Wonderful stuff, as always. I immediately opened a story I was struggling with, asking: what does this other character think about these events - truly. And I'm off and running. Might come to naught, but it was a question I hadn't asked that suddenly seems important. Hope I can make it to the Bay Area for "Home." It is my favorite story!
For me, it has everything - the dystopia of war, the fuck-up of family, rage, the failure of our culture. And finally - the only solution: Find some way to bring me back, you fuckers, or you are the sorriest bunch of bastards the world has ever known.
It makes me laugh and cry (so messy!) all at the same time.
"Home" seems to provide an example of a writer not giving the reader a major piece of information, namely the war act that damaged the psyche of the main character and got him a court martial. But as it turns out, that piece of information isn't necessary to the story. We are okay not knowing (and perhaps it's even better not to know...?). So it's a kind of writer-imposed-blur, but one that works. (Maybe that means it's NOT a WIB...) Anyway, it's an interesting choice on George's part--to leave out that basic fact from the story.
For me, the basic fact was not left out. It was - framed. Unspoken but powerfully - in the reactions of others, and the narrator himself. There's the scene with the other returnee(s), in which it is pretty plain what happened. And we know the narrator got through his "court martial" without being charged with a crime. The way it plays, for me, shows the real tragedy of our "little wars." The narrator is deeply distressed by being in the position of having had to perform acts that appall and craze him, to the point he cannot speak of them. His family is brutal with him - first thing they say to him is "did you do it?" And acting as if he would hurt his niece of nephew. Or his own kids. Did he do these heinous acts? Or witness them? Or both. He himself may not even know the answer to that. But "you sent me there, now find a way to bring me back." This is to me the tremendous tragedy of our wars. It broke my heart and my mind, and does so every time I read it.
It is true that we do not need the exact details of what happened. And it is also true that the serious nature of the acts are inferred through the reactions of others, as you write. But the facts are definitely missing. We do not know the acts committed. When he is asked "did you do it?" we can only imagine what "it" is. So, to me, this basic fact is omitted--a choice made by George when he wrote the story. We only know that something terrible happened. By leaving it up to our imagination, the acts of violence are somehow even more powerful.
Well, what would make your sister and your ex-wife terrified to have you near their children? This to me is not a missing "basic fact." There are possibilities which to my mind the character himself is not always sure of. The other returnee's story of the dog he injured - I've read the reaction to that several times. There are, in guerilla war, I think, no "basic facts." Murder and torture cover all, until mind and heart either crack or go under from it. If you didn't blow up kids, the guy next to you did. You are a part of the whole scene. Babel's stories are like this, too. We seldom see him slaughter anything, as I recall - the goose, yes. But the blood bath is over everything. To the effect, finally I could no longer read them.
I'm not sure I can relate to the ideas of crossing wires or cross-talking (I'll have to mull that more), but this I understand: "Everything in a story should be part of an organic whole." And it seems to me that the way to make everything in a story point to the heart of that story is through the process of revision. Because it is only when revising a complete draft that a writer can see what is on the page--what parts are missing, what parts need to be cut, what elements have the potential to provide more than literal meaning, etc. etc. As I've said in these threads before, when writing that draft, our subconscious sends up clues that land on the page. In revision, you seek out those clues. Some elements may have nothing to do with a story's action, but are still integral to the story's whole. As Hilary Mantel says: "I might spend a week threading an image through a story but moving the narrative not an inch." (Think of Babel's commander in his thigh-high boots and then the way this is reflected back on the reader with the closing image of women/blood/murder.) Also, I think it was david mamet who said a short story is like telling a joke. When you tell a joke, all the pieces of the joke matter. You don't include anything that isn't a part of the joke. And then, the joke ends. It's all an organic whole with every part necessary and no excess. (He said it much better than that.) This is one of the things I love best about short stories--that they add up in this way, all of the pieces working in unison.
Thanks so much for your generous response, George. Every time you clarify your process, I'm struck by how consistent it is with your writing philosophy - surprise and delight the reader (which also extends to the author as the first reader, in the hope there are other readers out there who are moved to similar surprise and delight).
Often, when I get to the part of the story where I need to start braiding the story threads established by the beginning, I start to concern myself with questions of 'how can I make this meaningful?' - how can I pull this herd of cats I've loosed upon the page into something coherent and internally consistent and powerful? And as I was reading your post, I got the sense that meaning in your stories is something that emerges organically by way of your process - i.e. it comes from the specificity of your characters and world, which allow for deeper connections when you cross the wires with the most potential for spark.
To expand on this - do you think that meaning in story is created, at its core, by creating meaningful characters? I know that sounds like a 'well, duh' question - but it comes from my experience with trying to create meaning in a story by the events of the story, where the characters are almost tools or props to get to that meaning. I wonder if by building these fleshed out, not-necessarily-oppositional but definitely divergent characters, we find the same kind of meaning in stories that we do in life?
Even as I write that, I find myself a little resistant to it - how can I trust that these interactions will create meaning, create story? So, I guess, as a follow-up question, as you're writing, do you even keep your ear out for indications of potential meaning developing in the text - or is it more that you get a sense that the developments are interesting and capable of escalation, and that is enough?
Well, I'm not sure and am feeling a little wary of answering this with too much certainty. But I do think that "meaning" arises naturally, and often surprisingly. If I think about that word too much, it shuts me down. (Because if you aim for a certain meaning...that's all you're going to get.) It occurs to me to say that I like it when the people in my story start wanting certain things - simple things, things that anyone would want. Or - they start reacting to things, in ways that make me feel, "Well, sure, that's a natural reaction."
Somehow "meaning" is located around such moments.
In "Tenth of December," the story, there's a moment where the main guy, who has gone into the woods to end his life, suddenly sees that there's a kid in trouble. That was one of those moments. And it came out of just, you know, noticing - I'd put that kid in trouble and now that man would have become aware of that. How would he react? Well, how would I? And therefore he has to change his plan. That's "plot" and there's all kinds of "meaning" in that but it was discovered by trying to be honest and natural about the cause-and-effect, I guess I'd say.
George, This makes perfect sense, at least to me it does. Meaning arises naturally, as you say, because I believe we are meaning-making machines. We can't help it. It's what we do: we look for patterns from which comes meaning (as I have learned from those better qualified). It's the calculated & the deliberately aimed that, again as you say, shuts down this otherwise natural process. That meaning can often surprise also makes sense to me & so right there makes it, almost & without ruining it, no surprise. For me, it's part of the joy & loveliness of writing. And as for where meaning might reside, I think it is, as you say, in those "moments" or events as I think of them, where awareness occurs & consideration is given to the other, as your "main guy" in the "Tenth of December" illustrates. Thanks, George---again, an insightful post which is, of course, uh, no surprise.
Thanks George. Your example of 'Tenth of December' helped me a lot, and I think helped me to understand your reluctance in answering :) I know we talk about letting meaning arise naturally, but I think (some) writers also enter a story with intentionality - they don't just want to write, they want to write about *something*. And probably something meaningful (if there is an intention to publish it).
I think Rosanne nailed it when she said we're meaning making machines - in that the thing we decide to write about is probably (if only subconsciously) something we think has inherent meaning or is capable of holding a rich vein of meaning of we mine it right.
Not sure if it right, but I get from Tenth of December, you took a moment that was ripe for meaning, and trusted it enough that you didn't try to predetermine what that meaning would be. To take it back to the crossing wires idea, it seems like you need to initially choose wires capable of carrying a decent current and a power source with enough voltage to last the distance, and from that solid starting point you choose which wires to cross to get the spark. I get the sense it's easier to trust the process well get you there if you're confident the foundational stuff is solid.
Mikhaeyla: If you don't mind, I'd like to try to speak to some of what you've brought up here. It seems to me that the events of a story in a way don't matter. What matters is who the events happen to, who has the experience of them, and how that changes or doesn't change that person. For instance, the events of a story could be that a kid goes to get a haircut. The barber shaves the kid's head, since that's what the kid asked for. The kid goes home and when the grandma who loved his hair sees him, she is upset. End of story. These events are simply not much--a kid shaves his head, a grandma is upset. A boring, nothing story with little to no meaning. BUT, what if these same events were about a kid in 1950 and the grandmother survived the holocaust where they shaved her head... now the events take on a different slant. Characters in stories are not tools to shore up the plot, unless you're writing a murder mystery or maybe a beach read where everything relies on plot. Stories that we think of as more literary rely on the singular and unique make up of its characters. What happens in a story--the events--take on meaning only because of the singular nature of the characters. The particular events of a story matter because they are the exact events that "speak to" the damaged parts of the characters.
Hi Mary. I think we're coming at our from the same angle, but maybe seeing it a little differently. I agree that characters make the story, and your example is a good one for this. But for me, the thing driving that story is the event - the haircut. And the characters are built to make that event more meaningful. But I get from George's post that meaning can come more organically from just having well drawn characters interact (ie forget the pre-planned meaningful event).
I'm guessing we approach the creation of our own stories differently. It seems you begin with an event (right?) and then you create characters who are present at that event. (Do i have that right?) i begin with a character, and then I place that character in a situation, location, moment--and something goes wrong/haywire/wrong/bad. The "wrong" thing arises because of the specific makeup of the character. So, two different ways of approaching a story, neither better than the other. As far as meaning goes, I don't think about meaning as I'm writing. If I go deep enough, and if everything in the story points to the heart of the story, then meaning will be there, on its own. I do agree with George that if you have two characters and they have been deeply created, then something meaningful will happen when those characters collide.
In replying to Mary I'm, hopefully, replying to all 'chippers-into' the thread unfolded, so far, above.
I'm drawn to Mary's use of the word 'slant' and choose to match it, if I may, with the word 'shade'. Suddenly I'm seeing what - some - Irish writers have been known to refer to as 'The Glimpse'.
"The grandeur of great short story is all a matter of the slants and shades that make it an outstanding, rather than a run of the mill race, work of art..."
Could these be the opening words of that lecture I've always known I was born to give but now have so much less likelihood of giving, given the passage of years and the fears that have precluded me starting never mind finishing writing fictions?
"That lecture, yes that lecture, I know is not the one that - regrettably - got away but, rather, the one that - inevitably - flowed away from me faster than I could get aboard my literally, metaphorically literary surfing board, and go with the fluvial story flow to carve, coddle and capture a story path that starts at its beginning and arrives at its most appropriate, albeit unexpected, ending?"
Way back George, I think, encouraged us to 'feel' rather more than 'think' such stories as we may come to write into their being. 👍 "Good call Coach" 😊
"trying to create meaning in a story by the events of the story, where the characters are almost tools or props to get to that meaning"
I know what you mean (ie I get what you're referring to ;) ), but isn't there a question about what "meaning" is? If we as writers set out to create meaning, we're at risk of climbing on a soapbox.
Can we say that meaning is not put into a story by the author's efforts, but is simply what a reader takes away from a story? In which case, the elements both the writer and the reader have at their disposal are a setting, foundational events, and characters (acting, interacting, changing, driving events, etc).
What the reader finds in the story is unlikely to be contrary to the author's mindset and viewpoint on life, but would not be the result of conscious effort.
(As someone writing long fiction of a usually didactic type, historical, I'm increasingly hoping what I'm saying here is right!) :)
Hey John. I think, for me, meaning is tied up with author intention. That intention is defined by why we write more generally (e.g. to reflect a piece of the world back, to explore a challenging /hidden/unexpected truth, to cheer someone up, to escape into wish fulfillment, to process/share an uncomfortable memory, etc), and by why we are specifically writing this story and not another. Ie. As Rosanne said, we're meaning-making machines - our choices reflect our values and intentions, even if unconsciously.
I think I articulated this better in my response to George, but I think, as writers, we can say with some intentionality, 'I am going to write a story about a man who is scared to tell his wife he wants a divorce', and sense the kind of human experience, emotion, and 'meaning' that story could explore, without needing to predetermine with precision how that deeper layer would manifest in the story, ie without forcing the story along a rigid line of predetermined meaning.
And maybe this is where the reader gets their 'input' into the meaning - e.g. they'll walk away with thoughts on messy divorces, but the nature of those thoughts will be a meld of what they've read, what life experiences and mood they've come to the story with, and how they reacted to the writer's words...
This discussion about meaning and characters and events is great. I'm reminded of what George wrote in his Paris Review interview about "bohemians" (spoilers ahead), where George says he was unsatisfied with a character's speech and then "this inner voice shot back, I'm not a liar, she is." And apparently that moment was when he realized that one of the characters in his story was not who he initially thought she was. (https://theparisreview.org/interviews/7506/the-art-of-fiction-no-245-george-saunders) So the character changed, but he already had things (events?) in mind that were not written yet. Hard to imagine the resolution of that story as it now stands without that character change.
I've read several other writers describing this moment of being "surprised by your own story," and it seems always to result in something meaningful, a dealt card that you know you should keep.
Hi, here are a few thoughts of mine, hoping to answer your question.
1. characters are so important though depending on the format (especially short ones), you may not have the luxury to build up characters. Think episodes of Seinfeld, we already know them and therefore the parallel storylines thread together at the end of each episode naturally. But if we didn't know them, certain things would not be as natural. I get that A Song of Ice and Fire/A Game of Thrones guy is trying the same thing (and I like POVs from different characters) but it is just going too verbose and without control, even with the luxury of multiple long books!
2. Physical space is an easy way to weave the storylines and characters. The Rabbit Hatch and All the Light We Cannot See are beautifully (perhaps too beautifully which actually could be a bad thing) written and weaved together.
3. There are more advanced stuff, like The Hours! (Still need to read Cloud Atlas)
4. Maybe try not to think about the story should have a meaning at all and let it be and see at the end if it does. Seinfeld is supposed to be "a show about nothing". Didn't Flaubert (or was it Maupassant) say that he wanted to write a book about nothing? I somehow remember Newland Archer quoting this in the Age of Innocence (forget if it was the book or the movie or both). It could be a totally cross-wired false memory or made up by Edith Wharton and/or Martin Scorsese. However, there's some truth in it.
What a timely post! I read somewhere that "characters don't realize things, readers do" and it has made me afraid to address a question the reader might have, or the characters for that matter, directly. The note about honesty is helpful too and the idea of WIB versus a story that leaves room for interpretation.
Yes, all the pieces need to work in unison, and it's in revision where that happens. What I most appreciate about this post is the practical suggestions -- things to try, things to think about in revision that might help make this happen. Muchas grácias.
I also appreciate Mary's notion of "seeking out clues" you dropped earlier, some of which might be images or otherwise not directly action-related.
Two paragraphs, 392 words, the narrator recalling the significance of those 'Sticks' in his growing up, siblings and a girlfriend and Mom mentioned en passant in the story, no mention of the neighbours or passers-by so nothing direct on what they thought about Dad's behaviour around key dates on the calendar, nor indeed anything direct on what was going on inside Dad's mind to sustain this pattern of predictable but ding-bat crazy actions.
I recall that George wrote, a fair number of comment threads back, that when he came to write 'Sticks' it flowed quickly from mind, down arms, and out through typing figures quite quickly onto the page. I felt back then that, because he also said he'd been driving by the place and the people that eventually sparked the story day by day for a quite some time, 'Sticks' was a story realised from a dam-burst of accreted pent-up impressions.
Reading this evening's Office Hours Newsletter I venture to say that, because it is so short, 'Sticks' helps us to see just how George - in whittling and chivvying away at the draft - really does look at all kinds of characters' POVs so that the words that make it into the final, finished draft really do carry what it takes to convey a convincing and cohesive story. Mom, I feel now just as I did when I first read 'Sticks', didn't need to be developed beyond mention of her 'passing' for us to know that she likely didn't die other than ground down by Dad's antics... of which the eponymous 'Sticks' were probably but one manifestation.
Going back to first reading George's dig-down into Chekhov's 'In the Cart' I, further, venture to say that it is the capacity to pay attention to never to be written into story details that make these two marvellous exponents of short fiction such fine story makers. "Less is more" might well have been a maxim coined by either of them, allowing that whether it is a short fiction of 400 words or 4000 there is never a case for including a single word that is not doing necessary work in moving the story forward.
Another wonderful piece, George. I've finished the story I was working on and am planning to put it up on my page this Sunday (Stories after 8). I find, as I read how you approach things, that I'm doing everything right. I mean, I'm crossing the wires, even when I don't know I am. I don't write with a plot, or make notes; I let the story flow out on its own. But I seem to remember things and am able to hook them up later in the story. It just seems to fit. Even with the end of the story, where the "bad" uncle takes the car and drives off, leaving two other characters stranded. The narrator makes a point of saying he stopped on his way out. He stopped to pick up the car keys...but then, it IS his car.
“So, part of this “crossing the wires” idea is, first, to make sure the basic facts of the story are clear to the reader. My contention is that a story never benefits from what we might call Writer-Imposed Blur (WIB). We sometimes mistake WIB for ambiguity, which is something we might want in our story (i.e., “the quality of being open to more than one interpretation”).”
Just want to say thank you for this little gem. I’m putting it in my jewel box, which is for the rare and stunning bits of writing advice that I don’t want to lose in what amounts to a pile of . . . something else. (Pocket lint, maybe?) I’ve copied and pasted and highlighted and underlined so many tips and directives and suggestions and commands that haven’t worked for me that it’s a joy to receive one that is so simple and inspiring.
What is needed/missing/overdone: yup, I need to do all that! I tend to be afraid to look "objectively" at the mess I've created, rather than go, wow, look at this mess I've created, there's got to be something that works in here.
I very recently (due to generous feedback) realised that I also try to not be obvious and end up being unclear. Because I am in my head, and know my intentions, it can be hard to notice until other people have helped me to realise it. I'm going to try to develop a more naive ability to read my worn work. Maybe it helps to leave some time between readings?
"Home" pulled me in so fast and with such force -- I didn't know such a thing was possible. It's also a story I think about all the time. It's very alive to me.
Thanks for this. I will sometimes write a brief essay or poem from the POV of even minot characters to bring more depth to their micro-interactions (and hopefully more authenticity to their behavior). The devil is in the details, and foolish repetition is the hobgoblin of lazy prose.
I gotta ask, George... what was it like to yourself fictionalized with Bob Odenkirk? I liked the advice your avatar had for the cocky young writer, though with that character I see the value in Gordon Lish's approach to be as discouraging as possible at all times
I just watched it, thought it was a lot of fun. They let me give notes on “his” lines. But that is one of the challenges of being a visiting writer - you don’t know the students. But it’s also one of the nice parts - you can just be generous. Which is how I think a teacher should always be anyway. But with one’s own students, who you know, you can be strategically generous - tough or frank when needed. But this comes out of really knowing them & their work. Hank’s flaw, in my view, is that his frustration w his own work seems to be undercutting his willingness to engage w his kids by way of offering them some real & specific advice (not just “you are mediocre”). That’s what the “me” character in the show gives that kid, and that the kid seems to appreciate.
Just curious, George, in the story 10th of December, was the impetus of the story: what if a seriously depressed guy is ready to kill himself and as he goes off into the woods to do the deed he's confronted with a goofy boy who needs saving. What does he do? Does it change him? Is that how the story grows organically from trying to answer those questions, how meaning emerges? But doesn't it also grow from your own (the Writer's) world view. In your stories what always emerges for me is this basic human goodness that pierces through, in the end, our own (the characters writ large) faults and failures and self-imposed calamities. We are "light-craving" creatures, I think I remember you saying once. I'm probably off topic here, no need to answer. I just know my own stories rise from those what-if questions, which I think rise from a deep place to understand what it's all about, why we're all here. To find the gem hidden in the mud.
It was actually like that, but a little simpler, as I recall. I heard about someone I know having received a very serious (terminal) diagnosis and my mind just instantly flashed into a "what would I do?" fantasy, and my answer was: "I'd end it before it got ugly." Just as instantly, I thought, "No, you can't do that, you have people who care about you." So, for about a year, I just had that idea: "Guy with terminal diseases goes into the woods to end his life." Then, at some point, I thought, "Well, you're going to need more than that - he can't just succeed at that - you need some force to work against his suicide." For another year or so (I was working on other things, of course) I had that idea in my mind and then one day I thought: "Ah! An angel in white comes down to save him." That idea didn't last long, as I knew it would be hard to pull off. But eventually (I don't remember whether I was working on the story when this happened or not) the angel morphed into a kid in a white jacket. But I had no idea, at first, of how the two would interact. But the thing that powered it forward, I can see now, was that initial, instantaneous, two-thought burst...
Interesting. Thanks. Funny how ideas can germinate for years before blooming. It was the first of your stories I read and was deeply moved and totally hooked.
WIB! Something I had been noticing lately but never had a name for! And I' d never before seen it addressed, either. Thank you George. I think we can all often be a bit WIBy when trying to introduce ambiguity- which isn't something that can be forced.
Wonderful stuff, as always. I immediately opened a story I was struggling with, asking: what does this other character think about these events - truly. And I'm off and running. Might come to naught, but it was a question I hadn't asked that suddenly seems important. Hope I can make it to the Bay Area for "Home." It is my favorite story!
For me, it has everything - the dystopia of war, the fuck-up of family, rage, the failure of our culture. And finally - the only solution: Find some way to bring me back, you fuckers, or you are the sorriest bunch of bastards the world has ever known.
It makes me laugh and cry (so messy!) all at the same time.
"Home" seems to provide an example of a writer not giving the reader a major piece of information, namely the war act that damaged the psyche of the main character and got him a court martial. But as it turns out, that piece of information isn't necessary to the story. We are okay not knowing (and perhaps it's even better not to know...?). So it's a kind of writer-imposed-blur, but one that works. (Maybe that means it's NOT a WIB...) Anyway, it's an interesting choice on George's part--to leave out that basic fact from the story.
For me, the basic fact was not left out. It was - framed. Unspoken but powerfully - in the reactions of others, and the narrator himself. There's the scene with the other returnee(s), in which it is pretty plain what happened. And we know the narrator got through his "court martial" without being charged with a crime. The way it plays, for me, shows the real tragedy of our "little wars." The narrator is deeply distressed by being in the position of having had to perform acts that appall and craze him, to the point he cannot speak of them. His family is brutal with him - first thing they say to him is "did you do it?" And acting as if he would hurt his niece of nephew. Or his own kids. Did he do these heinous acts? Or witness them? Or both. He himself may not even know the answer to that. But "you sent me there, now find a way to bring me back." This is to me the tremendous tragedy of our wars. It broke my heart and my mind, and does so every time I read it.
It is true that we do not need the exact details of what happened. And it is also true that the serious nature of the acts are inferred through the reactions of others, as you write. But the facts are definitely missing. We do not know the acts committed. When he is asked "did you do it?" we can only imagine what "it" is. So, to me, this basic fact is omitted--a choice made by George when he wrote the story. We only know that something terrible happened. By leaving it up to our imagination, the acts of violence are somehow even more powerful.
Well, what would make your sister and your ex-wife terrified to have you near their children? This to me is not a missing "basic fact." There are possibilities which to my mind the character himself is not always sure of. The other returnee's story of the dog he injured - I've read the reaction to that several times. There are, in guerilla war, I think, no "basic facts." Murder and torture cover all, until mind and heart either crack or go under from it. If you didn't blow up kids, the guy next to you did. You are a part of the whole scene. Babel's stories are like this, too. We seldom see him slaughter anything, as I recall - the goose, yes. But the blood bath is over everything. To the effect, finally I could no longer read them.
I'm not sure I can relate to the ideas of crossing wires or cross-talking (I'll have to mull that more), but this I understand: "Everything in a story should be part of an organic whole." And it seems to me that the way to make everything in a story point to the heart of that story is through the process of revision. Because it is only when revising a complete draft that a writer can see what is on the page--what parts are missing, what parts need to be cut, what elements have the potential to provide more than literal meaning, etc. etc. As I've said in these threads before, when writing that draft, our subconscious sends up clues that land on the page. In revision, you seek out those clues. Some elements may have nothing to do with a story's action, but are still integral to the story's whole. As Hilary Mantel says: "I might spend a week threading an image through a story but moving the narrative not an inch." (Think of Babel's commander in his thigh-high boots and then the way this is reflected back on the reader with the closing image of women/blood/murder.) Also, I think it was david mamet who said a short story is like telling a joke. When you tell a joke, all the pieces of the joke matter. You don't include anything that isn't a part of the joke. And then, the joke ends. It's all an organic whole with every part necessary and no excess. (He said it much better than that.) This is one of the things I love best about short stories--that they add up in this way, all of the pieces working in unison.
Suggestions (as I understood them) that I find immediately useful:
Avoid writer induced blur.
Look out the eyes of all the characters.
Listen to what each character has to say about what they see, hear, experience.
Imagine each character talking to or being with each of the others.
Seems straight forward and doable in my situation (revising novel).
Thanks so much for your generous response, George. Every time you clarify your process, I'm struck by how consistent it is with your writing philosophy - surprise and delight the reader (which also extends to the author as the first reader, in the hope there are other readers out there who are moved to similar surprise and delight).
Often, when I get to the part of the story where I need to start braiding the story threads established by the beginning, I start to concern myself with questions of 'how can I make this meaningful?' - how can I pull this herd of cats I've loosed upon the page into something coherent and internally consistent and powerful? And as I was reading your post, I got the sense that meaning in your stories is something that emerges organically by way of your process - i.e. it comes from the specificity of your characters and world, which allow for deeper connections when you cross the wires with the most potential for spark.
To expand on this - do you think that meaning in story is created, at its core, by creating meaningful characters? I know that sounds like a 'well, duh' question - but it comes from my experience with trying to create meaning in a story by the events of the story, where the characters are almost tools or props to get to that meaning. I wonder if by building these fleshed out, not-necessarily-oppositional but definitely divergent characters, we find the same kind of meaning in stories that we do in life?
Even as I write that, I find myself a little resistant to it - how can I trust that these interactions will create meaning, create story? So, I guess, as a follow-up question, as you're writing, do you even keep your ear out for indications of potential meaning developing in the text - or is it more that you get a sense that the developments are interesting and capable of escalation, and that is enough?
Well, I'm not sure and am feeling a little wary of answering this with too much certainty. But I do think that "meaning" arises naturally, and often surprisingly. If I think about that word too much, it shuts me down. (Because if you aim for a certain meaning...that's all you're going to get.) It occurs to me to say that I like it when the people in my story start wanting certain things - simple things, things that anyone would want. Or - they start reacting to things, in ways that make me feel, "Well, sure, that's a natural reaction."
Somehow "meaning" is located around such moments.
In "Tenth of December," the story, there's a moment where the main guy, who has gone into the woods to end his life, suddenly sees that there's a kid in trouble. That was one of those moments. And it came out of just, you know, noticing - I'd put that kid in trouble and now that man would have become aware of that. How would he react? Well, how would I? And therefore he has to change his plan. That's "plot" and there's all kinds of "meaning" in that but it was discovered by trying to be honest and natural about the cause-and-effect, I guess I'd say.
Is any of this making sense/helping?
George, This makes perfect sense, at least to me it does. Meaning arises naturally, as you say, because I believe we are meaning-making machines. We can't help it. It's what we do: we look for patterns from which comes meaning (as I have learned from those better qualified). It's the calculated & the deliberately aimed that, again as you say, shuts down this otherwise natural process. That meaning can often surprise also makes sense to me & so right there makes it, almost & without ruining it, no surprise. For me, it's part of the joy & loveliness of writing. And as for where meaning might reside, I think it is, as you say, in those "moments" or events as I think of them, where awareness occurs & consideration is given to the other, as your "main guy" in the "Tenth of December" illustrates. Thanks, George---again, an insightful post which is, of course, uh, no surprise.
Thanks George. Your example of 'Tenth of December' helped me a lot, and I think helped me to understand your reluctance in answering :) I know we talk about letting meaning arise naturally, but I think (some) writers also enter a story with intentionality - they don't just want to write, they want to write about *something*. And probably something meaningful (if there is an intention to publish it).
I think Rosanne nailed it when she said we're meaning making machines - in that the thing we decide to write about is probably (if only subconsciously) something we think has inherent meaning or is capable of holding a rich vein of meaning of we mine it right.
Not sure if it right, but I get from Tenth of December, you took a moment that was ripe for meaning, and trusted it enough that you didn't try to predetermine what that meaning would be. To take it back to the crossing wires idea, it seems like you need to initially choose wires capable of carrying a decent current and a power source with enough voltage to last the distance, and from that solid starting point you choose which wires to cross to get the spark. I get the sense it's easier to trust the process well get you there if you're confident the foundational stuff is solid.
Mikhaeyla: If you don't mind, I'd like to try to speak to some of what you've brought up here. It seems to me that the events of a story in a way don't matter. What matters is who the events happen to, who has the experience of them, and how that changes or doesn't change that person. For instance, the events of a story could be that a kid goes to get a haircut. The barber shaves the kid's head, since that's what the kid asked for. The kid goes home and when the grandma who loved his hair sees him, she is upset. End of story. These events are simply not much--a kid shaves his head, a grandma is upset. A boring, nothing story with little to no meaning. BUT, what if these same events were about a kid in 1950 and the grandmother survived the holocaust where they shaved her head... now the events take on a different slant. Characters in stories are not tools to shore up the plot, unless you're writing a murder mystery or maybe a beach read where everything relies on plot. Stories that we think of as more literary rely on the singular and unique make up of its characters. What happens in a story--the events--take on meaning only because of the singular nature of the characters. The particular events of a story matter because they are the exact events that "speak to" the damaged parts of the characters.
Hi Mary. I think we're coming at our from the same angle, but maybe seeing it a little differently. I agree that characters make the story, and your example is a good one for this. But for me, the thing driving that story is the event - the haircut. And the characters are built to make that event more meaningful. But I get from George's post that meaning can come more organically from just having well drawn characters interact (ie forget the pre-planned meaningful event).
I'm guessing we approach the creation of our own stories differently. It seems you begin with an event (right?) and then you create characters who are present at that event. (Do i have that right?) i begin with a character, and then I place that character in a situation, location, moment--and something goes wrong/haywire/wrong/bad. The "wrong" thing arises because of the specific makeup of the character. So, two different ways of approaching a story, neither better than the other. As far as meaning goes, I don't think about meaning as I'm writing. If I go deep enough, and if everything in the story points to the heart of the story, then meaning will be there, on its own. I do agree with George that if you have two characters and they have been deeply created, then something meaningful will happen when those characters collide.
In replying to Mary I'm, hopefully, replying to all 'chippers-into' the thread unfolded, so far, above.
I'm drawn to Mary's use of the word 'slant' and choose to match it, if I may, with the word 'shade'. Suddenly I'm seeing what - some - Irish writers have been known to refer to as 'The Glimpse'.
"The grandeur of great short story is all a matter of the slants and shades that make it an outstanding, rather than a run of the mill race, work of art..."
Could these be the opening words of that lecture I've always known I was born to give but now have so much less likelihood of giving, given the passage of years and the fears that have precluded me starting never mind finishing writing fictions?
"That lecture, yes that lecture, I know is not the one that - regrettably - got away but, rather, the one that - inevitably - flowed away from me faster than I could get aboard my literally, metaphorically literary surfing board, and go with the fluvial story flow to carve, coddle and capture a story path that starts at its beginning and arrives at its most appropriate, albeit unexpected, ending?"
Way back George, I think, encouraged us to 'feel' rather more than 'think' such stories as we may come to write into their being. 👍 "Good call Coach" 😊
"trying to create meaning in a story by the events of the story, where the characters are almost tools or props to get to that meaning"
I know what you mean (ie I get what you're referring to ;) ), but isn't there a question about what "meaning" is? If we as writers set out to create meaning, we're at risk of climbing on a soapbox.
Can we say that meaning is not put into a story by the author's efforts, but is simply what a reader takes away from a story? In which case, the elements both the writer and the reader have at their disposal are a setting, foundational events, and characters (acting, interacting, changing, driving events, etc).
What the reader finds in the story is unlikely to be contrary to the author's mindset and viewpoint on life, but would not be the result of conscious effort.
(As someone writing long fiction of a usually didactic type, historical, I'm increasingly hoping what I'm saying here is right!) :)
Hey John. I think, for me, meaning is tied up with author intention. That intention is defined by why we write more generally (e.g. to reflect a piece of the world back, to explore a challenging /hidden/unexpected truth, to cheer someone up, to escape into wish fulfillment, to process/share an uncomfortable memory, etc), and by why we are specifically writing this story and not another. Ie. As Rosanne said, we're meaning-making machines - our choices reflect our values and intentions, even if unconsciously.
I think I articulated this better in my response to George, but I think, as writers, we can say with some intentionality, 'I am going to write a story about a man who is scared to tell his wife he wants a divorce', and sense the kind of human experience, emotion, and 'meaning' that story could explore, without needing to predetermine with precision how that deeper layer would manifest in the story, ie without forcing the story along a rigid line of predetermined meaning.
And maybe this is where the reader gets their 'input' into the meaning - e.g. they'll walk away with thoughts on messy divorces, but the nature of those thoughts will be a meld of what they've read, what life experiences and mood they've come to the story with, and how they reacted to the writer's words...
"A character who is but a tool or prop to service or support the purported 'plot' of a story has no meaningful part to play in a meaningful story?"
Thanks John, for writing what's popped the above question into my mind.
This discussion about meaning and characters and events is great. I'm reminded of what George wrote in his Paris Review interview about "bohemians" (spoilers ahead), where George says he was unsatisfied with a character's speech and then "this inner voice shot back, I'm not a liar, she is." And apparently that moment was when he realized that one of the characters in his story was not who he initially thought she was. (https://theparisreview.org/interviews/7506/the-art-of-fiction-no-245-george-saunders) So the character changed, but he already had things (events?) in mind that were not written yet. Hard to imagine the resolution of that story as it now stands without that character change.
I've read several other writers describing this moment of being "surprised by your own story," and it seems always to result in something meaningful, a dealt card that you know you should keep.
Hi, here are a few thoughts of mine, hoping to answer your question.
1. characters are so important though depending on the format (especially short ones), you may not have the luxury to build up characters. Think episodes of Seinfeld, we already know them and therefore the parallel storylines thread together at the end of each episode naturally. But if we didn't know them, certain things would not be as natural. I get that A Song of Ice and Fire/A Game of Thrones guy is trying the same thing (and I like POVs from different characters) but it is just going too verbose and without control, even with the luxury of multiple long books!
2. Physical space is an easy way to weave the storylines and characters. The Rabbit Hatch and All the Light We Cannot See are beautifully (perhaps too beautifully which actually could be a bad thing) written and weaved together.
3. There are more advanced stuff, like The Hours! (Still need to read Cloud Atlas)
4. Maybe try not to think about the story should have a meaning at all and let it be and see at the end if it does. Seinfeld is supposed to be "a show about nothing". Didn't Flaubert (or was it Maupassant) say that he wanted to write a book about nothing? I somehow remember Newland Archer quoting this in the Age of Innocence (forget if it was the book or the movie or both). It could be a totally cross-wired false memory or made up by Edith Wharton and/or Martin Scorsese. However, there's some truth in it.
What a timely post! I read somewhere that "characters don't realize things, readers do" and it has made me afraid to address a question the reader might have, or the characters for that matter, directly. The note about honesty is helpful too and the idea of WIB versus a story that leaves room for interpretation.
Thank you, George.
Yes, all the pieces need to work in unison, and it's in revision where that happens. What I most appreciate about this post is the practical suggestions -- things to try, things to think about in revision that might help make this happen. Muchas grácias.
I also appreciate Mary's notion of "seeking out clues" you dropped earlier, some of which might be images or otherwise not directly action-related.
Two paragraphs, 392 words, the narrator recalling the significance of those 'Sticks' in his growing up, siblings and a girlfriend and Mom mentioned en passant in the story, no mention of the neighbours or passers-by so nothing direct on what they thought about Dad's behaviour around key dates on the calendar, nor indeed anything direct on what was going on inside Dad's mind to sustain this pattern of predictable but ding-bat crazy actions.
I recall that George wrote, a fair number of comment threads back, that when he came to write 'Sticks' it flowed quickly from mind, down arms, and out through typing figures quite quickly onto the page. I felt back then that, because he also said he'd been driving by the place and the people that eventually sparked the story day by day for a quite some time, 'Sticks' was a story realised from a dam-burst of accreted pent-up impressions.
Reading this evening's Office Hours Newsletter I venture to say that, because it is so short, 'Sticks' helps us to see just how George - in whittling and chivvying away at the draft - really does look at all kinds of characters' POVs so that the words that make it into the final, finished draft really do carry what it takes to convey a convincing and cohesive story. Mom, I feel now just as I did when I first read 'Sticks', didn't need to be developed beyond mention of her 'passing' for us to know that she likely didn't die other than ground down by Dad's antics... of which the eponymous 'Sticks' were probably but one manifestation.
Going back to first reading George's dig-down into Chekhov's 'In the Cart' I, further, venture to say that it is the capacity to pay attention to never to be written into story details that make these two marvellous exponents of short fiction such fine story makers. "Less is more" might well have been a maxim coined by either of them, allowing that whether it is a short fiction of 400 words or 4000 there is never a case for including a single word that is not doing necessary work in moving the story forward.
Another wonderful piece, George. I've finished the story I was working on and am planning to put it up on my page this Sunday (Stories after 8). I find, as I read how you approach things, that I'm doing everything right. I mean, I'm crossing the wires, even when I don't know I am. I don't write with a plot, or make notes; I let the story flow out on its own. But I seem to remember things and am able to hook them up later in the story. It just seems to fit. Even with the end of the story, where the "bad" uncle takes the car and drives off, leaving two other characters stranded. The narrator makes a point of saying he stopped on his way out. He stopped to pick up the car keys...but then, it IS his car.
“So, part of this “crossing the wires” idea is, first, to make sure the basic facts of the story are clear to the reader. My contention is that a story never benefits from what we might call Writer-Imposed Blur (WIB). We sometimes mistake WIB for ambiguity, which is something we might want in our story (i.e., “the quality of being open to more than one interpretation”).”
Just want to say thank you for this little gem. I’m putting it in my jewel box, which is for the rare and stunning bits of writing advice that I don’t want to lose in what amounts to a pile of . . . something else. (Pocket lint, maybe?) I’ve copied and pasted and highlighted and underlined so many tips and directives and suggestions and commands that haven’t worked for me that it’s a joy to receive one that is so simple and inspiring.
Happy Easter, George. Thanks for the Faberge egg.
What is needed/missing/overdone: yup, I need to do all that! I tend to be afraid to look "objectively" at the mess I've created, rather than go, wow, look at this mess I've created, there's got to be something that works in here.
I very recently (due to generous feedback) realised that I also try to not be obvious and end up being unclear. Because I am in my head, and know my intentions, it can be hard to notice until other people have helped me to realise it. I'm going to try to develop a more naive ability to read my worn work. Maybe it helps to leave some time between readings?
"Home" pulled me in so fast and with such force -- I didn't know such a thing was possible. It's also a story I think about all the time. It's very alive to me.
Thanks for this. I will sometimes write a brief essay or poem from the POV of even minot characters to bring more depth to their micro-interactions (and hopefully more authenticity to their behavior). The devil is in the details, and foolish repetition is the hobgoblin of lazy prose.
I gotta ask, George... what was it like to yourself fictionalized with Bob Odenkirk? I liked the advice your avatar had for the cocky young writer, though with that character I see the value in Gordon Lish's approach to be as discouraging as possible at all times
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I just watched it, thought it was a lot of fun. They let me give notes on “his” lines. But that is one of the challenges of being a visiting writer - you don’t know the students. But it’s also one of the nice parts - you can just be generous. Which is how I think a teacher should always be anyway. But with one’s own students, who you know, you can be strategically generous - tough or frank when needed. But this comes out of really knowing them & their work. Hank’s flaw, in my view, is that his frustration w his own work seems to be undercutting his willingness to engage w his kids by way of offering them some real & specific advice (not just “you are mediocre”). That’s what the “me” character in the show gives that kid, and that the kid seems to appreciate.
Just curious, George, in the story 10th of December, was the impetus of the story: what if a seriously depressed guy is ready to kill himself and as he goes off into the woods to do the deed he's confronted with a goofy boy who needs saving. What does he do? Does it change him? Is that how the story grows organically from trying to answer those questions, how meaning emerges? But doesn't it also grow from your own (the Writer's) world view. In your stories what always emerges for me is this basic human goodness that pierces through, in the end, our own (the characters writ large) faults and failures and self-imposed calamities. We are "light-craving" creatures, I think I remember you saying once. I'm probably off topic here, no need to answer. I just know my own stories rise from those what-if questions, which I think rise from a deep place to understand what it's all about, why we're all here. To find the gem hidden in the mud.
It was actually like that, but a little simpler, as I recall. I heard about someone I know having received a very serious (terminal) diagnosis and my mind just instantly flashed into a "what would I do?" fantasy, and my answer was: "I'd end it before it got ugly." Just as instantly, I thought, "No, you can't do that, you have people who care about you." So, for about a year, I just had that idea: "Guy with terminal diseases goes into the woods to end his life." Then, at some point, I thought, "Well, you're going to need more than that - he can't just succeed at that - you need some force to work against his suicide." For another year or so (I was working on other things, of course) I had that idea in my mind and then one day I thought: "Ah! An angel in white comes down to save him." That idea didn't last long, as I knew it would be hard to pull off. But eventually (I don't remember whether I was working on the story when this happened or not) the angel morphed into a kid in a white jacket. But I had no idea, at first, of how the two would interact. But the thing that powered it forward, I can see now, was that initial, instantaneous, two-thought burst...
Interesting. Thanks. Funny how ideas can germinate for years before blooming. It was the first of your stories I read and was deeply moved and totally hooked.
I just read Home for the first time. Holy beep, it blew me away.
Thanks, Joe. Bleeping generous of you. :)
WIB! Something I had been noticing lately but never had a name for! And I' d never before seen it addressed, either. Thank you George. I think we can all often be a bit WIBy when trying to introduce ambiguity- which isn't something that can be forced.