The Pool, the Leash, and the Aesthetic Overseer

Milkyloop is a bad frog. He wears black glasses and a tie. He fires a gun at himself; he has a shield around him and the bullets shoot off in different directions.

I'm always fascinated by my son's ideas, and am especially interested in where they originate. Original combination of non-original elements. But what is controlling the combining? What forces are choosing A over B?

We created a monster generator a while back: nothing grander than a simple set of rules, influenced by dice rolls, indexed to lists of keywords. One list contained bodily appendages such as tentacles, single eye, brain on outside, horns, wings, tail and fangs; another list contained textural adjectives such as fiery, leathery, fragile, slimy, liquid, transparent and iron. Even with these two small lists, we could apply a 1:2 rule and come out with a monster that has fragile iron tentacles.

What this generator has in common with a child's mind is its disregard for logic. And logic often forms a barrier within adults that prevents them from entering the depth of their imagination.

(You can read about Jean Piaget's four development stages here. Note that, according to Piaget, the child enters logical thought between the ages of seven and eleven.)

In the example I open with, an adult would typically (or, more accurately, unconsciously) begin with the frog guy and his characteristics, tap into the lists of keywords in their head, and hop uncertainly around these ideas, as though tethered to them with a short leash. Hmmm ... Malfrog ... Gunhopper ... Croakkiller ...

Here, the amount of available resources (the lists of keywords) and the logical connections are combining to pull out a name. The final decision is made when the resulting name satisfies some aesthetic criteria, and here is where the author defines himself through style, wit and imagination.

So our pool of keywords is filled through our life - through experiences and, where we require more than experience, through research. My knowledge of frogs is slim, so I'm gonna surf for a few seconds to expand my pool. Already, though, I'm making connections: Frog - bad - poison darts - arrowhead frog - croak (pun ... yuk ... does not satisfy my aesthetic check, but certainly would satisfy many others').

Okay. As I surf, I make decisions. I am applying some sort of logic - a logic that looks for connections and especially one that looks for aesthetic value. In this way, I have my unique set of rules for satisfying my search.

First port of call:

http://allaboutfrogs.org/weird/general/whatisfrog.html

Frogs are poikilothermic animals. This means that they are cold-blooded.

Now we can see how this leash begins to stretch. I'm dancing around a word that inspires me aesthetically, but has only a tenuous link with frogs. This is a part of my style; I am comfortable stretching this leash.

But I haven't enough material yet ...

'The study of reptiles and amphibians is called Herpetology. Herp comes from the Greek word herpeton, which basically means "creepy crawly things that move about on their bellies".'

My brain is thinking of herpes and of harpies. Diseases and mythological creatures.

I'm also drawn to the 'kilo' part of poikilothermic, but this my unconscious trying to pull the leash in. Begone!

'They are one of three types of Amphibians. Anura, also called Salientia, (frogs and toads), caudate (salamanders and newts) and caecilians (worm-like amphibians).'

The word Anura appeals on many levels! But it's not fitting the image: it seems (to me) too feminine for this smartly-dressed, cold-blooded killer.

Hey! Look at this!
'Oriental fire-bellied toads have heart-shaped pupils.'

How cool!

Anyhoo, here we stop the fun (because I have writing to do!).

I would usually tend to devote hours to a name, looking for the perfect fit. The point, I hope, is made.

*We draw from a pool.

*We make connections that help us to choose. The more logical the connection, the tighter the leash. The freer the logic, the greater the range.

*We judge with an aesthetic value. This aesthetic value plays an enormous role in defining and describing our style. (Just as an opinion, I tend to find that alliterate names and first-level puns in names are indicative of a weak aesthetic.)

In our monster generator, the pool was the lists of keywords, the leash was the set of rules, and the aesthetics were created with the randomizer - the dice rolls (N.B. Of course, the entire generator was moulded under the government of a similar set of rules!).

The only other observation that I'll make for now is that we must take care when stretching the leash. The N400 shows us how the reader is liable to feel disconnected from our story should we continually distend logical connections. Would this apply to a name? Well, given that the N400 deals with expectations, either preconceptual or artificially induced, what might be the effects, both short term and long term, of introducing a character called Love Peacekind who ultimately engages in extreme acts of cruelty? Or of introducing a character called Adolf who takes a job as a janitor in a primary school?

The reader comes to recognize patterns in a writer's style, and these patterns help to create expectations that might nullify otherwise negative effects of the N400. Whilst my son might create an apparently illogical, disparate name for a killer frog, it's worth noting that he also creates characters whose names are derived very much from the first-level consciousness. In this way, there is no tangible pattern that would give the reader that secure feeling of being controlled - of being guided masterfully through a tale.

Here's a picture of Dalek Sec from the cover of this week's Radio Times. Personally, I would've raised the tentacles on one side to break the symmetry, thereby deepening unsettlement. I think a heart-shaped pupil would jazz him up too :o)

Conventions

The idea of conventions, once separated out from preconceptions, is beginning to make sense to me. Whilst conventions and preconceptions spend much time in bed with one another, both are worth studying independently; they exist in reader-land as expectations - as goalposts - and only a foolish writer would renounce their existence.

What I would like to consider here is the idea of the genre convention:
'To anticipate the anticipations of the audience you must master your genre and its conventions.' [Source: Robert McKee's Story.]
'A convention is an understanding between writer and reader about certain details of the story.'
[Source: Crawford Kilian.]

As I begin work on novel #4, I am considering genres and what the reader expects from them. I can see that such expectation dissolves the value of many critiques/assessments: A devout reader of fantasy might take his expectations across to a thriller, therefore finding himself in confusion. This isn't progressing as I would expect!

An author who reads and subsequently writes in a narrow genre takes with him a subconscious understanding of the genre's conventions. We are familiar with the fledgling writer who flouts his studies and preparations, preferring to simply sit and write, creating a work that holds together because that author has subconsciously transferred his own expectations across to his writing.
Yes, it happens occasionally and we end up with the celebrated teenage author or the single mother who strikes gold with her first attempt.
Moreover, a per-genre convention guide is a pretty elusive beast. What are the expectations of any given genre?
We are encouraged to read everything and anything, and this is perhaps the best we can do: in this way we can gain valuable perspectives beyond those with which we may have become comfortable; we can compare and contrast conventions; we can identify key conventional motifs.
I remember my first few forays in lit fic. Certainly Hemingway and Ali Smith scared the wits from me. But I quickly acclimatized: I came to expect particular elements, although I would be hard-pressed to outline those elements from the top of my head.
Wikipedia has some ideas.
McKee looks at audience positioning, creative limitations, analyzes a few movies, and ends the chapter on endurance.
Crawford Kilian has a stab at outlining the conventions of the thriller.

With all of this food for thought, I can only conclude that the author must write in a genre with which he is familiar - in which the expectations have become second-nature.
The idea of trusting instinct always frightens me. This morning I was reading about one pro author's first encounter with distrust of instincts. Reworking a manuscript that had once gone through a nightmarish editorial process, the author is now filled with doubt.
I would like to believe that study and practice and a modicum of talent are enough to carry one through. But the deeper my journey takes me, the more I begin to doubt this ...

At the heart of this post is a fear: How can I understand my readers? What if I do not understand them? What if I am unable to connect with them?

The Second Phase

So I enter phase two of my writing non-career.
Many things have occurred recently that have conspired to incite this new leg of my journey.
In particular, I have have some agent feedback on The Commuters and this has provided me with that professional perspective that I've so long required. There is little to discern between the responses: the concensus is that my writing is powerful/very strong and my imagination is wonderful. But, these agents feel that they would have difficulty promoting some of the narrative themes that I have woven into the story.
In this way, phase one has ended: I am at last a competent writer with a sound grasp of the basic tools.
In phase two, I intend to bring these tools together into a page-turner.
(Often cited requirements for publication/representation are ability to write and commercial/marketable story.)
To this end, I have been re-re-re-reading Vogler and McKee and anything I can lay my hands on that might remind me of what a page-turner consists of. (In studying the novel structure, I have noticed, almost by way of post-mortem, that the first act of The Commuters is too long: McKee suggests that act one of a three act work should be approx. 25% of the work. My first act already weighs in at 30k and is barely half the way through. Given that I have outlined a 100-120k novel, I'm way over. This explains so much, and I can see how the story would excite more readers by culling huge portions of the first act. This reinforces my thoughts and demonstrates how all of my plot cookies have become swamped in non-cookie stuff.)
In this second phase, I will be travelling alone. It has been a tough decision to make, but I am certain it is the right one. Everything is down to me now and there is little that anyone can do to help me. (Although I am running a stream of ideas by work colleagues in order to guage public reaction and guide me to the heart of my new work. Crikey - the words 'new work' are terrifying. The blank page!)
Most importantly, I am thinking of my reader with each decision I make. This reader is different to the reader who might enjoy my lit fic. In order to get my head around this reader, I'm studying The DaVinci Code and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I am searching for points of commonality - for shared techniques and approaches. I have found many already, and I shall post my conclusions over the coming weeks.

Sorites Paradox

Perhaps better known as the heap paradox, the Sorites paradox investigates the point at which a dwindling heap of sand ceases to be describable as a heap.

Having spent the morning re-reading my current ms, I've reached a number of tentative conclusions. The chapters that excite me most involve interaction, are the most easy to read, contain a mixture of humour and foreboding, and contain dialogue.
Curious.
So what would happen if I simply removed all the other stuff?

My quest for a manuscript peppered with gold coins now seems moot. I should consider looking at this goal from the reverse angle: How much time do I spend on non-gold coin moments?
The answer is: Waaay too much!
It's not that I don't have a lot of good material, it's that I have too much dense material. It's the ratio between enjoyable and heavy, but beneficial material that I need to examine.
Whilst I have removed all the non-essential stuff, I am still asking the reader to 'bear with me through this bit because it is important' for too lengthy periods.
Solution? Spread these moments out; ensure that the ratio per chapter is always in favour of the gold coins. How much in favour? Well, there you have your Sorites paradox.
How, then, to judge? Well, I can only imagine that trial-and-error will assist me here. Furthermore, moving portions around might damage the intricate construction of my narrative.

I faced much the same problem with my last short story. The story is precariously balanced and I think I just about kept it together. But I decided from the off that the story would be slave to the emotional topography: the ordering of neat passages of discrete emotional stimulae would take priority over the narrative. Balancing them became a compromise in which, where necessary, the emotional topography won out every time. The trick, here, is to eliminate the 'where necessary' part. This is relatively easy in a 1,500 word short story, but in a 100k novel it is considerably harder.

And so it is almost time to face my ms again. There are still a number of other issues and my greatest concern has always been the problem of bonding the reader to such a peculiar protagonist. I'm thinking that, by opening with protag as a reasonably normal and likeable chap (rather than by introducing him as an oddball, in which case I create anticipation but at the cost of bonding), the reader will more willingly sink into the story.
I have no idea how big a job this will be, but I am still excited enough by much of what I have created to extend my loyalty to this work.