VanderMeer's Wonderbook, Chapter 2: The Ecosystem Of Story
Before beginning a discussion of the chapter itself, a discussion of story is important. The concept of story is a complicated one and is often used in many different ways. That these ideas are so conflated that many would disagree with that statement is well worth noting. But that comment is not meant to bolster my point without my having to explain further. The first thing to consider is that a story as a physical, written work is a different thing than the concept of a story in general. This is not an arbitrary distinction, as one a story that is written has an actual form, a set nature, but a story as a wild thing in the mind has no form. That the written work is intended, often, to invoke a mental story that can be free in the reader's imagination is one reason for bearing this in mind. As well, written stories are reflections of those conceptual stories that exist in the writer's mind, though this variety may have more technical qualities associated than in a standard story in the mind.
It is also important to note that their is no such thing as a "true" story. This is not to suggest that a person must be lying in relaying a series of events that they experienced, nor that we should not think of such things as stories. Rather, the point is that the story never occurred. The events are not the story. The story is the pattern and the meaning created by those events. In telling the story, in giving it a form, one must always select elements to include and others to exclude, thus altering the nature of the actual events. A story requires that the events have a shape to them. They must, in some way, connect, and must have a reason to be told together. This may be purely temporal, or it might be thematic, or otherwise, but those elements are not inherent in the individual events. In the world, the events that happen are far more complicated and do not have an intrinsic meaning. By the way that we arrange them, by the creation of patterns that order the events into meaning, we turn these things into stories. They can never be true, because the nature of a story is to be a construction, an artifice.
A story, then, is a way of ordering events. It is the creation of a pattern that is built from connected events. The plot is one aspect of this, of course, but it is only a small part of what I am speaking of. In terms of a written, or otherwise told, story, their are three layers that exist. The first layer is the story before it is told, in the mind of the teller. The second is the told story, the thing itself. The third is the story as it is received, in the mind that has ingested it. The only one that has a physical existence is that middle piece, and it is only a reflection of the other two, but it has things that they cannot, because it is embodied. For a writer, this is the technical job, and that job is to transcribe that pattern in a way that allows the words and sentences, in meaning, sound, image, and otherwise, create a meaning that enhances the story. This is done through the use of linguistic patterns, not only the kind one thinks of normally, such as rhyme or meter, but even subtler tools, such as associating sounds or objects to characters and emotions. Even the choices of sentence or paragraph length can develop meaning through patterns.
These things are merely, of course, examples of a larger concept. Story is form of organizing ideas, and all organizing of information is about patterns, as order is built through the distinctions between repetition and randomness. The job of a writer is not only to build the story as a concept, but to find a way to translate that concept into a meaningful concept for the reader. This is done through the vehicle of a story. The physical story is only a messenger. While it has a great value and should be treated as important, one must realize that it's import is not inherent within the story, but within the potential imbued inside it to recreate it's deeper and truer meaning inside the mind of a reader. That meaning can only be built, of course, from those technical and physical tools, from words, essentially, and their organization. But, neither the beginning idea that propels the writer nor the final understanding that unfurls inside the reader is bound to language.
To my understanding, that is a magical act. I do not mean that in a new age sense, or even as a meta-physical concept. To me, magic is the manipulation of things in the real world by altering symbols. The cliche of a voodoo doll is a perfect image of this: what is done to the symbol, the doll, is done to the symbolized, the associated person. Magic is essentially that exchange. In some fantasy novels, this is not so overt, but it is still true. For instance, if one looks at uses of magic in the Harry Potter books, spells are generally accomplished by using incantations and wand maneuvers. These are symbolic actions, intended to alter something in the world through non-physical means. There are, of course, more overt examples within the series, such as Hermione's time-turner, which alters time and resembles an hour-glass and has a gyroscopic spinning mechanism (note: I am basing this on an image of the turner from the films and not from rereading the passages in the books, as I could easily access the image online but couldn't rapidly locate the description, and it has been many years since I read those books, so it may well be that I am describing the wrong time-turner here, but the point, I think, is still valid). Symbolically, this seems to be a fairly literal representation of the concept, though it is more important to recognize that what is being done is using a symbol, the time-turner, to alter an aspect of the real world, time.
Now, I am sure that someone would be capable of making an argument that my concept of what magic is leaves out certain possibilities that are represented in fiction, but even were that true, this does not change my point. While the criteria of altering reality through the manipulation of symbols is not necessarily the only definition of magic, one can see how it is a sufficient definition for a general concept of a certain type of magic. It may not be necessary, but it is sufficient, to borrow from the logicians. Of course, one might argue that this is to broad, and all use of symbols becomes magical in this way, but that, I do not think, is the case. If one merely writes a note, one is not creating meaning in the same way as one is when writing a story (unless you are writing about peaches and you are William Carlos Williams, but how likely is that?). The story is not magic because it's meaning is contained in the symbols, but because what is contained within the symbols, when the story is executed effectively, is actually more than the language should be able to contain. Their is meaning that comes from the synergy of the parts, which is not inherent to any one aspect of the structure. On one end, their is an idea too massive to fit into words, and on the other is an equally large interpretation of that concept. They exist within two minds, and the bridge is a bunch of squiggles on paper, that must be decoded for linguistic meaning, and even at this level are still insufficient for the job.
The magic, to me, comes in being able to make certain the reader is able to extract meaning that is intended but not explicit. It is putting layers within a story that can bring other kinds of meaning into the mind of a reader. In essence, a story must become an experience that exists for the reader, in a way that is not merely about the imagining of that world, but goes inside and becomes a part of their own mental landscape. The story must be a thing that can interact with the reader, and that interaction can only happen if the meaning on paper is ambiguous in ways that let the meaning in the mind alter the story. What is most magical is being able to do this in ways that control those ambiguities outside of a readers awareness, in triggering the shifts from one mental frame to another through a process so subtle that they should not notice it has happened until it is already too late. A story must be more for the reader, if it is a success, than what they can read. To write a story, then, is to take on this task, and to recognize it for what it is.
Now, to me, these are things that I think need to be said, and it really kind of is surprising that this isn't something addressed in Wonderbook. When I say this, it may seem a bit daft, but I am not intending to suggest that the book should speak of writing through my exact lens, but rather that the discussion of what is meant by story is a bit vague. It is, of course, largely made clear that story means a written work of fiction, but it seems to me that other discussions have blurred that line, Any time one is referencing a story in the mind, one means a different thing, and I really believe that confusion is not helpful to most folks. Knowing that this is a book that draws distinctions in terms of types of creativity and imagination, and which is rather specific in a great many of the details within this chapter alone, I do think it strange that their isn't, really, a direct discussion of the nature of story, beyond a general notion of it a s living being, and of the various constituents are the organs of this beast.
I do like this metaphor, and think it quite accurate about the way one thinks of a story, but the main exploration of the concept comes in discussing the parts, more than the whole. It seems to me worth remembering this definition of synergetics: the whole is greater than the sum of it's parts. A living creature must be examined as more than just it's skin, bones, muscles. Their are many aspects to it. Now, I may be premature in my thoughts here, as I am only in chapter two and the book might do a great deal towards exploring these ideas once it has established certain concepts first, so all this is subject to reconsideration as I read forwards.
I also want to note that I am not disapproving or disagreeing with the book and it's approach. I am actually more intrigued by questions that are raised when I consider viewpoints that decentralize my own priorities of story, and the notions that arise as a result. While I do appreciate that the absence of a more direct discourse allowed me to consider these notions, and provided me the chance to think through my own perspective, I also am realizing that the biases inherent in my own thoughts about story are mot accurately just because they are mine. What is more, I know that it is possible to write great stories outside this framework. So, the limitation here is my own, and I am looking at it, both as an opportunity to do as I did above, exculpating my thoughts, but also as a chance to contemplate a different set of values. Not the values of the direct lesson within this chapter, but a deeper and hidden layer which gives a glimpse at a perspective on story. Basically, why would it be done in this way? What is revealed about the thoughts of the author, the way that they consider story that may not even be conscious. I am not attempting to crack through a hidden secret, but instead posing a question about my own thoughts and what they would look like if I were going to approach the teaching of writing with this as a core framework.
That is, of course, in many ways, similar to my thoughts in relations to Le Guin, but I am also aware that I did not raise these questions when thinking about Steering The Craft. I have given this question a good deal of thought, and I think that a part of it has to do with the intent of the book. Le Guin did not seem to be setting out to do something definitive, but rather offering a serious of instructive lessons that could provide a course of study. They were not a full curriculum, but a set of instructions for individual excursions and explorations, which, though they do build well together, can be done as individual, stamd-alone assignments, or in any order. She does not go into these deeper questions, and is focused on a very narrow aspect of the craft, which is something that I attempted to address when summing up my thoughts about the book. In essence, Le Guin is interested in aspects of story connected to telling and connecting the writer with that process. Thus, the nature of what a story is or can be is not so overtly addressed, and the focus is off of the technical aspects, generally, and more focused upon achieving a certain result within the text, which may rely upon technique but is grounded in a solid connection to the narrative voice of the story.
Wonderbook is a very different type of text, and one with a far greater scope and ambition. That I read an interview with VanderMeer in The Paris Review to discuss the book upon the release of an updated edition is a testament to, not alone, the ambition, but, also, the achievement it facilitated. It is a complete course, a comprehensive guide intended to take even a beginner who has never written a story and get them thinking about story as a writer. Having read works by amateurs who do not understand why events are not a story merely because they happened or are personally resonant to the writer, I can easily imagine how daunting that task would be.
As such, I am more interested in asking why a person setting out to create such a guide would make these choices, and what that reflects that I can learn from. The more successful perspectives on story I have, the more flexibility is possible in choosing the appropriate way to make this particular story.
Now, of course, I have not really begun to discuss the chapter here, but I think that this will provide a meaningful baseline for my own conception of a story, a concept that I believe will be even more relevant as we continue forwards.
It is also important to note that their is no such thing as a "true" story. This is not to suggest that a person must be lying in relaying a series of events that they experienced, nor that we should not think of such things as stories. Rather, the point is that the story never occurred. The events are not the story. The story is the pattern and the meaning created by those events. In telling the story, in giving it a form, one must always select elements to include and others to exclude, thus altering the nature of the actual events. A story requires that the events have a shape to them. They must, in some way, connect, and must have a reason to be told together. This may be purely temporal, or it might be thematic, or otherwise, but those elements are not inherent in the individual events. In the world, the events that happen are far more complicated and do not have an intrinsic meaning. By the way that we arrange them, by the creation of patterns that order the events into meaning, we turn these things into stories. They can never be true, because the nature of a story is to be a construction, an artifice.
A story, then, is a way of ordering events. It is the creation of a pattern that is built from connected events. The plot is one aspect of this, of course, but it is only a small part of what I am speaking of. In terms of a written, or otherwise told, story, their are three layers that exist. The first layer is the story before it is told, in the mind of the teller. The second is the told story, the thing itself. The third is the story as it is received, in the mind that has ingested it. The only one that has a physical existence is that middle piece, and it is only a reflection of the other two, but it has things that they cannot, because it is embodied. For a writer, this is the technical job, and that job is to transcribe that pattern in a way that allows the words and sentences, in meaning, sound, image, and otherwise, create a meaning that enhances the story. This is done through the use of linguistic patterns, not only the kind one thinks of normally, such as rhyme or meter, but even subtler tools, such as associating sounds or objects to characters and emotions. Even the choices of sentence or paragraph length can develop meaning through patterns.
These things are merely, of course, examples of a larger concept. Story is form of organizing ideas, and all organizing of information is about patterns, as order is built through the distinctions between repetition and randomness. The job of a writer is not only to build the story as a concept, but to find a way to translate that concept into a meaningful concept for the reader. This is done through the vehicle of a story. The physical story is only a messenger. While it has a great value and should be treated as important, one must realize that it's import is not inherent within the story, but within the potential imbued inside it to recreate it's deeper and truer meaning inside the mind of a reader. That meaning can only be built, of course, from those technical and physical tools, from words, essentially, and their organization. But, neither the beginning idea that propels the writer nor the final understanding that unfurls inside the reader is bound to language.
To my understanding, that is a magical act. I do not mean that in a new age sense, or even as a meta-physical concept. To me, magic is the manipulation of things in the real world by altering symbols. The cliche of a voodoo doll is a perfect image of this: what is done to the symbol, the doll, is done to the symbolized, the associated person. Magic is essentially that exchange. In some fantasy novels, this is not so overt, but it is still true. For instance, if one looks at uses of magic in the Harry Potter books, spells are generally accomplished by using incantations and wand maneuvers. These are symbolic actions, intended to alter something in the world through non-physical means. There are, of course, more overt examples within the series, such as Hermione's time-turner, which alters time and resembles an hour-glass and has a gyroscopic spinning mechanism (note: I am basing this on an image of the turner from the films and not from rereading the passages in the books, as I could easily access the image online but couldn't rapidly locate the description, and it has been many years since I read those books, so it may well be that I am describing the wrong time-turner here, but the point, I think, is still valid). Symbolically, this seems to be a fairly literal representation of the concept, though it is more important to recognize that what is being done is using a symbol, the time-turner, to alter an aspect of the real world, time.
Now, I am sure that someone would be capable of making an argument that my concept of what magic is leaves out certain possibilities that are represented in fiction, but even were that true, this does not change my point. While the criteria of altering reality through the manipulation of symbols is not necessarily the only definition of magic, one can see how it is a sufficient definition for a general concept of a certain type of magic. It may not be necessary, but it is sufficient, to borrow from the logicians. Of course, one might argue that this is to broad, and all use of symbols becomes magical in this way, but that, I do not think, is the case. If one merely writes a note, one is not creating meaning in the same way as one is when writing a story (unless you are writing about peaches and you are William Carlos Williams, but how likely is that?). The story is not magic because it's meaning is contained in the symbols, but because what is contained within the symbols, when the story is executed effectively, is actually more than the language should be able to contain. Their is meaning that comes from the synergy of the parts, which is not inherent to any one aspect of the structure. On one end, their is an idea too massive to fit into words, and on the other is an equally large interpretation of that concept. They exist within two minds, and the bridge is a bunch of squiggles on paper, that must be decoded for linguistic meaning, and even at this level are still insufficient for the job.
The magic, to me, comes in being able to make certain the reader is able to extract meaning that is intended but not explicit. It is putting layers within a story that can bring other kinds of meaning into the mind of a reader. In essence, a story must become an experience that exists for the reader, in a way that is not merely about the imagining of that world, but goes inside and becomes a part of their own mental landscape. The story must be a thing that can interact with the reader, and that interaction can only happen if the meaning on paper is ambiguous in ways that let the meaning in the mind alter the story. What is most magical is being able to do this in ways that control those ambiguities outside of a readers awareness, in triggering the shifts from one mental frame to another through a process so subtle that they should not notice it has happened until it is already too late. A story must be more for the reader, if it is a success, than what they can read. To write a story, then, is to take on this task, and to recognize it for what it is.
Now, to me, these are things that I think need to be said, and it really kind of is surprising that this isn't something addressed in Wonderbook. When I say this, it may seem a bit daft, but I am not intending to suggest that the book should speak of writing through my exact lens, but rather that the discussion of what is meant by story is a bit vague. It is, of course, largely made clear that story means a written work of fiction, but it seems to me that other discussions have blurred that line, Any time one is referencing a story in the mind, one means a different thing, and I really believe that confusion is not helpful to most folks. Knowing that this is a book that draws distinctions in terms of types of creativity and imagination, and which is rather specific in a great many of the details within this chapter alone, I do think it strange that their isn't, really, a direct discussion of the nature of story, beyond a general notion of it a s living being, and of the various constituents are the organs of this beast.
I do like this metaphor, and think it quite accurate about the way one thinks of a story, but the main exploration of the concept comes in discussing the parts, more than the whole. It seems to me worth remembering this definition of synergetics: the whole is greater than the sum of it's parts. A living creature must be examined as more than just it's skin, bones, muscles. Their are many aspects to it. Now, I may be premature in my thoughts here, as I am only in chapter two and the book might do a great deal towards exploring these ideas once it has established certain concepts first, so all this is subject to reconsideration as I read forwards.
I also want to note that I am not disapproving or disagreeing with the book and it's approach. I am actually more intrigued by questions that are raised when I consider viewpoints that decentralize my own priorities of story, and the notions that arise as a result. While I do appreciate that the absence of a more direct discourse allowed me to consider these notions, and provided me the chance to think through my own perspective, I also am realizing that the biases inherent in my own thoughts about story are mot accurately just because they are mine. What is more, I know that it is possible to write great stories outside this framework. So, the limitation here is my own, and I am looking at it, both as an opportunity to do as I did above, exculpating my thoughts, but also as a chance to contemplate a different set of values. Not the values of the direct lesson within this chapter, but a deeper and hidden layer which gives a glimpse at a perspective on story. Basically, why would it be done in this way? What is revealed about the thoughts of the author, the way that they consider story that may not even be conscious. I am not attempting to crack through a hidden secret, but instead posing a question about my own thoughts and what they would look like if I were going to approach the teaching of writing with this as a core framework.
That is, of course, in many ways, similar to my thoughts in relations to Le Guin, but I am also aware that I did not raise these questions when thinking about Steering The Craft. I have given this question a good deal of thought, and I think that a part of it has to do with the intent of the book. Le Guin did not seem to be setting out to do something definitive, but rather offering a serious of instructive lessons that could provide a course of study. They were not a full curriculum, but a set of instructions for individual excursions and explorations, which, though they do build well together, can be done as individual, stamd-alone assignments, or in any order. She does not go into these deeper questions, and is focused on a very narrow aspect of the craft, which is something that I attempted to address when summing up my thoughts about the book. In essence, Le Guin is interested in aspects of story connected to telling and connecting the writer with that process. Thus, the nature of what a story is or can be is not so overtly addressed, and the focus is off of the technical aspects, generally, and more focused upon achieving a certain result within the text, which may rely upon technique but is grounded in a solid connection to the narrative voice of the story.
Wonderbook is a very different type of text, and one with a far greater scope and ambition. That I read an interview with VanderMeer in The Paris Review to discuss the book upon the release of an updated edition is a testament to, not alone, the ambition, but, also, the achievement it facilitated. It is a complete course, a comprehensive guide intended to take even a beginner who has never written a story and get them thinking about story as a writer. Having read works by amateurs who do not understand why events are not a story merely because they happened or are personally resonant to the writer, I can easily imagine how daunting that task would be.
As such, I am more interested in asking why a person setting out to create such a guide would make these choices, and what that reflects that I can learn from. The more successful perspectives on story I have, the more flexibility is possible in choosing the appropriate way to make this particular story.
Now, of course, I have not really begun to discuss the chapter here, but I think that this will provide a meaningful baseline for my own conception of a story, a concept that I believe will be even more relevant as we continue forwards.
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