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Many people who rarely if ever pen anything more complex than a letter view the process of creative writing as a mysterious procedure. They wonder how a novelist could possibly string together enough thoughts to construct a coherent narrative lasting for hundreds of pages. The sources for plot ideas, dialog, or even the basic story itself puzzle the average reader.
What is unfortunate is that many fiction writers share that same mystification.
This is one of the issues Ayn Rand discusses in The Art of Fiction. This new book is an edited version of an informal class she offered for interested students in 1958. As such, it forms a good companion for her earlier collection of essays, The Romantic Manifesto (1971). Had Rand edited this material herself and offered it for publication, the presentation would no doubt have been even more interesting and informative.
Yet even given the limitations of a posthumously edited book, The Art of Fiction provides valuable insights not only into writing and reading a fictional work but also into the application of philosophical principles important for living one's live fully and completely.
The first seven chapters address more general and fundamental issues: the relationship between one's basic ideas and one's approach to writing; what it means to consider literature as a form of art; selecting one's theme and expressing it in the form of a plot; developing a specific "plot-theme," i.e., what particular events one chooses to illustrate or express the theme one seeks to convey; the importance of knowing and building towards a climax; what one can do to improve one's skills in generating fictional conflict; and how to demonstrate characterization.
In chapters eight and nine, Rand illustrates some of these points by presenting excerpts from various authors describing, first, the emotion of love, and, second, nature and the city of New York.
Chapter ten deals more specifically with stylistic techniques such as exposition, transitions, flashbacks, description and metaphors, and dialog and slang. The final chapter examines particular types of fiction such as humor, fantasy, symbolic writing, and tragedy.
As mentioned above, many writers approach their task of producing a fictional world with a certain degree of trepidation. They know they have a way with colorful phrases, vivid descriptions, insightful characterizations, or ingenious and intricate stories. Yet they are unable to articulate precisely what it is they do or how they do it. If asked to explain why they selected a particular set of words or why they painted a picture of their main characters as they did, they might simply say, "That's just the way it came out." Or perhaps, "I don't want to examine the process too closely. I might freeze up."
Rand will have none of that. She views writing to be as open to dissection and objective understanding as any other aspect of the world. The writer who operates on hunch, inspiration, and hope may well produce a good book. But he will dread the prospect of possibly never repeating his success. After all, he has no real clue why or how he wrote what he did. He relies on feelings to guide him and is as astonished as anyone if all the plot elements magically come together at the end.
For Rand, writing is a skill. As with any skill, study and practice (and more practice) can lead to improvement in your ability to engage successfully in this endeavor.
First of all, you must follow the advice of Alexander Pope and the Delphic Oracle and "Know Thyself." In this context, introspection means knowing what goal you are attempting to achieve. In other words, what is your purpose in writing? What values, what ideas, what "sense of life" will be shown in your work?
If there are contradictions in what you believe; if the basic way you view and judge people and reality is pessimistic or cynical; if you are afraid to take a stand and risk disapproval from potential readers; those facts about you will -- sooner or later -- insinuate their way into and color your fictional universe.
Rand takes care to specify that in order to become a good or a better writer, you should not -- indeed, cannot -- try consciously to select each and every word or plot point in your story. The actual placing of one word after another on the blank page should, essentially, be an automatic process. You can no more write smoothly while agonizing over all the myriad choices available to you at any given instance than you could play a game of tennis if you consciously chose every movement you made. You would quickly stumble over your own feet, self-consciously thinking, "What do I do next?"
In order to write effectively, one must rely upon -- and trust -- one's subconscious. As Rand says, "All writers rely on their subconscious.... But you have to know where [your inspiration] comes from, why it happens, and how to make it happen to you." (Emphasis in original, p. 2.)
Having confidence in your subconscious to guide you properly requires that you "be conscious of your premises in general, and of your literary premises in particular." (p. 3) This means being aware not only of what ideas, beliefs, and values you hold but how those abstractions are expressed in terms of concrete objects, experiences, and behaviors in the real world. If you only "sort of" understand a concept or "kind of" know what a particular emotion means, then you will flounder when it comes time to tap into this imperfect knowledge...and that squirming uncertainty will become glaringly obvious in your story.
Rand suggests that writing and editing are best considered separate steps in the production of your work. First get your thoughts down on paper; let your subconscious perform its function . Then go back, edit as needed, and change what is unsatisfactory to you.
Learning from books and other people, pondering issues and discovering distinctions and commonalities among them, experiencing life and continually growing as a human being will help ensure that your subconscious never runs out of material. "To acquire literary premises, or to develop those you already have, what you need is conscious knowledge." (Emphasis in original, p. 8.)
A frequent source of friction between Objectivists and some who consider themselves versed in art is whether or not there is such a creature as objective art. That is, is it possible to define what art is and therefore, first, make distinctions between what is or is not to be considered art and, second, evaluate such artwork as to whether it is good or bad.
To tell some people, for example, that photography -- no matter how beautiful -- does not fall under the umbrella of the concept "art" is to start an instant argument. The denotation of "art" -- what things in the world are grouped together by that concept -- becomes all entangled with its connotation -- the significance or emotional reaction various people have when considering that thought.
While Rand deals more extensively with that issue in The Romantic Manifesto, the particular point of relevance here is the fact that for a writer of literature, language is his tool..."and language is an objective instrument." (Emphasis in original, p. 9.)
This fact is a bone of contention not only in the world of social science but in politics, as well. Concepts and the words which label them are predominantly recognized as mere "social constructions," meaning whatever a particular group of individuals believes them to mean. (Hence, we witness the prominence of such travesties as relativistic ethics, "diversity" [in which no culture can be judged as superior to another], and the Orwellian inversions of meaning attached to freedom, justice, and equality by present-day politicians.)
If words (and concepts) are to mean anything, they must refer to that which exists, i.e., to reality. If a writer desires to communicate to others, he can only make that connection with his readers by referring to those ideas, concepts, and experiences they have in common. To cast the net even wider, "Since all art is communication, there can be nothing more viciously contradictory than the idea of nonobjective art." (p. 10)
A subjectivist writer conveys nothing to his audience. To the easily intimidated, such an author may appear "deep" or "profound" precisely because his prose is impenetrable, his language vague, obscure, or meaningless, or his "plot" a hash of disconnected dots signifying...what?
Such nonsense may garner you the accolades of pretentious critics. It will accomplish nothing worthwhile.
Most of us learned about "theme" in high school English classes. Rand defines it here as, "the general abstraction in relation to which the events serve as the concretes." (p. 15) A theme simply tells you in one sentence what a book is about without regard to the story's deeper philosophical meaning. It is "the abstract summation of your work." (p. 16)
In deciding the esthetic value of a book, "all that one has to know is the author's theme and how well he has carried it out." (p. 16) In deciding what events you will use to develop your theme, you should focus on actions which your characters choose to make. To dwell on random events is to undercut not only the people who inhabit your world but the significance of any goals they might hope to accomplish.
This leads us to a novel's "plot" or "a purposeful progression of events...logically connected, each being the outgrowth of the preceding and all leading up to a final climax." (p. 17) For Rand, "a novel is a story about human beings in action." (p. 17) Failing to show your characters making selections among alternatives and then acting to achieve those aims (regardless of whether they succeed or not) will destroy the viability of your plot.
The "plot-theme" is how you actualize your progression from theme to plot. It is "the essential line of events...the focus of the means of presenting the theme." (p. 17) All other events in the story should be related to and develop the plot-theme.
To use Rand's example to illustrate the differences among these terms, "the theme of Gone With the Wind is: the disappearance of the Southern way of life. The plot-theme is: the relationship of the heroine, Scarlett, to the two men in her life, Rhett Butler and Ashley Wilkes." (p. 18)
Another controversial point Rand makes is the distinction between a plot and a story. For example, a Naturalistic novel may contain a series of related actions which create a story, but those actions are not a "purposeful progression of events." (Emphasis in original, p. 18.) Rand states that the basic distinction between the Romantic type of writing she exemplifies and the Naturalistic type is whether one accepts free will or determinism in explaining what people do and why. Are the characters helpless pawns of fate and random accidents or do they make (right and wrong) choices in deciding how to reach their goals?
If the latter is the case, conflict among the characters and/or within a character dramatizes a struggle between values. Ultimately, these differences lead to a climax -- a pinnacle of suspense -- in which the opposing forces resolve the issues being contended. To construct a logical series of events which, in retrospect, appear almost inevitable given the choices made by the characters is to accomplish the final design of your work.
Though many have criticized Rand for including explicit philosophical ideas in her novels, she knew that when you begin to write, "the plot comes above your message." (Emphasis in original, p. 31.) When you are deciding who will do what, when, that process must take precedence over other considerations.
Rand goes into more detail on how to develop a plot-theme and a climax. She also offers advice on how to develop your plotting skills. As have many other authors who have "taught" writing, her focus is on practice. You can study all the books, attend a multitude of workshops, and read a thousand novels, but unless you actually write -- and write some more -- all that "theory" will accomplish nothing for you.
Developing your ability to think is crucial to this process, but a talent (in any field) can only be realized if you translate general principles into specific behaviors. To aid in your ability to construct a believable and suspenseful plot, she suggests you, (1) "concretize your abstractions" (show concepts in terms of real and specific actions, e.g., demonstrating what "love" means by looks, touches, and gestures), (2) "think in terms of conflict" (demonstrate how values clash, what events follow from that conflict, and what the consequences of chosen actions are), and (3) "tap your emotions" (decide what situations and events you find interesting).
In characterizing the players in your drama, you should focus on their motives, and portray them via action and dialog. To Rand, "The essence of the Romantic method is to present the universals motivating human action." (Emphasis in original, p. 73.) A character should be presented as a specific individual but should also embody wider abstractions applicable to and understandable by everyone.
The subtitle for The Art of Fiction lives up to its claim: "A Guide for Writers and Readers." Anyone who is serious about either the creation or enjoyment of a work of literature can benefit by thinking about and applying Rand's insights. Even if you disagree with certain aspects of Objectivism or particular suggestions Rand makes, there is much of value here.
On a wider scale, Rand's points regarding the nature of language, one's basic assumptions and how those are expressed in one's sense of life, and whether one is truly devoted to understanding oneself all have relevance to developing better philosophical beliefs.
Though the process may be difficult to master in any of these areas, the rewards are well worth the effort.
