The Story Germ

I've heard it said that human creativity is the greatest evidence for the existence of an omnipotent Creator.  The fact that we are imbued with the desire to craft, build, and design – not only for the benefit of others but simply for the enjoyment of aesthetic and imagination – speaks to the fact that we are likewise living works of art of a Supreme Being who created us out of benevolence and passion.  In fact, I believe we're made in His image, and the act of creating is one of the chief ways in which we actively illustrate that relationship.

Arguments for intelligent design aside, I've been trying to write something on the subject of creative writing for some time (this blog went through a number of drafts as well), but I've found that disassembling conflicted and entirely subjective thoughts on an art form can be challenging.  It was J.R.R. Tolkien who observed that “an author cannot... remain wholly unaffected by his experience, but the ways in which a story–germ uses the soil of experience are extremely complex, and attempts to define the process are at best guesses from evidence that is inadequate and ambiguous.”  Although it typically seems to be the case that most authors have no trouble talking about what they do, I believe the written work speaks for itself, and – as Tolkien wrote – the relationship between the writer and his material is infinitely complicated.  In fact, it seems impossible to truly encapsulate.

But I'm going to try anyway.

Like Tolkien said, the written work is always rooted in the author's personal experience, at least partially, but the leaves of the tree are a synthesis of that experience and unique elements of imagination and belief. However, when it comes down to the nuts and bolts of any craft, they are not nearly as comprehensive or as beautiful as the fully assembled work. Yet writing is a science: it is done through methodology, revision, extrapolation; it is comprised of devices such as metaphor, dialogue, and analogy. Just knowing the components doesn't equate to understanding how to properly assemble them, however: knowing how to write involves less a commanding grasp of writing “tricks” or possessing a broad vocabulary than a simple understanding of people.

One of my favorite authors during my early days of college was F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Looking back at The Great Gatsby  or Tender is the Night now, I've come to realize that the reason I loved reading Fitzgerald was not due to the fact that he was a phenomenal author, but that he understood people.  His works are rich character studies, not unlike Ernest Hemingway's (a contemporary of Fitzgerald) or William Faulkner's.  Each of these authors were unquestionably talented and wove intricate plots in their novels, but they understood that people like to read about people.  Human beings are infinite stories in and of themselves, more compelling than any action-packed plot.

So storytelling is a synthesis of personal experience and imagination, a response to the world that is always, in some capacity, autobiographical.  However, there is another element which is an essential ingredient in the creation of the story: perception, or the interaction of the audience.  In other words, a story is woven cooperatively through what the author has put on paper, through the imaginative and interpretive contributions of the consumer.  In “The Native Voice,” one of many essays on the subject of the Native American tradition of oral storytelling, N. Scott Momaday wrote, “Stories are true to our common experience; they are statements which concern the human condition...  Stories are not subject to the imposition of such questions as true or false, fact or fiction.  Stories are realities lived and believed.  They are true.”  This is not just Kiowa tradition which Momaday is addressing: he is speaking in absolutes.  Storytelling, written or otherwise, is a “common experience” which requires contributions from both author and reader.  A great representation of this principle is Thomas King's Green Grass, Running Water, a novel which shows the concurrent nature of history and present and the fluid concept of which story is the “right” story.  Furthermore, the novel is more concerned with how the story is told and less what information it contains.

I think the majority of modern westernized writing lacks this principle.  Issues with flat characters and action–driven plots aside,  authors today are far more concerned with prose than impression.  I'm not suggesting that we shouldn't write well or shouldn't transcribe thrilling plots, but I think the question that authors need to answer when they're writing is why – why am I writing this?  Am I simply attempting to entertain, or am I writing something with meaning?

All this being said, I think I can boil down my philosophy on writing into three general rules which have tremendously impacted the way my writing takes shape – fictional or otherwise.

Rule #1

It is my firm belief that good writing necessarily involves the reader's participation.  In other words, simply transcribing a good story is not enough.  Writing in such a manner which teases the imagination with suggestions and implications instead of flat demonstratives allows for the co–creation of a meaningful piece of writing.  Tying up all the proverbial loose ends is counter–productive, but leaving the reader with speculations invites that active participation in the storytelling which creates Momaday's “common experience.”  Just as it takes imagination to write a story, so it takes imagination to read and interpret them.  This doesn't mean deliberately leaving holes in your story, but rather “leaving clues” – implying instead of eradicating all shadows of doubt.  A well–written story where the telling is all one way is less memorable than one which invites interpretation.

Rule #2

This one is lifted from all textbooks on writing theory, but it is truly a cornerstone of effective writing: show, don't tell.  For example, if an intricate backstory is essential to understanding the introduction of a new character, then the essential information must be woven into dialogue, flashback, or introspective musing in such a way that it isn't obvious to the reader what you are trying to do.  Dumping a lot of history into a chapter just so the reader can understand the character the way you do is much less effective than letting the reader wonder and watch the backstory unfold with the plot.  The best stories are those in which the plot and the character's growth become essentially synonymous: in other words, character development should be tied directly to subsequent occurrences, not necessarily as a result of them.  In this way, there should always be more than one story occurring simultaneously throughout the course of a novel or a short story – the story of the character(s) and the story of the plot.

Rule #3

A story suffers from too much detail in the same way it can shrivel from a lack thereof.  Less can definitely be more, and while this doesn't necessarily equate to ambiguity, I'd rather err on the side of concealing than revealing.  It is always best for the author to know more about his or her characters and plot than the reader.  Not only does this encourage readers to participate in fleshing out the characters, but it also allows them to insert themselves into the guise of these fictional people, filling in the gaps with themselves.  This challenges their thinking not only about the characters but also themselves when the plot forces the characters to make unexpected decisions.  Stories are “realities lived and believed,” after all.

So that's my philosophy on what I do.  It's a fluid concept, certainly, and bound to evolve as I pursue more publication in the future.  The story germ interacts uniquely with the soil of experience, after all, and as I grow as a person, I'll inevitably grow as an author simultaneously.  It's almost like living two lives.

Hey, that might make a good story...