I was reading The Return of the King this morning and I came upon a passage that I believe demonstrates a key narrative strategy if not pioneered at least put to good work by J.R.R. Tolkien, namely, the act of suturing together two distinct narrative scales: the epic and the mundane. Consider the passage. Pippin is conversing with a guard of Minis Tirith, Beregond, and he's complaining about his serving duties to Denethor, Steward of Gondor:
"I have kicked my heels at the door of my master's chamber for many slow hours, while he has debated with Gandalf and the Prince and other great persons. And I'm not used, Master Beregond, to waiting hungry on other while they eat. It is a sore trial for a hobbit, that. No doubt you will think I should feel the honour more deeply. But what is the good of such honour? Indeed what is the good even of food and drink under this creeping shadow?" (89, Ballantine Trade Paperback).
I love this image of Pippin standing off as Denethor absently eats a spread of delicious food amid an important conversation with Gandalf. I imagine a look of sincere frustration on the poor hobbit's face.
We have here two separate worlds brought together through the experience of the hobbit: (1) the epic world of politics and cities and dark lords and armies being debated by Denethor and Gandalf, and (2) the quotidian world of food and drink and boredom experienced by Pippin. We have here two scales brought in contact with each other: the global-political and the local-experiential. Denethor and Gandalf are concerned with politics and the logistics of fighting a war; Pippin is concerned with grabbing an ale and some food. But both Gandalf/Denthor and Pippin are reacting to the same historical situation, the coming of the great war of the ring.
This juxtaposition of multiple narrative scales in the same scene makes, I think, Tolkien's portrayal of the experience of war--in spite of it being fantastical--somewhat realistic. In reading these novels, you're not simply dwelling on the level of the epic, a narrative mode that somewhat cruelly relates the death of thousands and political backs and forths with scant a comment. You also get to connect with the participants in the war on the level of their personal experiences. For example, the reader is introduced to Beregond's son in the previous chapter. He is not simply one of the many guards of Minis Tirith who die in the approaching seige.
To put it simply: Tolkien uses the mundane perspective of the hobbits looking onto great things, important meetings, in order to "humanize" the experience of the war of the ring, to scale it down to an accessible level for his reader.
Showing posts with label narrative theory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label narrative theory. Show all posts
Friday, December 7, 2012
Saturday, April 21, 2012
The "Humane" Narrative Pacing of George R.R. Martin's *A Game of Thrones*
Biographical aside: I finished my writing my dissertation prospectus, had it approved by my advisory committee, and then I circulated my approved document to my department. And so, that means I'm pretty much "go for launch" as far as my dissertation is concerned. This feels really good.
To celebrate, I allowed myself to fully indulge in a long fantasy novel, George R.R. Martin's, A Game of Thrones. I've been spending about 2 or 3 hours a day reading this monster. And, in spite of that, I'm still only about two thirds of the way through it. The slow pace by which I'm moving through A Game of Thrones has given me pause. Thus, I want to reflect this morning on "narrative pacing" in the "contemporary" fantasy novel (i.e. mid-1990s to today).
Fast and Slow Narrative Pacing
What do I mean by "narrative pacing"? I mean, the speed by which the narrative of the novel is related. Better to just give some examples of what I'm thinking: a fantasy novel with fast narrative pacing would have lots of crisis events very quickly. For example, in the first 3 pages there might be a fight; or the villain might make an appearance; or the major psychological conflict of the protagonist might be related. A fantasy novel with slow narrative pacing would have very few crisis events in the opening pages. Lots of time would be spent on characterization, the description of environment, the establishment of ambiance.
This distinction between slow narrative pacing and fast narrative pacing is very simplistic and I'm not suggesting we can easily fold any book into this framework. It is useful, I think, to consider how quickly a story is told. To do so throws into focus something very interesting George R.R. Martin does.
I'm not done with the novel yet, but I can tell you this: its narrative pace is very, very slow. The predominant narrative mode of the story is what I like to call the "cafe scene," by which I mean a scene that consists of a lot of folks talking about what's happening, very often over beverages (tea, ale, coffee, etc.) Indeed, the vast majority of the plot in A Game of Thrones is related, I think, through dialogue among the characters. You learn who each character is, what kind of character they are, what their desires are, where they are going, etc. etc., through their spoken words, their "direct discourse" (as narrative theorists would call it). Indeed, we might think about A Game of Thrones as a collection of dialogues as opposed to traditional novel.
There's something interesting about dialog, and this is connected to temporality. Dialog unfolds in a kind of "real time." Let me explain by highlighting an extended passage. Tyrion Lannister is yelling at his nephew Joffrey for not offering condolences to Catelyn Stark:
"You get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall on your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with with them" (88, Bantam Edition)
As you read this the scene is mentally actualized in your mind in a specific temporal fashion: you're forced into the role of the "listener" of this dialog; thus, you, as reader, are forced into same temporal positon as the two folks having dialog, Joffrey and Tyrion. Let me try to make things clear by offering a contrast. You won't find this line in A Game of Thrones:
"Tyrion chastised Joffrey for 10 years. The boy grew up to hate him."
The temporal perspective here is much wider. The amount of years that are narrated are not connected to a basic human perspective. Here we've adopted a kind of "historical" stance.
Conclusion
What strikes me about A Game of Thrones is how it always seems anchored in that specific, human temporality. The events unfold--this is a strange way of putting things--in real time. We become "embedded" in the human perspectives of the characters. Martin does this very well. But, I think this is a narrative characteristic of much of the contemporary fantasy coming out now. That's why these novels are getting to be so very huge.
To celebrate, I allowed myself to fully indulge in a long fantasy novel, George R.R. Martin's, A Game of Thrones. I've been spending about 2 or 3 hours a day reading this monster. And, in spite of that, I'm still only about two thirds of the way through it. The slow pace by which I'm moving through A Game of Thrones has given me pause. Thus, I want to reflect this morning on "narrative pacing" in the "contemporary" fantasy novel (i.e. mid-1990s to today).
Fast and Slow Narrative Pacing
What do I mean by "narrative pacing"? I mean, the speed by which the narrative of the novel is related. Better to just give some examples of what I'm thinking: a fantasy novel with fast narrative pacing would have lots of crisis events very quickly. For example, in the first 3 pages there might be a fight; or the villain might make an appearance; or the major psychological conflict of the protagonist might be related. A fantasy novel with slow narrative pacing would have very few crisis events in the opening pages. Lots of time would be spent on characterization, the description of environment, the establishment of ambiance.
This distinction between slow narrative pacing and fast narrative pacing is very simplistic and I'm not suggesting we can easily fold any book into this framework. It is useful, I think, to consider how quickly a story is told. To do so throws into focus something very interesting George R.R. Martin does.
I'm not done with the novel yet, but I can tell you this: its narrative pace is very, very slow. The predominant narrative mode of the story is what I like to call the "cafe scene," by which I mean a scene that consists of a lot of folks talking about what's happening, very often over beverages (tea, ale, coffee, etc.) Indeed, the vast majority of the plot in A Game of Thrones is related, I think, through dialogue among the characters. You learn who each character is, what kind of character they are, what their desires are, where they are going, etc. etc., through their spoken words, their "direct discourse" (as narrative theorists would call it). Indeed, we might think about A Game of Thrones as a collection of dialogues as opposed to traditional novel.
There's something interesting about dialog, and this is connected to temporality. Dialog unfolds in a kind of "real time." Let me explain by highlighting an extended passage. Tyrion Lannister is yelling at his nephew Joffrey for not offering condolences to Catelyn Stark:
"You get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall on your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with with them" (88, Bantam Edition)
As you read this the scene is mentally actualized in your mind in a specific temporal fashion: you're forced into the role of the "listener" of this dialog; thus, you, as reader, are forced into same temporal positon as the two folks having dialog, Joffrey and Tyrion. Let me try to make things clear by offering a contrast. You won't find this line in A Game of Thrones:
"Tyrion chastised Joffrey for 10 years. The boy grew up to hate him."
The temporal perspective here is much wider. The amount of years that are narrated are not connected to a basic human perspective. Here we've adopted a kind of "historical" stance.
Conclusion
What strikes me about A Game of Thrones is how it always seems anchored in that specific, human temporality. The events unfold--this is a strange way of putting things--in real time. We become "embedded" in the human perspectives of the characters. Martin does this very well. But, I think this is a narrative characteristic of much of the contemporary fantasy coming out now. That's why these novels are getting to be so very huge.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Weirding of the Writing Process: The Protagonist as a Portal (Post 2)
On Friday I started writing about the "narrative function" of the protagonist. And, after some etymological analysis, I "distilled" the characteristics of the protagonist down to three attributes:
1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.
Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.
1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?
I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1
But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.
So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.
Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).
It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.
In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.
The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?
The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.
Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.
I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.
Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.
1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.
Afterwards, I brought these attributes to question.
1) Does the idea of a "main" character necessarily entail a certain narrative structure (can you tell a story where there isn't a main character?).
2) Do all protagonist have to move toward conflict? Can there be a protagonist who resists conflict?
3) Can you have a protagonist that repulses the audience or that cannot be identified with?
I explore these questions in more detail in my previous post. Here is a link if you're interested: Post 1
But in this post I'd like to offer an alternative definition of a protagonist, a different way of thinking about protagonists.
So, protagonist's have been traditionally defined this way: the main character who approaches the conflict of the narrative who the audience identifies with and who opposes the antagonist, the villain.
Hmm...let's modify this for specifically weird narratives (i.e. science fiction, fantasy, supernatural horror).
It seems to me, speaking strictly in terms of weird fiction, this definition structurally isolates the way the reader accesses your imaginary world. Let me explain.
In fantasy, you often have a secondary world; in science fiction, you often have a world of the future; in supernatural horror, you often have a world where supernatural terrors do indeed exist. In other worlds, you have in this narrative types a distinct "alternative aesthetic space" where the rules are different.
The problem that weird writer needs to solve is, how, precisely, do I get my reader into this world?
The protagonist seems to be the key narrative tool for doing this.
Let me offer an example. Let's consider an example everyone knows, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings. In The Lord of the Rings the protagonists, if you will--traditionally defined as, say, Frodo, is that access point into middle earth. He is a kind of modern character who lives in a cozy, civilized society who then branches out and explores the dangerous fantasy world.
I don't have much time to explore this idea fully here. In Post 3 I'll explore the following idea: the protagonist as a portal.
Is it useful to think of protagonists as portals to other worlds? We shall see.
Friday, February 24, 2012
The Weirding of the Writing Process: Examining the Narrative Function of the Protagonist (Post 1)
Looking back through my February posts I realize I've written very little on the writing of science fiction, fantasy, and supernatural horror. In large part, this is because the time I have to devote to creative has really went down. Why? I'm been working on my dissertation prospectus and so, I haven't had time for creative writing (I don't count the transcription of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants, as creative writing. I'm just mechanically transcribing it at this point. No editing. No revision.). Sure, I've been getting some flash fiction writing in. But the two flashes I wrote this month have been in "realistic" genres. I wrote a literary fiction titled, "Lift," and a hardboiled detective fiction, "I Met Her Seven Times."
Well, this morning I sent out the most recent draft of my dissertation prospectus. And so, I imagine I'm going to have more time to write creatively over the next couple of days as I wait for my adviser's input.
***
This post I want to ask a question about protagonists. More specifically, I want to meditate on the relationship between readers and the protagonist of a narrative. What kind of a relationship should a reader have with a protagonist? Let's back up: what is a protagonist?
I can feel it. This is going to be a "two parter." This post will set up the problem. Tomorrow I'll try to respond to it.
Anyhow, once again, what is a protagonist? Lord Wikipedia defines "protagonist" this way:
A protagonist (from the Greek πρωταγωνιστής protagonistes, "one who plays the first part, chief actor") is the main character (the central or primary personal figure) of a literary, theatrical, cinematic, or musical narrative, whom ends up in conflict because of the antagonist and with whom the audience is intended to most identify.
So, according to this definition, that protagonist manifests a few characteristics:
1) They are the main character.
2) They end up in conflict.
3) The audience identifies with them.
Hmm..
I find this intriguing. Let me say a little about each characteristic.
1) They are the main character. This implies that there is a "hierarchy of importance" in a cast of characters depicted by a narrative. In other words, this definition implies that there are characters in a narrative who are more important than other characters. Is this always the case? It's a hunch of mine that is has been the case for many narratives since the emergence of "novelistic" narratives or "realistic" narratives. But there are certain types of narratives that do not incorporate a "hierarchy of importance" among their cast of characters. I'm thinking of an epic like The Iliad.
Yes, Achilles and Agamemnon are important characters in this narrative. And yet, are they the main characters? Are they more important than, say, Hector? Priam? Odysseus? etc. etc.. I'm not suggesting there is no "hierarchy of importance" in terms of the cast of characters that are depicted by the narrative of The Illiad. I do want to suggest, however, something about an intensity of this "hierarchy of importance."
Let me put this hunch simply: in an epic like The Iliad, there are many, many characters, and they are all important. In more recent, novelistic narratives, there is a demand for a "main" character. Modern readers prefer to know who is important and who is not important. This might be changing.
2) They end up in conflict. This implies that the protagonist has to struggle with something, usually an antagonist. They have a desire or a problem that comes upon them. Can you have a protagonist who doesn't experience a crisis? Who just sits and enjoys themselves? Tea? Reading? Maybe. I don't think this would make a very interesting story. But, I can imagine a narrative where the protagonist experiences no conflict. Perhaps this would originate a conflict in itself. Perhaps for the narrative to begin the protagonist needs to seek out conflict.
This reminds me of a stem in protagonist. Agon. Agon is Greek for "a comepetition" or "a contest." It's connected to our English work agony, which means, "extreme and generally prolonged pain; intense physical or mental suffering" (dictionary.com). Pro + agon means "towards the contest." With the meaning of our English word taken into consideration, we can understand "protagonist" to mean, that person who goes forward, faces, and courts, physical and mental suffering. Hmm...
3) The audience identifies with them. Identifies. What does this mean? One definition of to identify (the one I think this particular usage is referring to) is, "to consider (oneself) as similar to another" (dictionary.com). Hmm... So, the audience of a specific narrative should consider themselves similar to the protagonist? I'm not sure about this. I've read a lot of thrilling narratives where the "main character" or "protagonist," if you will, have been repellent to me. I'm thinking of something like Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita. In terms of fantasy, Michael Moorcock's Elric of Melniboné is a borderline villain. I rarely identify with him. I'm definitely nothing like him. And yet, he's still a great protagonist.
There's much more to be said about protagonists. This post is a first step. And yet, this focused analysis of the concept of a protagonist has raised some interesting questions for me.
Should my readers identify with my characters?
Should all of my stories have a main character?
What is the relationship between main characters and conflict?
In part 2 of this analysis of protagonists, which I aim to write on tomorrow, I will explore this more fully.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Isaac Asimov's "The Last Question": The Potential of Science Fiction Narration
One of my favorite Isaac Asimov short stories is "The Last Question," published in 1956 in the pulp science fiction magazine Science Fiction Quarterly. At just under 4500 words, it tells the story of the fate of humanity, the cosmic intelligence humanity creates, and the entire life and death of the universe.
Think about it: 4500 words and the entire story of the cosmos is related to you. This is truly astounding, a word etymologically linked to the latin extonare (which means to be struck with lightning). It not only "makes you think," but it blows up your mind, if you will.
Some summary: the story opens and some computer engineers are celebrating together because they have just built a supercomputer that has been able to solve all of humanity's problems. Economic scarcity, political differences, production, everything: all these crises have been solved by the computer called Multivac.
In spite of their happiness, however, they start thinking about the far future. In conformity with scientific law, they hypothesize, the universe will and has to end entropically. It will simply fade away. This is the famous problem of entropy that shows up throughout a lot of the science fiction of the 1960s and 70s and onward.
In spite of their happiness, these engineers can't stop dwelling on the fact that they have just saved a world that will necessarily be destroyed. In fact, destruction, according to their hypothesis, is a physical certainty.
And so they ask their computer a question: "How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?" In other words, how do we stop the universe from being destroyed. The computer's answer. Five words: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER. The story proceeds and more and more computers are made throughout the many eras of the universe until, finally--can't help but spoil it--an answer is found for this question.
There's a lot going on in this story. I want to highlight two elements I find interesting.
First element: this story paints an interesting picture about humanity's relationship with technology. In large part, technology is painted as a kind of savior of humanity. Without giving away the end of the story, the computers continue to grow and human interactions with computers become more and more intimate; eventually, computers and humanity are inextricably bound together in a kind of "erotic" union. This is the story of human's merging with computers and technology, a story told over and over in science fiction in the form of cyborgs, androids, intelligent machines, etc..
Second element: we have in this story a powerful demonstration of the potential of science fiction narration. Incorporating the mythology of science into its narrative logic, science fiction texts are able to represent not only the human world--which is somewhat limited (in space, in time--a city, a nation, a planet)--but the entire cosmos. Let me be clear: there are no pychologically nuanced characters in this story. Human beings, in this narrative, are less individuals and more a flowing force of energy, like the molocules of water in a river; nevertheless, this sort of macro-perspective is something science fiction really does well.
If you haven't read this Isaac Asimov's, "The Last Question," it's available online for free. Here's the link: "The Last Question."
Think about it: 4500 words and the entire story of the cosmos is related to you. This is truly astounding, a word etymologically linked to the latin extonare (which means to be struck with lightning). It not only "makes you think," but it blows up your mind, if you will.
Some summary: the story opens and some computer engineers are celebrating together because they have just built a supercomputer that has been able to solve all of humanity's problems. Economic scarcity, political differences, production, everything: all these crises have been solved by the computer called Multivac.
In spite of their happiness, however, they start thinking about the far future. In conformity with scientific law, they hypothesize, the universe will and has to end entropically. It will simply fade away. This is the famous problem of entropy that shows up throughout a lot of the science fiction of the 1960s and 70s and onward.
In spite of their happiness, these engineers can't stop dwelling on the fact that they have just saved a world that will necessarily be destroyed. In fact, destruction, according to their hypothesis, is a physical certainty.
And so they ask their computer a question: "How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?" In other words, how do we stop the universe from being destroyed. The computer's answer. Five words: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER. The story proceeds and more and more computers are made throughout the many eras of the universe until, finally--can't help but spoil it--an answer is found for this question.
There's a lot going on in this story. I want to highlight two elements I find interesting.
First element: this story paints an interesting picture about humanity's relationship with technology. In large part, technology is painted as a kind of savior of humanity. Without giving away the end of the story, the computers continue to grow and human interactions with computers become more and more intimate; eventually, computers and humanity are inextricably bound together in a kind of "erotic" union. This is the story of human's merging with computers and technology, a story told over and over in science fiction in the form of cyborgs, androids, intelligent machines, etc..
Second element: we have in this story a powerful demonstration of the potential of science fiction narration. Incorporating the mythology of science into its narrative logic, science fiction texts are able to represent not only the human world--which is somewhat limited (in space, in time--a city, a nation, a planet)--but the entire cosmos. Let me be clear: there are no pychologically nuanced characters in this story. Human beings, in this narrative, are less individuals and more a flowing force of energy, like the molocules of water in a river; nevertheless, this sort of macro-perspective is something science fiction really does well.
If you haven't read this Isaac Asimov's, "The Last Question," it's available online for free. Here's the link: "The Last Question."
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Weird History of the Novel (Part 5): *The Hobbit* and the Juxtaposition of "Epic" and "Realistic" Narrative Modes
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| Tolkien's illustration of "the Lonely mountain" |
Here's my thesis put simply. I'll back up my claims below. The Hobbit represents an important moment in the history of the novel because it combines two types of narrative: (1) the realistic mode and (2) the epic mode. Let me explain what I mean by this.
We started the class with Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. This novel is often cited as "the first novel," and it represents a new kind of narrative for a variety of reasons. To make my case I need to list some of its characteristics.
Main Characteristics of the "Realist Novel"
(1) The characters featured aren't aristocrats (lords, ladies, knights, warlocks, etc.); rather, they are middle class men of business.
(2) The narrator spends time describing the micro-details of the fictional world. Lots of time in Robinson Crusoe is spent on details like what Robinson eats, how he gets his food, what kind of shelter he builds, what he wears, etc.. We take it for granted now that this level of detail is treated by novels.
(3) The narrator spends time on "psychological introspection." Robinson often reflects on his life, where he has been, what kind of person he is, and how he should change. Also, he undergoes some changes.
(4) There are no mythical elements. No dragons. No wizards. No ghosts.
Let's compare these elements to the other kind of narrative I think The Hobbit incorporates.
General Characteristics of the "Epic or Romance"
(As an example, let's think of, say, Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur)
(1) Characters are aristocrats and royalty.
(2) The narrator does not spend time on micro-details of life and dwells, rather, on "globally significant things" like political alliances, personality conflicts, love affairs, and hatreds.
(3) The characters are not psychologically introspective and therefore appear psychologically flat. They do not undergo any apparent changes. Crisis rises from the interaction between static personality traits.
(4) There are indeed mythical elements: magical knights, fairies, wizards, giants, magical items.
***
The innovation of The Hobbit is that it combines these elements together. It strikes both an "epic" and "realist" tone. Let me highlight a few ways that it does this.
(1) Bilbo isn't an aristocrat. He's a middle-class fella, a kind of gentleman akin to Robinson; and yet, he interacts with epic characters like Elrond, Beorn, the Goblin King, the King of the Eagles, the King of the Elves, Bard Bowman. Bilbo is a normal fella. And yet he rubs shoulders with the "shakers and movers" of the world who usually populate epic narratives.
(2) The narrator spends time on micro-details, like how Bag End is built; indeed, pages and pages will be given over to meditations on what, say, the Elvish King's hall looks like; and yet--in spite of this slow narrative pace, entire battles can be glossed in a paragraph; epic battles with dragons can be related in a few sentences. We have both narrative registers: the focus on the surface-texture of the world characteristic of novels. And, we have epic narrative pacing--Esgaroth is destroyed in a paragraph; the battle of five armies is related in a few pages. And so forth.
(3) There are characters who undergo changes in this novel and there are characters who stay the same. Beorn, the Elf-King, Bard Bowman, the Master of Laketown, the Goblin King--these guys don't change. They are who they are. Bilbo and Thorin, the dwarves and Gandalf--they are psychologically complex in a way only modern "novelistic" characters can be: inconsistent, self-questioning, surprising, evolving.
(4) In The Hobbit you get meditations on both the quotidian and the epic. There are long descriptions of how many coat pegs Bilbo has; there are passages relating what he eats and his genealogy. AND! And there are passages portraying fights with giant spiders, goblin armies, encounters with strange unknown monsters (i.e. Gollum), dragons, wizards, wargs!
In sum, we have in J.R.R. Tolkien's novel an important moment in the history of the novel because he brings together two separate narrative modes: the realist and the epic.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Jim Henson's *The Storyteller*: "The Soldier and Death" and the Pleasure of Narrative Pacing
So, last night we had some friends over for wine and board games. It was a 5 player game and I bowed out, being a host. And so, while everyone played, I sat on the couch and began to aimlessly wander through Netflix's offerings. In the course of these wanderings, I came to watch one of my favorite "film fantasys" of all time, an episode from Jim Henson's 1988 "live-action/puppet" television show, The Storyteller. The episode I watched was called, "The Solider and Death."If you haven't seen Jim Henson's The Storyteller before, I highly recommend it to you. Here's the concept of the show: each episode takes an obscure, European folktale and relates it through live acting and puppets. There are German folk tales, Russian folk tales, and Celtic folktales. And they are all done, I think, quite well.
The one that has stuck with me the most is "The Soldier and Death," episode 5 of the first season. It stars Bob Peck as the soldier. It relates such a multifaceted and swirling plot that it's very difficult to summarize. Suffice it to say, it's about a miracle worker who, in spite of his humble beginnings, comes to capture death.
There are all sorts of reasons why this is such a good production. Let me try to highlight a few.
In terms of cinematography, this episode (and other ones) is "formally" and "technically" creative. It doesn't just rely upon scene to tell a story. It's utilizes many different "narrative modes". For example, the story isn't told primarily through showing the action of the events. Sometimes the plot is related through the spoken dialog of "the Storyteller" (played by John Hurt). Hurt's acting and storytelling abilities make the folktale thrill almost as much as the puppets and the effects. And the narrative pace is diversified. Sometimes you get slow-paced "scene" and detailed sets; other times you get "summary" and two-dimensional, abstract sets.
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| Devil puppets |
Put briefly, this story is great because of its ability to master narrative pace. All in all, "The Soldier and Death" doesn't last any longer than 25 minutes; and yet, in the course of those 25 minutes, you see the main character going from a humble, homeless soldier to a miracle worker, to a kind of epic hero who visits both hell and heaven. You have in these 25 minutes enough material, I think, for a series of novels, but the treatment is such that, after the 25 minutes, you feel like you've truly been taken somewhere.
Another element of this production I love: the puppets. As a little kid, these demon puppets haunted me. After watching this, I had an entire series of nightmares, featuring these little red, be-horned fellas. When I would wake up in the middle of the night, I would imagine that if I looked out my window I would see a similar cabal of demons smiling and chortling there.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
C.L. Moore's "Dust of Gods": Materiality, Spirituality, and "Anti-Science" Fiction
This morning I read the story, "Dust of Gods," by C.L. Moore. Because I may be studying her for my dissertation, I thought I'd share some thoughts with you regarding this story.
Who is C.L. Moore? She's a wonderful pulp writer who published in (in addition to other places) Weird Tales. Her most important contribution, I'm inclined to believe, is to the "sword and sorcery" sub-genre of fantasy. Her character of Jirel of Joiry is one of the earliest female sword and sorcery characters and is a precursor, I think, to such strong feminine warriors as... hmm... Molly the Razor Girl in Neuromancer, Xena the Warrior Princess, and, say, Kara Thrace (i.e. "Starbuck") from Battlestar Galactica. If you haven't heard of her or read her work, "Dust of Gods" might be a good story to start with; however, it doesn't feature Jirel, who, I think, is her most famous creation.
What is "Dust of Gods" about? The narrative is a traditional "infiltrate a forbidden dungeon/underworld" narrative. This is an old time narrative, with many, many precedents in the Western literary tradition: Gilgamesh's search for Utnapishtim in the land beyond; Odysseus's decent into the underworld; Aeneas's descent into the underworld; Dante's descent into hell; and onward to, I'd suggest, more recent "dungeon crawls" in the Dungeons and Dragons / sword and sorcery tradition.
But it's in the specific plot elements and not in the general narrative structure that this story delights.
Basic plot summary: It's about a space mercenary, Northwest Smith, who is, many have suggested, the model for Han Solo of the Star Wars universe. Smith and his sidekick, the Venusian, Yorel, have been contracted by an eccentric fellow to go and find an interesting artifact: the "dust" of some god. This eccentric man explains that, in order for the gods of other worlds to manifest into our world, they need to take "material shape." And, while these gods are immortal, their mortal/material shapes are subject to degradation. And so, the "dust" Northwest Smith and Yarol are hired to go and find it a kind of husk left over after an extradimensional god has infiltrated our world and left.
I won't spoil things by relating the interesting journey in search of the dust. Suffice it to say, it's worth a read and filled with thrills.
I do want to comment briefly on what I see as a very interesting theme that pervades this story (and C.L. Moore's fiction, in general). And this theme is the tension between the material and the spiritual, i.e. the worldly and the otherworldly.
In this story a major premise is the distinction between two separate realms of existence: the material world of mortals and the immaterial worlds of the gods. A lot of the tension grows out of the interplay between these two worlds.
It's interesting because, to a large extent, we might look upon these Northwest Smith stories as proto-science-fictional. Why so? They take place in space. There are ray guns. There are intergalactic empires. And yet--the material/empirical vision of the world science is founded on is critiqued in these stories. It's as if, according to the logic of this story, the suggestion is made that this world, the material world of the senses, is suspect. Not only is this "soft" science fiction. It's "anti-science" fiction.
I definitely need some help to make a case for this. There's a anthropological theorist of modernity, Bruno Latour, who, in his famous study We Have Never Been Modern (1991), suggests that the key to understanding the vision of the world prevalent in the modern Western world is to acknowledge its emphasis on two realms: (1) the world of the senses, the objective world of matter, and (2) the world of culture, the mind, the spiritual. According to Latour in his book, "Modern" "Western" folk distinguish between the subjective world and the objective world, a distinction, he suggests, not made by everyone else.
What attracts me to C.L. Moore's story, here, is that it seems to play with blurring the lines between these two ontological planes. The spiritual and the material get mixed up. And so, in narrative form, we have a kind of critique of a first principle of a scientific worldview. She's not writing "soft" science ficiton. She's writing "anti-science" fiction.
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| C.L. Moore (1911-1987) |
What is "Dust of Gods" about? The narrative is a traditional "infiltrate a forbidden dungeon/underworld" narrative. This is an old time narrative, with many, many precedents in the Western literary tradition: Gilgamesh's search for Utnapishtim in the land beyond; Odysseus's decent into the underworld; Aeneas's descent into the underworld; Dante's descent into hell; and onward to, I'd suggest, more recent "dungeon crawls" in the Dungeons and Dragons / sword and sorcery tradition.
But it's in the specific plot elements and not in the general narrative structure that this story delights.
Basic plot summary: It's about a space mercenary, Northwest Smith, who is, many have suggested, the model for Han Solo of the Star Wars universe. Smith and his sidekick, the Venusian, Yorel, have been contracted by an eccentric fellow to go and find an interesting artifact: the "dust" of some god. This eccentric man explains that, in order for the gods of other worlds to manifest into our world, they need to take "material shape." And, while these gods are immortal, their mortal/material shapes are subject to degradation. And so, the "dust" Northwest Smith and Yarol are hired to go and find it a kind of husk left over after an extradimensional god has infiltrated our world and left.
I won't spoil things by relating the interesting journey in search of the dust. Suffice it to say, it's worth a read and filled with thrills.
I do want to comment briefly on what I see as a very interesting theme that pervades this story (and C.L. Moore's fiction, in general). And this theme is the tension between the material and the spiritual, i.e. the worldly and the otherworldly.
In this story a major premise is the distinction between two separate realms of existence: the material world of mortals and the immaterial worlds of the gods. A lot of the tension grows out of the interplay between these two worlds.
It's interesting because, to a large extent, we might look upon these Northwest Smith stories as proto-science-fictional. Why so? They take place in space. There are ray guns. There are intergalactic empires. And yet--the material/empirical vision of the world science is founded on is critiqued in these stories. It's as if, according to the logic of this story, the suggestion is made that this world, the material world of the senses, is suspect. Not only is this "soft" science fiction. It's "anti-science" fiction.
I definitely need some help to make a case for this. There's a anthropological theorist of modernity, Bruno Latour, who, in his famous study We Have Never Been Modern (1991), suggests that the key to understanding the vision of the world prevalent in the modern Western world is to acknowledge its emphasis on two realms: (1) the world of the senses, the objective world of matter, and (2) the world of culture, the mind, the spiritual. According to Latour in his book, "Modern" "Western" folk distinguish between the subjective world and the objective world, a distinction, he suggests, not made by everyone else.
What attracts me to C.L. Moore's story, here, is that it seems to play with blurring the lines between these two ontological planes. The spiritual and the material get mixed up. And so, in narrative form, we have a kind of critique of a first principle of a scientific worldview. She's not writing "soft" science ficiton. She's writing "anti-science" fiction.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Swords and Dark Magic: Garth Nix's, "A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet" and Narrative Richness
Today I’m going to continue my extended review of the anthology of Swords and Dark Magic, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders. I'm committed to working my way through this entire anthology, reviewing each story. Here is a link to previous posts in this series: An Extended Review of Swords and Dark Magic
The story I’m focusing on today is “A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet,” by Australian writer, Garth Nix.
This was my first encounter with Garth Nix, and it was a strange one.
To begin, I don’t think I would classify his story as a sword and sorcery. It was too light-hearted, playful, and comical. Consequently, it was more of a fairy-tale or a kind of parody of sword and sorcery.
Let me be clear: I don’t think comedy or playfulness shouldn't be in sword and sorcery. Of course it should. The Conan stories are tinged with dark comedy. The “Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser” stories are filled with joking and witty dialog. And yet, in both Howard and Lieber's cases, the comedy and playfulness is always juxtaposed with a dark and dangerous world.
In this Nix story there is a notable conformity, I think, between the humorous and playful tone of the characters and the world/context within which their story unfolds.
I’m wondering if a “dark, dangerous world,” is a necessary component of sword and sorcery.
In spite of its playful nature, I still found the story entertaining. Parts of it were quire amusing: the protagonist is likable enough, a wounded warrior who is otherwise infallible; and his companion, a “sorcerous puppet” named Mister Fitz, was interesting.
It’s most endearing quality for me were the glimpses of the fantasy world that came through. Let me explain by considering a brief passage. Referring to the unorganized nature and other strange idiosyncrasies of a book the protagonist is reading, the narrator states, “these might be symptomatic of the somewhat unusual end of Jerreke, a city-state which had defaulted on its debt so enormously that its entire population had to be sold into slavery” (181). Here you have a “micro-narrative” that makes the short story what I call “narratively rich,” meaning, the overarching narrative trajectory is pleasantly sidelined to encapsulate additional stories, stories not included for the sake of their narrative functionality but for their own sake, the pleasure they offer.
Another way of referring to this effect is the “Arabian Nights” effect. This is where you fold narratives within narratives, not for the sake of furthering an overarching plot but for the visceral pleasure of storytelling. Nix doesn’t quite do that here. And yet, there is a tendency to do that in this story that makes the world quite rich.
This story is a firm 3 out 5 in my view.
The story I’m focusing on today is “A Suitable Present for a Sorcerous Puppet,” by Australian writer, Garth Nix.This was my first encounter with Garth Nix, and it was a strange one.
To begin, I don’t think I would classify his story as a sword and sorcery. It was too light-hearted, playful, and comical. Consequently, it was more of a fairy-tale or a kind of parody of sword and sorcery.
Let me be clear: I don’t think comedy or playfulness shouldn't be in sword and sorcery. Of course it should. The Conan stories are tinged with dark comedy. The “Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser” stories are filled with joking and witty dialog. And yet, in both Howard and Lieber's cases, the comedy and playfulness is always juxtaposed with a dark and dangerous world.
In this Nix story there is a notable conformity, I think, between the humorous and playful tone of the characters and the world/context within which their story unfolds.
I’m wondering if a “dark, dangerous world,” is a necessary component of sword and sorcery.
In spite of its playful nature, I still found the story entertaining. Parts of it were quire amusing: the protagonist is likable enough, a wounded warrior who is otherwise infallible; and his companion, a “sorcerous puppet” named Mister Fitz, was interesting.
It’s most endearing quality for me were the glimpses of the fantasy world that came through. Let me explain by considering a brief passage. Referring to the unorganized nature and other strange idiosyncrasies of a book the protagonist is reading, the narrator states, “these might be symptomatic of the somewhat unusual end of Jerreke, a city-state which had defaulted on its debt so enormously that its entire population had to be sold into slavery” (181). Here you have a “micro-narrative” that makes the short story what I call “narratively rich,” meaning, the overarching narrative trajectory is pleasantly sidelined to encapsulate additional stories, stories not included for the sake of their narrative functionality but for their own sake, the pleasure they offer.
Another way of referring to this effect is the “Arabian Nights” effect. This is where you fold narratives within narratives, not for the sake of furthering an overarching plot but for the visceral pleasure of storytelling. Nix doesn’t quite do that here. And yet, there is a tendency to do that in this story that makes the world quite rich.
This story is a firm 3 out 5 in my view.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Swords and Dark Magic: K.J. Parker's "A Rich Full Week," and the Health Benefits of Reading Bad Fiction
The last three days in my place has been inordinately quiet. Why? My wife has been working on her qualifying exams, but they were due out this morning. And so--I just heard her trudging up the steps. Her tread seemed quite heavy. Mine would be, too, if I had minimal sleep in 72 hours.
Anyhow...
This morning I’m going to continue my series of reviews of the anthologized stories contained in, Swords and Dark Magic (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders). Proceeding in the order in which they appear, the sixth story I focus on today is titled, “A Rich Full Week,” by K.J. Parker.
Here is a link to previous posts in this series: An Extended Review of Swords and Dark Magic
Some summary: the story concerns the efforts of an unnamed priest of an nameless order (feels like a fantasy version of the Catholic church) who wanders around various “medievalish” villages doing services for folks, e.g. curing illnesses, putting to rest the restless dead. This story, as per the title, is an example of one week of his services. More specifically, it concerns his encounter with a dead person who had decided not to stay dead.
Let me just be frank and then justify my frankness: I loved this story. Three reasons.
Theme: It has all of the thematic elements that I find so intriguing about fantasy: the implications of other worlds; the subordinaton of material reality to consciousness and thought; the nature of life and death.
Protagonists: Aside from the thematic characteristics, the protagonist is great. He’s an underachieving wise-guy who obviously knows his stuff and yet, in spite of his irritation with his job, he does it quite well. I love that kind of character.
Narrative Technique: In terms of narrative technique, this story functions the way a short story should: it’s pacing is economic, and yet it doesn’t feel rushed. There are wonderful moments of pure reflection—e.g. when the narrator, staring at the earthen ceiling of the turf-roofed cottage he has been boarded in, wonders “if this what it’ll be like” (154)—and yet, these moments of reflection don’t retard the plot to the extent that the narrative grounds to a halt.
A minor flaw I perceive in this story is overarching narrative structure. There is an obvious split running down the middle of this story. There’s a micro-narrative, a pause, and a return to another micro-narrative that is connected to the initiating one. Ideally, in a short story, you want one narrative: one character, one fundamental transformation, one conflict, one story. This short fiction is like two stories that are related by a common element.
And so, I would give this story a 4.5 out of 5.
If you're interested in the ratings I've given the other stories, you can find them here.
Let me just say something about ratings like this before I proceed to a writing exercise.
I’ve been rating the stories in the anthology as I move along, a practice, to my mind, that’s kind of arbitrary; and yet—I guess it’s useful for folks who have limited reading time and want a blueprint as to which stories to read and which to skip.
I’m reluctant to rate because I think implied in the practice of rating is the idea that, if it’s bad, you shouldn’t read it. I don’t agree with this.
There’s something useful in reading structurally flawed fiction, aside from the fact that, to me, some bad writing has its own kind of beauty, i.e. it thrills in a unique way (I get this feeling reading L. Sprague de Camp, whose prose is just awful to me; and yet—I love his stuff).
I think identifying the flaws of certain specimens of fiction is just as useful for a craftsman as reading the best work. Sometimes reading “the best,” if you will, can be detrimental; if that’s all you read (and, if you’re anything like me and realize your writing needs some improvement), you paralyze yourself.
There is a separate issue here, which is, “As a writer, who do you adopt as your peers? Who are you, artistically, attempting to dialog with?” There’s a lot at stake in how you answer that question.
I’m not ready to answer that question just yet; I am, however, eager to consider the possibility that there are writers whose artistic projects have influenced mine. And so, without further ado, here is a writing exercise linked to that idea.
Writing exercise: Think of a genre writer who you love. Try not to pick an esoteric writer. Choose someone “big,” like H.P. Lovecraft of Robert E. Howard, or J.R.R. Tolkien, or H.G. Wells, or Isaac Asimov. Next, write two sentences describing, in your words, their writing style. Next, write a two sentence summary of a story they might have written. Finally, write that story in the form of a flash fiction (no more than 500 words). In writing this story, try to parody their style. Exaggerate the elements you described in their earlier description of their work.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Weirding of the Writing Process: Channeling Society's Metanarratives (Part 3: Conclusion)
The last couple of days I’ve been harping on this idea that creative writers don’t “come up” with their ideas. I want to calibrate that notion. Sure. In an intuitive sort of “pop-wisdom” way, creative writers are the source of their ideas. But we need to be very clear about how they are the source of their story ideas.
There is an old argument—I want to call it the biographical argument—that story scenarios (characters, settings, plots, etc..) derive from the biographical experiences of the storyteller. Thus, the argument goes, if I was born in an oil boom town filled with a bunch of rough folks who drank, got in fights, cussed, and spit, then my stories would be filled with characters who drank, got in fights, cussed and spit. I’m not sure I’m ready to disagree with this argument completely. I do, however, think it has some risks to it. Let me explain.
This “biographical argument” is one form of explanation for how writers are the source of their story ideas. What’s useful about the biographical argument is that it takes away agency from the writer. It alleviates the crisis that is making the demand on ourselves as artists that we create something out of nothing, out of thin air.
And yet, in spite of this boon, the “biographical argument” obfuscates the creative situation to a degree. It’s not as if the writer sets out to write his or her life (unless, course, they’re writing straight autobiography). No. The writer writes, spins yarns, and, lo!, elements from their life creep in. You write what you know.
Furthermore, the risk in this argument is that it doesn’t go “all the way” down. There are other sources of stories that aren’t just what we, as individuals, experience. And we “channel” those stories.
How do we “channel” those stories? I haven’t the slightest idea. But I’m sure we do.
I feel like a dose of the social-psychologist Carl Jung would give this revelry a little more credibility and structure (and yet—Carl Jung is a thinker and writer who has become, like Freud, a kind of jokester metaphyisician). Let me just say Carl Jung’s idea of the “collective unconscious mind,” the part of the mind that interfaces with the collective memories of the race, is an elegant metaphor for the process I’m conceptualizing here.
These stories that we channel, like spirits, are what I want to call “metanarratives”. Narrative theorists use this term in more precise way elsewhere. We’re creative writers who are interested in writing interesting stories. And so, I choose to use the term in an interesting way.
What are “metanarratives”? They are the stories that linger on, right outside of consciousness and memory, that are the source of our unstated beliefs about the most important things: honor, glory, evil, lust, justice, fear, ambition, and so forth.
Another way of putting it is this: “metanarratives” are the “deep code” of the stories we use to come to terms with being human.
I’d like to carry this “deep code” metaphor even further. In computer programming you always work with an analogue language and never binary. Why? You can’t understand binary. There is no way for a human being to understand strings of binary code. And so you manipulate that language with a more simplistic one.
I conclude this three-part series with railroady syllogism and an unanswerable question. Be careful that you don't trip on the mixed metaphors:
IF we accept that creative writers don’t “come up” with their ideas like an inventor, i.e. out of thing air…
IF we accept that they channel “metanarratives”…
IF we accept that “metanarratives” are nonsensical to us in the manner of a “deep code” or a “collective unconscious” and that, thus, we need an analogue language to access them…
THEN, the question of the hour becomes,
What is the analogue language creative writers use to access and utilize the metanarratives upon which the most intense and stirring stories told are based?
How, oh how! do we glimpse beyond this passing moment to reveal those "god-stories" that weave together paleolithic incantations by fire with the yarns printed on pulp paper?
Sunday, January 8, 2012
The Weirding of the Writing Process: Channeling Society's Metanarratives (Part 2)
I ended my post yesterday by stating that, as creative writers, we don’t come up with our own ideas. I suggested that we channel them. Today I’d like to follow that train of thought to some practical conclusions.
I won’t go over the same territory I went over in my previous post. Those who are interested can refer to part 1, posted yesterday.
There have been a slew of narrative theorists and thinkers who have offered a version of this argument: there is no such thing as a new story. A good example of someone who made a version of this argument would be the Russian folklorist, Vladimir Propp (1895-1970).
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| Vladimir Propp (1895-1970) |
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| Joseph Campbell (1904-1987) |
Why do I cite these authors in talking about that first stage of writing, invention? “Coming up” with ideas?
If you accept the more general idea that these thinkers point to, that stories are there and not created, I think it really alters the way you proceed as a creative writer.
Invention becomes less the acrobatic and awkward task of surveying the field of stories, the canon—if you will--and innovating with novelty in mind. Innovation, in the conceptual framework I’m outlining here, becomes a problem, a crisis we are unfit to master.
The task is to not innovate. The task is to look beyond the ephemeral stories of our modern moment to see the eternal ones that linger in the shadows, beneath the surface, out there.
Couldn't get it all in today. Stay tuned for part three tomorrow.
Exercise: (Step 1) Think of a story that you love. That moved you. That captures your imagination (for me this would be, say, Star Wars). Summarize it in 50 words. No more. No less. Next, look at your 50 word summary and reduce that to one sentence. Make this sentence no more than 20 words. The trick to this is dropping incidental details like characters and circumstances and foregrounding important narrative functions.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
The Weirding of the Writing Process: Channeling Society's Metanarratives (Part 1)
Beautiful weather in South Euclid. Enjoying some delicious "Blue Moon" coffee, roasted by Phoenix Coffee down the street from my place. If you ever find yourself in Cleveland, I recommend giving this place a try.
My wife is currently holed up in the Kelvin Smith Library at Case because her qualifying examinations are in less than three days. Thus, I find myself in my house with my cat, the Lump, for company.
My post today is one of two, which will be focused on the first step of the writing process.
One of the most difficult tasks that writers struggle with is coming up with ideas.
Writing theorists call this part of the writing process invention, a term they take from various Greek and Latin treatises on rhetoric. Other folks talk about this phase in the writing process as prewriting, which refers to all the thinking, note taking, or outlining you do before you begin drafting. Other folks include both invention and prewriting in their vision of the writing process; they understand invention as the cognitive processes one executes to “come up” with ideas and the prewriting phase as that time when one organizes those ideas before drafting.
There’s a problem, I think, that all of these schematics try to cover over, which anyone who has sat in front of a blank computer screen can identify. This problem is better stated as a question: where do my ideas come from?
This is where the stakes lie, where how we describe the first phase of the writing process-- invention or prewriting—starts to matter.
To use the term invention is to imply that our ideas just spring fully formed, from our unconscious, as if we’re Zeus-like gods and our story ideas are so many Athenas springing from our mind. To use the term prewriting is to dodge the question, to make the “coming up” with ideas to be less a matter of creation and more a matter of “organization.”
I’d like to propose an alternative vision of this primal and no doubt most important part in the writing process. Where do our ideas come from? In a word: society.
Let me be clear: this isn’t a very new idea, I’m just coming to it from a novel perspective, the perspective of a creative writer.
Narrative theorists have long mulled over this idea: we understand, connect to, become thrilled by stories because they conform to a specific social code, to socially entrenched metanarratives that we use to understand our place in the world, the nature of the world, morality, justice, good, evil—all of those things.
According to narrative theorists, the stories that cohere and that are effective—that are “the best,” if you will--are ones that we can follow. Big disclaimer: this is different than saying, say, that the best stories are the stories that we can anticipate. Being able to follow a story and being able to anticipate it because of unoriginality are two separate things.
But let me get back to “coming up” with story ideas. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t. Or, if we did, no one would be able to follow them.
A better verb than “to come up with” or “to invent” or “to create” to describe that weird alchemical process that produces new characters, new scenarios, new conflicts is to channel.
"Channel" comes from the old French word for a bed of water, a groove in the ground, a gutter, a pipe, etc.. We use it in fantasy writing in other contexts: to channel a spirit is to conjure it up, to create a bridge between this world and that.
Why do I think it best to describe the first phase of the writing processes metaphorically? In terms of channeling spirits?
Stay tuned for part 2 of this post, which will come tomorrow. I plan on including a writing exercise with it.
My wife is currently holed up in the Kelvin Smith Library at Case because her qualifying examinations are in less than three days. Thus, I find myself in my house with my cat, the Lump, for company.
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| The Lump on a kind of throne. I hope I don't lose readers for this. |
One of the most difficult tasks that writers struggle with is coming up with ideas.
Writing theorists call this part of the writing process invention, a term they take from various Greek and Latin treatises on rhetoric. Other folks talk about this phase in the writing process as prewriting, which refers to all the thinking, note taking, or outlining you do before you begin drafting. Other folks include both invention and prewriting in their vision of the writing process; they understand invention as the cognitive processes one executes to “come up” with ideas and the prewriting phase as that time when one organizes those ideas before drafting.
There’s a problem, I think, that all of these schematics try to cover over, which anyone who has sat in front of a blank computer screen can identify. This problem is better stated as a question: where do my ideas come from?
This is where the stakes lie, where how we describe the first phase of the writing process-- invention or prewriting—starts to matter.
To use the term invention is to imply that our ideas just spring fully formed, from our unconscious, as if we’re Zeus-like gods and our story ideas are so many Athenas springing from our mind. To use the term prewriting is to dodge the question, to make the “coming up” with ideas to be less a matter of creation and more a matter of “organization.”
I’d like to propose an alternative vision of this primal and no doubt most important part in the writing process. Where do our ideas come from? In a word: society.
Let me be clear: this isn’t a very new idea, I’m just coming to it from a novel perspective, the perspective of a creative writer.
Narrative theorists have long mulled over this idea: we understand, connect to, become thrilled by stories because they conform to a specific social code, to socially entrenched metanarratives that we use to understand our place in the world, the nature of the world, morality, justice, good, evil—all of those things.
According to narrative theorists, the stories that cohere and that are effective—that are “the best,” if you will--are ones that we can follow. Big disclaimer: this is different than saying, say, that the best stories are the stories that we can anticipate. Being able to follow a story and being able to anticipate it because of unoriginality are two separate things.
But let me get back to “coming up” with story ideas. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t. Or, if we did, no one would be able to follow them.
A better verb than “to come up with” or “to invent” or “to create” to describe that weird alchemical process that produces new characters, new scenarios, new conflicts is to channel.
"Channel" comes from the old French word for a bed of water, a groove in the ground, a gutter, a pipe, etc.. We use it in fantasy writing in other contexts: to channel a spirit is to conjure it up, to create a bridge between this world and that.
Why do I think it best to describe the first phase of the writing processes metaphorically? In terms of channeling spirits?
Stay tuned for part 2 of this post, which will come tomorrow. I plan on including a writing exercise with it.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Swords and Dark Magic: C.J. Cherryh's "A Wizard of Wiscezan" and the Narrative Capacities of Short Fiction
Today I'm continuing my extended review of the anthology, Swords and Dark Magic, edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders. I realize my posts on the individual stories have been less reviews and more "seed reflections" on each story from which spring this or that writing related train of thought. And so, as my final post in this series, I plan on doing a general review of the entire anthology. Here is a link to all the posts I've written on this anthology thus far: An Extended Review of Swords and Dark Magic
If you're coming to this series just now, you might want to check out this overall review: Review of Swords and Dark Magic on SFFWorld. Here's another on on SF Site: Review of Swords and Dark Magic on SF Site
The story I'm discussing today is C.J. Cherryh's, "A Wizard of Wiscezan."
Some summary: In the city of Wiscezan-on-Eld the Duchess has died. Her rule has been replaced by a Duke who happens to be influenced by an evil wizard. The story is the "coming into maturity tale" of an apprentice wizard who helps a stranger confront the Duke and the evil wizard.
This story seemed slightly "bloated," if you will. It felt as if the core narrative was weighed down by non-essentials. There were characters who, though interesting, didn't to serve any specific narrative function. I know what you're going to say: do characters need to serve a narrative function? Are all characters mere tools? Can't characters just be dropped into a narrative for the hell of it?
In a novel, I think, minor and incidental characters are just fine, but not in short stories. Let me explain through a brief jaunt into the history of the novel.
The first narratives that began resembling our modern novels were long affairs, episodic in nature, more akin to what we would consider a short story collection than a novel. They were the Latin novels of writers like Petronius and Apuleius. These were long narratives that were structured like this. This happened. And then, this happened. And next, this happened. And after that, this happened, and so on. In these "Latin novels," events just poured forth. Thus, the main characters had strange encounters that sometimes cohered together and other times did not.
Most of genre fiction, in terms of style, follows the lead of the 19th century novel, what we would call "realism." Unlike in Latin novels, in "realistic" novels events don't just happen or pile up. Misfortunes and fortunes don't just continually happen to characters.
In the 19th century novel and the "realistic" style derived from it, the prime aesthetic aspiration is to represent the world as it is experienced in lived life, shaded by such things as agency, lack of agency, causality, and time; accordingly, it includes characters ranging from every social level.
Characters make decisions and have decisions made for them; they are in control and sometimes unforeseen circumstances take control away from them. And due to its aspirations to represent the world accurately, "realistic" novels tends to include main characters, minor characters, and incidental characters in our lives and societies.
O.k.. Enough history of the novel. What does this have to do with C.J. Cherryh's short story, "A Wizard in Wiscezan"? Why is the short story bloated?
Well, I think this short story is trying to be a novel. How so? In order to explain, let me consider all of the characters this short story tries to include: a dead Duchess, a distant King, a usurping Duke, an adviser to the usurping duke who has possessed him with a demon spirit, a demon spirit, a good wizard, a bunch of street urchins who serve the good wizard, a boy the good wizard is training, the nephew of the dead Duchess, and so forth.
Anything notable about this list of characters? You have here, pretty much, every level of society: the King down to the street urchins.
It's not a hard and fast rule, but short stories cannot effectively dramatize all these characters; short fictions struggle to represent full societies. Sure, elements from every facet of a society are bound to infiltrate the narrative space of a short story; however, the writer has to be selective, to cordon off a "slice" of society capable of being fully explored within the narrative limits of the short fiction genre.
I'm not going to take the space here to outline what I think a short story can do better than a novel. Another post, another time.
But here is where I think "A Wizard of Wiscezan" goes wrong: it tries to immerse us in an entire world, a fully formed world. Fantasists love to do this. The novel is the perfect technology for doing this. And yet--and yet the short story isn't. With a short story, the aesthetic effect is less the "full picture" of a world, or a society, and more a fleeting glimpse--a glimpse through a keyhole rather a panoramic vista our eyes drink up.
In this story Cherryh tries to get us to see the whole world through "the keyhole of the short story genre." The result is a lot of squinting.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Swords and Dark Magic: James Enge, "The Singing Spear," and Flatness and Roundess of Characters
After a week in Portland and a week in Columbus, I find myself returned to my home, my study in Cleveland, where the drone of my room heater and the purr of my cat and the steam of my coffee fill me with joy. It's going to be a great year.
Today I'm going to continue my series on the anthology Swords and Dark Magic. Here is a link to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic: Extended Review
The fourth story is by James Enge and is titled, "The Singing Spear." It concerns the adventures of a drunkard who is also an enchanter of weapons whose name is Morlock. I won't give away the plot. Suffice it to say it is indeed sword and sorcery in tone: murder, drinking, sorcery, moral ambiguity, blood, etc..
To generalize, I loved this story. Second to the Steven Erikson, this story is my favorite. And I'd have to say this is because of the protagonist, Morlock. He's very interesting. At first he seems to be a stereotypical sword and sorcery protagonist--a brooding warrior who is out for himself, haunted by demons, drinking them away. And yet, in the course of a single swordly-and-sorcerous adventure, he surprises you with his depth, with behavior and feelings that I believe were quite surprising.
I've never read Enge's other work but this makes me very eager to seek it out and read more. Here is a link to his webpage and blog: http://jamesenge.com/
Reflecting on Morlock reminds me of an important characteristic of interesting characters, namely, their capacity to change. Narrative theorists reflect a lot on fictional characters and how they function in narratives. Often they re-hash two designations coined by E.M. Forster in his book Aspects of the Novel (1927), namely, flat characters versus round characters.
Flat characters are characters have no hidden depth or complexity; round characters do. I like to think about the distinction between flat and round characters in terms of their relationships to character types. Flat characters embrace their character type through action; round characters resist or subvert their character types through action.
First, what is a character type? It's a fully-formed character role lingering somewhere in our unconscious mind that we deploy in order to understand people. For example: I go to a bar, encounter a young man who wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, camouflage pants, and who has a shaved head. This happens to be a local bar in a rural area. Before I even meet him I make certain assumptions: he is a redneck, a hillbilly, etc..
Yes, character types are narratologist's word for stereotypes, except stereotypes are always considered negative, slightly insulting, whereas character types are considered the fundamental cognitive apparatuses by which we understand the world and the people we encounter in it.
Continuing with out example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love of the Ohio State Buckeyes, talks about his love of country music, starts telling you stories about his tractor, his rifles, how he recently bagged a few deer. If he showed up in a story, he would be a flat character.
In reality, no one really exists as a flat character. We are all complex and unique and therefore character types always fall short when used on normal people.
Let's reconsider our example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love for Debussy and country music; suppose he loves playing D&D and enjoys a good football game. Suppose, if you will, he drives a tractor but also is Jewish, is a virologists as a local university, and writes horrible poetry that he won't share with anyone. This would be a round character.
In reality, we're all round characters. And yet--and yet! in reality, we all treat each other as if we are flat characters (that is, until we get to know eachother).
The issue, for me, is character type and conformity or non-conformity to it. Flat characters conform to a character type. Round characters resist it.
Morlock, as a sword and sorcery character, is unique because he both manifests that sword and sorcery protagonist stereotype, and yet, he resists it.
Today I'm going to continue my series on the anthology Swords and Dark Magic. Here is a link to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic: Extended Review
The fourth story is by James Enge and is titled, "The Singing Spear." It concerns the adventures of a drunkard who is also an enchanter of weapons whose name is Morlock. I won't give away the plot. Suffice it to say it is indeed sword and sorcery in tone: murder, drinking, sorcery, moral ambiguity, blood, etc..
To generalize, I loved this story. Second to the Steven Erikson, this story is my favorite. And I'd have to say this is because of the protagonist, Morlock. He's very interesting. At first he seems to be a stereotypical sword and sorcery protagonist--a brooding warrior who is out for himself, haunted by demons, drinking them away. And yet, in the course of a single swordly-and-sorcerous adventure, he surprises you with his depth, with behavior and feelings that I believe were quite surprising.
I've never read Enge's other work but this makes me very eager to seek it out and read more. Here is a link to his webpage and blog: http://jamesenge.com/
Reflecting on Morlock reminds me of an important characteristic of interesting characters, namely, their capacity to change. Narrative theorists reflect a lot on fictional characters and how they function in narratives. Often they re-hash two designations coined by E.M. Forster in his book Aspects of the Novel (1927), namely, flat characters versus round characters.
Flat characters are characters have no hidden depth or complexity; round characters do. I like to think about the distinction between flat and round characters in terms of their relationships to character types. Flat characters embrace their character type through action; round characters resist or subvert their character types through action.
First, what is a character type? It's a fully-formed character role lingering somewhere in our unconscious mind that we deploy in order to understand people. For example: I go to a bar, encounter a young man who wears a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, camouflage pants, and who has a shaved head. This happens to be a local bar in a rural area. Before I even meet him I make certain assumptions: he is a redneck, a hillbilly, etc..
Yes, character types are narratologist's word for stereotypes, except stereotypes are always considered negative, slightly insulting, whereas character types are considered the fundamental cognitive apparatuses by which we understand the world and the people we encounter in it.
Continuing with out example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love of the Ohio State Buckeyes, talks about his love of country music, starts telling you stories about his tractor, his rifles, how he recently bagged a few deer. If he showed up in a story, he would be a flat character.
In reality, no one really exists as a flat character. We are all complex and unique and therefore character types always fall short when used on normal people.
Let's reconsider our example: suppose this fella, upon talking with him, professes his love for Debussy and country music; suppose he loves playing D&D and enjoys a good football game. Suppose, if you will, he drives a tractor but also is Jewish, is a virologists as a local university, and writes horrible poetry that he won't share with anyone. This would be a round character.
In reality, we're all round characters. And yet--and yet! in reality, we all treat each other as if we are flat characters (that is, until we get to know eachother).
The issue, for me, is character type and conformity or non-conformity to it. Flat characters conform to a character type. Round characters resist it.
Morlock, as a sword and sorcery character, is unique because he both manifests that sword and sorcery protagonist stereotype, and yet, he resists it.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Swords and Dark Magic: Showing versus Telling and Narrative Pace
To escape the my "cherubim" three-year-old niece who is happily terrorizing my folks house (where I'm currently lodging in the guest room), I've exiled myself to a local Starbucks to write this post.
I don't mind Starbucks. I like their brewed coffee, which is not unique but consistent. But they play their music too damn loud. *Grumble.*
Today I'm taking a break from my "Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction." I thought I'd do something more light-hearted and return my extended review of Swords and Dark Magic: the New Swords and Sorcery (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders).
Here are links to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic, an Extended Review
The third story in Swords and Dark Magic is titled "Bloodsport" and is written by Gene Wolfe. I identify Wolfe with The Fifth Head of Cerberus, and so discovering him in this anthology was somewhat of a surprise.
Though it had its moments, this story wasn't my favorite. His prose style here is just not to my taste. It felt like he was writing more in the mode of epic poetry as opposed to realist fiction, which I think is a key register for good fantasy.
The tone I think he was trying to strike was "mystical," or "lyrical." In this way his prose style suggested that of Ursula K. LeGuin in the Earthsea Trilogy. Don't get me wrong: I love Ursula K. LeGuin; but she can pull it off.
Let me try to be more specific by referring to a specific passge from the story. Here is a passage the relates the victory of the main character in the "Bloodsport."
His head struck the wretched stony soil of the black square first, and I feared a broken neck. Yet he lived, and I was mewing and moving when they bore him away. The spectators were not pleased with me, but I was pleased with myself; it is winning that matters, not slaying. (81, my emphasis)
The first two sentences show the narrative events as they happen; the third and final sentence tell us about the narrative events as they happen. The slogan, "show, don't tell," is often bandied about in creative writing classrooms, and I think it generally applies in terms of contemporary tastes in fiction.
Sometimes writers need to work against this largely accepted proverb. Writers too heedful of this risk doing nothing but showing and never telling. The consequence? Concrete narrative events can become stifled in what narrative theorists call retardation. In other words, sometimes, "The spectators were not pleased with me," is better than, say (let me try my hand at some retardation...),
"The spectators foamed at the mouth, grit their teeth, howled in rage! They were like a great tide, ebbing and flowing, crashing against the pier brake. I stood there and narrowed my eyes and turned my thoughts to their many horrible faces: chins jutted, tongues waggling, fists raised in the air defiantly like so many the bristling hairs on the nape of a slavering dog."
Wow. That was intense. And it also retards the narrative flow.
Events don't continue forward until the indulgent showing ends with some telling.
With that said, Gene Wolfe--for my tastes--did too much telling in this story and not enough showing.
Telling, I think, lends itself to specific aesthetic effects. For example, you can really intensify action with telling. The simplicity of the linguistic device really enhances it. You can also, I think, speed the narrative up. Here is some pure telling:
A boy was born. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died.
This is a pretty lame story, and yet--AND YET! it traverses the entire life of a character. The temporal range is, say, 70-80 years. And it's only telling. I could do some showing, but it would retard the plot.
A boy was born. As a newborn he never cried. He would often stare into nothingness, as if transfixed by an invisible specter. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died with that same look fixed on his face.
This story is much more interesting. Nevertheless, in terms of narrative speed, it is slower.
Writing fantasy that is heavy on the "telling side" can be done and has been done; but I think it tends to create a more "fairy tale" tone rather than a "fantasy" one. There are writers who I think can do this. Without a doubt, LeGuin pulls it off. Another comparable writer is Andre Norton. With Gene Wolf's "Bloodsport's" emphasis on a chess-like game, it resembles Andre Norton's somewhat widely know--at least by D&D enthusiasts--Quag Keep (this was, to my knowledge, the first Dungeons and Dragons novel).
I would arbitrarily give this story a 3/5 in relaton to the stories in the anthology. Let me back up and give numbers to the other ones:
Steven Erikson, "Goats of Glory": 4.5/5
Glen Cook, "Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company":2.5/5
Oh, and by the way, I recently was referred to a full review of this anthology, if you're interested. Here it is: Review of Swords and Dark Magic on SFFWorld
This is a great site with a lot of good information on it and a very friendly forum. Check it out.
Here is a relevant but brief exercise: Write a 20 word story and try not to show. Focus on core narrative details. Then write a 60 page story and do some showing, i.e. highlight some sensory details. Then write a 350 word story and show even more.
I don't mind Starbucks. I like their brewed coffee, which is not unique but consistent. But they play their music too damn loud. *Grumble.*
Today I'm taking a break from my "Aesthetic Analysis of Genre Fiction." I thought I'd do something more light-hearted and return my extended review of Swords and Dark Magic: the New Swords and Sorcery (edited by Jonathan Strahan and Lou Anders).
Here are links to the other posts: Swords and Dark Magic, an Extended Review
The third story in Swords and Dark Magic is titled "Bloodsport" and is written by Gene Wolfe. I identify Wolfe with The Fifth Head of Cerberus, and so discovering him in this anthology was somewhat of a surprise.
Though it had its moments, this story wasn't my favorite. His prose style here is just not to my taste. It felt like he was writing more in the mode of epic poetry as opposed to realist fiction, which I think is a key register for good fantasy.
The tone I think he was trying to strike was "mystical," or "lyrical." In this way his prose style suggested that of Ursula K. LeGuin in the Earthsea Trilogy. Don't get me wrong: I love Ursula K. LeGuin; but she can pull it off.
Let me try to be more specific by referring to a specific passge from the story. Here is a passage the relates the victory of the main character in the "Bloodsport."
His head struck the wretched stony soil of the black square first, and I feared a broken neck. Yet he lived, and I was mewing and moving when they bore him away. The spectators were not pleased with me, but I was pleased with myself; it is winning that matters, not slaying. (81, my emphasis)
The first two sentences show the narrative events as they happen; the third and final sentence tell us about the narrative events as they happen. The slogan, "show, don't tell," is often bandied about in creative writing classrooms, and I think it generally applies in terms of contemporary tastes in fiction.
Sometimes writers need to work against this largely accepted proverb. Writers too heedful of this risk doing nothing but showing and never telling. The consequence? Concrete narrative events can become stifled in what narrative theorists call retardation. In other words, sometimes, "The spectators were not pleased with me," is better than, say (let me try my hand at some retardation...),
"The spectators foamed at the mouth, grit their teeth, howled in rage! They were like a great tide, ebbing and flowing, crashing against the pier brake. I stood there and narrowed my eyes and turned my thoughts to their many horrible faces: chins jutted, tongues waggling, fists raised in the air defiantly like so many the bristling hairs on the nape of a slavering dog."
Wow. That was intense. And it also retards the narrative flow.
Events don't continue forward until the indulgent showing ends with some telling.
With that said, Gene Wolfe--for my tastes--did too much telling in this story and not enough showing.
Telling, I think, lends itself to specific aesthetic effects. For example, you can really intensify action with telling. The simplicity of the linguistic device really enhances it. You can also, I think, speed the narrative up. Here is some pure telling:
A boy was born. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died.
This is a pretty lame story, and yet--AND YET! it traverses the entire life of a character. The temporal range is, say, 70-80 years. And it's only telling. I could do some showing, but it would retard the plot.
A boy was born. As a newborn he never cried. He would often stare into nothingness, as if transfixed by an invisible specter. He grew up, found a career, was married, had children, and retired. He died with that same look fixed on his face.
This story is much more interesting. Nevertheless, in terms of narrative speed, it is slower.
Writing fantasy that is heavy on the "telling side" can be done and has been done; but I think it tends to create a more "fairy tale" tone rather than a "fantasy" one. There are writers who I think can do this. Without a doubt, LeGuin pulls it off. Another comparable writer is Andre Norton. With Gene Wolf's "Bloodsport's" emphasis on a chess-like game, it resembles Andre Norton's somewhat widely know--at least by D&D enthusiasts--Quag Keep (this was, to my knowledge, the first Dungeons and Dragons novel).
I would arbitrarily give this story a 3/5 in relaton to the stories in the anthology. Let me back up and give numbers to the other ones:
Steven Erikson, "Goats of Glory": 4.5/5
Glen Cook, "Tides Elba: A Tale of the Black Company":2.5/5
Oh, and by the way, I recently was referred to a full review of this anthology, if you're interested. Here it is: Review of Swords and Dark Magic on SFFWorld
This is a great site with a lot of good information on it and a very friendly forum. Check it out.
Here is a relevant but brief exercise: Write a 20 word story and try not to show. Focus on core narrative details. Then write a 60 page story and do some showing, i.e. highlight some sensory details. Then write a 350 word story and show even more.
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