3.4.10 Understanding Fiction Through Writing

Around three years ago I spent some time trying to learn about fiction writing and I wrote a small handfull of short stories. I did not win any prizes, but by learning something about fiction writing—especially by writing a little myself—I increased my appreciation for fiction and my understanding of the subtleties of its construction.

Fiction is (among other things, of course) a craft, and can be appreciated as such, and in terms of the degree of skill an author employs in a work’s construction. For example, in her Writing Fiction, Janet Burroway tells us that the order of events in a story can be arranged in chronological order—but that they do not need to be so ordered (137). This opens an enormous range of possibilities for a writer, necessitating numerous decisions—questions that need to be answered. The writing process involves continually asking and answering questions like "Where does [my] narrative begin?" and "Where does this story become interesting?" (Burroway 40)

The writer must decide on the scope of a work. A novel can support a wide range of situations, characters and detail, while a short story, as Burroway explains, "can waste no words, […] can afford no digression that does not directly affect the action" (42). And having decided on a work’s scope, the author must still decide what amount and kind of detail to include. In the words of William Strunk Jr., "the surest way to arouse and hold the attention of the reader is by being specific, definite and concrete" (qtd. in Burroway 58); but too much detail can divert attention from the essential issues. The fiction writer must work to find just the right details to include—apt details that are capable of both painting a concrete picture and at the same time, through mood or symbolism, of advancing the theme of the work.

A writer must be able to develop characters who are complex enough to hold our interest, yet unified enough to make sense. The plot of a story and the characters who enact it are inextricably linked, in that the human actions and decisions of which a plot is made are rendered meaningless and random if enacted by persons whose basic natures are inconsistent with those actions. At the same time, it is through actions that we best know people, so to truly know a character we must see what he or she does. Hence plot and characterization must be unified and integrated. "One of the ‘rules’ for writing fiction is that everything should do two things" (Brinton). For each and every detail in a work of fiction, the author must consider many elements: The writer might ask, is this action consistent with the character?—Does it also advance the plot?—Is there something else that would work as well, but be a better fit with the mood I want to establish, or that has a symbolic relation to the theme of the work, and so on.

This integrative aspect of fiction writing can be enormously complex. According to Burroway, just a short list of very general things an author needs to keep track of when developing a single character would include the character’s influences, the details of their life, their likes and dislikes, how they speak, what they look like and how they move, and what their values are (150-151). Add to this the complexity of integrating that character with all the other characters and all their actions, and the result is extraordinary density of relevant information on the page—much greater density than even in typical technical manuals.

It is not surprising then when Michael Meyer tells us that we cannot fully comprehend a work unless we read it carefully and deliberately (12). He tells us to do this because "the more familiar you are with how the various elements of the text convey effects and meanings, the more confident you will be in explaining whatever perspective on it you ultimately choose" (13). And, I would add, in forming that perspective in the first place. The more we understand these elements of the text, the more enjoyment we can derive from simply appreciating the skill of the writer, and in experiencing the fullest possible effect of the work.

There are, no doubt, other good ways to develop skill in reading fiction closely, but I believe that my own experiences, however limited, with the practical hands-on approach—actually writing fiction—helped open my eyes to some of that density of information that I previously did not know existed in the works of good writers.

As a personal example, immediately after finishing Kate Chopin’s "The Story of an Hour" I scanned back to the beginning, interested in how Chopin handles the foreshadowing of the main character’s heart condition. The story begins: "Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death" (18). Chopin goes on immediately to relate the actions of her husband’s friend, Richards, and then to describe the way Mrs Mallard takes the tragic news. We hear no more about her heart condition. The information about the condition is placed, grammatically, in such a way as to suggest that the information is not really crucial. We are encouraged to essentially forget about the issue, as unimportant. But when, at then end, Mrs. Mallard drops dead of a heart attack, we do remember her heart condition. Thus we don’t feel that the author has merely resorted to the arbitrary, but at the same time, the importance of the heart condition has not been emphasized, so the end is not made predictable.

Another example is the fascinating consistency of even a very minor character in "The Story of an Hour." In the second paragraph we find that one of the people who takes great care not to shock Mrs. Mallard with the news of her husband’s death is her husband’s friend, Richards. He takes care not to bring the news to Mrs. Mallard until it is confirmed through a second telegram (18). Though he is only a bit-part player, Richards’ concern for Mrs. Mallard’s well-being—a seemingly insignificant detail—comes to play again at the very end of the story when it is Richards who tries, too late, to shield Mrs. Mallard from the second shock of seeing her living husband (20). Even this second action on Richards’ part is of only minor importance, but both actions are believably taken by the same, efficiently drawn character.

In his short story, "A&P," John Updike uses a technique similar to Chopin’s partial hiding of Mrs. Mallard’s heart condition. In Updike’s story, Sammy, a young grocery store cashier, impulsively quits his job over a minor incident—a perceived insult to a group of girls in bathing suits. Even though Sammy’s action is ostensibly in the classic mold of the chivalrous hero upholding a maiden’s honor, Updike shows it as ironic and misguided. He does not want us to overly sympathize with Sammy. Updike thus imbeds Sammy’s actual line, "I quit," undramatically in a paragraph that immediately turns to other subjects. A different author, with a different theme might have set off the line with its own paragraph, begun a new section at that point, or described the event itself in greater detail. But in Updike’s story there is no fanfare about Sammy’s decision, and he almost immediately regrets it (985). This interpretation may be debatable, but more important than the specific nature of my response is the mere fact that I had a response. I do not believe that I would have noticed this or formed any opinion about it at all prior to writing fiction and consequently becoming aware that such details can and do carry significance.

Writers must juggle numerous issues while crafting an integrated work of fiction, necessitating careful selection of every detail that goes into a work. In order to appreciate fiction to the utmost it is necessary to read a work closely, and to have some understanding of what kinds of reasons writers have for selecting the details they do. My small experience with writing has not made me a great writer, but in struggling to solve my own problems with plot, theme and character, I believe I have developed the habit of reading more closely and more critically and thus notice more detail and deeper relationships in fiction. And in reading more closely, I now appreciate and enjoy more fully what I read.

Works Cited

Brinton, Ruth.  Note to the author on the back of a note card.
April 12, 2002

Burroway, Janet.  Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft.
4th ed.  New York: HarperCollins, 1996

Chopin, Kate.  "The Story of an Hour" Meyer 18-20

Meyer, Michael.  Thinking and Writing About Literature: A Text
and Anthology. 2nd ed. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin's, 2001

Updike, John.  "A&P" Meyer 981-986

A paper for English Literature
2002.4.18