The Transcendental Idea

There are aspects of the craft of fiction that, if they can't be taught, can at least be learned. These include such things as pacing, section breaks, transitions, tone, the starting and stopping of scenes, arrangement of sentences, paragraphs, chapters. Structure, structure, structure.

In contrast to this, there is that aspect of fiction which just can't be learned: Story. What the author has to tell. Anyone with talent, effort and interest can make an uninteresting and otherwise unworthy story readable, exciting, urgent even. The one thing no amount of talent can make up for, though, is resonance. This can only come from the story itself, whether it's one the writer has drawn from his own life, from the life of a friend or acquaintance, from a stranger, from history, from a newspaper article or an overheard conversation, from his own imagination. The kind of story that, when someone inevitably asks of it, "What's it about?" elicits the response, "That's something I'd like to read." The kind of story that causes strangers, annoyingly, to tell the author, "Now, that's something you should write about." The author may never write that story, may not even have any interest in it, but the point is that the story is inherently of interest without any of the trappings and ornamentations of the writing. Most readers would rather put up with poor prose in a naturally compelling story, than read an insignificant story that has been honed to perfection.

On top of these two elements of prose and story, falls the idea, as it might be called. Maybe this is what's known as inspiration. The thing that makes the fiction universal and elevates it above it's subject and makes it relevant to all of humanity. It is the idea that separates great fiction from merely good fiction. The kind of otherworldly genius that cannot be achieved through any amount of hard work, but whose existence seems explainable only by means magic.

It’s a blessed author who has the fortune to bring all three of these elements together in a work at least once in his or her lifetime.

The problem I have found with beginning writers is that they’re too often lacking in the one aspect that can actually be learned. The craft.

The choice of what story to write about really has more to do with taste and a discerning temperament. There are authors who like stories about the underbelly of society, about madmen and addicts, criminals and the emotionally unstable. Others prefer quiet, domestic stories. Some may have a thing for sex and violence. Others concentrate their efforts on matters of fate. A few try to get at it all in sweeping, epic novels that take in the whole world, while a number focus on the slice of life that either interests them the most or serves best as a metaphor for what the author has to say about the human condition. Some authors have their fingers on the Zeitgeist. Others touch a chord with the young, the old, one sex or another, this ethnic group or that. Their popularity may, of course, be limited by what they choose to write about, but this in no way affects the quality of their writing or the seriousness and importance of their efforts as far as art is concerned. You can't fault someone for what they chose to write about - you're the one who picked up the book after all - but you have every right to be upset at an author who entices you with an interesting story, then doesn't follow through with a good telling.

As for that transcendent idea - you'll know it when it hits. Until then, you either have to wait for it or continue stabbing at it in the dark with story after story and novel after novel until it all comes together, after which you can either hang up your hat or try to do it again.