Mark Graham's Blog

Most of us think of art and fiction more or less in the same breath – the writing of great fiction most certainly being an art – but let’s put this obvious connection on the back burner for the moment.

You don’t just wake up one morning and call yourself an artist. No more than you do a writer. Picking up a paintbrush and standing in front of a canvas doesn’t make you an artist. Dropping a chunk of clay on a pottery wheel and digging your hands into it doesn’t make you a potter. You can probably see where I’m going with this. It takes extraordinary dedication, practice, and skill to turn a blank canvas into a true work of art. The best potters spend thousands of hours trying to raise their craft to the level we call art.

Writing great fiction definitely takes talent, but it takes more than that. The subtleties of fine writing don’t just happen. They come with time, refinement, and thousands upon thousands of words. They take understanding. Often what you think is good today will strike you as needing work tomorrow. And that’s a good thing. A great artist evolves from something less than that over time. Same with the best writers of fiction.

Here’s another thing. I can look at a painting in a world-class museum and see something magical: a work of art. You might see the very same painting and walk right past it, unimpressed. It doesn’t matter what a critic says or writes about that painting. His or her comments don’t dictate a painting’s worth. That’s for you and I to decide.

Same goes for good fiction. As a writer, you can’t give any one person’s opinion more weight than it deserves. There is always someone with a negative word. No problem. Just keep writing.

The beauty of painting, pottery, sculpture, or whatever your chosen passion is that you don’t have to start out to create a work of art. It’s all about expressing yourself, and it’s the expression that sets you free. The very same goes for putting pen to paper.

Every night I set up the coffee machine before heading upstairs for a date with the sandman. It starts brewing at 5:30 the next morning. I’m up at 5:45 or so whether I want to be or not. The reward is the hot cup of French Roast waiting for me downstairs.

The anticipation of the coffee is almost as enjoyable as the act of drinking it. Almost. But it is the pleasure of this fine elixir’s taste and the inevitable stimulation that heightens the anticipation. I like my coffee. I look forward to it. You may know the feeling. A semi-addiction? Probably. Am I looking to kick it any time soon? Hardly.

The best fiction, like that first cup of coffee, is filled with anticipation. The anticipation begins long before you sit down with the actual book or switch on your Kindle or Nook. If the book strikes you the way, say, The Eye of the Needle or Ordinary People did me the first time I read them, then the anticipation is inevitable. You can’t wait to get back to the book once the workday is over. Or maybe you even sneak in a few pages during the day when no one’s looking. That’s what a good story will do for you.

Then there is the actual reading experience. Anticipation is a writer’s best friend. The question “What’s going to happen next?” is what drives a reader from one page to the next. The jeopardy you create, the conflict you weave, the obstacles you instill: they relate to every situation and every relationship, good or bad. How will the characters react? How will they change? How will the story evolve? If you hook your readers with these, you’ll have them reaching for your book at the same time they’re pouring that first cup of coffee.

Color is one of Mother Nature’s most astounding gifts. The blue of the sky, the greens of the trees, the gold, grays, and browns of the desert. Color is Mother Nature’s invitation to feast our eyes on images so alive that sometimes we lose track of her gifts and begin to take them for granted. Then, magically, the tulips of spring burst open in all shades of pink and yellow or the setting sun washes the sky in oranges and reds unmatched by any artist’s palette, and we pause at the sudden reminder that, oh yeah, this a living, breathing painting we’re living in.

Color is a state of mind. Picture a rose. Picture a lilac. Picture a sunflower. Pink, lavender, yellow. We ask our minds to paint the same rose yellow, the lilac pink, and the sunflower lavender. In the blink of an eye, our world changes, because our imagination is boundless.

The best fiction respects the reader’s imagination in a slightly different way. A descriptive passage does not have to provide every detail. A scene does not have to provide every nuance. A child crying doesn’t have to portray every emotion. A good writer respects the reader’s ability to fill in the blanks. In fact, a good writer stimulates the reader’s imagination by giving a scene only the color that it needs to spur the imagination. Description beyond that which holds the reader’s attention can be the death knell to movement, pace, and momentum. Now you have a real problem on your hands.

Color doesn’t have to be splashy or vibrant; it just has to be compelling and evocative. Nothing could be truer for the art of fiction as well. Color need not be a stranglehold, only a kick-start, a sensuous touch, an eye-opener. The best fiction gives the reader a paintbrush and an ever-changing canvas and says, “Help yourself.”

Castles and fiction; some might argue that there’s no connection, but I would beg to differ. Castles, in particular castles of old, have four basic elements that make them unique and, for most of us, a bit magical. First, they were all built as fortifications or strongholds meant to house a king or a queen and to protect them from the predatory forces of the day.

Second, castles were meant to awe, in size, in structure, and standing, as all did, high on a hill or mountain overlooking all who gazed up at it in, well, in awe.

Third, no castle ever stood in isolation. A castle was always part of a community. Actually, two communities: the one within the castle and the other surrounding it. Or, in other words, the real world that made the castle just a little less unworldly.

And lastly, every castle is unique in its architectural design, because every castle was designed to fit the mood of its master, and who knew what the mood of the master might be from one moment to the next.

Fiction is built upon four similarly basic elements: plot, setting, theme, and characters. English 101. Sometimes you can get away without one of these, but most often the reader isn’t fooled.

Plot is the fortification of the novel; without that, the novel crumbles, just as a castle without walls will. Setting gives a good book a certain awe factor, that sense of place that is so indispensable. Theme brings the book closer to the real world, just as the surroundings outside a castle do for the people hiding out inside. And a book’s characters are what make every piece of fiction unique and provide the mood that drives the other three elements.

A little history: Diamonds, a gem stone women love and one men love to buy for women, comes from carbon. Carbon, which is neither loved by women nor very frequently purchased for them by any man in his right mind, is what we call an element. Not too exciting, you might say. Carbon, however, needs to be given a bit more credit than that since it is one of the most abundant elements in the universe, and, oh yeah, just happens to form the basis of most living organisms. Diamonds are one of carbon’s high points. The earth hit a homerun when it began spitting out diamonds.

Diamonds as a precious and highly prized stone has a long history, going back to Cleopatra, Nefertiti, and Helen of Troy. But here’s the thing. Diamonds aren’t the most attractive things when they come out of the ground. Put them in the hands of a master diamond cutter, however, and then you’re on to something special.

Fiction is not that different. Fiction, like all writing, comes from the most basic of linguistic element: a collection of letters that form a collection of words. Yes, I know, too obvious even to mention. We are all aware of the letters, and we’re all pretty handy with the words. But the best fiction is, like the millions of years that the earth spends turning carbon into diamonds, a high point in the use of those words. It takes time, and it’s well worth the effort.

There are lots of diamond cutters. There are only a few masters. That is not to disrespect any of those you enter the field.

There are lots of people who venture into the field of writing, and I applaud them all. It’s when you string those letters and words together in such a way that a reader can’t put your book down that you’ve come close to turning your rough-cut diamond into a gemstone worthy of your girl friend or wife or a woman named Cleopatra.

As the myth is told, mankind can thank the Greek titan Prometheus for the gift of fire. Prometheus apparently had a soft spot for humans and knew we needed fire to have any chance of rising above the fray. Zeus, ruler of Olympus and Lord of the Sky, didn’t share this fondness for men. And since he was not eager for us to have power over fire – or much of anything else really – it was left to Prometheus to perform an act of thevery unparellelled in the annuls of myth and mystery. As the story goes, he stole a fiery flame from the lightning that Zeus controlled, concealed it in a hollow stalk of fennel, and brought it to man. The rest is history.

Fire provides heat, light, and fuel. Fire nurtures the soil. Fire stimulates growth and regenerates our ecosystems. Okay, we all know this. But fire’s most important gift is driving the imagination to new and often dangerous heights. There is not a soul on earth who isn’t fascinated by the mystery of fire: the way it moves; the sounds it manufactures; the vibrant colors it produces; the danger it brings to mind.

The job of good fiction is much the same. If the imagination is not stimulated by the intrigue of the story, the depth of the characters, and the choice of setting, the writer is off to a bad start.

Fire is hypnotic. Fiction should be. The reader is ready and willing to fall under the author’s spell. It’s the author’s job to make sure it happens.

Fire has a menacing aspect to it. The best fiction produces a certain peril as well; the reader has to be introduced to a world where something compelling is in the air or what’s the point. Fire is seducing, and who doesn’t like to be seduced. Good fiction is also seductive. When the author finds the perfect balance between the conflict painted by the story and the jeopardy in which the characters find themselves, he or she is onto something special.

Think of how empty our lives would be without the intimacy that makes our most important relationships meaningful, powerful, and just plain fun. It’s true that we tend to think of intimacy in a sexual context. And let’s face it; the sexual aspects of intimacy are pretty high on the list of things that bring energy to our primary relationships.

Intimacy, however, is much more complex than that. Intimacy is about sharing a touch, a whisper, a poem. Intimacy is about sharing a dream, a hope, a whimsy. Intimacy is about sharing problems, fears, and doubts. It’s about relying upon someone’s kindness and trust. It’s about knowing you can be yourself with someone and all your flaws are not only acceptable, but cherished.

So what, you might ask, does this have to do with fiction? Simply that the best fiction is built upon layers, just as intimacy is. If sex is the first thing that comes to mind when someone utters the word “intimacy,” story is probably the first we think about in a good piece of fiction. We think second perhaps about character and those faces that populate our story. But what about setting? Where is often as important as what in storytelling. And what about dialogue? If the words our characters speak are not real, then you can say goodbye to a character the reader will truly be invested in. And how about that little trick we call foreshadowing? Good fiction leads the reader along, tempting them, enticing them, surprising them.

Like intimacy in a sound relationship, good fiction does not deceive. It does not mislead simply to be clever. It does not settle for contrivance any more than intimacy would false pretense. And now that I think about it, a great piece of fiction is one of the most intimate things a reader can experience.

What is magic? Sometimes we use the expression, “That was magical,” and what we mean is, “That was special.” Then there is the paranormal version, defined as the apparent power to influence things or events using mysterious or supernatural forces. There is also the art of illusion, which can also be described as a process of making something appear to be happening that actually isn’t. Like sawing the beautiful assistant in half or pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

All three of these very cool views of magic apply to fiction. For instance, if you were asked to list your favorite five books of all time – for me such unforgettables as Ordinary People or Old Man in the Sea – you could easily describe them as “magical.” The story, the characters, the voice, tone, and style of the author’s words; all come together in a magical way.

Just as magic in our second description is all about influencing things and events, so also does the practiced writer of fiction. He or she pushes characters into unexpected areas of conflict and jeopardy, pits them against opposing views and motives, and, if all goes well, produces a story that is as unexpected and satisfying as the unexplained forces of nature.

And then there is slight of hand, an author’s best friend when it comes to building tension in his or her story. Where will the plot take you? Who will suffer? Who will triumph? Who will we root for or against? Good fiction is not predictable. And while the last thing you want to do is deceive your readers, you do want to keep them on the edge of their seats. Botton line: engaging your readers is magical. And that’s what good fiction does.

Most of us are fascinated by maps. If you’re like me, a map is a way of connecting with the rest of our planet, tracing routes to new and exotic places, and feeding lyrical parts of our imaginations. A map is a way of visualizing a journey you might be planning or one you may never actually take. A map brings us closer to foreign lands and people who live by a different cultural mean.

When I think of fiction, there are many possible routes a story can take and many paths our characters can travel, but a well-mapped trajectory is like a wave carrying the reader along these routes and down these various paths with gusto. An author with a strong eye for plotting knows that momentum and pace are invaluable allies. A reader should be excited to move from one chapter to the next, even as the author weaves the fabric of his or her tale.

A beautifully designed map allows a traveler to plot his or her final destination. It also has the glorious advantage of providing side trips to hidden gems along the way, those pleasant and exciting detours that add texture to the journey, surprise to a well laid out plan, and possibility of getting lost just for a while. The key is not to go too far astray.

Don’t think fiction is all that different. The writer is often tempted by back-story and hidden clues, biographical asides and clever character insights. All well and good as long as these temptations contribute in meaningful ways to the story and the development of character without – and this is the linchpin – losing the reader’s interest.

Just as there are endless places to travel, there are books aplenty on the market, and you don’t want your readers giving up on your story because you weren’t getting them to their destination with sufficient flurry and effect.

Poetry comes from the soul. It nourishes the heart. It flows like a chaotic river from deep within and finds expression in the tips of your fingers, words scrawled on a piece of paper, appearing at times like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud or a deer flashing through the forest trees in the last light of evening.

Like poetry, the best fiction is most effective when the author doesn’t over think things. You plan your story, but you believe in it even as it is developing in that untidy but vibrant connection between head and heart. Too much head and things become wooden. Too much heart and things get lost in the choppy water of the river.

To be honest, poetry, because it comes from a place deep inside the poet, can often be esoteric, elusive, or effusive. Great qualities for poetry, but that is why readers come away from some poetry asking, “What in the hell was the poet trying to say?”

Esoteric, elusive, or effusive don’t often work in great fiction. It’s great when readers are intrigued by your plot, even mystified to a degree, but you don’t want them saying, “What the hell is going on?” You may have a character or two who are esoteric, elusive, or effusive, but all of your characters can’t demonstrate those traits.

Poets have a license to be obscure. Writers of fiction do not. Poetry tugs at the imagination. Good fiction stimulates the imagination. Both can be beautiful. Both can be painful. Both can be perfect for a cozy chair in front of a roaring fire. A great poet can also be a skilled fiction writer. Advocates of great fiction can also be supporters of moving poetry. Both art forms can deliver something magical, and that’s all you can ask for.