I’ve been reading a terrific
guest post on our blog by our Craig Taylor. (And actually, “guest post”
doesn’t feel like quite the right term, if I’m honest. Craig’s a buddy,
not a guest.)
The post is on how to write a scene
and, in it, Craig asks:
“If the theme of your work,
say, is unrequited love, does your scene angle in to that theme? Does
it demonstrate a circumstance or a feeling which is associated with
unrequited love? Or does it demonstrate a circumstance or a feeling
about requited love, so as to throw into relief the experience that one
of your characters will have about unrequited love?”
And those are interesting
questions, aren’t they?
I, for one, don’t write a book
thinking that every scene I write has to “angle in” to my major theme.
But what if that’s wrong? What if, in a well-constructed book, pretty
much everything angles in to the one same issue? (Or, rather, cluster
of issues, because a book that is rich thematically can never be too
neatly categorised.)
And here’s another thought:
What if you don’t especially
think about these things as you build your story? What if you do
concentrate on good writing (nice prose, strong characters, a
well-knitted plot), but don’t overthink the thematic stuff?
What happens then? Is the result
strong? Or will it never reach the kind of thematic depth and
congruence that Craig is hinting at?
Hey, ho. Interesting questions.
So I thought I’d take a look at my own work and see what’s actually
happened there.
So my last book, The Deepest
Grave, has a cluster of themes that include:
- Ancient
history, specifically post-Roman Britain and the shade of Arthur
- Treasure
and fakery
- Death
(because this is a murder mystery, but it is also a book about
Fiona Griffiths, whose attitudes to life and death are deep and
complicated.)
But then, I only have to write
those themes down on the page here – something I’ve never done before;
I don’t plan my thematic stuff – and I realise this: that those
themes absolutely and necessarily contain their opposites. So a book
that is about fakery and death is also, essentially, a book about:
- Authenticity
- Life – or,
more specifically in Fiona’s case, the whole knotty business of
how to be a human; how to establish and maintain an identity in
the face of her over awareness of death.
OK. So those, broadly, are my
themes. Let’s now look at whether my various scenes tend to hammer away
at those things, or not. Are themes something that appear via a few
strong, bold story strokes? Or are they there, fractal-like, in every
detail too?
And, just to repeat, those
aren’t questions I consciously think about much as I write. Yes, a bit,
sometimes, but I certainly don’t go through the disciplined thought
process that Craig mentions in his post.
And blow me down, but what I
find is that, yes, those themes infest the book. The book never long
pulls away from them at all.
So, aside from a place and date
stamp at the top of chapter 1, the first words in the book are these:
“Jon Breakell has just
completed his chef d’oeuvre, his masterpiece. The Mona Lisa of
office art. The masterpiece in question is a dinosaur made of bulldog
clips, twisted biro innards and a line of erasers that Jon has carved
into spikes.”
That’s a nod towards ancient
history. It’s a nod towards authenticity (the Mona Lisa) and fakery (a
dinosaur that is definitely not a real dinosaur.) It’s also, perhaps, a
little nod towards death, because in a way the most famous thing about
dinosaurs is that they’re extinct.
It goes on. The mini-scene that
opens the book concludes with Fiona demolishing her friend’s dinosaur
and the two of them bending down to clear up the mess. Fiona says, “that’s
how we are—me, Jon, the bones of the fallen—when Dennis Jackson comes
in.”
That phrase, the bones of the
fallen, puts death explicitly on the page and in a way which
alludes forward to the whole Arthurian battle theme that will emerge
later.
That’s one example and – I
swear, vow & promise – I didn’t plan those links out in my head
prior to writing. I just wrote what felt natural for the book that was
to come.
But the themes keep on coming.
To use Craig’s word, all of the most glittering scenes and moments and
images in the book keep on angling in to my little collection of
themes.
There’s a big mid-book art heist
and hostage drama. Is there a whiff of something ancient there?
Something faked and something real? Of course. The heist is fake and
real, both at the same time.
The crime that sits at the heart
of the book has fakery at its core. But then Fiona start doubling up on
the fakery – she’s faking a fake, in effect – but in the process, it
turns out, she has created something authentic. And the authenticity of
that thing plays a key role in the book’s final denouement.
Another example. Fiona’s father
plays an important role in this book. He’s not a complicated or
introspective man. He doesn’t battle, the way his daughter does, for a
sense of identity.
But what happens in the book?
This big, modern, uncomplicated man morphs, somehow, into something
like a modern Arthur. That identity shift again plays a critical role
in the final, decisive dramas. But it echoes around the rest of the
book too. Here’s one example:
“Dad drives a silver Range
Rover, the car Arthur would have chosen.
It hums as it drives,
transfiguring the tarmac beneath its wheels into something finer,
silvered, noble.
A wash of rain. Sunlight on a
hill. Our slow paced Welsh roads.”
That’s playful, of course, and I
had originally intended just to quote that first line, about the Range
Rover. But when I opened up the text, I found the sentences that
followed. That one about “transfiguring the tarmac” is about that
process of transformation from something ordinary to something more
like treasure, something noble.
And then even the bits that
follow that – the wash of rain, the sunlight on the hill – don’t those
things somehow attach to the “finer, silvered, noble” phrase we’ve just
left? It’s as though the authenticity of the man driving the
Range Rover transforms these ordinary things into something treasured.
Something with the whisper of anciency and value.
I could go on, obviously, but
this email would turn into a very, very long one if I did.
And look:
Yet again, I’ve got to the end
of a long piece on writing without a real “how to” lesson to close it
off.
Craig’s blog post says,
among many other good things, that you should ask whether or not your
scene angles in to your themes. But I don’t do that. Not consciously,
not consistently. And – damn my eyes and boil my boots – I discover
that the themes get in there anyway. Yoo-hoo, here we are.
Uninvited, but always welcome.
So the moral of all this is - ?
Well, I don’t know. I think
that, yes, if you’re stuck with a scene, or if it’s just feeling a
little awkward or wrong, then working through Craig’s list of
scene-checks will sort you out 99% of the time. A conscious, almost
mechanical, attention to those things will eliminate problems.
But if you’re not the conscious
mechanic sort, then having a floaty awareness of the issues touched on
in this email will probably work as well. If you maintain that rather
unfocused awareness of your themes, you’ll find yourself naturally
gravitating towards phrases and scenes and metaphors and moments that
reliably support the structure you’re building.
And that works, I think. The
final construction will have both coherence and a kind of unforced
naturalness.
And for me, it’s one of the
biggest pleasures of being an author. That looking back at a text and
finding stuff in it that you never consciously put there.
Damn my eyes and boil my boots.
Till soon
Harry
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