Wherein the fear-stricken writer writes about fear
I've been thinking about the discussion that mainly P.J. Thompson and I have been having about the lack of depth in modern fiction. I think she may have something about modern writers being afraid to dig beneath the surface. Two novels I read recently were both very artfully written and held my interest. But they left me feeling empty. The authors stayed at least two removes from their characters. Oh, the characters had emotions and personality flaws and all that. There were good guys and bad guys and a thrilling denouement. But both authors seemed to be afraid to get down in the muck where all the juicy stuff of humanity is. Each time they neared something close to unpleasant in human nature, they skittered away like sandpipers from the incoming tide, preferring to keep their writing at the level of clinical observation.
I also recently read a novel in which a woman kills her own son after offering to have sex with him. The author of that novel switched viewpoints within scenes, jumping shamelessly from one character's head to another. I knew everything about those characters, all their goodness and their ugliness, and I cared about all of them, even the bad ones.
There was a discussion recently in Charlie Finlay's journal about not being afraid of the endings as they loomed up on you. I think sometimes writers are also afraid of their own characters. The writer wants to keep them on the page, in their place, so they can act out the story that the writer wants to tell or, worse, convey the message the writer wants to impart.
Why is this unsatisfactory to me? Because I want to pick up a novel or story and see myself and the people I know in those pages. I want to read the truth. I want the writer to make me stop at some point and exclaim, "Yes! That's exactly how it is!" Even if it makes me squirm in the process. And as a writer, I'd like to be able to produce the same reaction in readers.
But what stops me and other writers from achieving that? I think it's fear. If you grew up in the United States, at some point in your childhood you were forced to play baseball. And at some point, unless you were a natural, the coach came out to the field to tell you not to be afraid of the ball. Get down in the dirt to field those groundballs. Choke up on the bat. Lean into the pitch. If you as a writer are afraid of having your nose smashed by a screaming baseball in the form of a real human emotion emanating from your pages, you might as well go back to playing t-ball.
Thus endeth the lesson.
posted by Kim Colley @ 9:47 AM
3 Comments:
I agree that fear has something to do with it because as you pointed out, for a lot of us, the natural tendency when faced with conflict or anything that approaches the squick factor (different for everyone) is to shy away, fade to black, gloss over.
Do you think, though, that there is some delusion in there, too? Like people *think* they are writing the truth. They believe they are conveying the characters emotions because it says right there on page 34 that Hilary was livid, livid enough to kill David.
On my journey to becoming a better writer, I constantly realize that there are myriad tricks still to learn and master. I *want* to write *deep stuff,* things that touch the reader and cause those "Yes!" moments, but I'm not there yet on a skill level. I may not be there on a fear/honesty level either, but it isn't for want of trying.
I think that's a very good point. There's a difference between uncovering the truth and hitting the reader over the head with what we think is the truth.
Am I there yet? Probably not. But that's the mountaintop I'm climbing towards. That's the apex I want to reach.
In The Grifters, there's a point when the protagonist makes a horrifying discovery about another character. Jim Thompson shows the protagonist, as you say, shying away, fading to black, glossing over -- anything to get away from having to deal with what he's just discovered, which exactly mirrors the feelings that were churning in my gut as I read. Perhaps the same feelings that were churning in Thompson's gut as he wrote that scene.
The key is, he was brave and honest enough to identify those feelings within himself (assuming my presumption is correct) and then pin them to the page.
There's scary, icky stuff inside all of us, so to be authentic writers, we have to be brave enough to examine that icky stuff and then throw it on the page for everyone to see.
Yes, I would say that the reader shying *with* the character is the result of the writer facing and conveying the truth. If the writer never reached that all-important level of depth, the reader would not feel the need to shy. They would just look at the book and think, And? or worse, Why is this author treating me like an idiot?
I think that the whole idea of fearing to go deep and therefore have a chance at rousing real emotions in readers tends to make us think that it is only "bad" feelings and experiences that the writer is incapable of mining for precious story ore. I believe, though, that people don't think long enough about even the good experiences and how to evoke the corresponding emotions.
I'm not, of course, accusing everyone of being shallow. I still think that skill level plays a big part in the writing of truly touching fiction (or nonfiction, for that matter). But I do think people often take a simplistic view of such things. In my opinion, film and television play a big part in that, as does individual immaturity and inexperience. Add some sad/heart-accelerating music, a puppy getting run over, et voilà Instant Tears. In fiction, there is not the luxury of a soundtrack, but people still stick their puppies out there and expect people to weep and not, I might mention, feel the least bit manipulated by such a trite trick on the author's part. (Does anyone else think it is getting late in France? Shut up already, Miquela)
Well, taking a cue from my ever-polite inner voice, I'll wrap this up by saying, Less shallowness, people! Stop using trite melodrama and dig deep. No. Deeper.
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