Dear Neglected Readers,
My week with the Squaw Valley Community of Writers was not only one of the busiest weeks of my life but one of the best. I came back with so many new ideas—among them, ways to revise the beginning of my first novel—that I have been fully occupied with them since returning home. I know it sounds like an excuse for neglecting my faithful blog readers (you’ve told me you’re out there!), but I hope the upcoming series of Squaw Valley-inspired entries will more than make up for the wait.
|That's me, second from the left, enjoying the community|
It’s been three years since I’ve been out of an MFA program and devoting myself to my novels, which means that it’s been three years of working in isolation. There are certainly things to be said for isolation, but there’s every bit as much to say for community, and the Squaw Valley Community of Writers is not a misnomer. Faculty and participants alike were friendly and open to conversation, and although writers are a famously introverted bunch, the shared love of literature and the eagerness for fellowship erased the usual hardships of socializing. But I found that one of the most valuable aspects of community turned out to be a rather self-centered one: Looking at what others are doing and hearing what they are thinking helped me sharpen my understanding of what I am doing and thinking.
Perhaps the most important point I came away with was a sense of what I wish to develop as a strength in my writing: the third-person narrator. This is not an especially popular or wise aspect to try to develop. For one thing, contemporary publishing loves to emphasize “voice”—in fact, when literary agent Jeff Kleinman led my workshop group, he identified the two most important aspects of writing that gets published as 1) voice and 2) premise. I’ve read countless interviews with editors who say they look for “voice,” and while third-person can have a strong sense of voice, the concept is more often taken advantage of in first-person. Another disadvantage to the third-person narrator is that contemporary readers tend to balk at the idea that there might be a controlling consciousness behind what they’re reading. They think the author should be absolutely invisible—and they’re right. But often a strong third-person narrator is confused with authorial presence when it shouldn’t be, and that’s where the difficulty lies. What I saw in workshopping the first chapter of my second novel was that the third-person narrator I tend to use is a strong one, and one that people are quick to fault as being outside the character’s head. Workshops and perhaps readers generally tend to believe that if a third-person perspective pulls away from the character’s immediate point of view or voice, it must be a mistake. I realize this is shaky territory—you’re probably thinking, “Oh,
is just explaining away her weakness by trying to turn it into a strength,” but
without a sample of my fiction in front of you, you’ll just have to trust that
I am working with intention and awareness.
And indeed, my workshop instructor, Sands Hall, trusted in exactly that, and because she asked the class to accept my narrator as intentional, I got the best workshop feedback I’ve ever gotten. For once, it wasn’t unhelpfully nitpicking how to get rid of my narrator whom I don’t want to get rid of; it was instead taking the narrator as a given and trying to help me see where the remaining weaknesses (and there are always weaknesses) are in my use of an outside narrator.
I believe in narrators because I love them in nineteenth century literature. What would Vanity Fair be without its narrator? What would Dickens’ works be without license to look in from above with a satirical and moral view? Or Austen’s? Sure, it can be clunky—I can’t defend George Eliot’s long interruption in Adam Bede where she goes off on a long tangent about the relationship between art and morality—but done right, there is nothing more satisfying than a strong narratorial presence. I agree with Thomas Hardy’s idea that the novelist should intentionally shape his material, that fitting his impression of the world and his imagination—in short, his personal philosophy—with events and characters is what makes art, not solely striving after representation. Call it cerebral. Call it old-fashioned. It’s what I want to do, and
Valley helped me see how I can turn this relatively rare
proclivity into a strength.
Let me make the case for narrators another way. After
Squaw Valley, my husband flew out to meet
me and we spent a week traveling California. On our last night, we had the great privilege
of passing the evening at The Magic Castle in Hollywood,
a club exclusive to magicians and their guests.
(Luckily, my cousin John Macko is a magician; check out his website
here.) We got to see five magic shows
over the course of the evening in venues as intimate as 10 people gathered at a
bar to an auditorium of a still-modest 50 or 60 seats. The first magician of the evening, David Sousa, came out on
stage with a handful of metal rings, which he proceeded to make interlock and fall
free again without ever appearing to alter their complete metal ring
state. The tricks were fascinating and
drew many ooo’s and aahhh’s from the audience, but the effects would have lost
something major if the magician hadn’t spent the entire show giving the
audience significant looks. He would
hold up an intact ring, and his face would clearly communicate, “Look at
this. Notice this. See how this is a plain old ring.” Next his expression would become a little
mischievous as, with quick hands, he suddenly made the intact ring join with
another intact ring.
I loved his silent facial expressions, by turns sincere, insinuating, roguish, satisfied. I loved his communication with the audience. Had he been obscured from view and only his hands visible as he performed the tricks, the tricks would have been the same tricks. But the audience would have undoubtedly missed things, misinterpreted where to look, and too easily forgotten the original state of the rings.
Many contemporary readers seem to want only the tricks. But for my money, I’d rather see the magician, take my cues from his winks and nudges, and enjoy the full effect.