truepenny | metaphors for writing, again (Reply)

mrissa has unkind things to say about the Exposition Dwarf. She is so not wrong.

slithytove talking about the Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot.

And I'm thinking about metaphors for writing.

This thought was initially triggered by the WisCon panel on rewriting, where there was an audience question at the end which we panelists fell over each other trying to answer. (I still feel bad about my lapse in good manners, but I was desperate to get my words out.) The question was about feedback from people who don't seem to understand what the story is trying to do, or people who want the story to be changed to suit their perception of it, or something like that--shockingly bad memory, I have. I did my best to answer it then, but had the excruciating feeling that the words I needed were slipping out of my grasp like soapy eels, leaving other, lesser words behind--soap scum and shed skin.

So here's my new metaphor for that situation.

Writing a story is like leading your reader down an underground passage. The ceiling's low; the floor's uneven; there are unexpected half-flights of stairs, bits of antique masonry littering the way, cannonballs embedded in the walls at awkward heights; and there are things that live down there in the dark, too. You, as the writer, have a candle. Your reader is blindfolded. It's your job to lead them down the passage without having them trip or bruise themselves or get bitten by a grue. Because at the end of the passage is that wonderful moment of clarity, whether cold or warm, that is the thing fiction tries to do, where the reader can take off the blindfold and look back and understand the journey they've undergone.

Now, especially in draft, there will be moments when the reader says, Hey! I've fallen down! As the writer, you don't get to argue with them about that. They fell down. That's a fact. But when you ask, What did you fall over? and they say, A brick! or There was a tripwire! or I'm sure that was a shoggoth!, that is when you have to remember they're blindfolded. You're the one with the candle. You may not know where you're going, but at least you can see where you are. So you look at what they fell over.

And maybe they're right. Maybe there was a tripwire. Some readers are very good at intuiting the nature of the obstacles they've fallen over, and they are beta-readers worth their weight in topazes and rubies. But maybe what they think was a shoggoth was actually a ripped and soggy cowhide ottoman, or perhaps what they thought was a brick was actually the arm of a chryselephantine statue buried in the rich dark earth. Or perhaps a thread from their sweater snagged on a bit of rusty wrought-iron fifty feet back, and it's unravelled itself into a entanglement Shelob would be proud of. No matter how convinced they are that it was a brick, or a tripwire, or a shoggoth, they're not the one holding the candle. You're the writer. You can't tell them they didn't fall down, but you don't have to believe them when they tell you what they think they fell over. You have to use your candle and go back and look for the cause.

You want to make sure they don't trip. But you may also want to stop and describe the statue to them. The goal isn't to make the passage smooth; it's to guide the reader around the obstacles. Don't let them fall down, but don't let them tell you an ottoman is a shoggoth, either.

Remember who's holding the candle.