Good Writers are Consummate Liars

Lately, I’ve been thinking and reading a lot in preparation for leading the upcoming spring semester Fiction Workshop at Swarthmore College. I almost always spend the months leading up to it reading a new crop of short stories across the spectrum, and thinking about how I might approach the Workshop this time that would be different from the last time I led it. Such questions have made me, among other things, a collector of books on writing, which includes everything from Stephen King’s down-to-earth and often-cited On Writing to Samuel R. Delany’s terrific and sometimes head-spinning essays collected in his About Writing.

One thing the plethora of “how to” books reveals is that you can pretty much unpack the act of writing any way you like, teach the elements in whatever order you prefer, and still at the end have delivered a comprehensive overview of writing fiction. Because nobody writes the way fiction writing is broken out for a series of successive lectures or for chapters in most writing texts. We don’t write once through focused solely on Character, and then once focused Narrative Structure, and then once focused on Voice. (Okay, we’re all different in our approaches, so maybe there is someone who does that, but I can’t imagine it working.) What I do find, and believe, is that those “how to” books are most useful to us at the point of revising and editing our work. We do potentially read through our 2nd or 3rd draft just for voice, just for character portrayal, and so on. We read it once out loud to ensure we don’t have any hidden rhyme schemes that have inadvertently turned us into Dr. Seuss. In effect, then, the rules and recommendations laid out in many writing books are helpful to you once you have written a draft, but less so during the first-time-through conjuring.

There’s one out-of-print book by Michael Kardos, called The Art and Craft of Fiction, that I like in particular for his approach to tackling this very issue. Kardos’s emphasis on fiction writing (before you get to all those rules and observations of the modular aspects) is on detail. He says “When we lie, we know instinctively to supply details because the details lend credibility to our story.” Right. Good liars, con artists, and teenagers caught sneaking in late from the party they definitely did not go to, know that detail is everything.

The first day of class, Kardos tells his students that if they are to learn “just one thing” about writing during the semester, it should be “Relevant Detail.” If they learn only two things, the second thing should be “Relevant Detail.” The third thing . . . and down the line.

As he puts it, if he says “animal,” you might think “giraffe” while he meant “dog.” And while “dog is better than “animal,” it’s not half as good as “golden retriever” for lighting an image in the reader’s head, which he pushes further with a “golden retriever with a dry nose and a meek bark like it was asking for a raise it knew it didn’t deserve.” (Yes, you can get carried away with this.)

However, the more specific and solid the details in most instances, the better.

Good writers have taught themselves this because they want you to believe their lies. We are after all liars. We lie for a living.

The late John O’Hara is quoted as saying: “Detail has to be handled with care. For instance when you are describing a man’s clothing, you must get everything right, especially the wrong thing.”

If, as can be said, the beginning of every story is in effect that “Things are not as they seem,” then that piece of advice seems to me absolutely critical. The wrong thing can tell you volumes about a character while simultaneously eliminating a full page of cold expository oatmeal.

So if there’s one thing you should learn from this post, it’s . . . yeah, you already know.

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Gregory Frost’s latest books out from Book View Café are TAIN and REMSCELA, comprising a retelling of the Ulster Cycle of Irish Mythology—the stories of Cú Chulainn and his stand against the invading armies of Ireland—and tales of what occurred afterwards. By coincidence, the Black Gate website commented on them in October.

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About Gregory Frost

Gregory Frost is the author of eight novels and well over fifty short stories of the fantastic: dark thrillers, historical fantasy and science fiction. His latest published novel-length work is the Shadowbridge duology (Del Rey/Random House), voted "one of the best fantasy novels of the year" by the ALA. Recent short fiction includes his collaborative novella with Jonathan Maberry, “T.Rhymer,” is in Dark Duets (HarperCollins); and a collaboration with Michael Swanwick, "Lock Up Your Chickens and Daughters, H'ard and Andy are Come to Town" in Asimov's Magazine. He is a contributor to The Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature (Cambridge University Press), and serves as the Fiction Workshop Director at Swarthmore College.

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Good Writers are Consummate Liars — 3 Comments

  1. I had an art teacher in high school who once said that he didn’t want to see the vast panorama of the ruined city, the wartime devastation and so forth. He wanted to see the single glint of light reflected from the broken bottle floating in the river reflecting the bombed ruins. A fellow pupil, an artist of genius (I wonder what happened to him?) created an etching depicting this. I bought a copy, and still have it.

      • I could take a photo, and post it. It was an idyllic forested landscape, with a river winding through it, and floating in the foreground the broken bottle with the glint of light. And, in the deep underbrush to one side, where you have to look to see it, a minotaur — a man with a bull’s head — staring at this first sign of human encroachment and bellowing in dismay.
        Alas! I can’t remember the artist’s name. His first name was Thomas, that I do remember (always Thomas never Tommy) and the last name began with C. We were far and away the artiest kids in our high school class, at that period when creativity comes out in all kinds of ways. A kid who could do fantastic etchings on copper plate at the age of 16, imagine his adult work.