Solve It Through Writing

Breaking Down a Simple Premise, Piece by Piece

When teaching others how to write, giving an example of our own work is the third rail. Doing so invites distraction. Instead of demonstrating the desired principle, the presentation of work itself is questioned, picked apart and criticised. The broader lesson is forgotten. This is made worse in that a sentence or even a paragraph of writing rarely stands sufficiently on its own to impress — especially if we're discussing fiction, as opposed to academic or scientific writing. It is for these reasons that creative writing teachers avoid demonstrating their work in any way, shape or form. The counter to this is that many such teachers are published authors... and that if the student wants a demonstration, the teacher's book can be purchased.

This restraint, however, has led teaching the practice into a swamp. Forced to lay out "principles" rather than hard evidence, advice has long been mired in what not to do, what isn't good writing and what techniques don't work... while the reverse is a malodourous concatenation of advice like "just write," character templates, three-act arcs and a plethora of other process-driven techniques that do not address the grounded substance of actual language, sentence-by-sentence communication and word choice. We dare not say, "choose this word," because it beckons a rush of voices telling us we're wrong, or that another word is better.

Let's take this: I used the words "malodourous concatenation." That's a dense choice; for some, it slows the momentum of the sentence. For others, it's not as smooth as saying, "troublesome mix." There are arguments that support both those positions. Yet in this instance, the agenda is to teach writers how to write. We're not teaching businesspeople how to talk to their staff; or helping teachers reach their students; or enabling a politician to resonate with a larger electorate. These situations require approaches fitting to those needs. Some would certainly include "writing to obtain a mass audience." Which means, essentially, avoid using words not found in a high school textbook.

Yet writing for a specific audience, whomever they might be, carries a similar distinction to the way we control our speech when speaking with our parent or boss, versus that of our friends or lovers. The way a doctor speaks to other doctors, or a physicist to other physicists, reflects itself in the way that writers ought to speak with other writers. I should expect that any person who wants to be a writer should know the word malodourous — unless they're new to the craft, in which case I'd expect them to get enthusiastic about looking up the word. Language is full of words that aren't used in everyday language; yet, like preons and proximal interphalangeal joints, they float like detritus in the soup of communication, waiting to be plucked out, brushed off and installed to give punch when "mix" feels overused. In learning how to write, intentionality defeats ease. Let's use all the words we have. There are never enough.

If this were an essay about correctly repairing trauma to the proximal interphalangeal joint, no doctor would disparage the text because it wasn't precise enough. This is more than evidentiary to a great many of us who puzzle and scratch our heads at cookbooks that apparently decided that word rationing was more important than clarity. Let's discuss writing without consigning ourselves to approved words. Let's not get trapped in the principle of "not giving examples" because we happen to be talking about writing instead of surgery or cake making. Let's concentrate on the subject and not our concern that we might be judged for doing so.

In an earlier article, I proposed that to design a book, we could start with a defining event — and that from that, the remaining work could be generated. The concept is this: that the book must be particularly arranged, through characters, sequences of events and motives, so that when the event occurs, it's not only plausible, but critical to the work's plot and theme. Let's do that here, but instead of discussing the sweeping concept, let's lean into a more detailed approach — not for the purpose of demonstrating "good" writing, but to address a specific order in which we solve the problem.

I think it best, in this case, not to choose a premise steeped in overt drama, as I did previously. That's not to say we shouldn't use events of violence or high fantasy, but that as a teaching tool, something ordinary would be more beneficial. We could then choose something that anyone might experience, as universality offers the best instruction. For many writers, it's hard to see that something dull could offer a good subject. For them, the humdrum is an undiscovered country. Let's pursue, therefore, the notion that a lesson is best learned when not on our own ground.

For our premise, I offer, "Dave convinces Sam not to quit her job." This seems suitably tedious. I can hear students groaning, while eyes roll with the reckoning of thunder. Looks good. Let's go with it.

As before, we could take the premise apart. Normally, as an exercise, we'd do this at least in part — deciding what their job is, why Sam wants to quit, what consequences derive from that. Dave and Sam could be astronauts. Sam could be the Prime Minister of Canada. Honestly, "job" covers a vast range of possibility, though usually we equate the word almost at once with a role that's non-career and unappetising. Assume we've given it a minute or two; we can come back to it later. For now, let's put that on a shelf. Instead, we'll focus on starting. What do we need to know, specifically, to get our first chapter off the starting block.

Take note: we're not concerned here with the first sentence. That can go hang. We don't need it, not yet. It's more important that we decide if Dave and Sam know each other when the book starts. This is yes or no: there's no right answer, either works, but it defines the give-and-take of the first chapter. Whatever else happens, the reader knows neither of these characters and that's on us to deal with their involvement as soon as possible. What is their relationship? Are they friends? Co-workers? Family members? We have to pick something. It's not going to affect the quality of the book; "quality" is defined by our ability to write, not what happens or what "relationship" they have. Measuring the book's worth on these choices is a fool's errand; they're just choices of paint we'll use to paint the book's walls. Don't stress it.

I've said this already but it bears repeating: don't set the characters against each other. It creates drama, but then the book's intent is to sustain that drama until we've sucked all the juice possible from the two characters, leaving us with the rather unpleasant task of justifying their eventual unity — usually through some overused, hollow plot device — thus ending the book with both characters merely desiccated fruit with painted smiles. Let's instead build a stronger story through having the characters support, attend and encourage each other, against forces larger than both of them. This means they must be communicative. They can't resent each other, or be in a place of competing with each other. They don't need to be close, they don't need to be lovers; but it means they must acquire some trust so that, when Dave tries to convince Sam, it's believable that he does.

This moment of being convinced to do something we don't wish to do, when we are at our lowest, can be life-defining. Many have been here. They want to go, but they fear it. They know it's best to stay, but everything about staying is awful. It's an issue that nearly every person, in every culture, of every age, regardless of wealth or personal power, copes with every day, so we have an excellent chance of the reader identifying with the climax, however "dull" it appears to be. To make the scene work, it has to have weight; and it's to this weight we must give consideration in every part of the book, including and especially beginning with the first chapter. Is that easy? No... but it's not supposed to be. It's supposed to be hard — and if it doesn't feel that way, then we're not adding all the weight that critical scene needs.

And here is the first critical decision before us, which we must comprehend before we can set word to paper. What is that "weight"? Does Sam feel it at the start of the book, or is this something she discovers when she gets the job, which ought to happen soon but perhaps not until the third or fourth chapter. Does it happen when she's promoted? Does it come when something outside the workplace occurs, and now she's forced to step up? We need to know, because how she talks to Dave in the first chapter establishes how we'll expect her to behave when the weight piles on her.

Then, Dave. Where is Dave coming from? How is it he understands her and knows what she needs to hear? How does he make her understand the consequences both of leaving and of staying? What is his job? What has he experienced? What does he have to offer Sam that makes her concession both practical and meaningful to her. These are questions we have to start answering in the first four pages after Dave's entrance. Not in their entirety, but we have to break ground on these things so that, through the book, we're always thinking, what does Dave know or understand that Sam doesn't?

All this sounds like a noose tightening, but it isn't. We can put them in any role we want, whatever we think best to sort out this problem. Our characters might be hampered by our prejudices, doubts, fears... but at the same time, their consequences, like ours, aren't actually felt. This lets us dig down inside and find things we wished we'd said, or done. It revises or restores a choice we had, a regret we can sort out for ourselves. Nothing, so far, has absolutely been decided... and we have a lot of time to conjecture, propose alternatives and discard failed efforts. If we've gone too far down the wrong road, no one knows but us; we're just sitting here alone: typing, writing, figuring it out.

What we must not do is feel, because we've made a neat outline, that we've got it all figured out. Writing is not the step-by-step ideal of surgery, nor the intrinsic method of preparing a meal. Writing is full of half-considered bad ideas that need to be identified and remorselessly cut out. It's spontaneous moments of brilliance that, at first, seem to solve all our problems — but then, on reflection, produce such headaches that we must, sadly, set the great idea aside like a beloved pet we have to give away. Writing is often a thankless, tedious chore. We do it alone, so no one ever really knows what we've surrendered or paid. There's never any sufficient applause that makes it worthwhile. And when we're done, when a half-year or more has gone by, we're sure to be told by someone that we're "dead" and that the book exists to be defined by those who had no part in making it.

Forget all that, it's the price we pay to be gods. Don't think about the work, solve the problem.