What I Assume

Today I was writing the character sketch of the last primary character in the novel I’m trying hard to finish, and found myself quoting word-for-word what is probably the most famous line in any Star Trek film:

The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

I include this trivia to evidence the fact that it’s hard to write anything without what Harold Bloom calls the anxiety of influence playing a role. For instance, nearly every time I reflect of the storyline of the early stages of my novel I say something like a little prayer: “Please let this not be like Harry Potter”, even though the two have absolutely nothing in common. Indeed, the sentiment is as much about my distaste (not, however, disrespect) for Rowling’s writing as it is about fears of attribution and appropriation. But even Rowling’s Potter series is based on everything from Star Wars to The Lord of the Rings to (perhaps most obnoxiously) Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.

Cognizant of this, I’ve decided that rather than ignore the similarities between my effort and the successful efforts of others, I need to recognize them and focus on how mine is different, or on how my telling of (parts of) the same story needs to be told in it’s own particular way. One should only write the books that can’t not be written, and so all scrutiny to similarities should be acknowledged and considered.

Nearly a year ago, at a peak of mental anxiety, I decided to cease flitting around and write an ambitious novel based on a 10-minute dream. Let me be completely candid and communicate the importance of this particular challenge: while my love of the art of good fiction contributed to my desire, the critical motivation to embark on this challenge was far more personal, centering on nightmares of high school reunions (which I won’t attend) and the fear of mortal obliteration.

I started on this project in the early autumn of 2007, and have been working on it with good regularity in the mornings before work, trudging through outlines, character sketches, chapters, and half-chapters.

But as this summer rolled in I knew I was far behind my own expectations. I was revising chapter after chapter of the first third of the novel incessantly. I knew there was something wrong.

Being an English grad and a lover of literature, I have a comfortable knowledge of how to write, what a storyline looks like, and why character development happens. I’ve read and benefited from Adam Sexton’s Master Class in Fiction Writing. But pulling off the writing of a complete novel was more of a struggle than I had expected, and I began to wonder:

• Would this be a book that I as a reader would want to read?
• Could I keep the increasingly disparate events and characters cohesive for the second and third “acts”?
• Would this novel be a book I would want to have my name on, or if I would try to disassociate myself with a tricked-out nom de plume?

It was then that I stumbled upon Randy Ingermanson’s snowflake method , which oriented me to perceive my idea as if I were a reader picking the book up off the shelf. I began by writing a single-sentence synopsis. That went well; however, at step 2 I froze: I could not write a summary of my novel in 5 cohesive sentences. There was just too much going on, and it was all over the map.

I forced myself to step back and said, OK, you have your main character, you have your scenario, you know the climax of the novel. Now write a 5 sentence summary around that, and make it intriguing.

My end result was not perfect, and it left most of my work on the first third of the novel unusable. But it is something I would want to read, and I am finally confident that I have planted the right seeds. I can now see how my summary fits into the traditional 3-act storyline that Peder Hill elaborates on in this diagram:

Very exciting.

I’m reading Nabokov’s “Ada” for the second time, and am struck by how authentically the author seems to love his characters, regardless of their flaws. To love a “round” character is to engage in an unconditional love, much like we often project upon God–a claim which, I understand, does nothing to reduce melodramatic conceptions of the author as god-like.

I’m working on a long work of fiction myself this year, and it is a frustrating and overwhelming experience. Nine days out of ten I sit down to write and must combat myself. I do not want to return to the story, do not want to smooth out the wrinkles as I go, untangle the knots that I’ve tied, or twist new rope and tie new knots for links. Part of the problem, I’m realizing, is that I may not love my characters as much as other authors do. I know them, I try to distinguish between them, I think I understand them, many of them I respect and admire, many of them I have just contempt for, and some I do feel a paternal love for, but do I love them all?

It may be that as I am only 1/3 of the way through the writing, and I am dealing with 6 protagonists and just as many antagonists, the characters have not developed enough on the pages yet to allow for a recognition of them as authentic, independent beings. And how can one love a thing of mere fiction; one can only love fictional things that represent and mean real things.

Hmm, hmm.

Joseph K and the Empty Court. Anthony Perkins in Welles’ “The Trial” (1962)

Today I attempted a translation from a passage of Kafka’s Der Prozeß, aka, The Trial that has always fascinated and confused me:

Hier konnte niemand sonst Einlaß erhalten, denn dieser Eingang war nur für dich bestimmt. Ich gehe jetzt und schließe ihn.

My translation:

No one else could receive access here, because this entrance was intended only for you. I’m now going to shut it.

This is the closing line of the parable “Before the Law” that haunts any sense of optimism the reader may hold onto throughout a reading of The Trial.  I translated this on my own for my own comfort; though I’ve read The Trial in translation probably half-a-dozen times, I only ever tackled it in German once, and I must admit I didn’t get half-way throughout.  Yet this line, and this parable, has always struck me as a curiosity.  It is presented as both the solution to the mystery of The Trial, and as simply another weighty piece of confusing misinformation.

I thought it important to use “receive access” rather than the English convention “gain access”, because throughout The Trial Joseph K is unable to “gain” anything. He is at the mercy of the system, the justices, his lawyer, his neighbors, and it is clear that his efforts, though necessary, can guarantee nothing, are incapable of genuinely earning nothing, and thus the access to the Law that he would receive must be seen as a gift, the product of an indeterminable act of benevolence.  Joseph K’s lawyer describes in Chapter 7 (David Willey translation):

…dark moments, such as
everyone has, when you think you’ve achieved nothing at all,
when it seems that the only trials to come to a good end are those
that were determined to have a good end from the start and would do
so without any help, while all the others are lost despite all the
running to and fro, all the effort, all the little, apparent
successes that gave such joy.

I also used “entrance” rather than “gate” or “door” as I’ve seen in other translations because “entrance” is, to my understanding, more correct literally, and it carries with it a connotation of one-way passage: one may enter, but it does not necessarily follow that one may leave.  This resonates with the text of The Trial, wherein Joseph K sometimes must use a different doorway than that through which he entered. And often those doors lead to places unexpected. In the Painter’s studio, for instance, the “other way out” leads not to the street, but (where else) the court: “‘It’s better if you use the other way out,’ he
said, pointing to the door behind the bed.”

Joseph K (with Paintings). Anthony Perkins in Welles’ “The Trial” (1962)

This idea of one-way doors also plays into the idea that there is no authentic self-determination available to Joseph K–just as his efforts to “gain” may or may not be fruitless (completely independent of his own efforts), Joseph K is capable of locomotion, but his range of motion is restricted, and the simple act of moving through doorways may in the end be predetermined, or controlled–subject only to the will of the powers that be; certainly not subject to the desires of the actor. As I read The Trial again I am aware that this is the greatest trouble, the largest fear that the system incurs on it’s members: independence is impossible, and self-determination is pure fantasy.  And so when with uncontestable finality the Doorkeeper states, “I’m now going to shut it.” our hearts sink, for the last possibility has now been lost, and all the remains is inertness and death; the ultimate helplessness.

Film stills from Orson Welles’s 1962 film, The Trial. Watch it online at: liketelevision.com

I’ve been resisting posting up anything on vox to friends, family, neighbors, let alone public for the last few weeks primarily because I’ve debating if there is really any significant value in posting any writings or reflections on a public blog at all. This is despite the fact that I have had a lot to post in line with my original objectives in keeping this vox account, and that is to document or publish a journal-like account of my writing efforts, and to “show off” an occasional work-in-progress.  In the last month I’ve significantly revamped my objectives in an effort to rejuvenate my interest in the novel, and though I halted work on it in favor of finishing a short story that I just had to get out (thanks to a handful of characters and events at the ITC conference in Florida last week), I plan to resume the chore of finishing it once I’ve worked through a 2nd draft of the short story.  I’ve also written two-and-a-half poems.

In writing this short story and the poems, however, I’ve had to face-off against the problem of the appearance of biographical elements in fiction.   I’m still personally taken aback at how much Fear of Truth and Fear of Being Mistaken for Truth is a detriment or obstacle to my writing fiction. Anything any writer produces is bound to bear some resemblance to one
or more aspects of his/her own life, often in the form of a character. 
Writers may choose to indulge or resist this in different situations to move the story along. 
However, engaging in mimicry of this sort becomes perilous when close friends or family read one’s work, as they may
make assumptions about themselves or the writer based on characters or
events in the story.  Often these reactions are not unfounded for the autobiographical elements suggested above.  But I’ve found as often as not that readers make assumptions about the auto/biographical nature of one’s writing regardless of it’s actual resemblance to reality.  I think of this phenomenon as akin to the psychic who
through vapid generalizations is able to convince people that s/he
truly “knows” them.  Listeners/readers hear what they want to hear, they “read into” the text, overlaying their own experiences and understanding of the world, and, to some extent, interpreting this slippery thing called language according to their personal motives and persuasions.

I have seen that for a writer, truth presented as fiction is likely to cause self-incrimination. And yet even fiction presented as fiction may be perceived by readers as merely truth presented as fiction.  This is complicated by the fact that most writers understand early on: fiction sans truth is soulless.  So I must assume that this a common writers’ dilemma.

The complexity in such a conflict, if the conflict is real and on-going, would give rationale for the recurring appearance (stereotype?) of “writer as loner”.  While I myself am naturally a loner, I will state that this fear of social uproar over perceived reflections of reality in my writing (either themselves or myself) does indeed push me away from them; I do not share anything I write with any family members, and nearly as few friends.  Total strangers are the best testing ground, providing both objectivity and social distance.

Though the idea came along in a nightmare that I had over a year ago, I didn’t start writing until August 07.  Nearly 6 months later, on a regiment of approx. 4 days a week (with some stops and false-starts) I’m a mere 100pp into it.  With a whopping 37 chapters fully outlined currently (I let myself add 3 more last week born of character sketches) I can say I’ve got at least another 12 months before draft 1 is done.

I look forward to that day. While the creative energy of outlining a story and it’s characters is the most liberating and pleasurable part of writing for me (maybe that’s why I keep going back to the outline to change, add, subtract, cohere, reconnect), the act of writing–you know, that 90% perspiration stuff–is a chore, mostly because every day as I swing up the lappy screen I must wrestle down my self-doubt and inhibitions. I’m really depending on the release I will experience on the day that I can say, yes, all the substance is there, your main work is done.

At this point I’m not worried about diving in for the second, third, and fourth draft (but let’s hope there’s not more than a fourth!);  I actually enjoy the work of revising and editing far more than the work of composing, and am confident that editing and revision will let me pare the superfluous descriptions and extraneous plot or character points out.  I certainly don’t want something bloated here (J. K. Rowling springs to mind), and the effect and completeness of my story does not seem to warrant significant length or depth as does, say, Moby Dick or The Lord of the Rings.

Yet I should not trick myself into thinking that the story is not big. And this is only the middle part of what my imagination is holding for these characters.  The first part is already begging to be released from the dungeon of my mind, saying I’m ready, I’m a Whole Person, I have love and pain and fear and joy and hope.  I’m can tell you about  Survival, Family, the Future, the Past. I am the raison d’etre of the story you are now writing.  But I also know it’s the part that can tear the current plot out of the mere fantastic to the realm of supernatural (admittedly a door I’m extremely wary of passing through; I abhor fantasy/sci-fi fiction, though I love the genre).  The Good Life + After London + The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn + We. And if you look hard enough, and if I let it be, there’s a little bit of War of the Worlds too.

But what am I doing right now? In this early morning hour I should be typing, but not on this pointless weblog entry–on the story.  I have to finish the first third. I have to complete the characters, I have to get the story rolling, I have to provide a reason to finish writing, and for the reader to finish reading.