I recently read an old post in a writers’ forum where someone used the term ‘verisimilitude’.  As I was only mostly sure that I knew what it meant, I looked it up in my trusty dictionary.  (I love checking definitions anyway, and do it quite often; I imagine that most people who are passionate about words find dictionary reading rewarding — and sometimes just plain fun.)

Verisimilitude: 1. The quality of appearing to be true or real.  2. Something that has the appearance of being true and real.

When I read this, it struck me that this should be a highly significant word in my vocabulary, because verisimilitude is a huge part of what I’ve always wanted to achieve with my own writing — even when I started that first novel when I was eleven years old.

Interestingly enough, the word had come up in the forum in reference to Gene Wolfe, one of my favorite authors.  (I often call him my ‘second favorite author’ after Le Guin.  And it’s thanks to her blurb on the front cover of a copy of The Shadow of the Torturer, which I stumbled on at a book sale, that I discovered him — I doubt I would have picked the book up otherwise; from that experience I’ve concluded that endorsements by other authors can be very important!)

In any case, I couldn’t find the same post in the forum when I went back to look for it, but the gist of it was that someone cited Wolfe’s Book of the New Sun as an example of a novel that doesn’t have much of a plot.  And someone else pointed out that it isn’t a matter of lacking a plot, it’s just not a straightforward plot that’s all on the surface — instead, these are the kind of books you can reread multiple times and understand more with each reading.  There are characters, incidents and details that are there to add depth more than to ‘advance the story’.  And somewhere in the discussion, it was brought up that what Wolfe is doing with all of these details and events that aren’t fully explained — or that don’t seem necessary to the main story arc — is creating verisimilitude.

Gene Wolfe’s gift for achieving verisimilitude is one of the things I love most about his books.  (That and the fact that the writing itself is drop-dead gorgeous!)  It’s that sense of depth in the world he transports you to: the feeling that the place is full of complex history and politics; cultures, subcultures and belief systems; life forms and technologies — all hinted at but often not explained.  This is exactly how we experience real life.  Since it’s impossible to know everything, most of us have a sense that our world is a place of enormous complexity, and we accept that there are many things going on in it that we’ll never understand, and things that exist that we only have a vague idea about — or are completely unaware of.

In many ways I’m obsessed with realism.  Though I enjoy other kinds of art — most of Van Gogh’s paintings really strike a chord with me, for example — when I was a child and dreamed of being a skilled artist, the style I admired most was realism.  I remember being very impressed with the kind of paintings that make you do a ‘double take’ and look closely to determine whether the picture is a painting or a photograph.

When it comes to writing, I believe one of the important differences between creating literature — whether short fiction or a novel — and just telling a story around the campfire is that in literature you’re recreating the experience of life, not just relaying a ‘this happened, then that happened’ kind of narrative.  The specific details and layers of depth that make the world of the story — and what the character is experiencing in that world — as real as possible are elements I absolutely love as a reader and, consequently, elements I strive to use effectively as a writer.

Obviously, there are some things you can overdo.  My father studied with Ivor Winters, and we’ve discussed his ‘ fallacy of imitative form’.  I believe Winters was talking particularly about poetry, but the concept can be used for prose as well.  Essentially, when you create art you have to give it structure, rather than just writing down exactly how you think and feel in a kind of chaotic stream of consciousness, and then refusing to alter it, claiming that because it’s ‘real’ it should be the best way to relate those feelings.  But when something in a work of art is an exact imitation of real life, it may be so overwhelming or confusing it doesn’t actually communicate what the artist is trying to convey.  In fiction, dialogue can be an example of this.  The way some people talk would be awkward and annoying if their speech were transcribed exactly as spoken.

However, I still feel that good dialogue in fiction is ninety to ninety-five percent the same as real dialogue.  That is, you should be able to keep most of it the same as real speech, and just cut out some of the repetitions, false starts, or awkward changes of direction in midsentence, as well as things like ‘ums’ and ‘uhs’.  And yet there are even exceptions to that.  One character in Gene Wolfe’s other epic tetralogy, Book of the Long Sun, is distinguished by his speech mannerisms — specifically, by the way he frequently starts to use one word, then changes his mind and chooses another.  That’s an example of ‘breaking the rules’ to use a realistic quirk that adds depth to a character.

It’s often said that a writer doing revisions should consider each scene and ask the question: Does it advance the plot or develop the character?  If the answer is no, that passage should be cut.  (Sometimes ‘developing the theme’ is also included as a viable justification for inclusion.)  So I’ve decided I’m going to modify those guidelines to say that everything that belongs in a story must either:  A) Advance the plot; B) Develop the characters or the theme; or C) Create verisimilitude.

This continues some of the concepts I was exploring in “Learning the Art of Revision” — specifically, it addresses how those ideas are reflected in the Studio Ghibli film, Whisper of the Heart.  (And since I said that post was a ‘Part 2’ itself, I suppose this one should actually be ‘Part 3’ . . .)  😉

A few years ago my brother introduced me to the wonderful films of Hayao Miyazaki, and one that I fell in love with is called Whisper of the Heart.  This is one of those films that falls into a category we just don’t have in American film — a realistic drama that’s animated.  Though there are a couple of fantasy dream sequences, the story takes place in ‘the real world’, and the relationships between the family members and the interactions between the junior high school kids are all quite natural and believable.

It’s a story about a fourteen-year-old girl who wants to be a writer, and the first time I saw it I think I cried through most of it.  It’s not a sad story — it’s just that I related so strongly to Shizuku that it made watching the film a very emotional experience.  The way she spends hours writing when she’s supposed to be studying reminded me of my habit of taking two folders to every class — one for the class itself, and the other containing the story I was currently working on. (I did this from junior high all the way through college.)  At every opportunity, I would write a line or two before attempting to return my attention to the subject of the course.  There’s a scene in the film where Shizuku is doing exactly the same thing, and she can’t answer the teacher’s question because she wasn’t paying attention; she was working on her book instead.

But the part of this film that had the deepest impact on me is when Shizuku gives her completed manuscript to the elderly gentleman she’s befriended (who is also the grandfather of the boy she likes).  The grandfather has asked to be the first to read her story, and she waits while he reads it, extremely anxious to find out what he thinks.  When he finishes, almost before he can say anything she blurts out that she knows it’s not good enough — the manuscript is far from perfect, even after all her hard work.

The grandfather says she should be very proud of what she’s accomplished, but agrees that the manuscript is rough.  On a previous visit the old man had shown her a geode, and he uses the metaphor of a rough stone with hidden gems inside; he tells Shizuku that she’s dug deep inside of herself to find the gems, and now she must polish them — and she has to be patient.  Then Shizuku bursts into tears.

I think of that moment as a crucial coming-of-age milestone for a writer.  There’s no question that it’s a significant accomplishment to get the muse to actually write down an entire story.  But once that’s done, you’re only halfway there.  Now you have to learn how to bring the editor in to shape and polish your creation so that others can enjoy it too.  When you first fully understand this it’s a turning point — but it can be daunting; you’ve worked so hard just to create this thing, and now you’re told you have to do all this additional work if it’s going to fulfill its potential.

And I love the way this is handled in the film; I think Shizuku’s reaction at that moment captures exactly what it feels like.  Also, too many children’s stories and films imply that if one has talent and passion they can learn to excel at something overnight.  (I’ve read more than enough horse stories in which a kid who’s had only a few riding lessons at camp rehabs a neighbor’s old horse and wins a Grand Prix over the course of one summer; sorry, folks, but it takes years to develop the skills — and muscles! — to perform at that level.)  Whisper of the Heart makes it clear that even learning to do what you really love takes work and time, but it makes the message very positive as well as realistic; there may be a long road ahead of you, but if you keep at it, you’ll get there — you’ll learn to polish that gemstone yourself.

Note:  This makes references to the previous post about ‘The Muse and the Editor’, and is essentially ‘Part 2’ of that discussion.

It’s sometimes said that half of the art of writing is the art of revision.  When it comes to the quality and originality of what your muse brings to you, I think there may be a certain amount of ‘talent’ that you either have or don’t have.  But developing a good editor is primarily a matter of hard work and acquiring the necessary skills.  You can learn to revise–and to be an accomplished wordsmith, you must learn to revise.

There are plenty of myths and pieces of misinformation floating around about the craft of writing.  One over-quoted phrase is “Kill your darlings”, which is attributed to William Faulkner–though he may have borrowed it from another source–and which has been echoed emphatically by Steven King.  It’s one of those things some writers bandy about as if they feel that saying it shows how mature and sophisticated they are.  But in reality it has limited application and is too often misinterpreted. What I dislike most about it is that it implies that writers can’t learn to appraise their own work (although that may not have been the original intent at all).  If that were true, they could never learn to edit their own work, which, of course, is nonsense.

The word ‘darling’ is meant to refer to something (or someone) you love and feel proud of–and there should never be anything wrong with feeling that way about something you’ve created.  I’m not saying there aren’t occasions when a misguided young writer–usually in their teens or early twenties–becomes infatuated with some overblown passage they’ve put a very self-conscious effort into constructing; it happens.  But as long as you continue to practice writing–and continue to read well-written prose–it won’t be long before you don’t like the things that don’t work.  And the things that you love really will be your best writing–and your best writing definitely belongs in the story.  Here’s a good post on this topic in another writing blog; I think Palmer hits the nail on the head when she reasons that if it’s something you like, your readers will probably like it too: http://wendypalmer.com.au/2008/09/25/writing-rules-misapplied-kill-your-darlings/

Something else to consider is that sometimes when a piece of writing that you love just doesn’t seem to fit, it could be because the material around it needs to be cut or rearranged, not because the passage itself needs to be deleted.  Maybe you don’t need to dispatch your ‘darling’; maybe you need to clear away what’s smothering it.  Or the passage in question might belong in another part of the book, or even in another book or short story.  But there should never be a reason to discard your best work–plain old common sense will tell you that would be self-defeating.  The goal is to learn to cultivate those ‘moments of brilliance’ until everything you write is the best that you can do.  While attaining perfection may be unrealistic, there’s no reason you can’t strive to develop a solid set of skills that enable you to consistently produce high quality work.

I’m going to use Ursula K. Le Guin and her novel, Lavinia, as an example.  (I often refer to her as my ‘idol’–I hope she wouldn’t find that too annoying!) 😮  Le Guin had written over twenty novels before Lavinia, not to mention enough short stories and poems for a dozen collections of each, all her wonderful essays, children’s stories, etc., etc..  So something tells me that she didn’t hand the manuscript of Lavinia to a beta reader and say, “Gee, I wrote this book, but I really can’t tell if it’s any good, and if it isn’t, I have no idea how I would make it better.”  (Statements familiar to anyone who peruses writer’s forums.)  I also sincerely doubt that the chosen reader returned the manuscript covered in notes and corrections, or that an exchange lasting months or even years ensued until there was mutual agreement that the book was ready for submission.

Instead, I imagine that when Le Guin finished doing everything she normally does on her own when writing a book, at least ninety-five percent of what she handed to that first reader is the same as what’s in the published novel.  And if there were changes, it’s likely they were things that she herself chose to do in response to the feedback she received.

Why would I be willing to bet on this?  Because Le Guin has been practicing this craft–and needless to say, doing it extremely well–for long enough that she knows how to get the job done without requiring someone else to guide her through it.  That doesn’t means it’s always easy; it means she has the tools to deal with the challenges that arise.  As she mentions in answer to one of the FAQ’s on her website, the number of revisions she does after the initial draft can vary quite a bit–some books are more difficult to write than others.  (And when she refers to the ‘fiddling and polishing’ of revising as ‘gravy’, that’s exactly what I was talking about when I called it my ‘latest addiction’; once you’re comfortable with the process, it becomes very enjoyable.)

Sometimes the muse offers up a jumble of ideas, images and characters, and we have to play with them for quite a while to figure out how the pieces fit together.  At other times we get lucky and the muse delivers a complete package with all the pieces in place.  When the latter happens, I always think of the line in Michael Franks’ song for Antonio Carlos Jobim, “Like Water, Like Wind”, in which he says “You described just how the Muse surrendered to you ‘Wave’ in one piece, no problema.”  (And I can attest that when that happens it feels like receiving a wonderful gift.)

But either way, whether it takes many drafts or a few, coming up with a solid finished product is something a writer like Le Guin has learned to figure out for herself; it’s a skill she’s acquired with experience.  But it’s not as if anyone suddenly wakes up when they’re seventy and says, “Oh, now I get it!  Now I know how to do this.”  It’s no different from acquiring any other skill.  Your best effort at a completed, polished manuscript will almost surely be better at thirty-five than it was at twenty-five, better at forty-five than it was at thirty-five, and better at fifty-five than it was at forty-five, etc..  (Hopefully continuing into a ripe old age!)

(Naturally this is assuming that a writer continues to grow–continues to push themselves to explore the craft of writing and to see what they can accomplish.  But I don’t think anyone who writes because they’re passionate about writing–and who writes what they really want to write–is inclined to get sloppy and rest on their laurels; that’s the province of those who write for the love of money more than for the love of words.)

Rather than advising young writers to ‘murder’ anything, a helpful way to describe the problem they face is to say that they’re awfully proud to have dug up their very own lumpy, muddy rock with a gem inside of it, but they’re afraid to start cutting it.  Or they simply don’t know how to start cutting it.  So they have to push past that and make the effort to learn what it takes, or they’ll never uncover their gemstone.  But it shouldn’t be a matter of cutting out anything they’re truly proud of; on the contrary, it’s a matter of paring away the extraneous pieces they won’t miss at all when they’ve revealed the brightest facets of that gem.

This summer I came across a couple of writer’s blogs addressing the topic of writing slowly.  Both emphasized that writers who can’t turn out a high volume of words in a short time shouldn’t feel inferior to those who can.  In particular, they pointed out that some of the great masters have been slow writers — one often mentioned is James Joyce, who is said to have taken eight years to write Ulysses.

Assuming, of course, that the writer in question is actually sitting down and getting something done, the most significant factor in determining writing speed seems to be whether the author is polishing each page as they go — we’ll call this the ‘slow method’ — or focusing on getting a rough draft down, and then coming back and revising — the ‘fast method’.  Although I’m going to explain here why the ‘fast method’ works better for me than the ‘slow method’ — and also why I think it helps to prevent writer’s block — I strongly agree that the creative process is very personal, and each writer must find their own path in that process.  The end result is what matters, not how long it takes to get there.

Looking at my own progression as a writer, I find it noteworthy that my modus operandi has changed.  As a kid I wrote mostly by hand, and only occasionally used a typewriter.  The entire first draft of my first novel was written by hand (and in pencil!), a thought that makes me shudder now.   I also have short stories written in college that only exist in one hand-written draft.   Yet some of those stories have passages in them that I wouldn’t change even now.

Back then, I sometimes toyed with the words in my mind quite a bit before writing them down.  Naturally, when it’s harder to change what you’ve written — and it makes a mess of your pretty manuscript when you have things marked out and inserts scribbled in the margins — you want to get it as close to ‘right’ as you can before putting anything on the paper.  So although I never wrote very slowly — I would never be able to keep up with the flow of ideas if I did — I write considerably faster now.

I initially attributed the change to using different tools; having access to a computer and word – processing software makes editing so easy it frees you up to get things down quickly, knowing you can always fix it later — and you can reprint clean pages as often as you want.   So I figured it made sense that I now write my first drafts rapidly, often essentially free-writing, and only occasionally stopping to go back and tweak something in a previous line or paragraph; I’m simply taking advantage of the available technology.

But then I realized there was another reason my method has changed: I’ve come a long way toward mastering the art of revision since those writing-by-hand days.  Not only have I acquired pretty decent revision skills — although there’s always more to learn — but I’ve come to enjoy revising so much I could call it my latest addiction.  I liken it to being a gem cutter who starts with what appears to be a dirt-covered rock; cutting away all the impurities reveals the gemstone inside, and shaping the facets of that stone brings out its greatest beauty.  Once you have the knowledge and the tools to do it well, it’s a very rewarding experience.

One of the many things I find fascinating about the writing process is that writing well requires the author to utilize two very different parts of the brain.  First, you have to have ideas — you have to tap into the creative subconscious to draw them out, and you have to get excited about exploring those ideas.  Second, in order to create something that others can read and understand, you have to be able to give those ideas shape and structure — to manipulate them until they actually communicate what you intended. But these two things require skills that are polar opposites in some respects.

Although it’s probably an oversimplification, we could say one is a right brain activity and the other uses the left brain.  The way I look at it is this: the job takes two people — the fiery passionate muse, and the stern practical editor.  From reading the observations of people who say they write slowly, it’s quite clear that what they’re doing is both creating and revising as they go along.  In other words, in the ‘slow method’ the muse and the editor are sitting side by side at the keyboard, and they discuss everything in detail before deciding what to type in the document.

My father, who is retired from a long career as a creative writing professor, has often used the adage, “Write hot, edit cold.”  This is what the ‘fast method’ is all about.  Instead of having the muse and the editor working together simultaneously, you kick the editor out of the room — and you lock the door.  Then you give the muse free range to go wild and crazy and write whatever the hell she wants; if she wants to use abstract poetic language or pursue any idea that strikes her fancy, she can.  (Or, to put it in a less fanciful way, you don’t question or evaluate what comes to you — you simply let it come.)

When the muse is satiated and saunters off to take a well-deserved break, (getting her favorite snack and having a long soak in the tub), it’s the editor’s turn to sit down and do his thing; at this point he becomes that gem cutter.  He has to have the skill to see the jewel inside the muddy clump of minerals the muse has left for him.  And he doesn’t have to worry about the muse protesting when he starts ruthlessly sawing away at it, because she’s not there to watch him.  (All she’s thinking about is Lindor truffles and apricot-scented bubble bath.) 😉

Now even with this method there may come a time, especially as you get farther into the process, when you need the editor and the muse in the room together.  They may not be sitting elbow to elbow, but the muse needs to be close enough for the editor to call her over and ask for suggestions.  This is because the editor may decide that a particular passage needs something more — something that goes beyond cutting, reordering, or swapping out a word for a better one — so he’ll need the muse to come up with a new idea or two.

Another thing that happens over time is that the muse learns.  Even when you don’t rein her in — and she’s still free to come up with all those evocative poetic images — she becomes wiser, and better at staying focused.  She’ll stop using so many adverbs or straying off into ideas that don’t follow the through-line of the story.  Then, when there is less for the editor to fix, the whole process begins to take less time.

Although there are exceptions to everything, I think in most cases the slow method is only going to work well for someone who’s already an experienced writer — someone who’s found their way to that process through years of practice and experimentation.  For most people, if you try to ‘edit as you go’ when you’re starting out, in all likelihood you’re setting yourself up to struggle with self-doubt whenever you attempt to write, and this can lead to writer’s block.

Furthermore, writing is like any other skill, and the more you practice it the better you get.  Turning out a lot of material — and then coming back to edit it — is going to give you a lot more practice at both halves of the art, which will improve quality as well as quantity.  There’s an interesting illustration of this in the book, Art and Fear, about an experiment conducted with students in a ceramics class.   (See the section entitled “The Value of Quantity over Quality” here: http://skinnyartist.com/an-artists-bookshelf-art-and-fear).  Everything I’ve seen and personally experienced tells me that the same principle works in other forms of art — including writing.

For me, the enormous advantage of the fast method is that my greatest challenge is keeping up with all the ideas that come to me; the more quickly I can get down an entire story, even if parts of it are very rough, the more I can avoid having countless half-finished stories.  (Incidentally, I’ve never had writer’s block — in fact, I can’t even imagine what it would feel like.)  Once the ideas are all down on paper, it’s far easier to find time to do the revisions, partly because the editor doesn’t have to be ‘in the mood’.

Being a practical fellow, the editor is like a tax accountant: he can work anytime, anywhere, and put in crazy long hours; once he knows his stuff, he can even be reasonably effective when he’s very tired.  Although you may find techniques that consistently inspire the muse to do her thing — perhaps walking in the woods, listening to music, or reading your favorite poet — it’s only natural that she’s more temperamental.  But that’s part of her passionate nature — and you always want to keep that fire burning.