The Secret of Elaborate Liars

La Vérité "Truth" 

by Jules Joseph Lefebvre

Over the past few months, my friend and colleague in writing, Eileen Goodall, and I have been busy running the Field of Words website and short story competition. Momentum is building and we are receiving more and more entries every day, which is great.

Looking back over the weeks between February and April, I realised that I've read almost sixty stories from emerging writers and that there is one recurrent issue that arises in almost every story:

Verisimilitude

Whether or not this term is familiar, it is likely you recognise this element of story in the fiction that you read or watch. Whenever you reach a point in a novel, short story or film where you have an ‘As if!’ moment, what you are instinctively responding to is a lack of verisimilitude. Likewise, when you cry at the death of a character, or laugh at their audacity, or feel triumphant at the defeat of the antagonist, you have again tapped into the verisimilitude of a story.

So, what it verisimilitude?

While this element of story is as old as story itself, the consensus seems to be that Plato and Aristotle conceptualised it into the term ‘verisimilitude’, which comes from the Latin: Verum meaning truth  and Similis meaning similar. Verisimilitude, then, means ‘similar to truth’ or ‘the appearance of truth’ and is directly related to the believability of a story. Plato and Aristotle argued that for a piece art – in our case, story – to be successful in convincing an audience, it must be grounded in reality. This is the basis for the theory of mimesis. 

But let’s not get bogged down in theories…Rather let’s consider what verisimilitude mean for us as writers in a practical sense?

I Love it When You Lie to Me, elaborately:

Writers of fiction are elaborate liars (and I say this with respect, admiration and gratitude). The difference between a mediocre writer and a great writer is their proficiency at making their lies feel like truth. A reader approaches a story knowing full well that what they are about to read is make believe. Our job is to convince them that, despite what they know, the worlds we create are possible, plausible and real.

This is true regardless of the genre in which we are writing; although, if we are writing horror, sci-fi, fantasy, speculative fiction, or any of their sub-genres, we must work even harder to invest our stories with verisimilitude. This is because we are asking our readers to believe in something that doesn't exist in actuality, and which is outside – in most cases – their lived experience.

Verisimilitude, then, must be embedded in all elements of a story – characters, settings, plot events, dialogue, thoughts, motivations and description. Each one must have a resemblance to truth in order for the reader to suspend their disbelief and fully immerse in the story. On the other hand, a break in, or lack of, verisimilitude will shatter the illusion of truth and snap the reader out of the world we've created, which is, in terms of story, like seeing the $2 price tag on what you thought was an expensive gift.

How do we imbue a story with verisimilitude?

1. Set up is everything.

In order for a reader to ‘buy into’ a story, plot events, character traits/motivations and setting, in particular, need to have an inherent naturalness and internal consistency.  By naturalness, I mean that creative elements need to be set up so that they feel intrinsic to the story and realistic to the reader, while internal consistency means that the creative elements are applied appropriately.

In order to demonstrate how setting up creates verisimilitude, I’ll draw on the writing of one of the March FoW finalists, Laura McGeoch. You can read the full story here.

In The Spinner, we are introduced to Jenny Jenkins in the 3^rd paragraph of the story:

Jenny Jenkins was also happy for the custom. She dyed her hair a yellow shade of gold, slapped on her reddest lipstick and strutted about in denim shorts that showed half her arse. Dad scoffed, What does she think she’s gonna do? Runaway with the circus? Mum, wrist deep in the washing up, pretended not to care — or notice — the pointless regret in his voice when speaking about his first love.

Jenny’s introduction here and the establishment of her line of work sets up for her appearance at the climactic moment of the story:

Over his thick breathing and just ahead of me, I heard a singsong voice call out: “Thanks, honey. Remember me next time you’re in town.”  

I managed to raise my chin off the ground enough to see Jenny Jenkins’ white arse cheeks wobbling from her shorts. Her yellow hair shone like gold in the rising moonlight. 

“Jenny—” I prayed I was loud enough. She paused for a brutal moment before her golden head turned. From her rose petal mouth came a guttural shout that only women like Jenny need to possess. 

This scene works beautifully because we've already meet Jenny (set up) and understand that it is likely she will be plying her trade among the ‘carnies’ (consistency of character), while her intervention in the attack on the narrator is natural because of the romantic history between Sarah’s father and Jenny. We also have consistency in the physical attributes and mannerism of Jenny, all of which embeds verisimilitude into the story.

2. Draw on the real.

No matter what kind of story you are writing, the real world is your friend. Drawing on aspects of the real world helps the reader to connect with the characters, events and settings, creating a sense of believability. Even in stories with the most fanciful characters and plotlines, verisimilitude can be created by weaving elements of our known world through the fictional one. Consider the Harry Potter series, which is centred on wizards, witches and all manner of incredible creatures. Why does it work? In part because readers recognise aspects of their everyday world – trains, schools, teachers, bullies, sport etc. This technique also applies to realist stories, as can be seen in the writing of our second FoW finalist, Jane Bennett, in her story, Scary-Mary:

I sit on the rough sea wall with my legs dangling, and roll myself a smoke, letting the fumes curl around me, boosting me up for the homeward climb…

This brief scene, with its rough sea wall, dangling legs and rolled smoke, invests Mary with verisimilitude. We see where she is, what she is doing and, quite naturally, she becomes real to us. Note, however, that the details included are specific and limited. The writer hasn’t tried to include every minute aspect of the real world; instead they have been discerning and provided enough significant detail for the reader to create an image of Mary sitting on the rock wall, smoking. Too much detail can break verisimilitude just as easily as too little. The trick is to find the balance.

3. Talk like you mean it.

There is nothing worse in a story than forced and/or pointless dialogue. This type of dialogue adds nothing to the effect of a story, or is included purely for the sake of plot. However, what a character says needs to reflect who they are and the situation they are involved in. When used in this intentional way, dialogue is infused with verisimilitude, which in turn, creates believable characters.

One of the masters of writing dialogue imbued with verisimilitude was John Steinbeck. In this extract from Of Mice and Men (pp.4-5), we receive plot but much more importantly, we get to know the characters and learn something about the power relationship between  them:

I forgot,' Lennie said softly. 'I tried not to forget. Honest to God I did, George.'

'O.K.—O.K. I’ll tell ya again. I ain’t got nothing to do. Might jus’ as well spen’ all my time tell’n you things and then you forget ‘em, and I tell you again.'

'Tried and tried,' said Lennie, 'but it didn’t do no good. I remember about the rabbits, George.'

'The hell with the rabbits. That’s all you ever can remember is them rabbits. O.K.! Now you listen and this time you got to remember so we don’t get in no trouble. You remember settin’ in that gutter on Howard street and watchin’ that blackboard?'

Lennies’s face broke into a delighted smile. 'Why sure, George, I remember that…but…what’d we do then? I remember some girls come by and you says…you say…'

'The hell with what I says. You remember about us goin’ into Murray and Ready’s, and they give us work cards and bus tickets?'

'Oh, sure, George, I remember that now.' His hands went quickly into his side coat pockets. He said gently, 'George…I ain’t got mine. I musta lost it.' He looked down at the ground in despair.

'You never had none, you crazy bastard. I got both of ‘em here. Think I’d let you carry your own work card?'

Lennie grinned with relief...

The dialogue has a beautiful natural flow and is layered with nuances and inflections that bring the characters, as thus the story, to life.

Right, so that’s verisimilitude: ‘the resemblance to truth’ – and it should be woven into every aspect of writing. The more verisimilitude that is invested in a story, the deeper a reader will be drawn in, and the more they will love the writer for the elaborate lie they have created.

Happy Writing,

Maria

The Narcissism of Us – Why Character is the Essential Ingredient of Story

Narcissus by Caravaggio 

Humans are narcissistic creatures, don’t you think?

We love to hear about ourselves: about our exploits, our loves and passions, our failures, our darkest fears and deepest desires. This holds true across history, cultures, generations and genders. And our narcissism finds perfect expression through story.

Every story ever told – in whatever form: rock art, song, dance, oral tales, visual or written – is about us. Even those stories that ostensibly are about other species that inhabit this planet, or other planets, or eras, realities, planes of existence etc. etc. are really about us; about what it means to be human. Yes, the longing of a robot; the dark lusts of a vampire; the heroism of a dog; the butchery of a ghoulish entity; the rage of an alien mother — all about US!

And it is for this reason I would suggest character is the most important element in any story.

The Living Heart of Story:

I've read a lot of stories by emerging writers over the years and, with the rare exception, my main comment to these writers about their work is ‘develop your characters’; show the reader more about who they are and what is motivating them. The reason for this suggestion is simple:

Characters are the story.

Plot events in a story are meaningless unless they are tied implicitly to a character and their experience of, or reaction to, those events. A setting is a one-dimensional backdrop until a character moves through, or engages with, a location or environment. Dialogue only makes sense in relation to character and, while we can discover theme in all elements of story, it is character that works hardest to convey the thematic preoccupations of a story to the reader.

Image by Paul Reynolds via Wikimedia Commons  

The centrality of character to story is not hard to work out. Aside from being narcissistic, we humans are also voyeurs – we love to watch and experience, vicariously, the myriad of situation offered by our world – and this, too, is not hard to understand: we want to empathise.

Empathy is what connects a reader to the story. The more a reader can empathise (positively or negatively) with a character, the more memorable that story will be, and it is for this reason that I suggest writers work hard on their characters.

I have a confession to make: I loathe the film Wolf of Wall Street. Not because of the acting (which was very good) but because the characters are so thoroughly despicable and morally corrupt that my empathetic reaction to them is loathing. I will never watch this film again, but I will also never forget the characters. At the other end of the spectrum are, well, dozens of characters whom I have loved and cherished, whom I have cheered for and cried for, or whom I have mourned like old friends lost. What all of these characters have in common is they are living, breathing, feeling people, who experience life and reflect something about the human condition.

A Recipe for Creating Empathetic Characters:

Ingredients

1 pinch of extraordinary

1 spoonful of balance

1 dash of consistency

2 tablespoons of knowledge

Method

1. A long time ago, I read a snippet of advice from Stephen King, which went something like take an extraordinary event, people it with ordinary folk, and see how they react. Their reaction, of course, becomes the story. A good example of this advice at work occurs in House of Stairs by William Sleator, which is the story of five ordinary teenagers who wake to find themselves in a literal house of stairs. Their struggle to find out how they came to be there and what they need to do to escape transforms them from average people into extraordinary people.  A more contemporary example of this would be Suzanne Collin’s, The Hunger Games – Katniss Everdeen is an average girl (or is she?) who, through her participation in the Hunger Games, becomes extraordinary.

Ordinary people in ordinary circumstances are not interesting to a reader. As Sol Sein points out:

‘Readers don’t want to pay money in order to spend twelve hours in the company of someone who is just like their neighbour. They are attracted by differentness.’

 Stein, S. 1999, How to Grow a Novel, p. 67

This ‘differentness’ doesn't have to be extreme but it does need to be something more than what the reader may expect from their own experiences.

Note: ‘extra ordinariness’ extends to what you show the reader about the character’s physicality. Avoid the ordinary. Unless there is a specific and intentional reason to mention a character’s hair colour, eye colour, height, weight, age – don’t. These are the least interesting aspects of a character. Show the reader something extra-ordinary about them: the tattoo they’re hiding from everyone; the scars on their forearms; the way they wear their hair in a fifties beehive (and why); their gangsta strut… anything that will give the reader an insight into who they are. If the banal aspects of appearance must be used, do it for a reason – to emphasis the character’s low esteem, or narcissism, or to satirise (Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut Jr  is a great example of this). 

2. Human beings are complex and our characters need to reflect this complexity. No character should be all good, or all bad, because such characters feel ‘wrong’ to a reader. Following the principle of Yin and Yang, there must be a little dark in the light, and little light in the dark for our characters to feel human. This is what makes them rounded. Without this balance, characters are flat and tend to stymie empathy.

Flat characters:

• Lack detail & are one dimensional.
• Are stereotypical & predictable.
• Tend not to change or surprise.
• Tend to represent one quality or idea.

Round characters, on the other hand, are:

•  Detailed & multi-layered.
•  Have admirable qualities & flaws.
• Represent a range of ideas.
• Face challenges & adversity.
• Are complex & unpredictable.
• Show change & growth.

As E.M. Forster notes: 

‘The test of a round character is whether it surprises in a convincing way.  If it never surprises, it is flat. If it does not convince, it is a flat pretending to be round.  [A round character] has the incalculability of life about it…’

‘Flat and Round Characters’, E.M. Forster, p. 41’

Round characters are the ones that readers love or loathe; they are the ones that stir our imaginations and stay with us long after we finish their story.

3. One of the best examples of character consistency I’ve read is Lamb to the Slaughter by Roald Dahl. In this tale, the main character, Mary Maloney, is a delightfully complex character who appears to be a dotting, placid, loving wife at the start of the story before making an apparent about-face to become a cold, conniving survivor of the circumstances thrust upon her. This change can come as quite a shock to the reader, until they look closely at Mary’s behaviour across the breadth of the story. Then we discover that Mary has always been a meticulous, passive-aggressive manipulator.

Mary’s underlying consistency is what makes her a successful character because she reflects the reality of human nature. This doesn’t mean our characters won’t do the unexpected – Mary certainly does – but that whatever characteristic we endow our characters with need to inform their behaviour during the course of their story, just as the characteristic we are endowed with during our lives define us and our response to the circumstances we encounter.

4. To avoid the ordinary and create round characters, who are interesting, surprising and yet consistent, we need to get to know them, personally.

One of the simplest ways to do this is to create a character biography (there are many templates for this on the Web). A bio could be a simple list of the attributes we associate with a character for a particular story. Or it could be an extravagant exploration of the character and their history, covering family, education, relationships, friendships, employment, religion, travels, health and so on. Or it could be somewhere in between these two. It depends on how much work you’re willing to put into your character.

Getting to know your characters deeply will assist in working out how they will respond in any given situation because, like us, characters are influenced by their experiences. And, like us, nothing that happens to them, happens in isolation. They have a timeline of events behind them. Knowing this timeline allows us to write authentically about our characters.  Of course, this knowledge is not something we would necessarily share with our reader, but they will certainly sense the depth in our characters and connect with them all the more for it.

Shake and Bake:

Working with character is one of the most satisfying aspects of writing. Astute writers, I believe, take the time to think about and get to know their characters so they can convey authentic experiences, which resonate and satisfy the narcissist, the voyeur, and the all too human empathetic reader.

Who are your favourite characters from fiction and what do you love - or loathe - about them? What about your own creations? Are there any that you're particularly proud of and why? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

Happy Writing,

Maria

A Gem Among the Stones

Entering writing competitions can be a great way of honing our writing skills. Often, they provide a focus for our writing and there’s nothing like a deadline to motivate. Then, there’s the boost of confidence that comes with winning, or even being shortlisted.

Of course, coming out on top of a competition is tough. There are a lot of writers out there, all vying for the same prize. So, how do we make our writing stand out?

Over recent weeks, Field of Words – a project that I run with my good friend and fellow writer, Eileen Goodall – has been receiving entries into our writing competition, which is for emerging Australian writers. After reading these stories, I spent some time reflecting on what we are looking for when assessing a piece of writing and what a writer can do to make their story a gem among the stones.

A Story of Substance:

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. ~ Anaïs Nin

The main element that attracts me as reader (and writer) is an engaging story. These stories deal with significant issues and themes, which illustrate something about what to means to be human. Such stories are born, it seems to me, from a writer’s natural curiosity about their world and the nature of humanity.

These kinds of writers have something to say and they invite the reader to consider their interpretation of, and thoughts about, a particular subject. Yet, there is no expectation that the reader will agree with them – they are not didactic or moralistic – but they trust in the reader’s intelligence and willingness to participate in the conversation they have begun with their story.

And this is what really grabs me – at the end of such a story, I want to talk about it. I want to continue the conversation, to discuss the thoughts that the story has generated in me, to unravel its nuances and test my own position against that of the writer. Stories that leave me thinking and talking about my world and my place within it are the stories I love best.

Characters of Substance:

It begins with a character, usually, and once he stands up on his feet and begins to move, all I can do is trot along behind him with a paper and pencil trying to keep up long enough to put down what he says and does. ~ William Faulkner

Of equal importance to telling a story with substance is peopling that story with characters who are fully alive and authentically dealing with life as it befalls them. Characters are the heart, soul and backbone of a story. Other creative elements in a story can be somewhat weak – plot, setting, perhaps even theme – as long as the characters are rounded and animated. Having a brilliant plot with weak characters makes for a weak story, likewise with setting; there is no point in locating a story on glorious Santorini if the characters have as much depth as a fish bowl.

Characters are what grab a reader’s attention. It is the characters we fall in love, or loathing, with as we watch them deal with situations that we vicariously want, or hope never, to experience for ourselves. Characters are our connection: our bridge to empathy and to understanding ourselves and our fellow human beings (this is true even if the character is not human). 

First Lines:

Words — so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them. ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne

A writer’s job is to capture the reader’s attention, to lure them into a story, and hold them there until the final word is read. In short story, this capturing begins with the title. This is the first engagement the reader has with a piece of writing and it should be a clue, or a layer of meaning, that adds to the story. Sometimes the title can be a reference point, something the reader can rely on, like a beacon, as they navigate a story. Sometimes it can be an invitation to enticing to resist (The Bear Came over the Mountain by Alice Munro, or Theories of Relativity by Chris Womersley, or Conversations with Unicorns by Peter Carey). Whatever the title is, it requires thought and intention, like all other aspects of a story.

Once the reader’s attention is piqued, the next hook is the first line. The first line of a story is like a firm hand shake; it should be confident and convey a sense of control. It should say to the reader: ‘This is a writer who is sure of their craft.’ Here are a few of my favourite opening lines, in no particular order:

“I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.” I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith (1948)

"The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." The Go-Between, L. P. Hartley (1953)

"Mother died today. Or maybe, yesterday; I can't be sure." The Stranger, Albert Camus (1946)

"It was the day my grandmother exploded." The Crow Road, Iain Banks (1992)

‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’ Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell: (1949)

‘I inherited Walter. Neither of us had much say in the matter.’ Another Man’s Treasure, Joanna Nell (2015).

It’s the Little Things too:

I have spent most of the day putting in a comma and the rest of the day taking it out. ~Oscar Wilde

Writing a great story is hard work and while we can pick out a few elements and say ‘focus on these’, the reality is all aspects of a story are important. Story is, after all, like a tapestry where every thread is meticulously woven to create the whole.

So let’s say you've been at your loom, weaving a story to capture your reader: a story of substance, with splendid characters, vivid settings, beautiful dialogue, events to set the heart racing, and a thematic resonance that will shake your reader to their core. Wonderful!

But you are not finished yet.

All of that mastery can be undone in an instant by slipping tenses, or by misplaced commas and absent full stops, or an overabundance of exclamation marks. Redundancies are the enemy of good writing, as is repetition and incorrect words usage or spelling; be aware of these in the story. And watch, too, for those vampiric adverbs and clichéd adjective, both of which will suck the life from your beautiful writing. Finally, learn to format as a creative writer – study published novels and short stories, check submission guidelines, and do some research on the topic. Here are two good places to start:

Formatting Short Story

Formatting Dialogue

A little aside: I don’t necessarily agree with, or practice, all of the suggestions on these blogs. As a writer, I have my own habits and quirks. For example, I never indent the first paragraph of a piece of writing and I always use single speech marks for dialogue. However, I am open to change a practice; not so long ago, I would double space after a full stop, now I’m a single space kinda gal. What I would suggest is being consistent and, as with every element of your writing, work with intention.

It might seem like pedantic advice but the basic things matter. They speak about a writer’s investment in their writing; how much they care about their craft. They speak about a writer’s skill and professionalism. Mostly, though, they speak about a writer’s respect for their reader, who should never have to struggle with a story at this basic level, unless it is by the stylistic intention of the author.

So there it is: a reflection on what a ‘judge’ is likely to be looking for in a story submitted to a writing competition. It’s been a useful exercise for me, this reflecting, not only because I will approach my own writing with this new insight, but because it reinforces for me that our best teachers are our fellow wordsmiths, both great and emergent.

Thanks for reading, and happy writing!

Maria

Aspiring Writers & Absent Teachers

Miss Auras by John Lavery

"Whenever I'm asked what advice I have for young writers, I always say that the first thing is to read and to read a lot. The second thing is to write. And the third thing, which I think is absolutely vital, is to tell stories, and listen closely to the stories you're being told."

                                                              -- John Green

What makes a writer great? There are many answers to this question but I want to focus on one characteristic shared by all notable writers, across the ages.

They were/are readers.

That might not be a shocking revelation if you’re already a writer who reads, but what might be surprising is the number of aspiring writers who claim an aversion to reading — and not on artistic ground, but because they truly ‘hate’ to read.

As a voracious reader, this notion is alien to me. I have always thought of reading and writing as a duo that work together like a pair of shoes, or yin and yang; without one, the other is less meaningful. Of course, not all readers need be writers but, it would seem to me, all writers need to be readers.

Many successful authors – I’m yet to find one who doesn't admit to the habit – have discussed the importance of reading for writers. Stephen King, of course, in his oft quoted On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft notes:

'I am always chilled and astonished by would-be writers who ask me for advice and admit, quite blithely, that they "don't have time to read." This is like a guy starting up Mount Everest saying that he didn't have time to buy any rope or pitons.'

I wholeheartedly agree, but I want to go further and suggest that, for writers, it’s not only imperative that we read, but that we learn from our reading.  

A few years ago, I read Mortimer. J. Adler and Charles Van Doren’s classic work, How to Read A Book. Aside from learning about conscious reading, one idea that stuck with me was the notion of the absent teacher. Successful writers, past and present, are our absent teachers and, if we pay attention to what they do in their work, we find that they have a lot more to share with us than just a story.

Lessons in Technique and What is Possible:

'In your reading, find books to improve your color sense, your sense of shape and size in the world.' -- Ray Bradbury

Technique is probably the clearest lesson we can take from our reading. How often have you come across a sentence or a passage in a story that has taken your breath away?  Did you stop to look at the construction of that passage?  Did you try to see how the writer created that moment of magic?

I recently read Randolph Stow’s, The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea. This superb book is filled with glorious descriptions, vivid characterisation and a sense of place that is magnificent. Early in the novel, which is told from the perspective of six-year-old, Rob Coram, whose cousin, Rick, is leaving to fight in the war in the South Pacific, there is the following passage:

In the morning Rick’s footfalls on the floorboards woke him. He lay in bed and watched Rick, who was coming back from the shower in his pyjama pants and starting to dress.

            He was standing in his white underclothes, opening a drawer. Then he was putting on a khaki shirt with coloured things on the sleeves.

            The boy sat up in bed. Rick was pulling on khaki trousers and buttoning them. He was sitting down on his bed and pulling on khaki socks.

            ‘Those are your soldier’s clothes,’ the boy said, with dread.

            ‘Yup,’ said Rick. ‘Do they make me look brave?’

            The boy stared. The boots were red-brown and gleaming.

            ‘Are you going Rick?’ he said, very still.

            ‘I’m afraid so, kid,’ Rick said.

            ‘Where are you going?’

            ‘Well, I couldn't say. The big boys don’t tell me their secrets.’

            ‘Is it in Australia?’

            ‘I don’t know. It’s a secret.’

            He was standing up now, in his big boots. He was leaning to look in the mirror, combing his hair.

            ‘I wish—’ the boy said, ‘I wish—’

            ‘Hey, fella,’ Rick said, turning, ‘don’t so that. I don’t like to see a man cry like that, with real tears. If a man’s got to cry he’d do better to bawl his head off.’

            ‘I’m not crying,’ said the boy, with a stiff mouth.

            ‘And I’ll be back,’ Rick said, ‘I’ll be back, and all you’ll be able to see will be two eyes peering through gongs and fruit salad.’

            ‘I wish you didn't have to,’ said the boy.

            ‘Well, I do.’

            ‘I wish it wasn't today.’

            ‘But you knew I was going. That’s why you came, to say goodbye.’

            He leaned on the chest of drawers, looking at the boy. The boy was rising, standing on his bed, so that he was almost as tall as Rick.

            ‘I want to say goodbye now,’ he said. ‘Here.’

            ‘Well. Goodbye,’ said Rick; the slow smile showing the glint of gold.

            ‘Goodbye,’ said the boy. And they stared at each other.

            ‘Oh, kid,’ Rick said. ‘Baby, it’s alright.’

            ‘I know,’ whispered the boy. ‘I know.’ For the first and last time he kissed Rick, crying soundlessly. 

There are some clever things happening in this scene: the transformation of Rick from ‘everyday man’ into a solider; the ‘growing-up’ of Rob as he moves from lying on the bed to standing face to face with Rick; the emotional distance created by referring to Rob as ‘the boy’, but the real killer moment, the magic, comes with one word – ‘Baby’. When I read that word, tears welled in my eyes because it contains all of the heartbreak, fear, longing, and love that the rest of the passage holds at bay. This is the lesson that Stow offered me as a writer: how to pack an emotional punch.

Other writers have offered different lessons: from Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Love in the Time of Cholera), I learnt the lure of the sublime; from Robert McCammon I learnt the power of tension; from Robert Coover (The Babysitter), Italo Calvino (If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller) and David Mitchell (Cloud Atlas), I learnt the possibilities of structure; from Anthony Burgess I learnt the limits (or not) of language; from Margret Atwood (Alias Grace), I learnt the need for research and the art of weaving story. Of course, having observed these lessons, it was then up to me to apply them in my own work, adapting, discarding or creating as needed, and the only way to do that is by writing.

Lessons in Style:

Another lessons we can take from our reading relates to style or, to put it another way, your voice as a writer. Are you literary? Or popularist? Or do you sit across these categories? Are you a conversationalist like Stephen King, or a minimalist like Hemingway and Cormac McCarthy? Of the hundreds of styles out there, where does your writing fall? What is your style? And if you don’t think you have one (yet), what style would you most like to emulate? Reading, across genres and eras, can answer this question.

Occasionally, I'll come across writers who argue that they won't read for fear of copying another writers style and, thereby, tarnishing their own. A valid point? Not really. My question is always: How do you know you're not copying another writer's style already without reading? 

Lessons in Originality:

Being original is tough. To illustrate the point, a quote from Ecclesiastes 1:4-11:

What has been is what will be,
and what has been done is what will be done,
and there is nothing new under the sun.

Yet originality is possible, after a fashion, because we each approach a story from a unique perspective – our own. Nevertheless, we still need to keep abreast of what other writers are producing so that we can put an original spin on the story we want to tell. The Harry Potter series is a good example of this point; there is little that is original in the concepts underpinning these books – a boarding school, an orphan cum hero, a bully, good vs evil, sport/competition, friendship, love etc. all done before – but it’s J.K. Rowling’s ‘spin’ on these concepts that re-envisioned them and made them relevant to whole new generations of readers. Reading widely gives us a feel for what’s been done and how we can approach a story from a fresh and innovative direction.

For these reasons, I would encourage aspiring writers to read – fiction and non-fiction; across genres (yes, even the ones you don’t like); across eras (those books aren't called ‘classic’ for nothing) and, importantly, across quality because even ‘bad’ fiction writers have something to teach us.

How important is reading to you, and what writers have been your absent teachers? Share your thoughts below...

Happy Writing (and Reading!)

Maria

In Search of an Idea

It’s 11.30 pm and I’m sitting at my desk, trying to think of how to start this post, which is supposed to be about ideas and, you know, where to find them and what to do with them. The irony – that I’m stuck for an idea – is not lost on me but, since I’d like to get some sleep tonight, I’ll do the only things a writer can do in this situation: start, somewhere.

Ideas are – obviously –  the base ingredient of any story, but not just any old idea will do. What we need are good ideas; ones that will sustain a story and, most importantly, provide our readers with an enjoyable experience, but where can these gems be found?  

The simple answer to that, as far as I can tell, is: Everywhere!

They lurk in news headlines and the events that unfold in our world. You’ll find them as you walk down the street, or overhear a conversation on a bus or in a cafe (no, it’s not bad manners to eavesdrop; it’s research and, as such, is perfectly acceptable). They’ll peek out from behind the most mundane moments, or flash you full in the face like a solar flare. Sometimes they’re in the line of a song or poem, or in graffiti painted on a fence, or suitcases dumped on the side of the road.

Maybe an idea is in the complex feelings we have about our loved ones. I wrote a piece called Cooking for Foreigners that came from just such a place. Then there are the less personal moments that could flicker into a story, such as my observation, one misty pre-dawn morning, of a taxi driver who was lost (I sense a story about displacement and the global diaspora).

So many ideas, if only we look for them.

These examples, of course, say nothing about pure imagination; the place where the weird and wonderful collide and become story. Here, anything is possible. Yet, it seems to me, that even the imaginary draws upon real world experiences and knowledge. It has to, otherwise readers will struggle to make an empathetic connection with the story – and our readers are, after all, the reason we write, right?. The trick with ideas rising out of imagination is to combine the real and the imagined. For example, we start with a quirky grandmother, add a strange-looking handbag, inside of which is a fairy realm, and we have Kelly Link’s wonderful, The Faery Handbag (read it here).

The Fairy Ball
deviantgrace@devientart.com

So, ideas are everywhere, but not every idea is going to translate into a decent (i.e. sustainable) story. Sometimes an idea doesn’t have enough ‘oomph’ (maybe it’s a flash fiction tale instead?), or sometimes, the idea just falters. I have a story like this called Iris, which is about a photographer who takes portraits of the dying (yeah, she’s a bit weird and anti-social too) and a murdered girl who sends psychic messages via the images. Sounds like an interesting idea – at least to me – but I can’t make it fly… yet.

The point is we have to try out an idea. If it’s good, it’ll practically write itself; if it’s mediocre, it’ll take more effort to bring it off; if it’s a dud, well there are plenty more ideas out there as long as you’re prepared to find them. Be observant and see what other people miss: the story inside each moment.

What do you do once you’ve found an idea? Write it into a story, of course, and submit it to our competition! Or, you could keep it in a writer’s journal/diary.

Murasaki Shikibu Diary Emakimono

(Gotoh Museum)

                         

Journals are brilliant because ideas can be shy and tend to slip away when you’re not looking. Fill the journal with snippets of story, experiences, conversations, observations, pictures, articles, feelings (I am furious and this feels like… great for writing authentic emotions into a character, and therapeutic too!). Another reason to keep a journal (physical or digital) is so nothing gets discarded. Keep all those scrapes of words, the unused paragraphs, the irrelevant descriptions, redundant characters – whatever – because you never know when you might need them. If you discard them, their gone forever (okay, sometimes this is a good idea) but if you drop them into a folder on your desktop or keep them between the pages of a journal, they are there for the taking, whenever you’re ready to use them. But don’t take my word for the value of keeping your ideas, when master sci-fi writer, Ray Bradbury, is so much more articulate:

Image: MDCarchives (Own work)
via Wikimedia Commons

‘No. As soon as I get an idea, I write a short story, or I start a novel, or I do a poem. So I have no need for a notebook. I do keep files of ideas and stories that didn't quite work a year ago, five years ago, ten years ago. I come back to them later and I look through the titles. It’s like a father bird coming with a worm. You look down at all these hungry little beaks—all these stories waiting to be finished—and you say to them, Which of you needs to be fed? Which of you needs to be finished today? And the story that yells the loudest, the idea that stands up and opens its mouth, is the one that gets fed. And I pull it out of the file and finish it within a few hours.’

In the same interview Bradbury offers a prompt to writers looking for ideas and stories. He says:

‘I tell people, make a list of ten things you hate and tear them down in a short story or poem. Make a list of ten things you love and celebrate them.’                      

And voilà, twenty stories! (Read the full article @ The Paris Review). But before you race off to write those stories, one more thought: ideas and the things that inspire them are only the launching pad for story, not the story itself. For that we need a liberal dose of imagination, a belief in our creativity, and an act of faith.

Happy Writing,

Maria

A version of this post also appears on the Field of Words website, where you’ll find information about our writing competition and a Weekly Writing Challenge on Our Blog. So if you’re feeling creative, jump over and have a play!