Wordplay

It’s interesting to look back through time at the ranks of famous authors and to realize how many of them have experienced less than fulfilling lives and even tragic ends. Writing ain’t for sissies. To be worth its salt, writing has to be a lifestyle (note that lifestyle and vocation aren’t necessarily the same thing), and as a lifestyle it is often a wild ride of super highs and extreme lows and a lot of mixed-up stuff in between. Unfortunately, it too often becomes our habit to direct too much of our focus to the negative side of the coin.


I consider myself a generally optimistic person, but even optimism gives way to plunging depression in the face of criticism and self-doubt. Good reviews don’t stay with me anywhere near as long as the bad reviews, or even the constructive criticism. I may need a minute or two to shrink my head back to size after a compliment, but it can take me weeks to scrape my annihilated ego up off the floor after a less-than-favorable comment. The good days—the days where everything I write seems gilded—become almost nonexistent during those days when I find myself slogging through a sea of two-dimensional characters, flat dialogue, choppy subplots, and that ever-blinking cursor.


Sometimes even finding the time to look at that blinking cursor can be a herculean challenge. Few of us have the luxury of writing full time, and even those who do must fight the pressures of family, friends, and outside interests. Non-writers often don’t comprehend our needs and our dreams. They simplify our endeavors or brush them off. We don’t always get the support we think we need, and our lone-wolf mentalities can often make us feel like freaks and outsiders. In our frustration, it’s easy pull the plug on the computer, to blame others for our lack of progress, or to simply feel sorry for ourselves when our writing consistently ends up at the lonely tail end of our to-do list.


Anybody depressed yet? If you are, may I recommend throwing up your hands and giving up completely? After all, with all these odds stacked against us, why bother? A lifestyle with so many things to complain about really isn’t worth pursuing. Maybe we should just all go on strike.


Or maybe not. Maybe it’s time to embrace the ecstasy of writing and remember what’s it like to write with joy. After all, it isn’t like anyone is forcing us into this lifestyle. We don’t have to write; we get to write. It’s a privilege, an honor, a gift. Sometimes it’s too easy to forget that. Most of us write because we have some indefinable something running inside of us, demanding it be allowed to express itself. But don’t we also write because we love it? Because when we hit those high moments—when we’re sailing along with our characters on the peaks of emotion, hammering down perfect one-liners and nailing plot points—it’s all worth it?


Those low moments certainly have their place in the artistic experience (can there even be a high without a low?), but it’s important to spend as much time as we can celebrating our writing. Some days sitting at the computer may be nothing but drudgery, but it beats digging fence posts and doing dishes any day of the week. As much as possible, we need to abandon the fear and the frustration, the depression and the doubt. Banish all these little demons to the back closet and lock the door on them. Don’t complain about the hardships of the writing life—rejoice in the challenges.


The day you can’t find anything to rejoice about is probably the day you should burn your manuscripts and move on to selling vacuum cleaners. The world isn’t going to implode if we stop writing. In fact, it might be better off without the work of a writer who is no longer in love with his writing.


Teach yourself to write with joy. Focus on the thrill of discovering the germ of a new story idea. Bask in the energy of characters who live and breathe on the page. Throw yourself a major party on the completion of every novel. Let yourself believe every word you write is perfect (for a few minutes anyway). The bad days will come. They always do. And, granted, sometimes it seems like they will never leave. But we cannot allow the bad days to rob us of the gift we have been given.


We are writers. We are allowed to see the world in a way few others do. Fulfillment is ours for the taking, if only we can disperse the joy-killing demons that lurk beneath our desks. This week, try focusing on the positive. Delight in every minuscule detail, from the click of the keys beneath your fingers to the sharp, clean smell of that new ream of paper you’ve just broken out. Write with joy.

What’s the first thing most readers look at when they pick up a book? If they’re anything like me, their attention is first snagged by the cover art, the title, and the author name, and from there they flip the book over and a take a gander at the back cover or the inside jacket flap. This is where those crucial split-second decisions are made (to buy or not to buy?), and it’s also where the reader will make his first encounter with your story, your plot, and your characters.


This is not a post about writing a killer synopsis, but rather about realizing and utilizing the power of that synopsis within the story itself. How many books have you delved into without knowing anything about the premise? Most of us at least scan the back cover before cracking open chapter one. After all, why waste our time when we can use the crucial info on the back to narrow down our reading choices? That’s just savvy readership.
But what does this mean for writers (other than the fact that poor cover material leads to poor sales)?

Chapter One Is Not Our First Opportunity to Impart Information to Our Readers

All too often, we face the impossibility of cramming “crucial” information into the first chapter. We approach the plate, bat in hand, behaving as if the reader doesn’t even know the rules of the game. But if our savvy reader has read the back cover, he probably already knows quite a few things, including:

• The hero’s name.
• His occupation.
• The setting.
• The basic conflict.
• The antagonistic force.
• The theme.

The back cover is a crucial part of the reading experience. It not only creates certain preconceptions and expectations that the author must fulfill, it also creates them with more certainty than the foreshadowing found in the pages themselves. Because the info on the back cover is stated as fact, and because the narrative voice of a synopsis is understood to be reliable, readers always expect the promises on the back cover to be executed precisely.


This knowledge, I think, is often (if not always) overlooked by authors. And, in so doing, we not only neglect the opportunity to use the back cover to our advantage, but we even abuse it.

Abusing the Back Cover

I’ve read dozens of novels that start off chapter one by bombarding me with information I’d already learned from the back cover. Inevitably, I squirm and mentally urge the author to get on with it. The carefully constructed suspense doesn’t fool me when I already know the basic premise. To go off on a little tangent: The 2003 movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World contains a scene that always makes me roll my eyes. In the movie’s opening sequence, as the call to arms is being beaten, the camera shows us the (faceless) ship’s captain scrambling into his sword belt and coat and getting ready to go on deck. Then, suddenly, the camera dramatically pans up and reveals—surprise!—Russell Crowe. Only I wasn’t surprised because naturally I had seen the DVD cover and knew who starred in the movie.


Back cover info often creates a similar situation. As authors, we carefully construct our opening hooks (the hook that will reveal the premise to the reader), but we overlook that the reader is usually already privy to this premise. Hence, we risk our authorial flourishes being overlooked or even scorned.

Using the Back Cover

Acknowledging the back cover means that we get to enjoy a teeny bit of wiggle room in crafting both our opening chapters and the general suspense throughout the novel. A good back-cover synopsis, of course, gives away as little of the crucial plot information as possible. We always want our readers to know as little as possible about our climaxes. But it also means that we can take advantage of what they do know.


In a sense, the back cover is the mini hook before the hook. If the synopsis on the back doesn’t grab him, the reader probably won’t flip on ahead to chapter one. This creates two very important opportunities for the author:


1. We don’t have to worry about explaining everything in the opening scene.


2. We must be careful we find the right balance between explaining the necessities and boring the reader with what he already knows.


A word of caution: Although I absolutely believe that authors, in crafting their openings, generally overlook the back cover, I’m also aware that not all readers read the back cover. And those that do don’t always read every word. The story between the covers must be complete in its own right. We can’t lean upon the back cover as a crutch for our narrative deficiencies. But that’s no excuse for not being aware of it and its effect upon our readers.

Writing, by its very nature, is a solitary pursuit. Even those authors who work in tandem with others (co-writers, ghost writers, editors) must necessarily do their actual work by themselves. Fortunately, most of us who seek the writing life are not only mentally and emotionally equipped to handle the solitude, we may even crave it. Nevertheless, almost unarguably, a time comes for us all when the loneliness becomes a dark night and the battle seems too big to be fought on our own. That’s where writing buddies come into play.


Admittedly, I’m one of those lone wolf types who inevitably (sometimes frustratingly) prefer the safety and tranquility of my own company to the “madding crowd.” I identify strongly with the line from the 1994 movie version of Little Women, wherein a young Jo March (Winona Ryder) says, “Late at night my mind would come alive with voices and stories and friends as dear to me as any in the real world. I gave myself up to it, longing for transformation.” But there comes a time for all artists when even that glorious transformation isn’t quite enough to sustain us. There’s a time when we all need the encouragement and criticism and fellowship of flesh and blood co-conspirators.


That writing buddies aren’t that easily come by only makes them that much more treasured. Writers, being the strange lot they are, aren’t likely to find commiserative spirits—much less soul mates—lying around for the taking. In my experience, serendipity is just about the only factor you can count on in running across these special folks. But there are a number of things you can do to plant yourself in the path of a blessing:


1. Go where writers are.


2. Haunt writing forums and communities.


3. Establish relationships.


Writing buddies have come in and out of my life over the years. Some have been there since the beginning; some have stayed just long enough to help me survive one or two projects. But they’ve all left their impact. And I’ve been grateful for every one of them. Most of them have been long-distance relationships over the Internet. But I’ve also been blessed to have the face-to-face support of local friends.


So, what do I do with all these helpful friends of mine? Well, we commiserate, of course. (“Beginnings are the pits.” “This editor has no idea what he’s talking about!” “You read So-and-So’s latest book? Of course you noticed that blatant POV switch on page 62!”) Having someone whose mind runs in concentric circles with my own is a one-of-a-kind blessing. I mean how many non-writers do you know who obsess about semicolons and deus ex machina? Or who go around chuckling gleefully at the thought of “killing” a certain evil character? Or who are crazy enough to get up at obscene hours of the night to scribble important plot points? It takes a writer to understand a writer. And sometimes just being understood is the greatest gift of the century.


But probably the single most important contribution of my writing friends is not the fact that they encourage my flights into my imaginary world, but rather that they keep my grounded in this world—by taking a good, hard realistic look at my work. They love my writing, and they give me those oh-so-necessary boosts by telling me so. But they’re also not afraid to utterly lambaste me when they see something they hate. Their honesty—and the fact that it is only brutal because they care about me and my work—is a tremendous gift. As much as I crave and love my solitude, I need and appreciate my writing buddies even more. No doubt, I’d still be here tapping away at the keyboard even without their support, but the fact that they’re there makes the journey a lot more fun all the way around.


In short, to all you folks who are out there writing right alongside of me, encouraging me, understanding me, and—occasionally—lambasting me: Thank you. You know who you are, and I’m very glad we’re in this crazy writing life together!

Art, in its every form, has always been volatile. It challenges people’s beliefs. It forces them to face uncomfortable realities. It constrains them to see the world through an entirely different set of eyes. In experiencing any form of art, but perhaps particularly the novel, we are plunged into the mind of another human being. And no matter closely the author’s thoughts may align with our own, then never align perfectly. There must always be a moment of friction, a word, a phrase, or an image that jars, a view with which we cannot agree, perhaps even one with which we passionately disagree.

This is where we find the groundwork for the interminable arguments over the morality of art. Since the beginning of time, since the very first artistic endeavor, humanity has struggled with whether or not the creative act of art is inherently good or inherently evil. Books and movies, paintings and even music have been banned in every age, by every religion and every government. Some artists are decried as debauched infidels, only be praised by others as extraordinary visionaries. Why is this? Why do we find art spit upon by some and extolled by others? And which view is correct?

Fiction is always inherently moral. Because every story must set forth questions of a moral nature regarding the characters’ arcs, it must also propose answers. Within these questions and answers, the author is inevitably putting forth a moral viewpoint. He is bound to communicate the truth as clearly as he sees it. All of fiction, even blatantly unrealistic venues such as science fiction and fantasy, must be grounded in the reality of human life. But because this reality is subject to every author’s personal beliefs, it is inevitable that no piece of literature can be universally agreed upon anymore than the author himself, as a person, will be universally agreed with.

In art, we explore. And what kind of explorers would we be if we kept to the beaten paths and never ventured into the shadows of the mountains and the canyons? Good art not only asks questions, it asks difficult questions. Artists cannot be content to wallow comfortably in stagnation; we must grow, we must question, we must study. In The Soul Tells a Story, Vinita Hampton Wright points out:

[Exploring] gets artists into more trouble than any other aspect of creative work. Artists are put on earth to explore, to push the boundaries, to ask yet more questions, and sometimes to do away with—or at least challenge—traditional assumptions.

This trait can look like rebellion or simple contrariness, but it is in fact the nature of creativity. Creativity looks for a new way to say or depict something that’s been around forever. Every day we must rise and go about our life, and if creativity did not provide fresh ways in which to perceive our experiences and articulate them, we would grow dull and tired and aimless very quickly. ...
When you embark upon creative work, it will push your personal boundaries. It will open up parts of yourself with which you have been unfamiliar. ... The exploratory nature of creativity makes it scary at times. But it also adds intrigue and sizzle to life and moves the mundane into the realm of wonder.

Whether a piece of fiction is labeled “moral” or “immoral” often has more to do with current societal mores than it does with the actual morality of the work itself. Art rolls in and out of fashion with the times, depending upon current arbitrary views. Has the writing of Solzhenitsyn changed by so much as one letter since 1945 when it was labeled subversive? Only the times have changed to make his work, and the work of hundreds of others, acceptable.

None of this is to say that I believe the morality of any piece of art cannot be definitively labeled. As a Christian, I look to the Word of God as the bottom line in any moral argument. But I can find nothing therein to support the idea that art is inherently evil. In fact, I would have to argue the opposite—that fiction can be used just as strongly, if not more so, for good as it is for evil.

Art and spirituality are inextricable. Our religious and psychological views inform every area of our art, just as our art inspires exploration and growth in our spiritual beliefs. They are linked at their very core. I cannot believe that someone who is out of touch with his inner self, and therefore his inner beliefs (whatever they may be), will be able to create art that will harmonize with, influence, and alter the life of anyone else. In Creative Spirituality, Robert Wuthnow wrote, that “Art and spirituality are nevertheless similar in that both are sets of activities that infuse all aspects of a person’s life and gradually shape that person’s worldview.” Our art influences our religious views, and our religious views inform our art. It is an unbreakable cycle.

Because of this inherent connection, I not only believe art is far from being inherently immoral, but that its considerable power can be wielded for great good. The novel, in the hands of an artist who is willing to commit his every word to wherever the leading of the Spirit may direct, is not only an intellectual force, but a moral force.

In light of that thought, let me close with one more quote from Wright:

When you are attentive to the spiritual dynamics in your life, you don’t do something just because you can. You don’t create a work of art simply to create a sensation. You do it because the time is right. You do it because your own growth requires it. You do it because you have discovered a new way to see something that might help others see it too. You do it because the community of which you are a part needs for you to do it. That doesn’t mean that the community is always ready for it; sometimes the Spirit uses art to upset us and make us search ourselves. But the artist who follows the spirit is sensitive to doing the right work at the right time.