| talking about fiction |
musings on the novel There are many kinds of novels. Or perhaps I should say there are many kinds of books written as fiction. In its adequate form, a fiction can be an entertainment, an escape, an edification, a pleasure; in its lowest form – a frustration, a disappointment, an exasperation; and in its truest form – an experience that seeps into a reader’s being with the potential of irrevocably changing his or her relationship to existence. What are the characteristics that make a novel worth reading? Why is it that good writers write bad books? Is it possible for a bad writer to write a good book? Is it possible for a writer to write a good book by accident? Is it possible that a writer would write a bad book on purpose? What, exactly, is the mix that produces a great book—the kind of book you want not to end, that lingers in your mind for perhaps your entire life? What separates it from an adequate book—a book you’ll finish ungrudgingly but not be able to recall in a matter of days? And what is it, exactly, that makes a book so bad that you either can’t get beyond a few pages or a few chapters, or you finish it merely to prove to yourself that yes, it really was as unremittingly useless as it initially seemed. In the course of trying to answer these questions, in the search for a way to quantify what a novel should be and how a writer should approach writing it, a few words have come to mind. Sincerity. Grasp. Intention. Toil. Wonder. Why sincerity? Because I’ve read too many novels which apparently lack a sincere desire by the author to provide what a book promises. Too many books that promise entertainment but deliver mere formula. Too many books that promise depth but deliver only pretense. Too many books that promise discovery but deliver only surface tension. A writer may have a sincere desire to write a book, to finish it, to sell it…and that’s a good start. But it’s not enough. The sincerity must extend to the product, to its affect and its effect. To the writer’s relationship with the reader. And on a larger scale to the art of literature and the art of life. Which brings us to grasp. One can drive a car without a perfect understanding of how the engine works or even wire a house without a degree in electrical engineering. But can one write a novel without being able to define what a novel is? Seemingly, yes. Since there are thousands of books out there by writers who have no idea what they’ve done, aside from putting word to paper. But that’s a canard, a cheat. This isn’t to say these authors can’t write…some have excellent control of their craft. But mere prose isn’t enough. Mere story, or the implication of story, isn’t enough. In Aspects of The Novel, E.M. Forster attempts to explain the novel writing process by delineating both story and plot. Story, Forster says, will cause the reader to ask, what happens next? Plot, he says, will push the reader to ask, why? As in, story: the king died and then the queen died; plot: why did the queen die? To make a story worth reading, the author must prompt that question. The author must understand that prompting that question is the raison d’etre of the novel. Intention. E.L. Doctorow once said that writing a novel is like driving a distance at night. You can’t see your destination; you can see only as far as your headlights reach. But that’s enough to get you there. Most writers don’t begin with a particular intention. Many write page to page, chapter to chapter. And that’s a perfectly valid, and perhaps even necessary way to proceed. Art is creation. It involves mystery, examination, and (we hope) discovery. But at a certain point, when the writing has reached a point of critical mass, the process changes. The author, if she or he has done a good job, will discover that something has come into being. A kind of alchemy has taken place. And this is where intention becomes necessary. The story/plot needs to be grasped, and an intention for it needs to be discovered. Without that, there may be no purpose, no fulfillment, no chance of realization. In Living By Fiction, Annie Dillard calls this concept integrity. She wrote, “[The artist] imposes a strict order upon chaos. Art may imitate anything but disorder. The work of art may, like a magician’s act, pretend to any degree of spontaneity, randomality, or whimsy, so long as the effect of the whole is calculated and unified.” Toil. The saddest thing is to find a book that has taken the easy way out. Especially when the author has all the tools needed to do more…control of his or her craft, intelligence, the promise of a story worth reading. Writing shouldn’t be easy. It can be fulfilling, yes, rewarding, satisfying, even exhilarating. Occasionally, ideas can appear seemingly out of nothing and characters can seem to write themselves, but at some point, writing a novel becomes less like inspiration and more like running a marathon. What it gets down to in the end is preparation, conditioning, determination, tenacity. And, most importantly, a depth of understanding of what one is creating. That understanding needs to kick in if the writer is to fulfill the book's purpose. Without it, without that knowledge, the writer risks a book that will strike a reader as aimless, vaguely unsatisfying, a miss instead of a hit, and discovering the focus of one's story is often more of a wrestling match than a revelation. In Mystery and Manners, Flannery O’Connor writes: “[Writing a novel] is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system. If the novelist is not sustained by the hope of money, then he must be sustained by a hope of salvation, or he simply won’t survive the ordeal.” Wonder. And not only on the part of the writer, but of the reader as well. It is the reason the writer writes and the reader reads. Because it allows us out of the daily experience of our perceived limitations. How lucky the writer who enters that zone where time disappears and potential is realized. How lucky the reader who picks up a book and then enters a world. Again, here’s Flannery O’Connor: “One thing that is always with the writer—no matter how long he has written or how good he is—is the continuing process of learning how to write, If a writer is any good, what he makes will have its source in a realm much larger than that which his conscious mind can encompass and will always be a greater surprise to him than it can ever be to his reader.” We enjoy feedback from users. 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