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In real life, many things impinge on our lives but are only slightly connected (by us) with one another. I have horses, so I have a “line” to the horse vet, the farrier, and the feed store…I write, so I have lines to my agent, my editors (present and past), the various publishing houses, and readers. It’s true that because I have readers, I still have publishers, and also the money to put in the bank to pay the vet, the farrier, and the feed store…but nobody at the feed store has ever met any of my editors, or knows their names. The farrier is aware of the equine vet (most farriers know every equine vet in the area they service) but neither the farrier nor the equine vet knows any of my readers outside their home town.
Cross-connections exist in real life–we ourselves are cross-connections for some (if one of my editors moved to central Texas and asked me for a recommendation for an equine vet or farrier, I’d become an active connection.) But if you look at any of us as fictional characters, and our lives as potential books, we’d have a lot of extraneous connections that led nowhere near the main “plotline”. Of my teachers in school, for instance, some were much more influential than others in shaping who I am today. Same with people I worked with, or went to school with, or did volunteer work alongside. In real life, every connection is just as real as any other, but even in real life they aren’t all equally “strong.” And in real life, we all have 24 hours in every day, 7 days in every week, 365 1/4 (approx) days in every year, and many years, to accumulate all these connections in their variety. All the people we’ve met–or just noticed on the street, in a bus, in a classroom….all the buildings we’ve seen and those we’ve entered….every flower, every tree, every plant of any kind we’ve seen, touched, noticed…every kind of weather, every emotional state, everything.
In fiction we have only the length of the book (even a series of books) to create the story-world in which the story occurs, and the story itself. We do not have world enough and time to detail all the connections…and thus the writer must prune reality to the shape of a story. Loose or static or single (not cross-connected) connections are usually deemed not plot-worthy. They may be interesting, but they don’t go anywhere (or not with enough oomph to be plot-drivers.)
This morning’s 1000+ words presented exactly this problem. Character A (POV in this section) knew Character B when they were boys together. Both are now middle-aged and have not seen one another for years. B has brought important news to A, news that requires A to make a difficult decision (either way, it’s difficult.) B’s past connection to A adds information about A, information relevant to what A decides. So far, so good: at least in first draft, writing out lines of connectivity between them, including other people they both knew back when, is useful in clarifying their motivations.
Character C has entered the conversation. A has known C only a short time, but C has cross-connections to D, E, F, G, and H (A has met all but E; E is already a plot-important character.) A considers C an important person–a powerful person, someone whose opinion is very important. Suddenly, the connectivity is growing like a pumpkin vine, in all directions (across the plot, backwards up the plot, etc.) and without limit (and some lines clearly end in “maybe…” curly tendrils that might or might not hook up to something else sometime and somewhere.)
If you’re a writer who generates character fairly easily, then this will happen: you will conceive characters with a reality-level number of connections to everything in that story-world–people, places, objects, memories, emotions–so that any interaction can set off a “connectivity explosion” sufficient to clog forward motion. This is not good.
In a well-constructed story, everything serves the story itself–whether it’s written sparely, with little detail, or lushly, with a lot of detail, all those details should suit the story being told and not impede its progress. First draft writing can ignore this, but even then the writer should be aware that the story must keep moving. Just as my choir director tells us to “pull through” a musical phrase, not merely sing note by note (and not break a phrase with a badly timed breath), so the writer needs to “pull through” the story itself…and sometimes that means pruning away the connections that are dragging it to a halt.
There’s a countering pull, though, in good story construction–and that’s avoiding the easy connections. In real life, we have both easy and difficult connectivity–it might seem that being X’s son-in-law means that we have an in with Company Z, because X is on the Board…but maybe it means we have automatic enemies at Company Z (X’s enemies: he didn’t approve the current CEO or CFO.) Just as it behooves us, in real life, to be aware that we have negative as well as positive connections, so in fiction the writer must avoid using connections as another form of deus ex machina for characters in a bind. Since coincidence is always suspect in fiction, connection-motivators must be treated with great care.
When I find myself in a story-situation like this morning’s, I sometimes pause and analyze the relation of that scene or passage to the existing story (both on paper and in my head. I do this more in later books in a group, when the story’s main line has become more obvious. This is book four of five: the story should now be revealing itself more to readers, allowing them to see how the first three books are structured, where the hinge is, and where (roughly) it’s going. There will still be surprises, but there should be growing confidence that we’re headed “there” and not “back that way” whatever the outcome of the journey might be.
Looked at that way, only some of the connections between A and B will hold up to the standard. A’s decision is plot-worthy (it will drive some other decisions), but how much of A’s connection to B is necessary remains to be seen. With C having entered the conversation…not as much as I thought when I started. A’s decision may be more abrupt in the final version–C may enter the conversation even sooner, and truncate much of the previous passage. What’s important is the overarching storyline…which must connect with the subplots, the individual volume story arcs, every character, but in fiction-believable ways.
This is part of the fun of writing these books…having them complicated enough that I need to really think about it, as well as feel it. It’s a giant multi-dimensional puzzle–for both writer and reader, but the writer has to solve it first, to be able to reassemble it in a form that readers will enjoy unlocking.
Comment by Genko — June 28, 2011 @ 3:39 pm
This is exactly the kind of post I read this blog for — not that I will likely ever write anything like this, but it’s fascinating to me what all goes into making it happen, what kind of thought allows it to hold together and not seem contrived or disjointed or — well, many of the other difficulties I have with so many fiction books that I read. That “pulling through” metaphor is a good one — I’ve also sung in choirs, and I know exactly what you mean. When I read fiction, I want a story that pulls me along like that, so that it seems almost inevitable in some ways, even when it’s surprising in the moment.
I get the puzzle thing — much of the work I’m doing as a reader is puzzling it out as I go. I appreciate all the work you’re doing, and it shows in the finished products.
Comment by elizabeth — June 28, 2011 @ 4:20 pm
Thanks, Genko; I’m glad this kind of post interests you.
The musical connection–I’ve always written to music, nearly always classical–has fascinated me more since I began singing with a very knowledgeable and very instructive director. I’ve realized that the musical experiences of my childhood prepped my brain to recognize particular structures useful in both music and fiction-writing. This is especially evident in the substructures and idioms. (Hmmm…I should do a post on this someday, maybe?) Years ago I wrote to music just because it “felt right.” Now I’m increasingly aware of what the music is doing to shape how the writing goes, and what complexity of music I “need” for particular scenes as well as how music and characterization relates. Our choir director is not a writer (at all, he would say) and thus keeps suggesting music that is emotionally stirring to him but doesn’t work for me as writing music (Bruckner symphonies, for instance, or Durufle’s Requiem.) It’s not that I don’t like them–but they’re not productive writing music for me. (They might be for others.)
Comment by Genko — June 28, 2011 @ 6:16 pm
Interesting. Years ago as a typesetter, I was surprised to discover that, though I usually don’t like music as backgound, typesetting actually worked just fine for me to Mozart or Bob Dylan(!). I would think writing would be different, and it’s always interesting to find what kinds of ambient noise I find distracting and what I find either neutral (maybe soothing) or actually energizing and helpful.
I loved classical music as a child, and of course was raised on church music — sang in choirs from as early as they would let me into a children’s choir, and on up. Started to learn piano when I was 5 (my mom teaching me, as her mom started her when she was 5). So, although I have a pretty good grasp of musical theory, I don’t usually analyze it in the way you seem to be doing.
I agree that emotionally-stirring music isn’t necessarily the best to write to (or drive with, as another example). The reason I was surprised by Bob Dylan as easy to work with was because I figured song lyrics would automatically be distracting if I were typesetting a book or other copy-heavy material. But it turned out not to be a problem at all, and in fact, there was something about the rhythm or ??? that actually made it go easier. Mysterious.
Comment by Linda — June 28, 2011 @ 7:48 pm
Lovely post, much food for thought.
I hope time to write means things are less stressful and that Richard is doing well.
I’ve been driving for long stretches and listening to Kings of the North. I’m noticing things I missed when reading it (several times). It is delightful, and encouraging me to re-experience your books in this different medium. As a poor sight reader of music I might liken it to hearing a hymn rather than “reading it” in the hymnal. Thought there are times I quibble with the reader’s interpretation of dialogue …
All the best.
Comment by elizabeth — June 28, 2011 @ 9:51 pm
Linda: If I’m not driving someone back and forth–I’m here–then it’s work time. I particularly need to drive on until the next surgery, because I’ll be “off task” then.
I can’t listen to audiobooks…not sure why, but possibly because of being so sensitive to how I would read something (if I know it.) And I’ve not wanted to be read to since I was very young. (I’m ALWAYS quibbling with a reader’s interpretation of something–dialogue for sure, but also just phrasing.)
Comment by elizabeth — June 28, 2011 @ 10:07 pm
I can’t write to songs…it’s not the human voice, but the words themselves (can’t not listen to them.) I have trouble writing to music I’ve sung as the music-performance gnome pops up and gets in the way, reminding me of the markings, the exact speed at which we took it, etc. One of the rare times I was able to use music we used was the Bach Magnificat…I had picked up the CD as a preparation for learning the piece later in the fall, and shortly thereafter was revising the big battle scene at the end of Victory Conditions. So I hadn’t seen the score, and didn’t really know it. It was on the same CD as the Verdi Gloria, and together they were perfect for rewriting that battle.
But big choral pieces–pieces that have as complex a structure as symphonies–may work because I hear the sound, not the words. (The Mozart Requiem was off limits for several years because I’d sung it recently, and even now that memory can intrude, so I can play it only softly. The Brahms German Requiem, though, is still potent writing music and so is the Faure…for now. We’re scheduled to do the Faure this fall.)
I know from teaching a church class on church music history that people are simply wired differently enough (possibly due to early listening experiences, but possibly also innate neurological differences) that what works for one in a situation will not for another. I know people who write to music that I cannot stand….people who love music I loathe (including among church music pieces…”praise music” drives me crazy. One of my favorite people loves it, listens to it by choice; I keep biting my tongue not to say “It’s eating your brain and turning it to oatmeal!” because clearly it’s NOT doing that to her, but it feels like it does it to me.) Other people are bored or annoyed by Bach.
Mysterious, as you said.
Comment by Maureen — June 28, 2011 @ 10:45 pm
I suspect a lot of it is just naked processing methods being revealed: words vs math/music, emotions vs sound. Some of it is probably the sort of bandwidth you have for various sorts of processing. I know people who can’t do math problems when music is playing, and others who thrive on it. It doesn’t bother me a bit to talk about one thing while typing something else I’m looking at; but I can’t think about writing and talk and type all at once. Me, I like relaxing polyphony for putting me into a flow state.
Comment by Maureen — June 28, 2011 @ 10:46 pm
Which is funny, because polyphony is fun to sing but not particularly relaxing. 🙂
Comment by Mollie Marshall — June 29, 2011 @ 2:56 am
I too really enjoy the posts where you discuss the writerly hinterland.
On the subject of background music: my husband is a physics teacher and used to use Mahler symphonies for marking the students’ work – Bruckner didn’t cut the mustard at all, apparently.
Comment by elizabeth — June 29, 2011 @ 6:58 am
Maureen: I can’t talk and type (or talk and play the piano). Apparently I have a strong “hand to mouth” connection, or something. I’m fascinated by those who can type or play piano and still talk coherently. By experimentation, I found out that I play Solitaire on the computer MUCH faster when listening to Bach’s big organ pieces than when not listening to any music, and somewhat faster than when listening to, for instance, Beethoven symphonies.
The brain is fascinating and trying to infer its workings from the observation of its output suggests considerable variation from one experimental subject to another. You may already know this, but PET scans of brain activation while people are listening to the same music are broadly different when it’s people listening to familiar v. unfamiliar music, when it’s orchestra conductors v. non-musicians, and when it’s people listening to music they like v. music they don’t like.
Comment by elizabeth — June 29, 2011 @ 7:00 am
Oh, I can see that, Mollie. Mahler isn’t the best writing music for me (except maybe #1) but Bruckner just didn’t work at all. Bruckner doesn’t feel as structurally “connected” as Mahler, which is one of the things I’m missing when I tried writing to his work…and looking a students’ work in physics or math, you’d want support in following their structure (if any.)
Comment by Daniel Glover — June 29, 2011 @ 10:25 am
For incorporating music in to SFF I found Elizabeth Hayden’s work wonderful. Though for some reason I never really got in to the direction her “plot daemon” took her in the second Rhapsody series.
I, too, can not usually work with background music. I work with lots of data and am usually doing some kind of pattern recognition or other detail work. Give me some music that swings and my feet just want to move. No good for working. 🙂
For me finding a Catholic parish that does Gospel music singing that really frees my soul. Still like all the Classical stuff, love the intricacy of it too. But when I listen to it I really just want to concentrate on the music and hearing all the patterns.
Conversely after years of swing dancing a couple years back went ice skating for the first time in many, many years and could skate backwards wonderfully when I couldn’t do it at all as a child, even with a frozen lake in my back yard. The brain can process and learn some things even when not being “trained”.
Anyway, I rue the day your notebook with all your marching songs went missing. I really enjoy such things when they have shown up in your work.
May you continue to find music that inspires your writing.
Comment by Kip Colegrove — June 29, 2011 @ 12:47 pm
I’m pretty sure we learn the suprasegmental sound features of language (pitch, stress and jucture–the more musical aspects of speech) before we learn segmental phonemes. How all this gets involved in learning syntax is of interest to me, though I’ve never studied it in depth. But I’ll bet it correlates closesly with how the brain processes music.
And I agree vigorously with the opinion that your posts that deal in depth with issues related to writing make this blog worth the time of anyone interested in the subject. They are “red beef and strong beer,” in C. S. Lewis’s phrase. Nourishing feasts, indeed.
Comment by Genko — June 29, 2011 @ 5:53 pm
Well, sure, aside from the fact that I imbibe neither red meat nor strong beer, I would agree with the sentiment. Nourishing, yes.
It does happen that its much easier for me to learn the tune (along with the harmonies and rhythms) of a piece of music than the words. I’ve sometimes found that I “know” a piece very well — all except the words. Have even enjoyed listening to it several times. And then hear or read the words and remark that wow, that’s a cool set of lyrics.
And I agree that listening to a piece of music that I have been involved in producing (usually a choral work) is NOT relaxing at all — too many things to catch the mind. Unless I can just sing along with it at the top of my lungs (like in the car sometimes) and then it’s okay.
Comment by Jenn — June 30, 2011 @ 1:39 pm
I will take the red venison or moose (is moose considered venison) and leave the beer.
Music backgrounds change for me. When I am knitting toy dragons or mittens it is praise and worship. Sweaters and intricate items require more thought so classical and if I can find it pre-renaissance style chant and I love the Akathist hymn from the eastern liturgy.
Also I love the ins and outs of your writing adventures even if they sometimes hurt my brain. I am from the spoon fed x generation after all
Happy knitting
Comment by Laura BurgandyIce — June 30, 2011 @ 6:51 pm
“This is part of the fun of writing these books…having them complicated enough that I need to really think about it, as well as feel it. It’s a giant multi-dimensional puzzle–for both writer and reader, but the writer has to solve it first, to be able to reassemble it in a form that readers will enjoy unlocking.”
I love the way you keep track of all the interconnections of people & places & history… it really is fun to puzzle out as a reader and I’m happy to hear you enjoy creating it.
Comment by arthur Piantadosi — July 1, 2011 @ 4:40 pm
This is Arthur. I am the opposite way with music, I think I do far better with music with lyrics than just instrumental music, though I like good instrumentals. I am hyperlexic in addition to being autistic, and get a great deal of information from words, images, and pictures. I have, as I may have told you, two wonderful parents who gave me all the love a person could have. I really have to thank you, Elizabeth, for Deed of Paksenarrion, and Speed of Dark. I was, for a time, ashamed of the fact I was autistic, and felt beat down the fact that I graduated in 2001, just before 9/11 I remember being in shock at the fact that anyone could do such horrible things. I remember the feeling that the world would end, and then the fact that it did not was a great calming effect. I am sorry to unload all this upon you, but when I felt the worst I could feel, I turned to the beginning of Oath of Gold. Paks is so like a wounded animal at that point, having lost her sense of worth, and almost her sense of self. The Kuakgan was willing to risk a lot to help her regain herself. And Lou . . . When you had him say, the book says this about me. . . heavens, that was like I said it. I did not get the supports I needed in High School. I love your books so much! But take the time that you need. Timing is important. I have got too buy a paperback copy of Oath of Fealty. I keep getting it from the library, and I am terrible about returning Library books, which is a bad thing.
Comment by Genko — July 4, 2011 @ 10:48 am
Yes, Arthur,
I have finally broken down and bought many of Elizabeth’s books, because they are the kinds of books I love to re-read. I have a few other fiction books that I return to from time to time (Lord of the Rings, certainly, but others as well). Books that engage me on that level and stand up to re-reading are a treasure for me.
I also do the library extensively, primarily mysteries these days. Mostly these are books that I can happily read once and then return with no complaints. I think I stumbled on Deed when I was doing the SF Book Club. Most of the other books I bought then have long since been sold to our local used book store, but a few remain, including Deed. And a few that I have read in the library I decided to hunt up — so I found a used paperback of Once a Hero for I think 99 cents. Wow! I’m happy to have it, and have read it at least a couple of times since I got it.
When Oath of Fealty came out, I tried very hard not to buy it, trying to wait for the library to get copies. Finally just couldn’t stand it, and was bitching about it, and a friend went and bought it for me. When Kings came out, I didn’t bother to dither — just pre-ordered it and bought it. I’ve read both Oath and Kings (and re-read Deed) several times since then. Just finished another re-read of the whole thing. It’s all just wonderful.