- (not to insinuate these are the only good stories, that's just what jives with me.) Does anyone have any thoughts on this?
By "one" at the bottom of my first paragraph there, I mean outline.
ReplyDeleteMy question has to do with yours Ryan. While reading Gass I kept thinking about Garrett's essay on Suspense an Engagement. Garrett writes, "Suspense is not merely a matter of what happens next; it is also a series of tantalizing questions." I just kept asking myself, where is this going and ultimately, do I want to get to the end? What does Gass do then, In the Heart of the Heart of the Country, to make one keep reading that I apparently missed?
ReplyDeleteLater, after I finished The Tower and The Net, Burroway also stresses that unless you make the reader wonder, they will not turn the page (page 27). So what happens with plot that is somewhat ambiguous at the beginning? I, as a reader, become frustrated but also risk missing out on a good story. And I agree Joseph, what we do and don't tell runs risks and I don't want to fall into the "boring" pile.
I have very similar feelings to those expressed in Paul’s first comment in regards to Sparks’s essay on trigger. I could understand how the essay might have been more useful by framing itself around overcoming writer’s block; however, I found it a tad unfocused. I felt that the definition of what a “trigger” was was a moving target, and for that reason it was difficult to make the essay, for me, holistically useful. I think my confusion ultimately stems from how the issues of generating a story, inaugurating the writing process, continuing the writing process, plotting, and facilitating the productivity of the imagination all seem tied to the notion of what Sparks suggests the trigger is. Then she produces anecdotes and quotes from other writers who don’t exactly engage the concept she uses as the throughline of her essay. I want to thank Jamie for clearing up some of my dubiousness of what Sparks means by “trigger.”
ReplyDeleteThe parts I did find particularly useful dealt more with continuing a story rather than beginning it. So in that sense, I did walk away with some useful bits. The part about guided imagination was helpful. The advice about staying ignorant to real world details to enable your imagination was helpful as well. I guess the essay got me thinking about where does one start once one thinks one has a good story.
Pairing the Burroway reading with the Lethem story generated some interesting questions for me. For starters, it got me thinking about conflict and how power relationships are manifested and managed within Lethem’s piece. There seems to be a sort of blatant hero worship between the narrator and the Vision. This dynamic is often mystified and shifted through their interactions or through the narrators conjectures and ignorance about the Vision. It is then complicated by the Vision’s paramour.
So considering the notion, provided by Burroway, that “the pattern of the story’s complications will be achieved by a shifting of power” and that the “power struggle” is between “equal forces”, how does Lethem posit the narrator and the other characters? Who or what are the antagonists? Are they equal?
Thanks everyone for posting-- I'm enjoying reading these questions and comments, and looking forward to discussing them. A question I'm hoping we can discuss has to do with this idea of internal and external conflict, and how they work together in these four stories. One of the best bits of advice I ever got from a teacher was "A story's not a story until it's two stories." By this, of course, he meant the external story--the thing that gives the piece action, suspense--and the internal story--the narrative underneath, which gives emotional and intellectual resonance to the piece. What two (or three, or four) stories do you see in these four pieces, and how do they work together, help develop the other? It's something I find challenging in my own work, so I'm curious to hear how you all deal with it when you write.
ReplyDeleteBurroway says:
ReplyDelete"A frequently used critical tool divides possible conflicts into several basic categories: man against man, man against nature, man against society, man against machine, man against God, man against himself. Most stories fall into these categories…"
Does the Gass story fit one of these? Man against himself? Man against society? God?
The story concludes with a Christmas song (in a section titled "Business"), possibly "one of the jolly ones," maybe "Joy to the World." But maybe not; the narrator isn’t sure. Is this a resolution?
Lysley!
ReplyDeleteWhat you've stated above is exactly what my next question was going to get at.
I was totally floored by the complextity of ZZ Packer's BROWNIES. Her mastery of internal and external conflict really made the story rise to the surface for me and your professor's advice seems key.
The external conflict: the young girls trying to understand racism in the world around them with little life experience and the ensuing fight with Troop 909 that never happens.
The internal conflict: how the narrator feels helpless to forces in the world beyond her control.
This is so beautifully done and creates a wonderful "emotional resonance," as you say. How can we perfect this skill in our own writing? Is having "two stories" the only way which we can reach that depth? In other words, are most great stories really two?
"I know you; you are an electrical penis." (True Dat, William Glass) So does IN THE HEART OF THE HEART OF THE COUNTRY have enough of an emotional undercurrent to carry or pull US/THE READER page by page to the end of the story? How important is the emotional undercurrent to the story? If removed would it even be a story? Is it a story or a letter to the editor gone wrong? I did puke my mouth a couple of times but that's neither here nor there.
ReplyDeleteI meant to say William Gass, ironically I was drinking from a Glass while typing.
ReplyDeleteIn re: to Gass's story, I had no difficulty unearthing the main emotional subtexts of the piece--that is, poet/writer/artist mourning the impediments/ stagnation of old age and death, returning to a time and place that is home, but yet no longer a home. Poetically mourning, crucifying, vilifying, resurrecting, and, might I say, stunning in its lyricism, the descriptive prose is astute, acrimonious, loving and wise, both in clarity and perception, in its plundering depths and emotional veracity--BUT, is it a story, in the larger sense of plot; what is the PLOT, people? I found it difficult to locate one clear conflict, one linear thread (other than the repeating headers) that kept this 'story' tight and engaging to the reader. Is this a successful story, is it enough?-- a poetic sequence of journal entries strung together to form a melancholy rumination on life's bittersweet slings and arrows? It could very well be an Ashberry poem, to my liking. Is this satisfying enough for a fiction reader, for any reader?
ReplyDeleteI viewed the William Gass story as lyrical reportage. The dissected index lead me to read each 'topic' as character. Characters without a (clear) obstacle or problem to solve do not lend themselves to story. Likewise characters who sound the same risk collapsing into the same person. If the ephemeral suggestion of love is intended to link the 'characters', is it too enigmatic? The obscure lyricism coupled with the listing device sets up the narrative for emotional distancing. As others have wondered: Why turn the page? In other words, I don't think a reader will hang out with a story if they are mystified about what's really going on, especially if there's no real emotional stake with the characters. If a reader feels that they are not in on something crucial, they'll likely stray. Also, a character without emotional consequences to the obstacles they are trying to overcome will lack connection (or believability) with the reader.
ReplyDeleteAssuming that you might consider the possibility that the 'topics' are actually characters, how do you see this device working for the narrative? Can the characters stand alone, or do they interact with each other? If one conflict does not connect to the next, are we to assume that the overarching theme strings each together? If the conflicts are superficial, can a compelling narrative build on self-indulgence? And does the (listing) device promote emotionality or cause too much interruption to establish anything beyond distraction?
Although much of Gass' writing was, to my ear, somewhat cryptic, I admired his ability to write full scenes sometimes exclusively through imagery and internal story rather than using dialogue. Dialogue expressed through imagery is inevitably richer. Is it enough? Finally, as a sidenote: "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country" was reminiscent to me, in some intangible way, of Sherwood Anderson's portrayal of landscape and 'the grotesques' in Winesburg, Ohio. Did anyone else make a similar connection?
I want to make a comment rather than pose a question, namely that I was struck by F. Scott Fitzgerald's advise to young writers "to sell your heart." I felt that intensity in "In the Heart of the Heart of the Country" as well as in "The Vision." I noticed that in "The Vision" the concept flipped of the opaque quality of the 'masques' of the two main characters and the supposedly inner truths the narrator is trying to get at when he suggests his game at the end of the evening. His attempt at intimacy backfires and in the end it is the comic book 'figures' Roberta and Adam whose truths have been impenetrable that endure, when the rest of the company disintegrates in the face of too much exposure. The 'heart' of this story being literally the aching need for an intimacy that cannot be called up with a game, despite the narrator's best intentions. The elusive nature of what makes the click between individuals, loneliness that can't be punctured just because we want to.
ReplyDeleteThe narrator sells his heart in "The Heart of the Heart of the Country" for me in the ways he refers to his lost love, "Thus was I, when i loved you, every man I could be, youth and child - far from enough - and you, so sragnely ambiguous as being, met me, heart for spade, play after play, the whole run of our suits." In this piece the narrator buries his "heart" in the middle of his description of the town he lives in Indiana. Like a heart, itself, the lines about his once-love are in the center of his paragraphs, at the heart of the paragraphs, buried internally in the piece its
I’ve enjoyed reading this discussion, especially your comments regarding “triggers” and rather if that essay was useful in any way (I, too, thought it was a bit unfocused). For me, that piece brought up non-craft related questions that we could surely speculate about for hours. It made me think about what exactly it is about writers and other artists that even allows us to be triggered, to be moved to see a story flutter to life just from overhearing a conversation, seeing something, etc. I heard Sandra Cisneros say that she essentially sees herself as being nothing more than a “transmitter.” Elizabeth Gilbert—though I’m not familiar with her work—had a thoughtful, eloquent, and fascinating take on creativity (well, to me); you can look up her presentation, “Elizabeth Gilbert: A new way to think about creativity” on YouTube.
ReplyDeleteDramatist Claudia Johnson’s was quoted in the Story Form and Structure essay as saying, “…underlying any good story, fictitious or true—is a deeper pattern of change, a pattern of connection and disconnection. The conflict and the surface events are like waves, but underneath is an emotional tide, the ebb and flow of human connection….” This comment totally reminded me of ZZ Packer’s “Brownies,” particularly the piece's ending. Her story was the one that emotionally resonated the most with me. Here’s my question for the group: what story or stories emotionally resonated the most for you? Why? How do you think the author of that piece was able to orchestra that note, that resonance for you?
In response to Risa's comment/question:
ReplyDelete"Risa said...
As someone fairly new to fiction writing, I am curious to know which camp other writers fall into: the John Irving "know the story -- as much of the story as you can possibly know..." postion,the E.L.Doctorow "driving at night" version, which involves only seeing the bit before you, or some variation on Faulkner's style which varies from piece to piece, without knowing exactly where the story will start or end."
I'm of the John Irving camp. Although I've tried to write stories both ways, I think my most successful stories are the ones where I know the story before I sit down to write it. Which isn't to say that the story won't change and evolve in revisions, etc. but it definitely helps if I know the story first. I've also tried to write the way Spark is more attuned with--seeing only a little ways in front of you--but it hasn't worked as well. Those stories, for me at least, tend not to have a clear arc. (Spark essay-Trusting the Unknown) I disagree with Spark that this the best way to approach writing fiction. I think it just depends on the particular writer's style and one isn't necessarily more effective than the other. On a side note, I find it difficult to believe that Lethem just started writing "The Vision" without some vision of the point(s) he intended to make with that story.