When Russo says on p. 71 that usually the first thing he describes about a book he likes is where it takes place, I thought, Oh no, he's going recommend page-long setting descriptions! So I was relieved by Russo's later statement that "the importance and vividness of place is independent of the amount of description given" (78) and that details should be "woven...skillfully into the stories' drama" (76). Likewise, I was intrigued by his idea that "the more specific and individual things become, the more universal they feel" (72). While he gives some examples from Cheever of how to make things specific and universal, and also how Cheever shows "that place and its people are intertwined" (72), I'm wondering how many stories really do these things. I think "Brokeback Mountain" and "Brownies" are both specific and individual yet universal, but I also think maybe "Why Antichrist" is too and yet it had so much less of a sense of place in it (I mean, I know it's set somewhere near NYC, but that's about it). And then I think about "Love and Hydrogen" which had a lot of specific details about place, and yet the place didn't feel as intertwined to me as in BB Mtn. or Brownies. So how does that work? Is this part of the idea Russo mentions about giving insider details instead of touristy ones? But in "Love and Hydrogen" we're given insider details about blimp repair and it still felt touristy to me. Is that because everyone, essentially, is a tourist on the blimp (which would then speak more to theme than to place)?
I'd like to bring up/back something that Skye mentioned in last week's blogocolumn, about the necessity of physical descriptions of character. LaPlante claims "it is rare . . . to create compelling characterization without some degree of narrative description of this type." Like Skye, I'm frustrated by this seemingly universal belief, because I'm not sure what physical description really says about a person. There's no choice involved, no motive. It's arbitrary. If you describe a character as "tall," what, is that because later on in the story he/she and a bunch of other, less-tall characters are running from a hobgoblin at top speed and they have to duck through a short, Being John Malkovich–esque doorway and our tall character has trouble and smacks his/her head and they all have to turn back for him/her and the reader goes, "Of COURSE! Because he/she's TALLER! I remember that from page 71!" Isht don't think so. Yet whenever I'm introducing a character I feel like I'm required to give the reader some indication of what he/she looks like, even though it doesn't hardly matter.
What's super common, I think (I mean, I certainly do this), is to just short-cut the whole thing and describe whether or not a character, especially a woman, is attractive or not. Attractive people, the writer assumes the reader will assume, get things more easily, they can get people to do things for them, etc. etc., and so you'll often see this vague like "She was a nice-looking woman, not unattractive, but still somewhat plain in the way that blah blah blah." Which sort of thing really short-changes a character, implies that all he/she is is how good-looking he/she is. Ugh, what a horrible sentence that was.
So/but/and while I suppose relative attractiveness does have some bearing on what might happen in the story, how this character might be received/treated/etc., what difference does it make whether a character has blond or brown hair? (If it's dyed aqua-blue, now, that implies a choice, and reveals character.) What diff. does it make whether she's got brown or blue or hazel eyes? Is tall, medium-height, or short? What difference does it make if he's got big ears? None, none, probably none, and none.
Now, if a character's got a Tag Heuer on his wrist versus an ink-stained rubber band from his morning copy of the OC Register, that obviously says a lot about a character. But are there freckles on that wrist? Is the wrist kind of fat? Is it toothpick-frail? Who cares.
I was intrigued by Russo’s description of being unable to write “about” a place while still there—I have found this to be the case in my own experience as well, and wonder how prevalent this sort of thing is for other people? It seems like plenty of people write stuff that takes place wherever they happen to be at the time, but everything I’ve done that was like that was either crap or so genericized it could have taken place anywhere. The way Russo describes it seems to be bound up with a certain amount of nostalgia, not necessarily just for childhood or where you grow up, but primarily nostalgia for a sense of connectedness with a place. Do people find themselves consciously (or unconsciously even) setting stories in places they are familiar with, or incorporating elements of familiar places into the setting?
As for the tourist/insider details bit, particularly in Love and Hydrogen, I do think part of the “problem” is that everyone is indeed a tourist in a zeppelin, including the author of the story. It’s not really possible anymore to have the sorts of insider details that Russo describes (the salt-shaker sweating and so forth) rather than the touristy details like the silverware and such. I must admit that I found myself much more interested in these touristy details than the character-driven parts of the story, simply because of their exoticism. If Shepard had shown off less of his research, I might have been better able to focus on the characters, but I kept wanting him to talk more about how a zeppelin worked.
I was just thinking, reading these posts, about the sense of connectedness that Joseph mentioned, and then Paul's denunciation of undramatic or purely descriptive detail (which I tend to agree with and which I am now going to misuse for my own purposes). In terms of location, I feel like undramatic description is not only justified, but also wholly necessary when it serves to connect the reader to a scene or character or location--meaning regardless of if the detail is "telling" of character or setting, certainly Russo argues that the connectedness that the reader feels for an "empty" detail, it seems, can be really necessary for the dramatic stuff to be effective. I don't know what other's think of that. It seems to me there is something to be said, to an extent, for specificity that predominantly functions to set a story in a "real" location.
I will take Erin's example of Love and Hydrogen feeling "touristy." I agree that Love and Hydrogen feels like a story where the reader lacks connectedness to the local: I at least feel aloof or disconnected as a reader to the zepplin because 1) my unfamiliarity, "what in the world is a zepplin" (I've heard stories of this famous zepplin, and I think there is one in The Golden Compass books) and 2) the story does very little to put the reader inside the location (we're only told how the zepplin works so that when it crashes we aren't wondering why). I feel like the reader (and I think here it has to do with the 3rd person POV) is observing the story from a definite vantage point. And this gets to the question (a difficult one I think) of why this story is set on an object aloof from a specific historical local: all it has is time and space.
This also made me think of something I've been wondering about lately, the issue of "failure" in a story.
Brokeback, for me, in a traditional sense fails in no area (tone, theme, literariness, its ability to be effectively didactic and emotive, and inextricably so). Brokeback produces failure in every possible way short of allowing itself as a story to fail. L&H and Antichrist, on the other hand, seem to "fail" in really interesting ways. Both stories, moreover, put themselves into the framework of a national/historical tragedy. In these stories, the personal tragedy is reflected by, and facilitates, the national/historical tragedy.
One the one hand, this is super effective: the parataxis of the personal event with the public one not only intensifies and adds complexity but also brings the personal tragedy of its characters into national/historical context. On the other hand, we as readers are left with difficult disjunctions and inconsistencies. In Antichrist, we are left with the false claim that the protagonist is the Antichrist. That disjunction (false claim of reality), however, renders (as a simile) a complex turn of emotion and self-autonomy in the protagonist. Antichrist, the more disjunctive and complex story, enacts the acceptance of the protagonist that he is gay, a positive thing in the story, amidst a plurality of contextual tragedy.
In L&H (aside from short interruptive frames) the story has to remove itself from cultural/historical local to an inaccessible (the zepplin is so mechanical) location to come into being. Ultimately, the personal/social tension is so strained that the literary vehicle, the zepplin, explodes. We are still left with the "touristy" disconnect though because the story does loft itself into a sort of temporal suspension whereas in Brokeback, by comparison, we are located in Montana, and the mountain is removed but still offers reader-connectedness, I think through expressed emotion, nostalgia, and nature.
Burroway says, "An author no less than a reader or citic can see an emerging pattern [of theme], and has both the possibility and the obligation of manipulating it."
I wonder how many of you make a conscious effort to "worry a fiction" until it's theme reveals itself? Is it a draft thing? Who outlines? Who free writes? Are you ever happily surprised that something great "just happened to come out that way" in your story?
Russo says, "...I've never written effectively about any place I was currently residing. I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time..."
This statement is scary to me. My next story will be about the place where I currently live. Will it be junk?! Do others feel the same as Russo? What has been your experience, if any, when writing about the place where you currently live?
I'm not sure how everyone else feels about this, but I was so relieved to see Burroway address something bigger, something tangible and of some consequence in her essay on theme. Especially resonant with me was this statement, "Fiction does not have to tell the truth, but a truth."
I literally had a 'lightbulb" moment go off in my head upon reading these words, and not necessarially because I've never heard this sentiment uttered before, but because it is so freeing, so valid, and encapsulates so much of what we try to do every day, be it through prose, poetry, art, music, whatever it may be, this is the one singular drive propelling all creative endeavors. I wholeheartedly agree that a "story speculates on a possible truth...it is not an answer, but a supposition, an exploration, [and] offers no ultimate solution." And doesn't need to make any false claims. For all our back-and-forth chit-chat on arcs and resolutions, epiphanies, it's nice to remember that a storyteller's job isn't to play God, to solve the world's conundrums, the existential crises and dilemmas of our characters, but simply to re-create the "experience of revelation." And the particular experience needn't be of great import, and neither, for that matter, does the revelation need to reveal THE mystery of life, it simply needs to offer a glimpse; or as Ezra Pound once said, "Fundamental accuracy of statement is the ONE sole morality of writing."
There's really not much else we SHOULD or MUST do, no great imperatives or rules to abide by, no vast landscapes to expound upon, no tenses or points of view that are ever 'wrong' (though I'm sure Paul would offer an opposing rant on this, what of it, each to his own, opinions are a dime a dozen). I would disagree that telling vs showing is ever 'wrong' if it WORKS for you, so would all the great oral storytellers in history.
Leave your jacket at the door, slip your shoes off, get comfy in your chair, and let the spirit move you. It may sound cheesy and trite, but there's no one else to hold our hand when it matters most. Call me a nihilist, but gut and intuition have to count for something in life, especially when we finally sit down to write. It's not the audience that dictates, but our own personal truths that matter most: how we see things, and how we see those things differently from everyone else, that's it in a nutshell--the mystery behind the characters and stories we help shape and create, and ultimately give rise to, share with the rest of the world. Everything else only helps to sharpen that particular truth--landscape, physical descriptions, point of view, thematic symbols--all of these aspects just bring us that much closer to seeing our vision, making our story crystal sharp to us. For me, these are not moral imperatives, or rules, but tools at our disposal. Someone could tell (show) you how to hold your fork properly, but that doesn't mean you'll eat in the same exact way anyone else does. Nor should you.
A little more on place. I guess I'm not as geographically oriented as Russo. I just read (and loved) The Dwarf by Par Lagerkvist, which is set in Renaissance Italy and maintains a fairytale-like and vague feel for the location, while focusing on the deep misanthropy of the title character.
It's not as if Russo was saying fiction shouldn't do this (he often seemed to be asserting one thing and then undoing what he'd asserted), but he did seem to be saying that some sort of geographical groundedness is very important.
Maybe that's what he was saying. Maybe not. Or was he just saying that a reader/editor somehow knows if the writer actually pictures the place in which he or she is putting characters?
I too have trouble writing about the place where I currently reside. But this doesn't seem to be the case for a lot of people.
As Mindora quoted and as Burroway said, the goal of a story is to create the "experience of revelation." So then is Burroway saying all stories must be epiphanic? Is an epiphany the same thing as "the experience of revelation"?
I'm with Paul and Skye. Screw character descriptions! But then, I notice people keep wanting them when they read stuff I've written. Perhaps rather than giving a paragraph of character description we ought to do for characters what Russo argues for setting, and include those non-touristy details skillfully woven into the drama.... no need to tell you about the character's hair, for instance, until the moment she cuts it all off. But then would things like height, hair/eye/skin color, weight, etc. be "touristy" details about character, things even a tourist could notice?
Thanks to everyone for posting, and getting this conversation started.
In terms of descriptions of character and place, my tendency is to favor those descriptive moments anchored by action—if we find out a character’s hair is in a ponytail, for example, it’s because the wind has whipped her ponytail around her face, obscuring her vision as she cycles down the road. A small gesture, but one that conveys movement, and possible tension, however momentary. I also tend to cringe a little bit whenever I see characters introduced by their physical descriptions—Jhumpa Lahiri does this a lot, and after a while, it feels as though her characters are first paraded down a runway, with their physical attributes, hobbies, and hopes read aloud by whomever is hosting the beauty pageant.
That said, if we’re at all thinking about our own tendencies as human beings, and trying to re-create a human experience for the reader on the page, then these descriptions make sense—that’s how many, if not most, people first respond to the world: by what they see, hear, smell, touch. If there’s value in this, how do you, as writers, determine when it’s most effective to devote space on the page solely to description, before proceeding into action and scene?
As for theme: I’m hoping we’ll discuss Burroway’s thoughts on the issue, as well as her demonstration of how elements of craft contribute to theme. I’d like to apply this to the Shepard and Haskell stories. But more than that, I want to know how all of you consider theme when you write, as you revise. To sort of quote Burroway, What are you saying about what you are saying and how you are saying it? I’ve met writers who hate talking about theme. I’ve also met writers who think it can be an almost guiding force as they finalize their drafts. Curious to know where you all stand on this.
This is just MY OPINION, ya'll, so don't freak out and call me Mr. Obstinate, but I really agree with Gardner, quoted in Burroway, who says "Theme . . . is not imposed on the story but evoked from within it." Stephen King says basically the same thing in "On Writing." I've never set out to write something with a theme in mind, but I usually find that after a first draft, or even after several pages into the first draft of a story, I notice certain things popping up again and again and I go, "OK. OK. There's the theme," and I play it up in the subsequent drafts. Part of me thinks this is sort of amateur, though, like, if I were a REAL writer I'd start with a theme in mind rather than just chancing it. Shouldn't we have a little more control over what we write? I feel like Haskell is a writer who definitely starts with a theme in mind. Then again, his characters tend to be . . . like they always seem to be more idea-vehicles than real people, like they're there to serve that theme more than evoke any sort of real emotion in the reader. So maybe that's what happens when you start with theme? Your characters flatten out?
As I was reading "Love and Hydrogen" I kept wondering how knowing about the Hindenburg disaster was impacting my reading. I almost expected Shepard to play it out differently, but he stuck to the historical facts. On one hand, writing within historical events already gives you a common ground of sorts with the reader, but what about the lack of tension (since we know the outcome)? After reading "Love and Hydrogen" I started to think more about this in regard to writing historical fiction. Does writing historical fiction automatically zap some of the tension out of the story? So, if we know what happens to the Hindenburg where is the tension in "Love and Hydrogen"? Just in the relationship between Meinert and Gnuss? Whether or not they will get found out? Could one say that historical fiction must be more character driven since we know the outcome of the plot (in most circumstances)? For example, when I read Erin's novel "There Will I Be Buried", I'm not reading to find out who won the war, I'm reading to find out what happens to Rosetta...
Like Skye, I kept thinking about the Hindenburg disaster but as the story began to unfold, I became more invested in it's characters. As I read the story after the handouts, I was struck by the idea of setting in the Russo piece. At first I kept thinking, well, there is no clear setting in the traditional sense. It's not a house, or a town, or a big city, we're literally on a moving setting of an airship. Yet, I still felt it gave a sense of who these men were and what they're going through, in a sense revealing aspects of character.
We have two closeted homosexual males aboard an airship most readers know is doomed. There is that existing tension, especially when the narrator describe the cables, the narrow footpaths, hidden places to make discrete love. These men exist, survive really, in a precarious location and behave so accordingly. But like "this machine that conquers two oceans at once" (24) Gnuss and Meinert are brave and "giddy with the danger and improbability of it all." From the outside the zeppelin is this amazing work of engineering, not betraying the complications that occur inside of it, and like these two who work it, "their ardor is channeled so smoothly into underground streams that even their siblings...would be satisfied with their rectitude." (16).
So for me, all those little details are not distancing but rather revealing. I am really curious now, with my own work, the possibility of this kind of moving setting and how to make it successful, without having a reader feel, like some of the class, that those details felt "touristy."
On the point of character: I agree with Lesley's preference of "favoring those descriptions anchored in action." If the author leans toward the physical descriptors to impart personality, culture, opinion, class, preferences (such as religion, for example), the character reads on the page like a chariacture (sp?) instead of a character in a situation (setting).
And about setting: I, too, was thinking about Russo asserting that he's "never written about a place effectively while he was residing there." It seems he explains why later in the chapter, when he discusses matters of emotional connectivity to a place. Even in "regional" writing, it's not the physical truth of a setting that conveys the shadow or scar of a character, it's often the emotional landscape that's telling. I think that's why we write about the places we do--to find the truth of it's hold on us, why it's important, why it might look different but never change--those kind of questions. It's an observation and association of the senses that makes a setting come alive. For example, the story isn't about the tree. It's about what the tree smells like, and how that smell reminds us of x or y. It's about how the tree moves from wind and what the weather reminds us has happened or is possible. I could go on, taste, audio, touch, etc. (Taste would be a stretch, but you get my point.) On this vein, the argument from I GOTTA USE WORDS WHEN I TALK TO YOU is well-taken: Think what I think; Don't think 'about' what I think. This action-motivated stance is about authorial control. It takes out an unnecessary degree of separation to be direct, instead of dancing around it. After all, the reader already (should) know who the narrator is, and is discovering the narrator's opinions, thereby free to their own judgements.
I'm curious what other's thought of two things: First, the "cultural shorthand" of the Burger Kings in literature, and secondly the "label" of regional writing." I disagree on his first point/preference for "places that require and reward lots of description." It depends wholly on the writing: If the writing is good, the setting could be anywhere, if it's bad, then it will rely on a place such as Starbucks to convey specific brand of emotion, reading like a prescription for how to interpret a scene (again, here's the "thinking about" and in place of "thinking." Good writers don't "write about", they "write.")...I digress. What do other people think (about, ha!) this?
Secondly, regional writing. Naturally, I could relate, and I think it's true that we write about the places we feel emotionally beholden--whether or not we want to. I, too, have resisted writing with indian reservations--specifically, Lummi--and have written around the themes that emerge by reinventing myself as Russo did. I've been away from the rez as long as I have lived there, and yet, despite having lived in Eugene, OR, Manhattan&Brooklyn, Vail&Crested Butte, CO,Iowa City and San Francisco, I write about that small depressing place that activates something for me. I've written stories about other places (namely NYC), but they don't sound authentic, and I'm sure they read like a circus of chariactures and cliches to people who KNOW these places in a way I never will. Similarly, to Candace, I don't think your work is doomed simply because you're writing about exactly where you're living. I think as long as we all have a sort of 'authenticity check' for how the setting works (and this is best detected, in my opinion, by someone regional) anything can work. I can't tell you how many stories about indian reservations I've read that are complete bullshit. Turns out, the author was raised and/or living somewhere completely different, possibly cross-cultural, even. I'm not saying these stories shouldn't be told, I'm saying their tenor must be razor-sharp to have the authenticity that makes a story completely organic and credible. Also, what we gravitate toward makes our stories unique. Two people could live in Mohawk, NY, for example, yet Russo chooses to write about the characters of Mohawk, which, by definition are not special through exteriority, but which ultimately shine because the author knows these characters on a level that someone who did not understand the unique problems or challenges of a town like this could explore in a real way. Similarly, I don't think two people from the same area necessarily gravitate to the same thing. If I grew up in Mohawk, for example, who knows, I'd be just as likely to focus and build a story about the Mohawk nation (Rez), or the six nations of confederacy.
I am totally curious now, to know how many people have written or are writing stories more or less with at setting of in or near where they grew up, or where they spent the most amount of time in their formative years..?
"If there’s value in this, how do you, as writers, determine when it’s most effective to devote space on the page solely to description, before proceeding into action and scene?"
To answer your question, Lysley, character description for me becomes secondary, tangential, almost, never foremost on the page when I write a scene involving people. I feel gestures, dialogue, and the nuances of action hint at the physicality of characters, and all these things seamlessly incorporated throughout can do a better job at character portrayal than lazily skimmed descriptions that oft read like obligatory throwaways.
I have a hard time entering a scene from the outside in--that is, depicting sheer physicality--as opposed to entering from within a character's mindset already, inhabiting the character's vision, seeing the world through their eyes. For me, it is difficult to have a character 'see themselves,' and so, they have to be seen from another person's perspective, which becomes tricky, and also rather telling.
But if appearances are, in fact, the first thing we take in, why do we sometimes refuse to note even an inkling of the physical embodiment on the page? Is it simply a matter of what point of view we inhabit? Does third person or omniscient lend itself better to this type of description? Does it depend on the story itself, on its intent, whether it's mostly character driven or an idea driven piece?
I don't think physical descriptions create characterization, they simply serve as a stepping stone to what lies underneath--the vast internal landscape. For me the outer body, and its trappings, unless hideously deformed or outlandishly special in some way (therefore THIS trait becomes one of the story's main concerns: a hunchback, a clown, a midget, a well-endowed midget) is rather an uninteresting way to introduce or depict character. I can think of other ways, Scott Bradfields's "History of Luminous Motion" for instance:
"Mom was a world of her own, filled with secret thoughts and motions nobody else could see. Mom was always now...that movement that never ceased. Mom possessed a certain geographical weight and mass; her motion was place itself, a voice, a state of repose. And together we were more than a family, we were a quality of landscape."
The writer makes no mention of what Mom actually looks like, never does throughout the rest of the novel, and as a reader I find I really don't care, I'm already engaged in other ways, begin to "see" Mom in far deeper ways.
I'll be curious to hear the discussion on theme (I have the same question about it as Candace; I'm curious to hear how we consciously, or perhaps unconsciously create theme in our work: until we've written enough that we see, a-ha, there it is, or if we consciously sculpt it from the get-go) & character. I'm also simply curious to know how many in the class liked Haskell's "Good World." After I read it, I imagined it might be a divisive story amongst writers especially, one of those stories you either really dig or don't, little to no middle ground. I think--or so goes my theory-- that stories that are explicitly driven by philosophical musings (in Haskell's story: habit) are ones that will affect readers in this way.
Ooh, I'm totally curious about Jaynel's question, too! I found that aspect of Russo's essay intriguing to think about. It made a lot of sense when he said he needed the physical and time distance from a place in order for the place to come alive in the malleable, creative sense (or at least, that's how I interpreted when he said on pg. 77, "I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time for my imagination to kick in, to begin the process of necessary tempering of knowledge.")
I agree with you Lysley when it comes to character description, however, I seen these "pageant type" lists very useful in other works for the specific purpose they seem to play in the way the story is being told, however the example I am thinking about is used in film. I was intrigued by the way in which characters are presented to us in the French film, Amelie, in which the screen is frozen while we are given what seem like random tidbits about their lives. This worked for me because it kept up the pace of the story, moving you through the whirlwind that way Amelie's life. While this was film, i believe that if used properly it might be able to function in a similar manner in literature. On the other hand, when random facts are just stuck into a piece as filler it feels clunky to me, weighing down a piece with useless information. A question came p for me in the Laplante essay. Like most of us, I am still struggling to make my characters as believable as possible, while still trying to create a sense of individuality. I was really intreaged by the idea that creating someone as specific as possible makes them that much more real, but the kicker is that all the piece must fit together in order for this to work, otherwise the character falls flat. Something that came up in this regard is having a character act differently around different people. While food for thought, i wondered if a reader might look at this as inconsistency in character. I am aware that it seems as if an excellent writer is capable of pulling anything off, but for us lesser beings, i am wondering how to use this advice to our advantage? My other question/comment come stems from Burroway's essay. There seems to be a whole lot of discussion going on about how important it is to think about theme and how to execute it throughout a piece of fiction. While i do agree this is important, i am also very interested in subconscious and what comes out of it that the writer might have not even be aware of. She talks about the cheeky modern writers saying that they don't know what the piece is about and that this is a lie. I agree to an extent, i am sure that they had something in mind when sitting down to write, but perhaps what might be just as interesting is what truths can come from someone who is trying to write character's as the struggle in a world in a way that those reading can relate to. In the fairy tale class I took over Jan term, we talked about stories that were being told in lands that at the time would have had no way of learning of the other's version, and that this story was so primal in its basic ideology that it was able to transcend cultures and eras. This is what has made these stories last as long as they did. Was the storyteller aware that he was telling a piece that was so all-encompassing? I really don't think so, i believe that they just told a story from the heart and that from that others from all walks felt a connection to such a truth. I am sorry for going off on such a tangent, but the gest of what i am getting at is that what a reader may get out of a piece or find a connection through might not be what the author had set out with in mind in the first place. If this is the case, then can't this subconscious theme be just as important as the one that was infused into the story meaningfully by the author?
I was struck by LaPlante's mention of Hemingway's iceburg theory: "Only 10 percent of what the author knows about the character actually appears in the story -- but if he or she doesn't know the other 90 percent, then that will be apparent to the reader..." Does this "getting to know you" occur as you write? Or are characters springing fully formed from your brain??
And the other thing that stood out for me in this article is Forster's contention that "if a character never surprises us, then he or she is flat; if characters surprise but do not convince us, they are only flat pretending to be round." How can an author know if his or her characters surprise but do not convince? Would this not depend on the eyes of the beholder? Is flat always to be avoided? Is round always possible or necessary?
And finally, Burroway makes my day by saying: "This process -- worrying a fiction until its theme reveals itself, connections occur, images recur, a pattern emerges -- is more conscious than readers know, beginning writers want to accept, or established writers are willing to admit." I wonder if this is the case and whether we can challenge some established authors to a cage match sometime.
Russo says, "...I've never written effectively about any place I was currently residing. I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time..."
This statement is scary to me. My next story will be about the place where I currently live. Will it be junk?! Do others feel the same as Russo? What has been your experience, if any, when writing about the place where you currently live?"
You know Candace, when I read that I did my best to take that advice. I know as Non-Fiction writers we write from what we know. I did find that he had a point, though, from a Fiction standpoint. For me, I find it tough to write something I have NO knowledge of. However, I tried to apply what he said to my work and it helped me A LOT. Not only is the pressure to make things specifically correct alleviated but I took his advice to make mistakes but be free to write fluidly. Like he said, even if you make mistakes, you can always correct that later. I think the whole point is to encourage the creativity in your writing.
"As E.M. Forster says, if a character never surprises us, then he or she is flat; if characters surprise but do not convince us, they are only flat pretending to be round." This made me wonder about characters who we've encountered who have truly surprised us- who comes to mind? and others who have not. (?)
Holy Cow! I beat Paul to the punch!
ReplyDeleteWhen Russo says on p. 71 that usually the first thing he describes about a book he likes is where it takes place, I thought, Oh no, he's going recommend page-long setting descriptions! So I was relieved by Russo's later statement that "the importance and vividness of place is independent of the amount of description given" (78) and that details should be "woven...skillfully into the stories' drama" (76). Likewise, I was intrigued by his idea that "the more specific and individual things become, the more universal they feel" (72). While he gives some examples from Cheever of how to make things specific and universal, and also how Cheever shows "that place and its people are intertwined" (72), I'm wondering how many stories really do these things. I think "Brokeback Mountain" and "Brownies" are both specific and individual yet universal, but I also think maybe "Why Antichrist" is too and yet it had so much less of a sense of place in it (I mean, I know it's set somewhere near NYC, but that's about it). And then I think about "Love and Hydrogen" which had a lot of specific details about place, and yet the place didn't feel as intertwined to me as in BB Mtn. or Brownies. So how does that work? Is this part of the idea Russo mentions about giving insider details instead of touristy ones? But in "Love and Hydrogen" we're given insider details about blimp repair and it still felt touristy to me. Is that because everyone, essentially, is a tourist on the blimp (which would then speak more to theme than to place)?
I'd like to bring up/back something that Skye mentioned in last week's blogocolumn, about the necessity of physical descriptions of character. LaPlante claims "it is rare . . . to create compelling characterization without some degree of narrative description of this type." Like Skye, I'm frustrated by this seemingly universal belief, because I'm not sure what physical description really says about a person. There's no choice involved, no motive. It's arbitrary. If you describe a character as "tall," what, is that because later on in the story he/she and a bunch of other, less-tall characters are running from a hobgoblin at top speed and they have to duck through a short, Being John Malkovich–esque doorway and our tall character has trouble and smacks his/her head and they all have to turn back for him/her and the reader goes, "Of COURSE! Because he/she's TALLER! I remember that from page 71!" Isht don't think so. Yet whenever I'm introducing a character I feel like I'm required to give the reader some indication of what he/she looks like, even though it doesn't hardly matter.
ReplyDeleteWhat's super common, I think (I mean, I certainly do this), is to just short-cut the whole thing and describe whether or not a character, especially a woman, is attractive or not. Attractive people, the writer assumes the reader will assume, get things more easily, they can get people to do things for them, etc. etc., and so you'll often see this vague like "She was a nice-looking woman, not unattractive, but still somewhat plain in the way that blah blah blah." Which sort of thing really short-changes a character, implies that all he/she is is how good-looking he/she is. Ugh, what a horrible sentence that was.
So/but/and while I suppose relative attractiveness does have some bearing on what might happen in the story, how this character might be received/treated/etc., what difference does it make whether a character has blond or brown hair? (If it's dyed aqua-blue, now, that implies a choice, and reveals character.) What diff. does it make whether she's got brown or blue or hazel eyes? Is tall, medium-height, or short? What difference does it make if he's got big ears? None, none, probably none, and none.
Now, if a character's got a Tag Heuer on his wrist versus an ink-stained rubber band from his morning copy of the OC Register, that obviously says a lot about a character. But are there freckles on that wrist? Is the wrist kind of fat? Is it toothpick-frail? Who cares.
I was intrigued by Russo’s description of being unable to write “about” a place while still there—I have found this to be the case in my own experience as well, and wonder how prevalent this sort of thing is for other people? It seems like plenty of people write stuff that takes place wherever they happen to be at the time, but everything I’ve done that was like that was either crap or so genericized it could have taken place anywhere. The way Russo describes it seems to be bound up with a certain amount of nostalgia, not necessarily just for childhood or where you grow up, but primarily nostalgia for a sense of connectedness with a place. Do people find themselves consciously (or unconsciously even) setting stories in places they are familiar with, or incorporating elements of familiar places into the setting?
ReplyDeleteAs for the tourist/insider details bit, particularly in Love and Hydrogen, I do think part of the “problem” is that everyone is indeed a tourist in a zeppelin, including the author of the story. It’s not really possible anymore to have the sorts of insider details that Russo describes (the salt-shaker sweating and so forth) rather than the touristy details like the silverware and such. I must admit that I found myself much more interested in these touristy details than the character-driven parts of the story, simply because of their exoticism. If Shepard had shown off less of his research, I might have been better able to focus on the characters, but I kept wanting him to talk more about how a zeppelin worked.
I was just thinking, reading these posts, about the sense of connectedness that Joseph mentioned, and then Paul's denunciation of undramatic or purely descriptive detail (which I tend to agree with and which I am now going to misuse for my own purposes). In terms of location, I feel like undramatic description is not only justified, but also wholly necessary when it serves to connect the reader to a scene or character or location--meaning regardless of if the detail is "telling" of character or setting, certainly Russo argues that the connectedness that the reader feels for an "empty" detail, it seems, can be really necessary for the dramatic stuff to be effective. I don't know what other's think of that. It seems to me there is something to be said, to an extent, for specificity that predominantly functions to set a story in a "real" location.
ReplyDeleteI will take Erin's example of Love and Hydrogen feeling "touristy." I agree that Love and Hydrogen feels like a story where the reader lacks connectedness to the local: I at least feel aloof or disconnected as a reader to the zepplin because 1) my unfamiliarity, "what in the world is a zepplin" (I've heard stories of this famous zepplin, and I think there is one in The Golden Compass books) and 2) the story does very little to put the reader inside the location (we're only told how the zepplin works so that when it crashes we aren't wondering why). I feel like the reader (and I think here it has to do with the 3rd person POV) is observing the story from a definite vantage point. And this gets to the question (a difficult one I think) of why this story is set on an object aloof from a specific historical local: all it has is time and space.
This also made me think of something I've been wondering about lately, the issue of "failure" in a story.
ReplyDeleteBrokeback, for me, in a traditional sense fails in no area (tone, theme, literariness, its ability to be effectively didactic and emotive, and inextricably so). Brokeback produces failure in every possible way short of allowing itself as a story to fail. L&H and Antichrist, on the other hand, seem to "fail" in really interesting ways. Both stories, moreover, put themselves into the framework of a national/historical tragedy. In these stories, the personal tragedy is reflected by, and facilitates, the national/historical tragedy.
One the one hand, this is super effective: the parataxis of the personal event with the public one not only intensifies and adds complexity but also brings the personal tragedy of its characters into national/historical context. On the other hand, we as readers are left with difficult disjunctions and inconsistencies. In Antichrist, we are left with the false claim that the protagonist is the Antichrist. That disjunction (false claim of reality), however, renders (as a simile) a complex turn of emotion and self-autonomy in the protagonist. Antichrist, the more disjunctive and complex story, enacts the acceptance of the protagonist that he is gay, a positive thing in the story, amidst a plurality of contextual tragedy.
In L&H (aside from short interruptive frames) the story has to remove itself from cultural/historical local to an inaccessible (the zepplin is so mechanical) location to come into being. Ultimately, the personal/social tension is so strained that the literary vehicle, the zepplin, explodes. We are still left with the "touristy" disconnect though because the story does loft itself into a sort of temporal suspension whereas in Brokeback, by comparison, we are located in Montana, and the mountain is removed but still offers reader-connectedness, I think through expressed emotion, nostalgia, and nature.
Question re: I GOTTA USE WORDS WHEN I TALK TO YOU
ReplyDeleteBurroway says, "An author no less than a reader or citic can see an emerging pattern [of theme], and has both the possibility and the obligation of manipulating it."
I wonder how many of you make a conscious effort to "worry a fiction" until it's theme reveals itself? Is it a draft thing? Who outlines? Who free writes? Are you ever happily surprised that something great "just happened to come out that way" in your story?
Question re: LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION
ReplyDeleteRusso says, "...I've never written effectively about any place I was currently residing. I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time..."
This statement is scary to me. My next story will be about the place where I currently live. Will it be junk?! Do others feel the same as Russo? What has been your experience, if any, when writing about the place where you currently live?
RE: BURROWAY'S "I Gotta Use Words"
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure how everyone else feels about this, but I was so relieved to see Burroway address something bigger, something tangible and of some consequence in her essay on theme. Especially resonant with me was this statement, "Fiction does not have to tell the truth, but a truth."
I literally had a 'lightbulb" moment go off in my head upon reading these words, and not necessarially because I've never heard this sentiment uttered before, but because it is so freeing, so valid, and encapsulates so much of what we try to do every day, be it through prose, poetry, art, music, whatever it may be, this is the one singular drive propelling all creative endeavors. I wholeheartedly agree that a "story speculates on a possible truth...it is not an answer, but a supposition, an exploration, [and] offers no ultimate solution." And doesn't need to make any false claims. For all our back-and-forth chit-chat on arcs and resolutions, epiphanies, it's nice to remember that a storyteller's job isn't to play God, to solve the world's conundrums, the existential crises and dilemmas of our characters, but simply to re-create the "experience of revelation." And the particular experience needn't be of great import, and neither, for that matter, does the revelation need to reveal THE mystery of life, it simply needs to offer a glimpse; or as Ezra Pound once said, "Fundamental accuracy of statement is the ONE sole morality of writing."
There's really not much else we SHOULD or MUST do, no great imperatives or rules to abide by, no vast landscapes to expound upon, no tenses or points of view that are ever 'wrong' (though I'm sure Paul would offer an opposing rant on this, what of it, each to his own, opinions are a dime a dozen). I would disagree that telling vs showing is ever 'wrong' if it WORKS for you, so would all the great oral storytellers in history.
Leave your jacket at the door, slip your shoes off, get comfy in your chair, and let the spirit move you. It may sound cheesy and trite, but there's no one else to hold our hand when it matters most. Call me a nihilist, but gut and intuition have to count for something in life, especially when we finally sit down to write. It's not the audience that dictates, but our own personal truths that matter most: how we see things, and how we see those things differently from everyone else, that's it in a nutshell--the mystery behind the characters and stories we help shape and create, and ultimately give rise to, share with the rest of the world. Everything else only helps to sharpen that particular truth--landscape, physical descriptions, point of view, thematic symbols--all of these aspects just bring us that much closer to seeing our vision, making our story crystal sharp to us. For me, these are not moral imperatives, or rules, but tools at our disposal. Someone could tell (show) you how to hold your fork properly, but that doesn't mean you'll eat in the same exact way anyone else does. Nor should you.
In fact, screw the fork, dig in with your hands.
A little more on place. I guess I'm not as geographically oriented as Russo. I just read (and loved) The Dwarf by Par Lagerkvist, which is set in Renaissance Italy and maintains a fairytale-like and vague feel for the location, while focusing on the deep misanthropy of the title character.
ReplyDeleteIt's not as if Russo was saying fiction shouldn't do this (he often seemed to be asserting one thing and then undoing what he'd asserted), but he did seem to be saying that some sort of geographical groundedness is very important.
Maybe that's what he was saying. Maybe not. Or was he just saying that a reader/editor somehow knows if the writer actually pictures the place in which he or she is putting characters?
I too have trouble writing about the place where I currently reside. But this doesn't seem to be the case for a lot of people.
As Mindora quoted and as Burroway said, the goal of a story is to create the "experience of revelation." So then is Burroway saying all stories must be epiphanic? Is an epiphany the same thing as "the experience of revelation"?
ReplyDeleteI'm with Paul and Skye. Screw character descriptions! But then, I notice people keep wanting them when they read stuff I've written. Perhaps rather than giving a paragraph of character description we ought to do for characters what Russo argues for setting, and include those non-touristy details skillfully woven into the drama.... no need to tell you about the character's hair, for instance, until the moment she cuts it all off. But then would things like height, hair/eye/skin color, weight, etc. be "touristy" details about character, things even a tourist could notice?
Thanks to everyone for posting, and getting this conversation started.
ReplyDeleteIn terms of descriptions of character and place, my tendency is to favor those descriptive moments anchored by action—if we find out a character’s hair is in a ponytail, for example, it’s because the wind has whipped her ponytail around her face, obscuring her vision as she cycles down the road. A small gesture, but one that conveys movement, and possible tension, however momentary. I also tend to cringe a little bit whenever I see characters introduced by their physical descriptions—Jhumpa Lahiri does this a lot, and after a while, it feels as though her characters are first paraded down a runway, with their physical attributes, hobbies, and hopes read aloud by whomever is hosting the beauty pageant.
That said, if we’re at all thinking about our own tendencies as human beings, and trying to re-create a human experience for the reader on the page, then these descriptions make sense—that’s how many, if not most, people first respond to the world: by what they see, hear, smell, touch. If there’s value in this, how do you, as writers, determine when it’s most effective to devote space on the page solely to description, before proceeding into action and scene?
As for theme: I’m hoping we’ll discuss Burroway’s thoughts on the issue, as well as her demonstration of how elements of craft contribute to theme. I’d like to apply this to the Shepard and Haskell stories. But more than that, I want to know how all of you consider theme when you write, as you revise. To sort of quote Burroway, What are you saying about what you are saying and how you are saying it? I’ve met writers who hate talking about theme. I’ve also met writers who think it can be an almost guiding force as they finalize their drafts. Curious to know where you all stand on this.
This is just MY OPINION, ya'll, so don't freak out and call me Mr. Obstinate, but I really agree with Gardner, quoted in Burroway, who says "Theme . . . is not imposed on the story but evoked from within it." Stephen King says basically the same thing in "On Writing." I've never set out to write something with a theme in mind, but I usually find that after a first draft, or even after several pages into the first draft of a story, I notice certain things popping up again and again and I go, "OK. OK. There's the theme," and I play it up in the subsequent drafts. Part of me thinks this is sort of amateur, though, like, if I were a REAL writer I'd start with a theme in mind rather than just chancing it. Shouldn't we have a little more control over what we write? I feel like Haskell is a writer who definitely starts with a theme in mind. Then again, his characters tend to be . . . like they always seem to be more idea-vehicles than real people, like they're there to serve that theme more than evoke any sort of real emotion in the reader. So maybe that's what happens when you start with theme? Your characters flatten out?
ReplyDeleteAs I was reading "Love and Hydrogen" I kept wondering how knowing about the Hindenburg disaster was impacting my reading. I almost expected Shepard to play it out differently, but he stuck to the historical facts. On one hand, writing within historical events already gives you a common ground of sorts with the reader, but what about the lack of tension (since we know the outcome)? After reading "Love and Hydrogen" I started to think more about this in regard to writing historical fiction. Does writing historical fiction automatically zap some of the tension out of the story? So, if we know what happens to the Hindenburg where is the tension in "Love and Hydrogen"? Just in the relationship between Meinert and Gnuss? Whether or not they will get found out? Could one say that historical fiction must be more character driven since we know the outcome of the plot (in most circumstances)? For example, when I read Erin's novel "There Will I Be Buried", I'm not reading to find out who won the war, I'm reading to find out what happens to Rosetta...
ReplyDeleteLike Skye, I kept thinking about the Hindenburg disaster but as the story began to unfold, I became more invested in it's characters. As I read the story after the handouts, I was struck by the idea of setting in the Russo piece. At first I kept thinking, well, there is no clear setting in the traditional sense. It's not a house, or a town, or a big city, we're literally on a moving setting of an airship. Yet, I still felt it gave a sense of who these men were and what they're going through, in a sense revealing aspects of character.
ReplyDeleteWe have two closeted homosexual males aboard an airship most readers know is doomed. There is that existing tension, especially when the narrator describe the cables, the narrow footpaths, hidden places to make discrete love. These men exist, survive really, in a precarious location and behave so accordingly. But like "this machine that conquers two oceans at once" (24) Gnuss and Meinert are brave and "giddy with the danger and improbability of it all." From the outside the zeppelin is this amazing work of engineering, not betraying the complications that occur inside of it, and like these two who work it, "their ardor is channeled so smoothly into underground streams that even their siblings...would be satisfied with their rectitude." (16).
So for me, all those little details are not distancing but rather revealing. I am really curious now, with my own work, the possibility of this kind of moving setting and how to make it successful, without having a reader feel, like some of the class, that those details felt "touristy."
On the point of character: I agree with Lesley's preference of "favoring those descriptions anchored in action." If the author leans toward the physical descriptors to impart personality, culture, opinion, class, preferences (such as religion, for example), the character reads on the page like a chariacture (sp?) instead of a character in a situation (setting).
ReplyDeleteAnd about setting: I, too, was thinking about Russo asserting that he's "never written about a place effectively while he was residing there." It seems he explains why later in the chapter, when he discusses matters of emotional connectivity to a place. Even in "regional" writing, it's not the physical truth of a setting that conveys the shadow or scar of a character, it's often the emotional landscape that's telling. I think that's why we write about the places we do--to find the truth of it's hold on us, why it's important, why it might look different but never change--those kind of questions. It's an observation and association of the senses that makes a setting come alive. For example, the story isn't about the tree. It's about what the tree smells like, and how that smell reminds us of x or y. It's about how the tree moves from wind and what the weather reminds us has happened or is possible. I could go on, taste, audio, touch, etc. (Taste would be a stretch, but you get my point.) On this vein, the argument from I GOTTA USE WORDS WHEN I TALK TO YOU is well-taken: Think what I think; Don't think 'about' what I think. This action-motivated stance is about authorial control. It takes out an unnecessary degree of separation to be direct, instead of dancing around it. After all, the reader already (should) know who the narrator is, and is discovering the narrator's opinions, thereby free to their own judgements.
I'm curious what other's thought of two things: First, the "cultural shorthand" of the Burger Kings in literature, and secondly the "label" of regional writing." I disagree on his first point/preference for "places that require and reward lots of description." It depends wholly on the writing: If the writing is good, the setting could be anywhere, if it's bad, then it will rely on a place such as Starbucks to convey specific brand of emotion, reading like a prescription for how to interpret a scene (again, here's the "thinking about" and in place of "thinking." Good writers don't "write about", they "write.")...I digress. What do other people think (about, ha!) this?
Secondly, regional writing. Naturally, I could relate, and I think it's true that we write about the places we feel emotionally beholden--whether or not we want to. I, too, have resisted writing with indian reservations--specifically, Lummi--and have written around the themes that emerge by reinventing myself as Russo did. I've been away from the rez as long as I have lived there, and yet, despite having lived in Eugene, OR, Manhattan&Brooklyn, Vail&Crested Butte, CO,Iowa City and San Francisco, I write about that small depressing place that activates something for me. I've written stories about other places (namely NYC), but they don't sound authentic, and I'm sure they read like a circus of chariactures and cliches to people who KNOW these places in a way I never will. Similarly, to Candace, I don't think your work is doomed simply because you're writing about exactly where you're living. I think as long as we all have a sort of 'authenticity check' for how the setting works (and this is best detected, in my opinion, by someone regional) anything can work. I can't tell you how many stories about indian reservations I've read that are complete bullshit. Turns out, the author was raised and/or living somewhere completely different, possibly cross-cultural, even. I'm not saying these stories shouldn't be told, I'm saying their tenor must be razor-sharp to have the authenticity that makes a story completely organic and credible. Also, what we gravitate toward makes our stories unique. Two people could live in Mohawk, NY, for example, yet Russo chooses to write about the characters of Mohawk, which, by definition are not special through exteriority, but which ultimately shine because the author knows these characters on a level that someone who did not understand the unique problems or challenges of a town like this could explore in a real way. Similarly, I don't think two people from the same area necessarily gravitate to the same thing. If I grew up in Mohawk, for example, who knows, I'd be just as likely to focus and build a story about the Mohawk nation (Rez), or the six nations of confederacy.
ReplyDeleteI am totally curious now, to know how many people have written or are writing stories more or less with at setting of in or near where they grew up, or where they spent the most amount of time in their formative years..?
"If there’s value in this, how do you, as writers, determine when it’s most effective to devote space on the page solely to description, before proceeding into action and scene?"
ReplyDeleteTo answer your question, Lysley, character description for me becomes secondary, tangential, almost, never foremost on the page when I write a scene involving people. I feel gestures, dialogue, and the nuances of action hint at the physicality of characters, and all these things seamlessly incorporated throughout can do a better job at character portrayal than lazily skimmed descriptions that oft read like obligatory throwaways.
I have a hard time entering a scene from the outside in--that is, depicting sheer physicality--as opposed to entering from within a character's mindset already, inhabiting the character's vision, seeing the world through their eyes. For me, it is difficult to have a character 'see themselves,' and so, they have to be seen from another person's perspective, which becomes tricky, and also rather telling.
But if appearances are, in fact, the first thing we take in, why do we sometimes refuse to note even an inkling of the physical embodiment on the page? Is it simply a matter of what point of view we inhabit? Does third person or omniscient lend itself better to this type of description? Does it depend on the story itself, on its intent, whether it's mostly character driven or an idea driven piece?
I don't think physical descriptions create characterization, they simply serve as a stepping stone to what lies underneath--the vast internal landscape. For me the outer body, and its trappings, unless hideously deformed or outlandishly special in some way (therefore THIS trait becomes one of the story's main concerns: a hunchback, a clown, a midget, a well-endowed midget) is rather an uninteresting way to introduce or depict character. I can think of other ways, Scott Bradfields's "History of Luminous Motion" for instance:
"Mom was a world of her own, filled with secret thoughts and motions nobody else could see. Mom was always now...that movement that never ceased. Mom possessed a certain geographical weight and mass; her motion was place itself, a voice, a state of repose. And together we were more than a family, we were a quality of landscape."
The writer makes no mention of what Mom actually looks like, never does throughout the rest of the novel, and as a reader I find I really don't care, I'm already engaged in other ways, begin to "see" Mom in far deeper ways.
I'll be curious to hear the discussion on theme (I have the same question about it as Candace; I'm curious to hear how we consciously, or perhaps unconsciously create theme in our work: until we've written enough that we see, a-ha, there it is, or if we consciously sculpt it from the get-go) & character. I'm also simply curious to know how many in the class liked Haskell's "Good World." After I read it, I imagined it might be a divisive story amongst writers especially, one of those stories you either really dig or don't, little to no middle ground. I think--or so goes my theory-- that stories that are explicitly driven by philosophical musings (in Haskell's story: habit) are ones that will affect readers in this way.
ReplyDeleteOoh, I'm totally curious about Jaynel's question, too! I found that aspect of Russo's essay intriguing to think about. It made a lot of sense when he said he needed the physical and time distance from a place in order for the place to come alive in the malleable, creative sense (or at least, that's how I interpreted when he said on pg. 77, "I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time for my imagination to kick in, to begin the process of necessary tempering of knowledge.")
ReplyDeleteI agree with you Lysley when it comes to character description, however, I seen these "pageant type" lists very useful in other works for the specific purpose they seem to play in the way the story is being told, however the example I am thinking about is used in film. I was intrigued by the way in which characters are presented to us in the French film, Amelie, in which the screen is frozen while we are given what seem like random tidbits about their lives. This worked for me because it kept up the pace of the story, moving you through the whirlwind that way Amelie's life. While this was film, i believe that if used properly it might be able to function in a similar manner in literature. On the other hand, when random facts are just stuck into a piece as filler it feels clunky to me, weighing down a piece with useless information.
ReplyDeleteA question came p for me in the Laplante essay. Like most of us, I am still struggling to make my characters as believable as possible, while still trying to create a sense of individuality. I was really intreaged by the idea that creating someone as specific as possible makes them that much more real, but the kicker is that all the piece must fit together in order for this to work, otherwise the character falls flat. Something that came up in this regard is having a character act differently around different people. While food for thought, i wondered if a reader might look at this as inconsistency in character. I am aware that it seems as if an excellent writer is capable of pulling anything off, but for us lesser beings, i am wondering how to use this advice to our advantage?
My other question/comment come stems from Burroway's essay. There seems to be a whole lot of discussion going on about how important it is to think about theme and how to execute it throughout a piece of fiction. While i do agree this is important, i am also very interested in subconscious and what comes out of it that the writer might have not even be aware of. She talks about the cheeky modern writers saying that they don't know what the piece is about and that this is a lie. I agree to an extent, i am sure that they had something in mind when sitting down to write, but perhaps what might be just as interesting is what truths can come from someone who is trying to write character's as the struggle in a world in a way that those reading can relate to. In the fairy tale class I took over Jan term, we talked about stories that were being told in lands that at the time would have had no way of learning of the other's version, and that this story was so primal in its basic ideology that it was able to transcend cultures and eras. This is what has made these stories last as long as they did. Was the storyteller aware that he was telling a piece that was so all-encompassing? I really don't think so, i believe that they just told a story from the heart and that from that others from all walks felt a connection to such a truth. I am sorry for going off on such a tangent, but the gest of what i am getting at is that what a reader may get out of a piece or find a connection through might not be what the author had set out with in mind in the first place. If this is the case, then can't this subconscious theme be just as important as the one that was infused into the story meaningfully by the author?
I was struck by LaPlante's mention of Hemingway's iceburg theory: "Only 10 percent of what the author knows about the character actually appears in the story -- but if he or she doesn't know the other 90 percent, then that will be apparent to the reader..." Does this "getting to know you" occur as you write? Or are characters springing fully formed from your brain??
ReplyDeleteAnd the other thing that stood out for me in this article is Forster's contention that "if a character never surprises us, then he or she is flat; if characters surprise but do not convince us, they are only flat pretending to be round."
How can an author know if his or her characters surprise but do not convince? Would this not depend on the eyes of the beholder? Is flat always to be avoided? Is round always possible or necessary?
And finally, Burroway makes my day by saying: "This process -- worrying a fiction until its theme reveals itself, connections occur, images recur, a pattern emerges -- is more conscious than readers know, beginning writers want to accept, or established writers are willing to admit." I wonder if this is the case and whether we can challenge some established authors to a cage match sometime.
"Candace said...
ReplyDeleteQuestion re: LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION
Russo says, "...I've never written effectively about any place I was currently residing. I not only need to leave but actually need to have been gone for some time..."
This statement is scary to me. My next story will be about the place where I currently live. Will it be junk?! Do others feel the same as Russo? What has been your experience, if any, when writing about the place where you currently live?"
You know Candace, when I read that I did my best to take that advice. I know as Non-Fiction writers we write from what we know. I did find that he had a point, though, from a Fiction standpoint. For me, I find it tough to write something I have NO knowledge of. However, I tried to apply what he said to my work and it helped me A LOT. Not only is the pressure to make things specifically correct alleviated but I took his advice to make mistakes but be free to write fluidly. Like he said, even if you make mistakes, you can always correct that later. I think the whole point is to encourage the creativity in your writing.
"As E.M. Forster says, if a character never surprises us, then he or she is flat; if characters surprise but do not convince us, they are only flat pretending to be round." This made me wonder about characters who we've encountered who have truly surprised us- who comes to mind? and others who have not. (?)
ReplyDelete