VanderMeer's Wonderbook, Chapter 2: The Ecosystem Of Story (continued)
The next element that Wonderbook addresses is description. Description, in a certain way, is anything that isn't dialogue. In essence, anything happening in the story occurs through description, so to do we see setting and characters. While we can speak of levels of detail as more or less descriptive, writing is an art built upon being able to describe accurately. Indeed, if the former statement about description's domain hosts an error, it is in denying that dialogue is also descriptive. A character is described, often, through what they choose to speak of, or the choice of words they utilize. Saying "Hi," describes a different character than "how do," or "shalom" or "yo" or many other choices. The dialogue has a function that is not entirely descriptive, certainly, and deserves to be considered in that arena, but the point is that everything in a story is, at least in part, description. What else could it be?
While the chapter does not go quite so far as I have, it is pointed out that description is when things happen and how we get to know the characters. It is, indeed, implied that description is the remaining element of the text after dialogue, when the point is made that a writer's voice often connects with how they balance the amount of description with the amount of dialogue. I can't think of much dialogue in Borges' stories, for example. The point is, though, that these choices are individual to a writer and even to a story, at times (or, depending on the writer, the chapter, as with Joyce in Ulysses). Of course, that balance is only one element, and it does not even address the issues of description itself, because how a thing is described is often even more significant than the thing itself.
Towards that end, some general advice is offered, and what I most appreciate about this advice is that it leaves open the possibility that different forms of description are permissible, even necessary. Even the ideas presented are often stated with the caveat that a knowing and intelligent breaking of the rules can be even more important. For instance, in pointing out that no one thinks much about moving an arm, making a labored description seems ponderous and can hinder the reader, it is also recognized that this can be the right choice if the arm in question is hurt. It is pointed out, as well, that while certain logic makes sense in description, it is also suggested that a character may not adhere to these considerations. Thus, in certain forms of narrative (not only first, but also some close third, and in many forms of second person) it can be useful as a way of enhancing the understanding of the character. The description is also describing the speaker, as it were, and in that sense can almost be considered dialogue. See, these categories are so easily confused. That does not make them less useful, though. I think that is actually why they can be so important, as it allows one to look through different lenses. Certain elements are more description than dialogue, but asking how they work as dialogue is a good way to get a new perspective. Likewise, reading a bit of dialogue to see what it says about the speaker through how they use language and what they are focused on in conversation, can offer a new set of perspectives when working on a draft. I also appreciate the point made about the "irrational power" that can come from description. Certain types of imagery will evoke deep emotions for some readers, and the ability to render strange, even surreal imagery is something that can be quite arresting for a reader. This is, of course, something that not all writers find themselves doing, but I have quite a bit of dream imagery, include, in some cases, literal dreams in a story. In playing with these kinds of images, one has to be careful to get the reader prepared. This is often more a matter of confidence than anything, as Kafka proved in one sentence when he wrote The Metamorphosis, where all the fantastical elements are in the first sentence. Once we accept Gregor's transformation, everything else that follows is rather dully realistic. The confident and casual, straightforward and direct tone with which the speaks carries the reader past that strange idea that a man has turned into a giant insect, and once that is accepted, Kafka can do what he wishes.
Of course, that is not the only way, but I think that confidence is necessary. If a writer does not have that confidence, the images will be created without commitment, reflecting the uncertainty with which they were penned. This issue, of course, is not merely about fantastical or unsettling imagery, but can arise when a writer attempts anything that they are not truly confident in. By confident, here, I do not mean that which they feel truly they can do, as I think it is important to push through towards writing that stretches past the limits of current skill. I mean, rather, artistically confident, by which I mean, going fully ahead. At times, it can be natural to think, "I don't really know if that will work," and so it is easy to think that an image should be scaled back. It is too weird, or it is out of alignment with the story in some way, and while it can be true, it is not always true, and their is a difference between dismissing a specific example of image and not being comfortable with the concept of writing that incorporates these forms of subconscious detail. Some writers don't want or need to go there, and that is them, but for those who wish to go towards the kind of writing that can explore the unlit caverns of the mind, it is necessary to be comfortable with the possibility that an images specific meaning won't be recognized. Even more, it can be hard to know if an image is the right one. That is a matter of skill, and one learns to recognize what will or won't work. But, even before that, one has to be comfortable with the concept that an image can be a thing itself with a meaning, and that this meaning is not necessarily coherent or even communicable, but it is still a significant thing that the meaning exists. I think that is one of the big secrets, really. Meaning, even when it cannot be understood, is always sensed, and a thing that is merely an empty gesture will read that way.
For instance, if I wrote a story with a box in it, and the box was being carried from one place to another, and the main action concerned the importance of safely transporting this cargo. I might make it clear that whatever was in the box was sought by thieves or other villains, and I would make it clear that much was resting upon the boxes safe arrival. Now, even if I knew that the box was never going to be opened, and I knew it was integral for the story to be successful that the reader never discover what was in the box, it would be critical for me to know, and for me to be sure that the characters who knew acted as though they had that knowledge. The world would have to be informed by this fact. Even though the reader would not know the contents of the box, and even though the issue never came up in the story, the fact that the box really did contain a particular and important thing would be communicated. If I left the boxes contents ambiguous even to me, the reader would not care about it, because the box would effectively be empty. In the latter case, it is only a plot device, but in the former, while it is still an object integral to the plot, the object's need is not a contrivance, but a part of the world being built. Readers can sense more than just what is on the page, and the connections that are not explained matter. This is why I strive to make the worlds of my stories richer in my mind than on the page. I want to know interconnections that will never be part of the story, and to recognize threads of meaning that are not relevant for the reader directly. This is what makes the world real, and in turn makes it real for the reader.
All that may seem a bit off topic, but it is really at the heart of the matter. When we talk about description, we have the elements of how we describe, of course, but we also have those essential choices about what to describe and even when that description should come. The reality behind that description should be real to the writer before they give words to it. The words have to be a description, and what is being described should be something that has a reality, even if that reality is only as thought. When one describes the box, and the world of that box, and the people who are protecting it or seeking to steal it, the descriptions need to be of an object, a specific object with a history and a specific physicality. The details that reach the page are always going to be fewer than what is in the mind, if this is done properly, but the fact that one is choosing the right details to tell does not mean that the things left out are not important. The characters do not read the description when they see the box. The world of the story does not contain that description in place of the box. In the story, the box has specific contents. Even if none of that is revealed to the reader, it will make a difference.
This can be a very strange thing, and I will tell a story that is a bit odd, and which I think may make some folks think I am a bit off, but I know other writers have had similar experiences. Their have been times, and this is particularly true in poetry, when I have, in rewriting, added something to a poem that I later removed. In some cases, I have even reverted to the earlier draft. However, I have found that, somehow, even for people who only see that draft, the poem is better after that work. The work goes into the poem, even if the results of that work are left off the page. It is a very odd thing, and I acknowledge that it is entirely anecdotal and not scientific in any way. That is all fine, because the point is not that this should be considered a sign of some strange magical power in the creative arts, but rather an assurance that the work put into a piece is not wasted. I have spent long amounts of time on sections for my novel that wound up not even going in to the first draft, but they are somehow still a part of the book, though no one will ever read them.
To describe anything well in fiction, one must be able to choose the right detail, which means seeing all the details. That is to say, the writer has to see inside the box if they want to be able to write about it. Besides, everybody already knows what is in the box: Thomas, the superpositioned cat.
And on that note, I think that I will leave the rest of the chapter for now. Plenty more to cover before we get to the end, and I am rather excited (albeit a bit daunted, I must admit) by the writing challenge that is laid out in chapter two. I have begun some work to tackle that, but I am not yet at a point where I have anything to show for it. But, for tonight, I am already rather tired, so I will sign off for now, with plans to resume come morning.
While the chapter does not go quite so far as I have, it is pointed out that description is when things happen and how we get to know the characters. It is, indeed, implied that description is the remaining element of the text after dialogue, when the point is made that a writer's voice often connects with how they balance the amount of description with the amount of dialogue. I can't think of much dialogue in Borges' stories, for example. The point is, though, that these choices are individual to a writer and even to a story, at times (or, depending on the writer, the chapter, as with Joyce in Ulysses). Of course, that balance is only one element, and it does not even address the issues of description itself, because how a thing is described is often even more significant than the thing itself.
Towards that end, some general advice is offered, and what I most appreciate about this advice is that it leaves open the possibility that different forms of description are permissible, even necessary. Even the ideas presented are often stated with the caveat that a knowing and intelligent breaking of the rules can be even more important. For instance, in pointing out that no one thinks much about moving an arm, making a labored description seems ponderous and can hinder the reader, it is also recognized that this can be the right choice if the arm in question is hurt. It is pointed out, as well, that while certain logic makes sense in description, it is also suggested that a character may not adhere to these considerations. Thus, in certain forms of narrative (not only first, but also some close third, and in many forms of second person) it can be useful as a way of enhancing the understanding of the character. The description is also describing the speaker, as it were, and in that sense can almost be considered dialogue. See, these categories are so easily confused. That does not make them less useful, though. I think that is actually why they can be so important, as it allows one to look through different lenses. Certain elements are more description than dialogue, but asking how they work as dialogue is a good way to get a new perspective. Likewise, reading a bit of dialogue to see what it says about the speaker through how they use language and what they are focused on in conversation, can offer a new set of perspectives when working on a draft. I also appreciate the point made about the "irrational power" that can come from description. Certain types of imagery will evoke deep emotions for some readers, and the ability to render strange, even surreal imagery is something that can be quite arresting for a reader. This is, of course, something that not all writers find themselves doing, but I have quite a bit of dream imagery, include, in some cases, literal dreams in a story. In playing with these kinds of images, one has to be careful to get the reader prepared. This is often more a matter of confidence than anything, as Kafka proved in one sentence when he wrote The Metamorphosis, where all the fantastical elements are in the first sentence. Once we accept Gregor's transformation, everything else that follows is rather dully realistic. The confident and casual, straightforward and direct tone with which the speaks carries the reader past that strange idea that a man has turned into a giant insect, and once that is accepted, Kafka can do what he wishes.
Of course, that is not the only way, but I think that confidence is necessary. If a writer does not have that confidence, the images will be created without commitment, reflecting the uncertainty with which they were penned. This issue, of course, is not merely about fantastical or unsettling imagery, but can arise when a writer attempts anything that they are not truly confident in. By confident, here, I do not mean that which they feel truly they can do, as I think it is important to push through towards writing that stretches past the limits of current skill. I mean, rather, artistically confident, by which I mean, going fully ahead. At times, it can be natural to think, "I don't really know if that will work," and so it is easy to think that an image should be scaled back. It is too weird, or it is out of alignment with the story in some way, and while it can be true, it is not always true, and their is a difference between dismissing a specific example of image and not being comfortable with the concept of writing that incorporates these forms of subconscious detail. Some writers don't want or need to go there, and that is them, but for those who wish to go towards the kind of writing that can explore the unlit caverns of the mind, it is necessary to be comfortable with the possibility that an images specific meaning won't be recognized. Even more, it can be hard to know if an image is the right one. That is a matter of skill, and one learns to recognize what will or won't work. But, even before that, one has to be comfortable with the concept that an image can be a thing itself with a meaning, and that this meaning is not necessarily coherent or even communicable, but it is still a significant thing that the meaning exists. I think that is one of the big secrets, really. Meaning, even when it cannot be understood, is always sensed, and a thing that is merely an empty gesture will read that way.
For instance, if I wrote a story with a box in it, and the box was being carried from one place to another, and the main action concerned the importance of safely transporting this cargo. I might make it clear that whatever was in the box was sought by thieves or other villains, and I would make it clear that much was resting upon the boxes safe arrival. Now, even if I knew that the box was never going to be opened, and I knew it was integral for the story to be successful that the reader never discover what was in the box, it would be critical for me to know, and for me to be sure that the characters who knew acted as though they had that knowledge. The world would have to be informed by this fact. Even though the reader would not know the contents of the box, and even though the issue never came up in the story, the fact that the box really did contain a particular and important thing would be communicated. If I left the boxes contents ambiguous even to me, the reader would not care about it, because the box would effectively be empty. In the latter case, it is only a plot device, but in the former, while it is still an object integral to the plot, the object's need is not a contrivance, but a part of the world being built. Readers can sense more than just what is on the page, and the connections that are not explained matter. This is why I strive to make the worlds of my stories richer in my mind than on the page. I want to know interconnections that will never be part of the story, and to recognize threads of meaning that are not relevant for the reader directly. This is what makes the world real, and in turn makes it real for the reader.
All that may seem a bit off topic, but it is really at the heart of the matter. When we talk about description, we have the elements of how we describe, of course, but we also have those essential choices about what to describe and even when that description should come. The reality behind that description should be real to the writer before they give words to it. The words have to be a description, and what is being described should be something that has a reality, even if that reality is only as thought. When one describes the box, and the world of that box, and the people who are protecting it or seeking to steal it, the descriptions need to be of an object, a specific object with a history and a specific physicality. The details that reach the page are always going to be fewer than what is in the mind, if this is done properly, but the fact that one is choosing the right details to tell does not mean that the things left out are not important. The characters do not read the description when they see the box. The world of the story does not contain that description in place of the box. In the story, the box has specific contents. Even if none of that is revealed to the reader, it will make a difference.
This can be a very strange thing, and I will tell a story that is a bit odd, and which I think may make some folks think I am a bit off, but I know other writers have had similar experiences. Their have been times, and this is particularly true in poetry, when I have, in rewriting, added something to a poem that I later removed. In some cases, I have even reverted to the earlier draft. However, I have found that, somehow, even for people who only see that draft, the poem is better after that work. The work goes into the poem, even if the results of that work are left off the page. It is a very odd thing, and I acknowledge that it is entirely anecdotal and not scientific in any way. That is all fine, because the point is not that this should be considered a sign of some strange magical power in the creative arts, but rather an assurance that the work put into a piece is not wasted. I have spent long amounts of time on sections for my novel that wound up not even going in to the first draft, but they are somehow still a part of the book, though no one will ever read them.
To describe anything well in fiction, one must be able to choose the right detail, which means seeing all the details. That is to say, the writer has to see inside the box if they want to be able to write about it. Besides, everybody already knows what is in the box: Thomas, the superpositioned cat.
And on that note, I think that I will leave the rest of the chapter for now. Plenty more to cover before we get to the end, and I am rather excited (albeit a bit daunted, I must admit) by the writing challenge that is laid out in chapter two. I have begun some work to tackle that, but I am not yet at a point where I have anything to show for it. But, for tonight, I am already rather tired, so I will sign off for now, with plans to resume come morning.
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