imagination

Close Yet Distant: the Relationships Among Writers, Characters, and Readers

What reader doesn’t feel a special relationship with characters in their favourite books? They are reliable friends with whom to escape the hurly-burly of the world. And what reader, having discovered an author and loved their books, hasn’t wanted to learn more about their creator? A complex relationship develops, between real human beings and fictional ones.

Photo by mohamed abdelghaffar on Pexels.com

It’s a unique relationship, and valuable in its own way, even if illusory. I call it illusory because the real individuals may never meet, and the fictional ones are, well, fictional.

Unless they know each other in “real life,” the author-reader relationship is bound to be a slight or fleeting connection, at an event such as a book-signing, or through social media. In both these situations, the individuals are most likely to be presenting crafted personas rather than their authentic selves. The real relationship is therefore based on the reader’s understanding of the plot, characters, and ideas of the author, expressed in words chosen by that person. Sometimes actually getting to know an author as a person, or discovering details about their life disillusions the reader.

Then there are reader-to-reader relationships, in which there may be different degrees of admiration or antipathy toward books, authors, or characters. Book clubs come to mind here, as well as online forums and review sites. Friendships based on books can be rewarding.

Relationships between characters and readers are less complicated, because characters as written have no secrets, except those known to their writers alone. Reader-character relationships, although intense, may themselves be secret. Readers may choose not to reveal them to people close to them who aren’t readers or who don’t share their tastes.

Woman with white mask, eyes outlined black, red hat and fan

Much that exists between or among these people/personas is in the realm of the imagination. Characters are imagined by their writers. They come alive for readers, who add their own imaginings, some perhaps never intended by the writers. Inevitably, readers are curious about the authors of works they love (or hate?) and make assumptions about them. What happens to a reader’s attitude toward authors and their characters if those assumptions are proven false?

We writers write for imaginary readers who may not exist. We have no control over who reads our books. We put them out into the world, where they are in effect independent entities at the mercy of cultural and informational elements. Our books are like messages in bottles cast into the ocean, and like those bottles may never reach their intended recipients. Or they may be unexpected and wonderful discoveries for others.

Readers and writers, what do you think about these relationships? Have any fictional characters come alive for you? Have you ever been disillusioned by meeting an author or learning things about them?

Images from Pexels and Pixabay.

Writer Brain and Editor Brain

This recent post by author Damyanti Biswas describes two different types of reading experience. It’s interesting, and also reminded me of an idea about writing I have been mulling for some time.

In traditional publishing, the writer and the editor occupy two different bodies, at least as far as a given written work is concerned. Things are different for indie authors who do their own developmental editing. They need to switch from one mode to the other, depending on what stage of the work they are in.

I wondered if this might be the origin of my problem with much of the advice to writers I see in blog posts, especially the stuff about story structure. When I’m thinking about a potential or even actual writing project, story structure and the minutiae of word choices are the last things on my mind. At that stage, I’m trying to imagine myself into one or more characters, to be them, to deal with problems and dilemmas from within those fictional individuals. I’m thinking about scenes that will bring those people to life so a reader will “get” them and be interested in them and whatever situation I create for them.

When the work is complete, there will be a structure to the story. It may even be a structure that is described in how-to-write books. But at the beginning of a writing project, that is in the distant future.

Let’s face it, most of those advice-giving posts are written by editors. Many of them are also authors, but those posts are written by editor brains. They are most relevant to readers who are also in editor mode. Beginning writers and those in the early stages of a project need something else, something that will fire up their imaginations and make them want to sit down and pound out words, to pour a spate of words onto the page or screen that will eventually become a complete and polished piece of writing. This is a state of creative chaos.

fractal blue and green and yellow shapes suggesting tentacles

(All right, I realize that not everyone writes in this way. I’m not a pantser, but I don’t make a detailed outline or do a lot of pre-writing. Think quick sketch rather than preliminary study. So if this screed sounds alien and wrong, just ignore it.)

Here I will take a sidestep an mention research. I need to do research when I lack knowledge of something that matters in the work I’m about to write. In a first draft, I note discrete facts for later checking, but when I need basic background material on a time, place, or phenomenon, I read as much about it as I can before I start writing. I immerse myself in the information and even take detailed notes. Once I’m sure I’ve subconsciously absorbed enough, I move on to writing. Curiously, I rarely need to consult my reading notes after making them.

Writers are advised to set a work aside for a few weeks or months after the first draft is finished. This is when one makes the transition from writer brain to editor brain. Returning to the work, one is prepared to see what needs to be changed. Problems with structure, pacing, voice, and style are visible, unobscured by the feverish mist of creation.

At risk of becoming a dispenser of advice to other writers, I would suggest that reading books and articles on how to write may not be the best way to prepare for writing a work of fiction. If inspired, just write. If seeking inspiration, don’t read about story structure and darlings that must be dispatched. Instead, read the inspired writing of others, including poetry. Listen to music. Observe nature. Eavesdrop on conversations in public. Notice patterns and coincidences. Fire up your imagination, not your inner editor, and write like no one’s watching.

fractal gold flower black and glowing blue background

Does anyone else relate to this view of the writing process? Do you use different parts of your brain for writing first drafts and for editing? Please comment!

Images from Pixabay, unless otherwise noted.

The Willful Character And The Act of Writing

I read comments by writers all the time saying their characters take over and start driving the plot of the story. With my current work in progress, I’ve become quite the plotter, making detailed outlines for each section of the work before I start writing. So imagine my surprise when the pen in my hand started writing a scene that was definitely not in the outline! What’s more, it was an unplanned sex scene.

Once it was written, I had to admit that scene actually worked, but the whole thing got me thinking about the willful character. Maybe it’s a form of “automatic writing,” not in the supernatural sense, but the result of tapping into subconscious impulses while in a state of receptiveness induced by the act of writing. (Hey, that’s not bad, considering I made it up on the spot).

The best fictional characters are like real people, complete with flaws, quirks and contradictory impulses. Some writers develop their characters before they actually start writing the novel. Physical features, musical and food preferences, hobbies, education — a complete curriculum vitae. I’m not that kind of writer. I have a hazy vision of my primary characters, that becomes clearer as I write. There seems to be a department in my brain called Character Development, that trots out details about each major character when needed. Sometimes it throws me a surprise.

One of the best parts of the writing process is when this automatic thing kicks in and the words pour out effortlessly. Sometimes it feels as though I’m just copying stuff dictated to me by a disembodied brain. It’s probably my brain. Or some kind of collective unconscious, a well of ideas available to all who yield themselves to the writing urge. That’s where our characters come from, finding their way in response to tentative images in our writing brains.

Characters manifest their characteristics, prompting a kind of negotiation with the author. “Okay, that’s fine — you can do this, but not that. And definitely not the other thing.” But cut them some slack. Willful characters aren’t a problem, but a sign that the writer’s imagination is engaged beyond the scope of the outline, tapping into a realm of mystery. And that’s good.

Sitting down to write, giving yourself up to whatever you are creating, is like going down an unexplored trail. You just don’t know what you might meet around the corner, even if you have a map. Whether you outline your plot in detail before you start, or write by the seat of your pants, you must be prepared for the unexpected.

The first stage of creating a work of fiction — the first draft — isn’t the place to worry about rules, or getting every detail right. At this stage, the writer’s imagination needs to be cranking out stuff, producing raw material to be refined later. That’s why I still write my first drafts — or maybe they’re better called “proto-drafts” — in longhand. Actually, “longhand” seems too fancy a term for my cursive scribble on the borderline of legibility.

The thing is, at this stage you don’t want to read over what you’ve written and polish it. You want to forge ahead, beating out the rough shape of your story, bumps, holes and all. Don’t look back! For me, stark black words on the bright white screen are just too intimidating. I really doubt I would have written that sudden sex scene if I’d been using my laptop. But I scribbled it down, and when I typed it up a few days later, the critical, analytical part of my brain said, “Well, okaaay, I guess it works.”

As for my work in progress — the first draft is almost done! Another 5,000 words or so, and I can write Finis.

And then, of course, I go back to the beginning. The crazy, creative part of my brain will take a back seat, and the critical, analytical part will get to to do its thing.

Featured image courtesy of Pixabay.

The Ultimate Spoiler

When talking about books, or writing book reviews, the spoiler is a definite no-no. Revealing plot twists or a book’s ending to those who haven’t read it spoils the experience to the point they may decide not to bother.

Plot-driven fiction is way more susceptible to spoilers than so-called “literary” fiction, which depends less on revelations than on artful use of language. It’s the difference between rushing to a destination and stopping to view the scenery along the way.

As a book’s author, I have a special relationship with the book. In a way, for me, it’s already spoiled, unless I were totally “pantsing” it — writing by feel, without any outline or plan at all. And even that applies only to the first draft. Once I start revising or rewriting, I know how it all works out.

When you think about this, it’s amazing any book at all has a tension-filled plot or a surprise ending. Knowing how the story will end makes it hard to create an atmosphere of peril for the characters. It’s too easy to slip into a relaxed tone and pace, like going to a familiar place down a well-worn path.

How does the writer create tension and suspense for the reader? By calling on the brute force of imagination, dancing around the scenes being plotted, seeing them from all sides at once. Then skewing the view, applying disguises, drawing scrims over crucial details.

Writers have to read their works like readers do, be aware of the expectations they are creating, and either fulfill them or jerk them away and deliver something totally unexpected. Even though they already know the ending.

No wonder writing — the initial act of creation — is so hard!

This is why I personally don’t favour strict outlining or detailed planning. I need to have a specific ending in mind, but I don’t really know how I’m going to get there. When I sit down to write another chapter, I have a list called Things That Must Happen, but quite often, some of them don’t, and unexpected ones do.

Having wiggle room in the plot gives my characters chances to do the opposite of what I thought they might, to try and fail before they arrive at the destinations I have in mind for them, and for me to experience a surprise or two, just like I hope my readers will.

Featured image courtesy of Pixabay.

Making Mind Movies

I’ve started writing another novel. Along with short bouts of actual writing, I’ve been reading all kinds of stuff and peering at images and maps on my computer screen. I’ve been dumping the facts, ideas and impressions harvested from books and other sources into the brain mixer and sketching out scenes.

This time I’m paying attention to the process of novel-writing, as well as the substance. Scenes are the key elements of a novel. A novel is a series of scenes, in which characters and situations are introduced and developed, leading to a climactic scene or scenes in which the situations are resolved and the characters transformed in some way.

Writing goes best for me when I envision compelling scenes — just like a good reading experience, curiously enough. I need to see the elements of my story like a movie in my mind before I can render them into words that will invoke a movie in the minds of my readers.

That’s it! That’s all there is to it!

It sounds easy. But just try it! Especially when the scenes don’t arrive ready-made from some magical studio of the imagination.

Deliberate, sustained imagining is hard. It strains the brain. Like physical exercise, it’s too easy to quit before much progress is made. There are so many elements to be created and/or assembled — the over-arching theme of the novel, the characters with all their quirks, characteristics and emotions, their actions, their thoughts, the setting, and possibly external facts and realities that must be accurate. The writer has to juggle all this stuff in the brain, and then select words to convey it — the right words, and enough of them to do the job, but not too many.

That’s to create one scene — a few thousand words at most, possibly less. Many more scenes will be sweated out to trace the entire story arc. And all those scenes will have to be put into order and glued together with suitably sticky words to make a complete first draft.

No wonder writers procrastinate and agonize, writing blog posts and looking at free images on the internet instead of buckling down and making mind movies from fleeting ideas they got in the shower.

Image courtesy of Pixabay.

Gardening is Like Writing (and vice versa)

While cleaning up the debris from a recent windstorm, I thought, “This is sort of like editing — removing elements that obscure the beauties of the garden, analogous to deleting superfluous prose that obscures the niceties of plot and character.”

So are there other similarities?

Scads of them: both are acts of creation, both involve a certain artistry, faith, hope, hard work and luck. Different types of gardens (herb, vegetable, rose and rock gardens, for example) are analogous to fiction genres such as mystery, fantasy and romance. Planning and planting a garden is very like starting to write a novel. There is an intention but the conclusion is by no means guaranteed. Bad weather and the gardener’s lack of skill can prevent a happy outcome; in writing, the same results from the writer’s lack of skill and consequent lapse in enthusiasm. The metaphors of pruning and weeding as editing are obvious.

The difference is that a garden consists of living things. A failed garden is not a barren one; it’s just taken over by opportunistic plants, a.k.a. weeds. A failed novel is just a static text file or unvisited pile of paper. (The paper may eventually turn into a kind of compost heap, but that’s another issue).

That’s the most important difference between the two, I think. A gardener works in the whirl of the natural world. Weather, bugs, birds, deer, squirrels and raccoons leave their marks. Plants grow with incredible vigor or die unexpectedly. The garden changes in ways unintended by the gardener. Out there, I know I am not working alone. In the writing room, there’s just me and my imagination. If I don’t spin something up from the black well, there is no progress. Yes, sometimes my characters have wills of their own. Sometimes dialogue writes itself. Sometimes the plot goes off in an unexpected direction. Writing in the white heat of obsession is an amazing experience. But I have to be present and willing to work, or nothing happens.

Gardening is real. There is nothing more real than dirt under the fingernails and the scent of lilies on a July evening. Virtual gardening is an impossibility; you have to get away from the screen. And writing, I’m coming to realize, is the same, for me anyway. In order to create original, long-form prose, I need hours of off-screen time, but achieving it is a lot harder than stepping out the door and picking up a spade, rake or set of clippers. I don’t know how to kindle the spark of obsession that makes writing the first priority.

Then there’s the question of success. Can a writer claim to be successful if no one reads or appreciates their work? I don’t think so. But I don’t care what anyone thinks of my garden. People do say nice things about it, and I like that, but if no one saw it or commented on it, I wouldn’t care. As long as I see beauty there at regular intervals, and healthy plants going through their annual cycles, I know I have success as a gardener. But in the absence of positive signals from others about my writing, it’s really hard to convince myself that I’m a good writer. And there is no simple way to elicit those positive signals. If you give someone a basket of vine-ripened, homegrown tomatoes, they are apt to thank you and praise your generosity. A 500 page novel, on the other hand, is a gift that demands, and does not always result in squeals of delight.

I was a gardener before I became a writer, and I will be a gardener as long as I am physically able, but I’m not sure I’ll always be a writer. The garden wins in the end.

Creators and Creations: Writers and Their Characters

Few things in writing are more thrilling than seeing the characters in your novel come alive. Instead of forging scenes with great labour out of dead material, suddenly you have real people interacting on the secret stage in your head. All you have to do is transcribe their conversations and you’ve got great dialogue. And yet — you made these beings. They are (almost) entirely in your power.

Almost, indeed. Every writer has probably created a character who has not turned out as originally envisioned. When I began writing The Friendship of Mortals, the first book of my Herbert West Trilogy, I was certain that Herbert West would be a villain rather than a hero, as he is in the original story by H.P. Lovecraft on which the book is based. He was an amoral type who used other people, both dead and alive, as experimental material. Lacking a freshly dead corpse to revivify, he made one by killing a man. How could such a person be other than a villain?

Complicating all this was my narrator, librarian Charles Milburn. To Charles, Herbert West was not uniformly black, but a multi-hued creature at once repellent and fascinating. By associating with Herbert, Charles became his friend as well as accomplice, and so presented him to the reader in an ambiguous way.

Members of my critique group have suggested that I became enamored of my version of Herbert West, sometimes making things too easy for him as a result. After some defensive huffing and puffing, I had to admit that this was so. My Herbert, like H.P. Lovecraft’s original, is slight, blond and bespectacled, but he is also well-dressed and charming — an enigmatic, possibly dangerous dude in an attractive package. I preferred to have someone like that living in my head, rather than a garden-variety grotesque geek. Coming up with a background for him that would explain his corpse-revivifying interests, and devising a more interesting end to his career than being ripped to shreds by his own monstrous creations necessitated three books.

How did this happen? How did a fictitious character who began as amoral, perhaps evil, turn out to be almost (but not quite) the opposite? I blame Charles Milburn and Loreena McKennit. Charles allowed himself to be charmed by Herbert into helping him with his dubious experiments. And while I was writing The Friendship of Mortals, I listened repeatedly to Loreena McKennit’s CD The Mask and the Mirror. I was especially taken with “The Dark Night of the Soul,” her arrangement of a poem by the mystic St. John of the Cross. Something of this song seeped into my writing and turned the course of the narrative and the natures of my principal characters.

This example illustrates the complexity of the relationship between an author and his or her fictitious characters. Reaching into yourself to create fictional people is a potentially powerful process. Those characters are in some way slices of yourself, shaped — perhaps distorted — by conscious and subconscious impulses not entirely under your control. That’s one of the things that makes writing so exciting, and perhaps a little dangerous.

And be careful with music when you’re writing! It has a potent effect on the brain, so it’s no wonder that it can get in there and mess with your imaginary creations.