. Spinning .

I’ve spoken before on the value of feedback, and in particular provided by those of a well-established writers group.  One of the statements made at our last night’s meeting bears pointing out.

"I want to know why…"

Now this comment in our particular group of experienced readers and writers brings it to a higher level of meaning, but it still can take two directions; one good, one not-so-good. However, its highest value in either case is in the learning of reader perception above its secondary question of plot.

First, the not-so-good:  The writer may not have provided enough information to allow the reader to draw a logical and reasonable conclusion.  Something is either missing, or askew, or vague.  Further discussion and questioning will reveal the problem and this is vital for the writer to know–as he’s probably holding a piece of the puzzle behind his back (in his mind, so to speak, knowing but not realizing that this piece must be shared).  Or, he could have glossed over that "little problem" of story structure because he himself didn’t know how to fix it.  So, not-so-good, in the end is really good feedback for the story.

The good:  Could mean that the reader is into the story, cares enough to want to know what and why.  This is not a reason to take it as immediate praise however; that the story or character appealed to that point.  A closer look into the area of question should reveal if it allows the reader to write the story; if the question unanswered by the author or narrator is a logical one to be left to the perception of the reader.  Still, all circumstances and events leading up to this should entice the reader to want to know why, and enable him to come up with his own conclusion.  The writer can anticipate the question and needs to ensure that if he’s going to engage the reader’s imagination, he needs also to provide him with a trail of information that can back up the possibilities.  In other words, a reader can conclude "oh, he’s going to commit suicide" if a character sits on the sill of his fortieth-floor apartment window, but there needs to be supporting story provided prior to this point.  Mr. Happy-go-lucky wouldn’t be believable, and a reader would be truly surprised (not in a nice way) and justifiably upset if he jumped.

Always neat things to learn from discussion.  Always appreciated and pondered.

Dumb title of a post, but that’s what I mean.

For me, it begins with opening lines, needs a bit of editing, but basically the words come before the story.  I don’t think I’ve ever been able to start with a concept and sit down and start writing about it except when writing an essay or those miserable in-class exercises we were asked to do that almost everyone else in the room had no problem with doing as I struggled and shushed the teacher so I could think.  This is possibly (and hopefully) not an indication of a slow thinker, but of a learned pattern of thought process that can be overcome.

This strategy, albeit unplanned, inhibits story.  While I may say that the story flows from there, without asking and thinking about the paths the story can take, there is another part of the brain at work that stops the story from developing or opening up to possibilities.  I would liken it perhaps to repairing a stone wall with whatever materials are at hand (words) rather than building a wall, where the layers are set upon a solid foundation and can extend any level up to the sky or wander down the hill and dale and become a cohesive structure. 

In a prior post I mentioned asking Why? instead of What?  Why? is only mortar, patching together with explanation.  What? is a new pile of rocks to play with and use to their best individual advantages; the round one can lay on top but needs two flat-sided buddies to support it.  What? seeks a path, a goal; Why? is only the reason.  What? becomes the "fact" of the story, leaving the reader to his own perception, but limited to a degree by the statement.  i.e., He picked up the rock.  It’s a rock, can’t be argued with; but open to heavy, large, small, veined through with mica, etc. but that’s about all.

It’s the writer’s job to provide the What?  What happened then becomes the story in a planned narrative structure that presents the story, and then is taken as "fact."  Paz’s entity in The Wave exists, whether it be a fantasy, a metaphor, or a real globule of water.  In 100 Years of Solitude, Marquez’s Remedios the Beauty ascends into the heavens, in full view of three other women while outside folding sheets off the line.  That’s what happened, according to Gabriel Garcia Marquez.  He doesn’t tell us why.  Make of it what you will, even to the extreme of thinking Marquez’s narrator is lying. 

Why? on the other hand, need not be addressed by the writer; it is a better question for the reader.  Although the writer may ask it certainly, he needn’t answer it except to himself if he’s curious, and then, he is looking at it as a reader in that instance. Why? gives the reader full control over the story, makes it enjoyable, thought-provoking, or if shocking, shock at one’s one realization of where one’s own mind can travel.

So, Why? looks back; What? looks forward.

I think.  What the hell do I know.  I know how to write it, but I don’t know what to put down, and what to hold back and what to let out because I haven’t yet learned to ask the right questions, not of myself but of my character.  But I’m going to concentrate on method of writing, stop that flow of words so eloquently pushing themselves on the page merely to take up space.  Interesting concept to explore and put into practice.  Maybe I should e-mail myself an idea, a What? question scenario, each morning that requires a brief paragraph of answer within minutes of opening the mail or the laptop will explode.  If, that is, I can come up with the scenario. 

This could be a lot of fun.  Anything to do with writing could be; even if it’s painful, there’s pleasure that suits the true masochistic tendencies of some writers.

I should have known this, but was reminded of how to write story that extends beyond self.  In Big Tim Dawson, I have been asking the wrong question:  Why?

This leads to a lot of needless backstory and rhetoric that plumps out a piece, but is all just added calories.

What I need to do is ask:  What?

A much harder question to answer.

Again my thanks to Dan Green at The Reading Experience for calling this essay by William Gass called "The Sentence Seeks Its Form" (Bookforum, Dec/Jan) to our attention, and I am excerpting here from his own to focus on a point:

What can we do to find out how writing is written? Why, we listen to writers who have written well–wondrously well–because that self through which the sentence passes–those eyes, those ears, that nose–is made not of flesh and bone and their dinky experiences, but of pages absorbed from the masters, because that is what writing comes from: It comes from reading. It is not acquired by taking the lift to a slippery peak, by breaking up with yet another boyfriend, by being miserable from thirteen until now.

I believe what he is saying is that while we all have stories–good and interesting ones–in writing, the style and method of putting that story down is what needs to be studied by the aspiring writer.  It is not just a case of having something to say, although I thought this alone was my own problem, but to select the way of telling it, to learn the way of telling it that makes it compelling.  I know this only too well; perhaps my writing style is looked upon by some as better than average, when I verbally tell story–even if it is something truly exciting that I have firsthand knowledge of–I fail miserably to even get the point across much less make it even as interesting as it actually was. 

So how can I, and so many others, do so much better in writing it down than in verbalization?  I, of course, totally agree with Gass that you learn a good part of this through reading the best writers.  (And, as a bonus, learn to recognize good writing.)  But I think that experience as well contributes.  As a child I know I watched cartoons, some Howdy Doody and Pinkie Lee, but I also know that I didn’t watch a lot of the children’s shows that I found my schoolmates had been brought up watching, such as Mr. Rogers, and similar early prototypes of Sesame Street.  I did watch the cowboy shows, and we did watch all the old movies as were daily presented on the 5:00 p.m. The Early Show.  So I would think that what we were absorbing was more drama, language, reality of the adult world that most of my friends didn’t see. 

I realize that this excerpt is taken out of context of Gass’ full essay (I do not have access to the article), but it is an interesting concept and one that I would agree with.  We may have the most traumatic experience that would provide excellent story, but if asked to write it down and could come up with no better than "my day sucked," then it’s obvious that we just haven’t learned to describe what happened to be able to share the experience (or elaborate on it, using it as a base) and no decent story will be formed from it.