In Search of Theme

"Rose in dark red" by David Sedlmayer

Theme is a tricky beast. Elusive, yet all pervading; hidden, yet evident in every aspect of a tale, it is the element that makes story universal and eternal. It is the element that leaves a reader pondering long after the last full stop; that urges them to look inside and evaluate the facets of their humanity.

But what is theme? And how do we find it as readers and convey it as writers? 

Let’s start by exploring what theme is not.

Often when I ask young writers to explain what they believe the theme of their story is, they will write things like: horror, romance, courage, love, murder, friends, death, betrayal, humour, and so on. Sometimes, they will say, ‘My story is about a girl who falls off her horse…’ These things are not theme.

Horror, romance, supernatural, tragedy, humour etc. are genres, or categories for stories. These are umbrella terms under which stories fall, but they say very little about the thematic concerns of the work or the intention of the author. 

Courage, love, death, murder, betrayal etc. are topics, or the subject matter, of a story. Topics lie on the surface of a piece of writing and convey what it is about, and what sort of events and characters might appear in a work. The subject matter can provide clues for theme, but it is not theme itself.

‘My story is about…’ is a red flag for plot – the building blocks of story – and plot is not theme.

So what is it? Horror writer, Dean Koontz, summarised theme when he said:

"Theme is a statement, or series of related observations, about some aspect of the human condition, interpreted from the unique viewpoint of the author."

Let’s break this down:

Theme is a statement or series of related observations…

One way to recognise whether you are discussing theme is to remember that theme is always a statement, or a series of statements, about a topic.

…about some aspect of the human condition…

Theme explores, illustrates or illuminates something about what it means to be a person, and part of humanity. All stories, no matter whether they have human or non-human characters, are about us, and what it is like to be us, at any given point in our history or imagined future.

…interpreted from the unique viewpoint of the author.

And this is the important bit that helps us to discern the difference between a topic (one word) and a theme (a statement). Any single topic (war, death, revenge) will have a multitude of ways that it can be written about; theme is how the writer talks about the topic. What is it that they are saying about the topic? What do they want us, as their reader, to think about the topic? In other words, theme is the writer’s take on a topic, not the topic itself.

Moral vs. Theme:

Fox & Grapes by John Rae 

Occasionally, when I ask students what theme is, they will say it is the moral of a story. Once upon a time – to use a cliché – this was true to an extent. Fable, fairy tales and parables certainly moralised, as did some longer works. A good example of a moralistic tales can be seen in Æsop fables, such as The Fox and the Grapes (available here):

ONE hot summer’s day a Fox was strolling through an orchard till he came to a bunch of Grapes just ripening on a vine which had been trained over a lofty branch. “Just the things to quench my thirst,” quoth he. Drawing back a few paces, he took a run and a jump, and just missed the bunch. Turning round again with a One, Two, Three, he jumped up, but with no greater success. Again and again he tried after the tempting morsel, but at last had to give it up, and walked away with his nose in the air, saying: “I am sure they are sour.”

               “IT IS EASY TO DESPISE WHAT YOU CANNOT GET.”

The moral of this fable is summed up in the final statement: blunt, blatant, and in your face. Theme, however, is much more nuanced than a moral. Theme explores, exposes, and above all, it raises questions for the reader to ponder. A good piece of writing doesn’t provide the answers; it invites thought and contemplation. As Howard Pease notes in, How to Read Fiction: A Letter from Howard Pease to a Fan, theme is not ‘tacked on’ to a story, rather it is something embedded, for which the reader must learn ‘how to hunt, how to dig.’

Pease’s letter (which appeared in ‘The English Journal’ in 1954) is a brilliant explanation of theme, told in the epistolary form, to a young fan of his work. You can read the full text here.

Theme: What it is.

Simply put, theme is what you, as the writer, want to say about your topic. It is your intention and purpose for writing. It is the conversation you want to have with your reader; it is your way of getting inside their head and asking them to think.

Like everything in life, however, themes have varying degrees of sophistication. Some stories may be little more than fairy floss for the brain and they are thematically simple: Is it right to steal your best friend’s lover? Will good defeat evil? These are the stories we read in early in life, or that we take on holidays. They are not meant to stretch our intellect and have little in them that is enriching, but they still have a place if only to allow us to escape reality for a short time, or to prepare us for a deeper engagement with story.

The best stories are those that explore universal truths, or ask difficult questions, or reveal an aspect of themselves, or their society, to the reader for contemplation. Novels and stories that have been banned, or have achieved longevity, often have themes of this kind. They are the works that shake people up, that challenge norms, and start revolutions at the personal level and, sometimes, beyond. 

   

Theme: Where to find it.

As noted above, theme is not stated bluntly. As writers, we embed our themes in the elements of our stories. Our characters are imbued with theme. Their actions in response to plot events, and the conversations they have, convey theme, while our settings subtly provide clues about what it is we are trying to say. Theme, then, is woven through story and, at the same time, is the foundation and the pillars holding our work together.

This ‘weaving’ of theme is what makes it so hard to find. As readers, we must delve beneath the elements of the story – those things that exist on the surface – to the place of implication, symbolism and meaning.

It is worth remembering, however, that for readers, theme is subjective. A reader brings a wealth of knowledge and experience to a piece of writing that will affect how they interpret or engage with a story. As Pease notes:

Now a short story or a novel, like any work of art, may have different meanings for different people. Not always can you say the author meant exactly this or exactly that. Each individual will find his own meaning. For him, that will be the true meaning.

As such, while we weave theme through our stories, we also need to ensure that our writing is clear, precise and layered with clues that guide the reader towards our intention for creating the work.

Theme: How to convey it.

Writers have at their disposal, a number of devices that allow them to guide the reader in their search for theme. Sustained metaphor, allegory, literary allusion and symbolism are a few of these devices. Most significant writing will employ these techniques to deepen the work; the trick is to use them subtly. As with all creative elements, literary devices must feel natural to the reader, as though they are a part of the ebb and flow of the story. In coming blogs, I'll explore some of these techniques and how they can be effectively used to enhance writing.

Maria 

A Few Words on Dialogue (Part 2)

Dialogue. Photo by Kgbo 

In my last blog, I wrote about intention and the need for our dialogue to sound natural, convey aspects of character and move our stories towards the climax. I also discussed the idea of active writing and the way dialogue ‘shows, rather than tells’ a story. Today, I want to continue this line of thought about intention by exploring dialogue attribution and the practical matters of punctuation and formatting.

Dialogue Attribution:

Getting our character to speak is a wonderfully active way to show them to our readers. This is not to say, however, that dialogue is never a form of telling; it certainly can be, in a couple of ways.

1.  When characters ‘flag’ information for the readers: ‘Hello, my name is Dr Vivian Smyth and I’m a paediatrician.’ (This might be okay if Vivian is at medical conference but otherwise, no).
2. When attribution is used to tell the reader how dialogue is delivered.

Dialogue tags can be hazardous to the health of your story. These pesky words are often used because we’ve been told that they make our writing stronger and more descriptive. Not true. In fact, they usually strip the dialogue of effectiveness and power.

Dialogue/attribution tags are those words we tack on after the dialogue, such as I snapped /screamed/hissed/growled, or I said, angrily, Sue said, impatiently etc. Tags like these should be used sparingly, and with intention. Before using a dialogue adverb (e.g. angrily) ask: ‘Can I show this emotion through action or through the dialogue itself?’ (Yes, you can!). Before using a verb tag (e.g. screamed) ask: ‘Can my character truly say this dialogue in this manner?’ This is about verisimilitude – the ‘realness’ of the story.

A good illustration of this point is the attribution tag ‘screamed’. Numerous writers, emerging and professional, use this tag in dialogue. For example:

            ‘I want to go home to my see my family and you can’t stop me,’ screamed Alison.

What is the problem here? Don’t know? Okay, try this – scream this line of dialogue. Go on, I’ll wait… No, don’t yell the words, scream them…

What happened? Could you get the whole sentence out without sounding ridiculous? No? And therein lies the problem. A scream is an inarticulate sound that does not contain words – think of any movie victim of grief, anguish or terror (or go here for an example from Home Alone). The reality is a character cannot scream more than one or two words: No! Yes! Help! And even then, we’re stretching verisimilitude. A similar argument can be made against other tags, such as ‘hissed’, ‘growled’, ‘howled’ etc. If you want to use these for a character’s dialogue, try it out yourself first. If you can do it, then so can your character.

One last thing, when overused, attribution tags become annoying, melodramatic and make the reader aware of the mechanics of the writing rather than the story. Consider, as examples, these two pieces of dialogue:

         ‘Please, Rach, can’t we work this out?’ Brett moaned.

         ‘It’s too late,’ Rachel cried.

         ‘But we love each other,’ Brett sobbed.

         ‘There are some things love can’t overcome,’ Rachel snapped.

          Brett reached for her hand. ‘Please, Rach, can’t we work this out?’

         ‘It’s too late,’ Rachel said, shaking her head.

         ‘But we love each other.’

         ‘There are some things love can’t overcome,’ Rachel replied, pulling her hand away.

Do you see the difference?  I thought you would; using actions and the words in the dialogue are a better option than using verb-laden attribution tags.

The best dialogue doesn’t require attribution tags (not even ‘said’, as can be seen in Margaret Atwood’s dialogue-only story, There Was Once, or in Tim Winton’s, Cloudstreet; read an extract here.) because the characters are so well-drawn and the actions are so clear, the reader can distinguish the emotional context and delivery of the word. So what do you use instead of dialogue tags? Usually said/replied/asked, or their present tense equivalent. These tags ‘disappear’ from the dialogue because the reader is concentrating on what is said (that is, they’re focused on the story). This is not to say that we never use dialogue tags – sometimes they are necessary – what it does mean is that we use tags with intention.  

Dialogue Punctuation:

Le Gourmet Pablo Picasso
Photo by Cliff

Weeping Woman Pablo Picasso
Photo by NichoDesign

As with all writing, dialogue has a basic set of punctuation ‘rules’, which are designed to assist the reader in following a conversation. More importantly, they ensure readers understand the meaning you are attempting to convey through the dialogue. Now, for some of you, the rebellious writer inside might be up on their high horse, shouting, ‘I ain’t following no rules.’ And fair enough— when you’re as good a writer as say, Tim Winton, or James Joyce, or Margaret Atwood (all of whom have eschewed punctuation at some point in their body of work). But, as with Pablo Picasso and other renowned painters, in order to break the rules, you need to first know and understand them because, then, breaking them becomes intentional.

Below is a guide to the basic formatting and punctuation of dialogue. I say ‘guide’ because some publishers and competitions may have slight variations on these. Always check the submission guidelines and/or style guides and follow these to ensure you give yourself the best chance at publication or winning.

Formatting:

1. Indent dialogue in the same manner as a prose paragraph (usually 1 tab space)
2.  Start each character’s dialogue on a new line.
3. Keep a character’s action and dialogue in the same paragraph.
4.  Use short dialogue paragraphs to increase tension, tone and pace.
5. Avoid breaking dialogue to insert attribution (e.g. ‘I said’) without purpose or intention, for example, to include an action or relevant description.

An example (extract from The Shroudeaters by Maria Arena):

   His eyes surveyed my body and explored my face with deliberate slowness before he answered. I waited under his inspection, unmoved. ‘By supporting the proletariat in their struggle for just reward, we defy the darkness,’ he replied, holding out his hand. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Juliana Celeste.’

  ‘Didier Villette,’ he said, bending to brush his lips across my hand. ‘Enchanté.’

   Six months later, I agreed to be his wife. Six months after that, my parents killed me.

   My parents: Callisto and Constantine.

Punctuation:

1. Enclose dialogue with speech marks. I prefer single [‘…’] but some publishers prefer double [“…”]. Check their guidelines.
2.  All punctuation belongs inside the speech marks.
3. Dialogue within dialogue also requires speech marks. If using single speech marks, use double for the secondary dialogue, and vice versa if you are using double speech marks.

For example: 

       ‘I asked him three times before he said, “For God sake, Angelina, yes, the baby is mine.” That’s when I lost it, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

      4. Use a comma at the end of the dialogue if followed by attribution, otherwise, use a full stop.

For example:

        'Listen to me, Evette. I know about the money,’ I said, taking her hand.

        ‘Listen to me, Evette. I know about the money.’ I took her hand and held it gently.

5. Exclamation marks are NOT your friend. Avoid or limit the use of exclamation marks (in all writing). If an exclamation mark is needed, use one; multiple exclamation marks (e.g.!!!) are childish and become annoying to the reader. Exclamation marks are a form of telling rather than showing and, in most cases, they are also repetitive and/or redundant. Consider the following sentence:

‘You idiot!!!’ I shouted, slamming my hand on the table between us. ‘I can’t believe you could be so stupid!!! How are we going to pay the rent now?!!’ A wave of despair swept through me and, for once, I didn’t try to hide it from him.

In this example, the exclamation marks are not needed as the dialogue, attribution, action and description convey the emotion and emphasis. Occasionally, an exclamation might be needed (No! Yes! James!), but use them sparingly and, as always, with intention.

       

6. Ellipsis […]. These should be used sparingly in dialogue (and in all prose, if at all). They are used to indicate a long pause or trailing off of speech. Generally, however, finish the sentence. This is much better than peppering the story with unnecessary punctuation. If you do use ellipsis, remember they consist of three dots only. Like exclamation marks, using more than three dots looks amateurish.

Dialogue is an important device in story. When used well, it adds verve, tension and insight. When handled poorly, it a cinder block attached to the feet of our characters. Consider carefully, then, what a character should say to prevent them (and the reader) drowning in sea of irrelevant prattle. Rather, write with intention and make every word count.

Happy Writing,

Maria

A Few Words on Dialogue (Part 1)

But first, let’s talk about intention.

Intention is an intrinsic characteristic of great writing. Skilled writers, if you study their work for technique, are intentional writers. Each word, phrase, paragraph and punctuation mark; each aspect of a character, every event, each conversation and every setting is chosen for a purpose and for creative effect.

Intentional writing, then, is one key to brilliant story.

To write great dialogue requires intention. Emerging writers sometimes approach this device with a bit of a shrug. Part of the reason for this indifference lies in the fact that we use conversation as our main form of communication and, therefore, when we approach character dialogue, we think it’ll be a cinch because, ‘Well, you know, like, I talk to people every day.’

The reality is far different. Writing convincing dialogue that sounds natural, accurately conveys character, and advances the story is very difficult. And this is before we try anything fancy such as writing a story using only dialogue, or capturing the idiosyncrasies of a particular era (past or future), or inventing a whole language (try Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange for a brilliant example of this. Read an extract here.).

Dialogue Basics:

Good dialogue is tricky to write because it needs to sound natural to the reader even though it is highly contrived by the writer.

Here’s a challenge for you: go to your favourite place where people gather to relax and listen to the conversations (this is call ‘observation’, not eavesdropping, so it’s okay). What you will find is that real conversations are messy. Like the set of Christmas lights you put away so neatly last year, they will be tangled and convoluted, and shot through with repetition, irrelevancies, strange pauses and dead ends.

This kind of dialogue doesn’t assist a story because, while real people may get to the crux of a conversation at some point in their interaction, our characters have a limited time frame (i.e. the length of our short story.). As such, the dialogue we write must be purposeful and carefully constructed to move our story towards the climax. Therefore, we must choose every word that our characters say with care, and if they start to waffle on with unnecessary dribble, we must gag them until they have something meaningful to say. For example:

‘Hi Casey, how are you today?’

‘Oh okay, I guess. How are you, Sam?’

‘I’m good. Is something bothering you?’

‘Well, no, not really. I’m fine.’

Bored yet? I am. Let’s try something more interesting and intentional:

‘Hey Casey, how freaking awesome is today?’

‘About as awesome as a plane crash.’

‘Really? Why the sour grapes, girl?’

‘Dunno. Just one of those days, I guess, What’s got you buzzing?’

In this dialogue, the same information is given – one of the characters is having a bad day – but, now, we’ve moved away from generic responses and have some personality coming through, which provides an emotional delineation between the characters. Note the natural flow of the conversation and the way Casey turns the focus of the dialogue away from herself, opening up possibilities in the story. Note also the language used; what does it tell you about the age, gender, and relationship between the characters?

Good dialogue works hard to ADD to the story; if it is not showing the reader something about character, theme, setting or a plot event, delete it

Showing, not telling:

 

Caïn by Henri Vidal, 1896. Photo by Alex E. Proimos 

One of the most useful aspects of dialogue is its ability show rather than tell. The moment characters begin to speak, they are showing who they are. As such, dialogue is an active form of writing. Keep in mind, too, that dialogue is usually accompanied by gestures and facial expressions. These also assist with showing character and conveying emotion. While you are – surreptitiously – listening to conversations, watch the faces and body language of the people you’re observing and incorporate these into your character’s dialogue.

Dialogue is also a great way of showing a reader aspects of character such as educational levels, cultural background, employment, moral inclinations, prejudices and preference etc. In this way, as happens in the real world, our characters ‘reveal’ themselves naturally as opposed to us giving the reader information. So, rather than, Vivian Smyth is a doctor of paediatrics, who has her own practice, we could write:

            ‘Good morning, Dr Smyth. Abigail Henson is in exam room two.’

            Vivian took the clipboard from Sara and glanced over the notes. ‘Asthma again?’

            ‘Third attack this month,’ Sara replied, her tone neutral.

            Dr Smyth frowned. ‘Did her mother bring her in?’ she asked, remembering the ugly scene with the child’s father on her last visit. Some parents just won’t be told, she thought, as Sara nodded.

This dialogue shows the reader what Vivian Smyth does for work and introduces a potential plot complication, while also offering insights into the personalities of the receptionist and the child's parents. As such, it is hard-working and intentional dialogue.

There is much more to discuss when it comes to dialogue, but I will finish up here and give you time to consider the intentionality of your writing, particularly when it comes to the words you place in your character’s mouths. 

Until next time, 

Happy Writing.

Maria

More Power to the Author?

In June of 2014, I was pumped at the prospect of independently publishing my second novel Sisterhood. The process of getting the work ready had been relatively easy and drama-free, and prompted me to think about my first novel, Mira Falling, which had been traditionally published in 2006. It was time for that novel to step into the 21^st century too. With this in mind, I contacted Ebook Launch – who did the cover for Sisterhood – and asked them to create a cover for Mira Falling. This seemed like a sensible path to take as I wanted to cross-market the books because, well, isn't that what the big publishers do?

There was, however, a slight hitch: Mira Falling was still subject to the contract I signed back in ’06. Now, I am generally a loyal sort of a gal, and I didn't want to do the wrong thing by the publisher of Mira Falling, so I sent them an email inquiring about the possibility of having my novel converted to an eBook and a print-on-demand (POD) novel.

It took them seven weeks to get back to me.

Although Mira is not a huge seller by any stretch of the imagination, nor am I an important player in the world of fiction, this seemed a little extreme to me. But I let it slide because when the publisher finally did get back to me (in August), they said they would ‘very much like to add Mira Falling’ to their eBook program, attached addendum to my contract, and offered me a figure of ‘25% of the net price received.’

Hmmm, I could get 75% with Amazon but, what the hell, they’re my publisher, right? Loyalty and all that stuff. Still, I had some questions about updating the novel and the new cover I’d paid for, and just how long that darn contract I signed back in 2006 was valid for?

Another month went past, and I was getting antsy. I wanted to get the POD version of Sisterhood out and I wanted to do that cross-marketing thing that seemed like such a good idea, and I wanted to get the eBook and POD version of Mira out too, but I couldn't because I had to wait and wait. Then came the reply email, which agreed to all of the requests I had made – cool! – and pointed out that my contract was valid for ‘the term of copyright.’

That had the ring of ‘for the term of your natural life’ to it, which sent me in search of my original contract. Now I have to admit – and this is a gentle warning for any new authors out there – I didn't actually read every clause in my contract. If I had, I would have known that, unless my publisher refused to reprint my novel at any time, they maintain copyright, forever – meaning that I couldn't do anything with my novel without their agreement. In other words, the novel was no longer ‘mine’. And wouldn't be again, unless the publisher refused to reprint the work, at which point – after nine months! – the rights to the novel would return to me (BTW, this was a standard contract). So, I asked the question: would they reprint the novel and if not, would they return the copyright to me so that I could get on with publishing the eBook and POD?

And I waited for a reply. I sent my email in September. I sent a polite reminder email in October. In November, I called the office and spoke to an assistant publisher, who assured me that some progress was being made. Alas, another month went by and I was forced to email again. This email received an almost immediate reply, possibly because I raised the potential of seeking legal advice.

Once again buoyed by the hint of interest that the publisher’s email contained, I emailed back my queries and questions (which had remained unanswered for months) only to be left hanging for two more months. During this time, I emailed twice and called once, all to no avail. Then, out of the blue, I received an email saying that Mira had been processed and was available through all the usual distributors.

Hallelujah!

Except, it was the old version of the novel, with its old cover, that had been uploaded.

It was difficult to express my disappointment – I know, I know, but it’s loyalty thing again, and the narrative that says us authors need publishers; that we are not really writers without them –  but I did my best to explain to the publisher. To their credit, they made an effort for one email, although there was immediate talk about things being ‘a bit more complicated’ and then, silence.

So what’s a writer to do?

Take matters into their own hands, of course. Why? Because we can! After two more weeks of no replies, I sent a final email, stating bluntly that I’d had enough of waiting and that I was ready to upload Mira Falling myself, with its updated text and cover. The publisher’s response? An email one day later saying that they felt it would be best if the rights to my novel were returned to me, and an apology that it had been such a ‘drawn-out decision.’

Right.

My response? I contacted Ebook launch and asked them to format the book, which was completed in four days, and I spent one day uploading the files for Mira Falling to Smashwords, Google Play and Amazon. Five days and done. Then I set to work on the POD editions of Sisterhood and Mira Falling. These took a little longer as I had to wait for the proof copies to arrive – and there were some issues with Sisterhood (more on this in my next blog) – but here we are, six weeks later and the novels are published and being downloaded as I write.

So what does this experience mean? Well, perhaps the most important message is to read your contract and know what you’re signing up for, and negotiate if something seems exorbitant to you. Don’t be concerned; they've offered you a contract, which means they want your book. That gives you some bargaining power. Don’t let that go to your head though; ask for reasonable things.

Other than that, do large publishers treat their smaller authors in a shoddy manner? Maybe; aside from my own experience, I've heard a few stories from and about other authors, most who are way bigger players than me, who've been treated poorly by their publishers. But that’s not always the case; I've also heard amazing stories of first time authors who have been treated like royalty and, let’s face it, that’s the dream, right?

So, we’ll keep bowing to the publishers, at least for now, but it’s good to know that there is a viable and accessible alternative. Yes, independent publishing costs more in cash and time, and you need a strong commitment to getting yourself known, but the advantage is control and the knowledge that no one can waste your precious time… except you. 

Got a story to tell about your experiences with publishers?  Leave a comment...

Maria

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