So interesting! And what a coincidence! I'm working on another novel involved with ghosts, but ghosts in the traditional Chinese fiction genre. I teach in the Boston University Writing Program as an adjunct lecturer and write Chinese historical fiction novels and short stories (www.wanderingblade.com). If you are curious about the traditional Chinese take on ghosts in fiction do take a look at two books by the wonderful Chinese literature scholar, Judith T. Zeitlin, Historian of the Strange: Pu Songling and the Chinese Classical Tale and The Phantom Heroine: Ghosts and Gender in Seventeenth-Century Chinese Literature. Also, I'm a great admirer of your take on teaching writing and have attempted to adopt some of your ideas in my writing classes...thanks! Albert
I would love to read a story with a bunny ghost mother/grandmother speaking iambic pentameter. I think for a time I was not good at workshop / writers group feedback because I tend to be up for the ride. I've gotten better over the years at feedback and also recognizing the cracks in my own work that I previously tried to fix with a bandaid or hope that readers would just get past and/or not notice (partly thanks to these discussions and ASIAPITR). I do think there's something about attitude, though, in reading and writing. When I was a waiter years ago, I remember wondering why certain people bothered going out at all when they were so clearly out to have a terrible time. Not that there aren't times that end up terrible, but why start that way? I want to approach fiction (writing and reading) with curiosity and hope that it's all going to be worth it, which can lead to disappointment, but at least that mind frame means jumping on the giant bunny for the trip--otherwise you never even find out if the fried carrots with aged tarragon are any good. I guess that's all to say, for me, if the writer jumps in head first, this reader will, too, so please go for it.
PS Thank you, George Saunders. Thank you, Maria Popova.
Part 1: As we walk through the world, our brains are constantly at work, seeking meaning, looking for patterns, deciphering messages, filling in blanks, etc. When we are thrown off a certain thought path, we automatically look for realignment. Though we are, in fact, hallucinating our world into being, we are experts at making everything okay. Reading a story, we use our brains in the same way, but with the knowledge that all of the brainwork is, basically, only for fun. Because we know that a story is not reality--that we are only there for the fun of it--we are naturally inclined, I think, to begin a story by giving it a chance. We enter in a playful manner and are willing to buy in. What this means for the writer is this: don’t blow your contract with the reader. And what is that contract? That all of the rules in this make-believe world will make sense for that world. That nothing in the writing is going to toss the brain of the reader into a deep freeze—"huh? Wha? What just happened? Wait, you can’t do that—that’s against the rules of this story!” That everything we read will allow our brains to find meaning, decipher, locate patterns, etc.--just like in real life. If a writer sticks to the rules, all will be fine. Ghosts, no ghosts, what have you. Set up the rules and stick to them.
Wonderful! This came at a perfect time for me as I'm trying to figure out the balance in my own novel between the ordinary and the fantastical. Also, for those who love Claire Keegan's story "Foster," I'll mention that it was made into a movie that came out recently called The Quiet Girl: one of the most beautiful movies I've ever seen.
On this issue, John Gardner said: “In any piece of fiction, the writer’s first job is to convince the reader the events recounted really happened, or to persuade the reader they might have happened (given small changes in the laws of the universe), or else to engage the reader’s interest in the patent absurdity of the lie.”
George, thank you for another on-the-mark post. The examples you give are always illuminating. The opening of the Marquez story is brilliant, so much there—the passage of time, the color of the sand and sea and sky, the time itself, weather, rotting crabs, stench, sick baby, the light (“so weak at noon”!)—that I am completely engulfed before I come to the wings. Perfect example. (Okay, so: write like Gabriel Garcia Marques, got it!)
You took me back many decades to a writing class taught by a graduate student, one of the best classes I ever had. This student teacher never said much about a particular story or draft I’d given him—he always responded by telling me ‘Go read such-and-such,’ directing me to writers and work that were unfamiliar to me. I never saw any similarity or connection between the recommendations and my work. Why did he direct me to this? The salient point: every single time, the exposure to these works shook something up inside me and led me to a new way of seeing and approaching my story.
You give me a new way of seeing.
P.S. It's never about the particulars of a piece, is it? It's always about the strength and beauty of the writing.
I love the stage of a story where you can get really weird and not worry about making it work. And then there's a moment where I have to ask, "ok, but WHY." I always want there to be some REASON that the character is a pretzel or a rock, or whatever. Even if I don't tell the reader.
Take this or leave it, but I'd throw the dead mom in there all in italics, let her be another POV. So you've got whatever POV the rest of the story is in, and then here comes DM, who clearly has opinions (we can tell already from your letter!) (also, I am SO IN for a story with bunnies and bunny ghosts), and it would make sense in the story for her to barge in with her own voice no matter who the narrator is.
Louise Eldrich employs ghosts, or active spirits -- as in TRULY employs, puts them to vital and often hilarious work -- in her novel “The Nightwatchman” and other stories and novels. Since she conjures her worlds from the rich earth-meets-shadow traditions of indigenous North American people, the ghosts inhabit the living characters like blood, flowing from the past into their presents and helping them not only survive in the Euro-colonial universe, but rise above it. Even when the character is first unsure of what the hell is going on, the buy-in on the reader’s part is immediate, enriching and endlessly enlightening.
What a brave and wonderful question! And I love George’s response-- These days, more than any other in over 25 years of teaching, I have to remind my students that the imagination is “liberty land”-- they come with so many shackles! I’m going to cite George’s response to fortify them-- and remind them anything is possible -- just remember the consequences!
I have to say I liked most George walking us through a reaction to the opening passage of Claire Keegan’s “Foster” written in a realist, colloquial tradition- (I have also seen the film “The Quiet Girl” but did not find it, finally, as spellbinding as the written story).
In any case it’s useful to remember that you don’t need ghost bunnies to raise red flags in your readers. Even a plausible world can arouse suspicions.
When I first read this, I thought 'this won't interest me because there are no ghosts in my stories'. So I had my mind closed a bit going in. Then it became all about the pact between a reader and a writer, and I realised that I have failed to consider the reader with enough respect and questioning in my writing. It's actually great to realise this because I can see everything with fresher eyes and rewrite accordingly. Your generousity to your readers is lovely and I love how simply you explained it.
The disembodied presence-conversation-perspective allows freedoms that 'the bodied' lack. What's most interesting about the disembodied voice in fiction is 'the why' of the ghost's presence, i.e., the haunting (ghost's active agency) vs. the conjuring (agency located within the protagonist) ~ or some combination of the two. Exploring the reasons why the ghosts must be ghosts is what readers will do.
Could 'A Christmas Carol,' have been told without ghosts? No! That's because time-traveling disembodied spirits were the only entities who could sufficiently scare Ebenezer into the changes he needed to make.
As a reader, I can accept anything as long as I know what is going on. Sometimes narrative thread gets shunted aside and it’s all about the interesting twist, which, without logic, isn’t always enough to sustain a story.
I don't think I recoil or have reservations at ALL first sentences. Some go in clean as a whistle:
'Marley was dead, to begin with' seems like a perfect example in this post.
Nothing goes in any against column. My soul instantly relaxes into the delight of being told a story by a master of the craft. It's baroque and done with a twinkle, and I forgive the intrusion without hesitation.
If I feel the writer is trying to tell me a story, I experience no resistance. Could be set in Victorian London, could have ghosts, could be set on a spaceship, could be from the point of view of a dog, could be written in haiku, could be as if sat in front of the fire and told with warmth by a beloved grandmother, or by some damaged or splintered or desperate or lost soul, and I will buy in with no complaints so long as it keeps telling me a story.
But...what goes in the against is when it feels like the writer is trying to write at me. Can even be a word. What I wonder is why, in many cases, an editor has not said 'look, there's a story in here, let's just cut this and this and THIS.'
I was sold by the writing style and explanation of the author who wrote the question. Most families (rabbits or not) have a maternal ghost in their ear or subconscious-especially if she was overbearing with a touch of aristocratic high hoarseness. Go for it! Stand aside and let it unfold organically.
So interesting! And what a coincidence! I'm working on another novel involved with ghosts, but ghosts in the traditional Chinese fiction genre. I teach in the Boston University Writing Program as an adjunct lecturer and write Chinese historical fiction novels and short stories (www.wanderingblade.com). If you are curious about the traditional Chinese take on ghosts in fiction do take a look at two books by the wonderful Chinese literature scholar, Judith T. Zeitlin, Historian of the Strange: Pu Songling and the Chinese Classical Tale and The Phantom Heroine: Ghosts and Gender in Seventeenth-Century Chinese Literature. Also, I'm a great admirer of your take on teaching writing and have attempted to adopt some of your ideas in my writing classes...thanks! Albert
I would love to read a story with a bunny ghost mother/grandmother speaking iambic pentameter. I think for a time I was not good at workshop / writers group feedback because I tend to be up for the ride. I've gotten better over the years at feedback and also recognizing the cracks in my own work that I previously tried to fix with a bandaid or hope that readers would just get past and/or not notice (partly thanks to these discussions and ASIAPITR). I do think there's something about attitude, though, in reading and writing. When I was a waiter years ago, I remember wondering why certain people bothered going out at all when they were so clearly out to have a terrible time. Not that there aren't times that end up terrible, but why start that way? I want to approach fiction (writing and reading) with curiosity and hope that it's all going to be worth it, which can lead to disappointment, but at least that mind frame means jumping on the giant bunny for the trip--otherwise you never even find out if the fried carrots with aged tarragon are any good. I guess that's all to say, for me, if the writer jumps in head first, this reader will, too, so please go for it.
PS Thank you, George Saunders. Thank you, Maria Popova.
Part 1: As we walk through the world, our brains are constantly at work, seeking meaning, looking for patterns, deciphering messages, filling in blanks, etc. When we are thrown off a certain thought path, we automatically look for realignment. Though we are, in fact, hallucinating our world into being, we are experts at making everything okay. Reading a story, we use our brains in the same way, but with the knowledge that all of the brainwork is, basically, only for fun. Because we know that a story is not reality--that we are only there for the fun of it--we are naturally inclined, I think, to begin a story by giving it a chance. We enter in a playful manner and are willing to buy in. What this means for the writer is this: don’t blow your contract with the reader. And what is that contract? That all of the rules in this make-believe world will make sense for that world. That nothing in the writing is going to toss the brain of the reader into a deep freeze—"huh? Wha? What just happened? Wait, you can’t do that—that’s against the rules of this story!” That everything we read will allow our brains to find meaning, decipher, locate patterns, etc.--just like in real life. If a writer sticks to the rules, all will be fine. Ghosts, no ghosts, what have you. Set up the rules and stick to them.
Part 2: Be a very good writer.
Wonderful! This came at a perfect time for me as I'm trying to figure out the balance in my own novel between the ordinary and the fantastical. Also, for those who love Claire Keegan's story "Foster," I'll mention that it was made into a movie that came out recently called The Quiet Girl: one of the most beautiful movies I've ever seen.
On this issue, John Gardner said: “In any piece of fiction, the writer’s first job is to convince the reader the events recounted really happened, or to persuade the reader they might have happened (given small changes in the laws of the universe), or else to engage the reader’s interest in the patent absurdity of the lie.”
George, thank you for another on-the-mark post. The examples you give are always illuminating. The opening of the Marquez story is brilliant, so much there—the passage of time, the color of the sand and sea and sky, the time itself, weather, rotting crabs, stench, sick baby, the light (“so weak at noon”!)—that I am completely engulfed before I come to the wings. Perfect example. (Okay, so: write like Gabriel Garcia Marques, got it!)
You took me back many decades to a writing class taught by a graduate student, one of the best classes I ever had. This student teacher never said much about a particular story or draft I’d given him—he always responded by telling me ‘Go read such-and-such,’ directing me to writers and work that were unfamiliar to me. I never saw any similarity or connection between the recommendations and my work. Why did he direct me to this? The salient point: every single time, the exposure to these works shook something up inside me and led me to a new way of seeing and approaching my story.
You give me a new way of seeing.
P.S. It's never about the particulars of a piece, is it? It's always about the strength and beauty of the writing.
I love the stage of a story where you can get really weird and not worry about making it work. And then there's a moment where I have to ask, "ok, but WHY." I always want there to be some REASON that the character is a pretzel or a rock, or whatever. Even if I don't tell the reader.
Take this or leave it, but I'd throw the dead mom in there all in italics, let her be another POV. So you've got whatever POV the rest of the story is in, and then here comes DM, who clearly has opinions (we can tell already from your letter!) (also, I am SO IN for a story with bunnies and bunny ghosts), and it would make sense in the story for her to barge in with her own voice no matter who the narrator is.
Louise Eldrich employs ghosts, or active spirits -- as in TRULY employs, puts them to vital and often hilarious work -- in her novel “The Nightwatchman” and other stories and novels. Since she conjures her worlds from the rich earth-meets-shadow traditions of indigenous North American people, the ghosts inhabit the living characters like blood, flowing from the past into their presents and helping them not only survive in the Euro-colonial universe, but rise above it. Even when the character is first unsure of what the hell is going on, the buy-in on the reader’s part is immediate, enriching and endlessly enlightening.
What a brave and wonderful question! And I love George’s response-- These days, more than any other in over 25 years of teaching, I have to remind my students that the imagination is “liberty land”-- they come with so many shackles! I’m going to cite George’s response to fortify them-- and remind them anything is possible -- just remember the consequences!
I have to say I liked most George walking us through a reaction to the opening passage of Claire Keegan’s “Foster” written in a realist, colloquial tradition- (I have also seen the film “The Quiet Girl” but did not find it, finally, as spellbinding as the written story).
In any case it’s useful to remember that you don’t need ghost bunnies to raise red flags in your readers. Even a plausible world can arouse suspicions.
When I first read this, I thought 'this won't interest me because there are no ghosts in my stories'. So I had my mind closed a bit going in. Then it became all about the pact between a reader and a writer, and I realised that I have failed to consider the reader with enough respect and questioning in my writing. It's actually great to realise this because I can see everything with fresher eyes and rewrite accordingly. Your generousity to your readers is lovely and I love how simply you explained it.
The disembodied presence-conversation-perspective allows freedoms that 'the bodied' lack. What's most interesting about the disembodied voice in fiction is 'the why' of the ghost's presence, i.e., the haunting (ghost's active agency) vs. the conjuring (agency located within the protagonist) ~ or some combination of the two. Exploring the reasons why the ghosts must be ghosts is what readers will do.
Could 'A Christmas Carol,' have been told without ghosts? No! That's because time-traveling disembodied spirits were the only entities who could sufficiently scare Ebenezer into the changes he needed to make.
But why would ghosts turn a reader off more than anything else?
As a reader, I can accept anything as long as I know what is going on. Sometimes narrative thread gets shunted aside and it’s all about the interesting twist, which, without logic, isn’t always enough to sustain a story.
Who doesn’t love a good ghost?
I don't think I recoil or have reservations at ALL first sentences. Some go in clean as a whistle:
'Marley was dead, to begin with' seems like a perfect example in this post.
Nothing goes in any against column. My soul instantly relaxes into the delight of being told a story by a master of the craft. It's baroque and done with a twinkle, and I forgive the intrusion without hesitation.
If I feel the writer is trying to tell me a story, I experience no resistance. Could be set in Victorian London, could have ghosts, could be set on a spaceship, could be from the point of view of a dog, could be written in haiku, could be as if sat in front of the fire and told with warmth by a beloved grandmother, or by some damaged or splintered or desperate or lost soul, and I will buy in with no complaints so long as it keeps telling me a story.
But...what goes in the against is when it feels like the writer is trying to write at me. Can even be a word. What I wonder is why, in many cases, an editor has not said 'look, there's a story in here, let's just cut this and this and THIS.'
I was sold by the writing style and explanation of the author who wrote the question. Most families (rabbits or not) have a maternal ghost in their ear or subconscious-especially if she was overbearing with a touch of aristocratic high hoarseness. Go for it! Stand aside and let it unfold organically.
I also enjoyed the response. Just great stuff.
(From a reluctantly retired book reviewer)