Basic Skills, Genre, and Fiction as Dream John Gardner If there are no rules, or none worth his attention,

where is the beginning writer to begin? Often one glance at the writers work tells the teacher that what this student writer needs first, before stirring an inch in the direction of fiction, is a re iew of the fundamentals! "o one can ho#e to write well if he has not mastered$absolutel% mastered$the rudiments& grammar and s%nta', #unctuation, diction, sentence ariet%, #aragra#h structure, and so forth! It is true that #unctuation (for instance) is a subtle art* but its subtlet% lies in sus#ending the rules, as in +,ou, dont, know, a god, damned, thing,- or +.ed seen her before, he was sure of it!- "o writer should e er ha e to hesitate for an instant o er what the rule to be ke#t or sus#ended is! If he wishes, the teacher ma% deal with the students #roblems as the course goes along (as one deals with s#elling), but this is not at all the best wa%! /earning to write fiction is too serious a business to be mi'ed in with lefto ers from freshman com#osition! 0he teacher, if he knows what hes doing, is too aluable to be wasted in this wa%* and the student, once he learns that he can get rid of most #roblems 1uickl% and easil%, is certain to want to do so! 2ith the #ro#er hel# and the #ro#er book, an% good student can co er the fundamentals, once and for all, in two weeks! 0he #ro#er book, in m% o#inion, is 2!2! 2atts 3n 3merican 4hetoric, the most accurate and efficient book on com#osition a ailable, also the most interesting and amusing! 5suall% the student can do and correct the e'ercises himself, though occasionall% he ma% need to take a #roblem to his teacher! If he finds that he needs hel# fre1uentl%, its a fairl% clear sign that hell ne er be a writer! /et us su##ose the writer has mastered the rudiments! .ow should he begin on fiction? 2hat should he write about, and how can he know when hes done it well? 3 common and usuall% unfortunate answer is +2rite about what %ou know!- "othing can be more limiting to the imagination, nothing is 1uicker to turn on the #s%ches censoring de ices and distortion s%stems, than tr%ing to write truthfull% and interestingl% about ones own home town, ones 6#isco#alian mother, ones cri##led %ounger sister! For some writers, the ad ice ma% work, but when it does, it usuall% works b% a curious accident& 0he writer writes well about what he knows because he has read #rimaril% fiction of 7ust this kind$realistic fiction of the sort we associate with 0he "ew ,orker, the 3tlantic 8onthl%, or .ar#ers! 0he writer, in other words, is #resenting not so much what he knows about life as what he knows about a #articular literar% genre! 3 better answer, though still not an ideal one, might ha e been +2rite the kind of stor% %ou know and like best$a ghost stor%, a science9fiction #iece, a realistic stor% about %ou childhood, or whate er!0hough the fact is not alwa%s ob ious at a glance when we look at works of art er% close to us in time, the artists #rimar% unit of thought$his #rimar% conscious or unconscious basis for selecting and organi:ing the details of his work$is genre! 0his is #erha#s the most ob ious in the case of music! 3 com#oser writes an o#era, a s%m#hon%, a concerto, a tone #oem, a suite of countr% dances, a song c%cle, a set of ariations, or a stream9of9consciousness #iece (a modern #s%chological ada#tation of the tone #oem)! 2hate er genre he chooses, and to some e'tent de#ending on which genre he chooses, he writes within, or slightl% aries, traditional structures$ sonata form, fugal structure, 3B;B3 melodic structure, and so forth* or he ma% create, on what he belie es to be some firm basis, a new structure! .e ma% cross genres, introducing countr% dances into a s%m#hon% or, sa%, constructing a string 1uartet on the #rinci#le of theme and ariations! If hes looking for no elt% (seldom for an% more noble reason), he ma% tr% to borrow structure from some other art, using film, theatrical mo ement, or something else! 2hen new forms arise, as the% do from time to time, the% rise out of one or two #rocesses, genre9crossing or the ele ation of #o#ular culture! 0hus 4a el, Gershwin, Stra insk%, and man% others blend classical tradition and 3merican 7a::$in this case simultaneousl% crossing genres and ele ating the #o#ular! Occasionall% in music as in the other arts, ele ating #o#ular culture must be e'tended to mean rec%cling trash! 6lectronic music began in the obser ation that the bee#s and boings that come out of radios,

com#uters, and the like might sound a little like music if structure were im#osed$rh%thm and something like melod%! 3n%thing, in fact$as the Dadaists, S#ike Jones, and John ;age #ointed out $might be turned into something like music& the scream of a truck tire, the noise of a windowshade, the bleating of a shee#! 2e see much the same in the isual arts! In an% culture certain sub7ects become classical, re#eated b% artist after artist$for instance, in the ;hristian 8iddle 3ges, the theme of dead ;hrists descent from the cross, the mart%rdom of St! Ste#hen, the mother and child! 3s the surrounding culture changes, the treatment of classical sub7ects changes, #o#ular culture increasingl% im#inges, new forms arise$literar% illustration re#lacing Biblical illustration, secular figures #arod%ing religious figures, +real life- edging out illustrati e #ainting, new entures of thought (#s%cholog%, mathematics) transforming traditional still lifes, rooms, and landsca#es to dream images or s#atial #u::les! 0he #rocess of change in the isual arts, in other words, is identical to that in music! Sometimes it rises out of genre9crossing, as when <rotestant Flemish #ainters #resent a secular famil% #ortrait in the triangular organi:ation of the ;atholic hol%9famil% #ainters* sometimes it rises out of an ele ation of the #o#ular, or of trash, as on Giottos cam#anile, in 8atisses cut9outs, or in the trash collages of 4obert 4auschenberg* and sometimes change comes$the usual case$out of both at once! 0he same holds true for literature! "o elt% comes chiefl% from ingenious genre9crossing or ele ation of familiar materials! 3s an e'am#le of genre9crossing, think of the best of the three ersions of Faulkners +S#otted .orses- (the one that begins with the words +0hat Flem-), where techni1ues of the %arn$mainl% diction, comic e'aggeration, and cruel humor$are combined with techni1ues of the realistic9s%mbolic short stor%! Genre9crossing of one sort or another is behind most of the great literar% art in the 6nglish tradition! ;haucer again and again #la%s one form off against another, as in the =nights 0ale, where, along with other, less9well9known forms, he blends e#ic and romance! 0he greatest of all medie al alliterati e #oems Sir Gawain and the Green =night, blends elements of the earth% fabliau (in the tem#tation scenes) with romance elements! Shakes#eares most #owerful techni1ues are all results of genre9crossing& his combination of #rose and erse to e'#and the emotional range of drama* his combination of 4oman high9st%le con ention with con entions drawn from the 6nglish folk #la%s, rowd% medie al m%ster% #la%s (or guild #la%s), and so on* his crossing of tragic con ention for the +dark comedies!- 8iltons fondness for genre9crossing is one of the common#laces of scholarshi#! 3s for the ele ation of #o#ular materials or trash$alone or in combination with nobler forms$think of John .awkes blend of the #s%chological9s%mbolic no el and the 3merican hard9boiled m%ster%, Italo ;al inos blend (in t9 :ero and ;osmicomics) of sci9fi, fantas%, comic9book language and imager%, mo ie melodrama, and nearl% e er%thing else, or Donald Barthelmes transformation of such cultural trash as the research 1uestionnaire, the horror9show and animated cartoon, the tra elogue and #s%chiatrists transcri#t! /ike genre9crossing, the ele ation of #o#ular or trash materials is an old and familiar form of inno ation! It was a fa orite method of late Greek #oets like 3#ollonios 4hodios (in the 3rgonautica), 4oman comic #oets, man% of the great medie al #oets (think of ;haucers 4ime of Sir 0ro#as), and #oets of the 4enaissance! 0he noblest of modern literar% forms, e1ui alent in range and cultural im#ortance to the noblest of musical forms, the s%m#hon%, began in the ele ation and transformation of trash when Dafoe, 4ichardson, and Fielding began transmuting 7unk into art! 4obinson ;rusoe and 8oll Flanders s#ring, res#ecti el%, from the na> e shi#wreck narrati e and the rogues confession* <amela and ;larissa add character and #lot to the #o#ular collection of e#istolar% models for the guidance of %oung ladies* Jonathan 2ilde comes from the gallows broadside, or stor% of the character and horrible crimes of the felon about to be hanged! None of these writers, ancient or modern, sat down to write to express himself. They sat down to write this kind of story or that, or to mix this form with that form, producing some new effect. Self-expression, whatever its pleasures, comes a out incidentally. It also comes about ine itabl%! 0he realistic writer ma% set out to con7ure u# the #ersonalit% of his aunt, creating for her, or co#%ing from life, some stor% through which her character is re ealed, and thus he

re eals his strong feelings about his aunt* that is, he e'#resses himself! 0he fabulist$the writer of nonrealistic %arns, tales, or fables$ma% seem at first glance to be doing something 1uite different* but he is not! Dragons, like bankers and cand%9store owners, must ha e firm and #redictable characters! 3 talking tree, a talking refrigerator, a talking clock must s#eak in a wa% we learn to recogni:e, must influence e ents in wa%s we can identif% as flowing from some definite moti ation* and since character can come onl% from one of two #laces, books or life, the writers aunt is as likel% to show u# in a fable as in a realistic stor%! 0hus the #rocess b% which one writes a fable, on one hand, or a realistic stor%, on the other, is not much different! /et us look more closel% at the similarities and differences! In an% #iece of fiction, the writers first 7ob is to con ince the reader that the e ents he recounts reall% ha##ened, or to #ersuade the reader that the% might ha e ha##ened (gi en small changes in the laws of the uni erse), or else to engage the readers interest in the #atent absurdit% of the lie! 0he realistic writers wa% of making e ents con incing is erisimilitude! 0he tale writer, telling stories of ghosts, or sha#e9shifters, or some character who ne er slee#s, uses a different a##roach& B% the 1ualit% of his oice, and b% means of arious de ices that distract the critical intelligence, he gets what ;oleridge called$in one of the most clums% famous sentences in all literature$+the willing sus#ension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes #oetic faith!- 0he %arn writer$ like 8ark 0wain in +0he ;elebrated Jum#ing Frog of ;ala eras ;ount%- or +Bakers Blue7a% ,arn-$uses %et another method& .e tells outrageous lies, or has some #oor character tell the #oor narrator an outrageous lie, and he simultaneousl% em#hasi:es both the brilliance and the falsehood of the lie* that is, he tells the lie as con incingl% as he can but also raises ob7ections to that lie, either those ob7ections the reader might raise or, for comic effect, literal9minded countr%9bum#kin ob7ections that, though bum#kinish, call attention to the %arns im#robabilities! 3ll three kinds of writing, it should be ob ious at a glance, de#end hea il% on #recision of detail! In writing that de#ends on erisimilitude, the writer in effect argues the reader into acce#tance! .e #laces his stor% in some actual setting$;le eland, San Francisco, Jo#lin, 8issouri$and he uses characters we would be likel% to meet in the setting he has chosen! .e gi es us such detail about the streets, stores, weather, #olitics, and concerns of ;le eland (or whate er the setting is) and such detail about the looks, gestures, and e'#erience of his characters that we cannot hel# belie ing that the stor% he tells us must be true! In fact it ma% be true, as in 0ruman ;a#otes no el In ;old Blood or "orman 8ailers 0he 6'ecutioners Song! 0he fact that the stor% is true of course does not relie e the no elist of the res#onsibilit% of making the characters and e ents con incing! Second b% second we ask, +2ould a mother reall% sa% that?- +2ould a child reall% think that?- and if the no elist has done his work well we cannot hel# answering, +,es!- If he has done his work badl%, on the other hand, the reader feels uncon inced e en when the writer #resents e ents that he actuall% witnessed in life! 2hat has gone wrong, in this case, is that the writer missed or forgot to mention something im#ortant to the de elo#ment of the scene! For instance, if a fictional husband and wife are arguing bitterl% and the wife suddenl% changes her tactics, s#eaking gentl%, e en lo ingl%, the reader cannot understand or belie e the change unless some clue is #ro ided as to the reason for it! 0he clue ma% be an e ent, #erha#s a noise in another #art of the house, that reminds her that the children are nearb%* or it ma% be a thought, #erha#s the wifes reflection that this is how her mother used to argue with her father* or the clue ma% be a gesture, as when the wife, after something the husband sa%s, turns and looks out the window, #ro iding a #ause that allows her to collect herself! 2hen the realists work con inces us, all effects, e en the most subtle, ha e e'#licit or im#licit causes! 0his kind of documentation, moment b% moment authenticating detail, is the mainsta% not onl% of realistic fiction but of all fiction! In other words, while erisimilar fiction ma% be described generall% as fiction that #ersuades us of its authenticit% through real9world documentation, using real or thoroughl% lifelike locations and characters$real cities or cities we belie e to be real although their names ha e been changed, real9 life characters with actual or substituted names, and so forth$the line9b%9line bulk of a realists work goes far be%ond the accurate naming of streets and stores or accurate descri#tion of #eo#le

and neighborhoods! .e must #resent, moment b% moment, concrete images drawn from a careful obser ation of how #eo#le beha e, and he must render the connections between moments, the e'act gestures, facial e'#ressions, or turns of s#eech that, within an% gi en scene, mo e human beings from emotion to emotion, from one instant in time to the ne't! ;om#are the techni1ue of the writer of tales! 2hereas the realist argues the reader into acce#tance, the tale writer charms or lulls him into dro##ing ob7ections* that is, #ersuades him to sus#end disbelief! Isak Dinesen begins one of her tales& +3fter the death of his master /eonidas, 3ngelino Santasillia resol ed that he would ne er again slee#! 2ill the narrator be belie ed when he tells the reader that 3ngelino ke#t his resol e? "e ertheless, it is the case!- "o realist, of course, could tell this stor%, since no amount of argument will con ince us that a character reall% might sta% awake for weeks, months, %ears! 0he tale writer sim#l% walks #ast our ob7ections, granting that the e ents he is about to recount are incredible but winning our sus#ension of disbelief b% the confidence and authorit% of the narrators oice! ,et after establishing the im#ossible #remise, one that o#ens the door to further im#robabilities$in the case of Isak Dinesens tale, as it ha##ens, the a##earance of Judas, at the end of the narrati e, counting his sil er in a small, diml% lit room$the tale writer documents his stor% moment b% moment b% details of e'actl% the kind realists use! 0he o#ening lines slightl% alter natural law, but granting the alteration, what follows is made to seem thoroughl% #robable and at least #oeticall% true b% the writers close attention to the natural flow of moral cause and effect, a flow minutel% documented with details drawn from life! 3s the stor% #rogresses, the slee#less 3ngelino walks, talks, and thinks more and more slowl%! Sometimes whole da%s #ass between the beginnings and ends of sentences! 2e +belie e- the narrati e not 7ust because the tale oice has charmed us but also, and more basicall%, because the characters gestures, his #recisel% described e'#ression, and the reaction of others to his oddit% all seem to us e'actl% what the% would be in this strange situation! 0he images are as shar# and accuratel% rendered as an% in 0olsto%s ;hildhood or 3nna =arenina! 0he streets he walks, the weather, the cit%s sounds and smells all authenticate the slee#less mans e'istence! 0here is, admittedl%, one great difference between the use of authenticating detail b% a realist and the use of the same b% a tale writer! 0he realist must authenticate routinel%, bombarding the reader with #roofs* the writer of tales can sim#lif%, #ersuading us #artl% b% the beaut% or interest of his language, using authenticating detail more s#aringl%, to gi e i idness to the tales ke% moments! 0hus, for e'am#le, once the writer of a tale has con inced us, #artl% b% charm, #artl% b% detail, that a certain king has a foul tem#er, he can make such bald statements as& +0he king was furious! .e sent e er%one home, locked all the doors, and had chains wra##ed tight around his castle!- "e ertheless the difference is one of degree! "either the realist nor the writer of tales can get b% without documentation through s#ecific detail! Its the same in the %arn! ;onsider the following, from 8ark 0wains +Bakers Blue7a% ,arn!+2hen I first begun to understand the 7a% language correctl%, there was a little incident ha##ened here! Se en %ears ago, the last man in this region but me mo ed awa%! 0here stands his house$ been em#t% e er since* a log house, with a #lank roof$7ust one big room, and no more* no ceiling $nothing between the rafters and the floor! 2ell, one Sunda% morning I was sitting out here in front of m% cabin, with m% cat, taking the sun, and looking at the blue hills, and listening to the lea es rustling so lonel% in the trees, and thinking of the home awa% %onder in the states, that I hadnt heard from in thirteen %ears, when a blue7a% lit on that house, with an acorn in his mouth, and sa%s, ?.ello, I reckon I e struck something! 2hen he s#oke, the acorn dro##ed out of his mouth and rolled down the roof, of course, but he didnt care* his mind was all on the thing he had struck! It was a knot9hole in the roof! .e cocked his head to one side, shut one e%e and #ut the other one to the hole, like a #ossum looking down a 7ug* then he glanced u# with his bright e%es, ga e a wink or two with his wings$which signifies gratification, %ou understand$and sa%s, ?It looks like a hole, its located like a hole$blamed if I dont belie e it is a hole@-

Baker, we understand, has been out in the wilderness too long and has gone a little dott%$or else (more likel%) hes #ulling the leg of the credulous narrator who re#orts his stor% as gos#el! 6ither wa%, no one but the narrator imagines for a moment that what Baker is sa%ing is true! 2hat makes the lie delightful is the #ains Baker takes to make it credible! 0he cabin with the knot9hole in the roof e'ists& It has a histor% and #h%sical features$in fact Baker can #oint to it! Details con ince us that Baker reall% did sit looking at it& It was a Sunda% morning* his cat was with him* he was looking at and listening to s#ecific things, thinking s#ecific thoughts! 0he blue7a% reall% did s#eak $the acorn is the #roof$and further details labor aliantl% to #ersuade us that blue7a%s think& the cocked head, the one closed e%e, the i id image of the o#en e%e #ressed to the knot9hole +like a #ossum looking down a 7ug!In all the ma7or genres, i id detail is the life blood of fiction! Aerisimilitude, sus#ension of disbelief through narrati e oice, or the wink that calls attention to the %arn9tellers lie ma% be the outer strateg% of a gi en work* but in all ma7or genres, the inner strateg% is the same& 0he reader is regularl% #resented with #roofs$in the form of closel% obser ed details$that what is said to be ha##ening is reall% ha##ening! Before we turn to the technical im#lications of this fact, let us look, briefl%, at a few more e'am#les, since the #oint is one of great im#ortance! 0ake a short scene from <eter 0a%lors +0he Fanc% 2oman!- George has brought Jose#hine, the +fanc% woman- or #rostitute he lo es, home to meet the famil%! Jose#hine has been drinking, and George is determined to sober her u#! 3s he #ushed Jose#hine onto the white, 7um#% beast he must ha e caught a whiff of her breath! She knew that he must ha e@ .e was holding the reins close to the bit while she tried to arrange herself in the flat saddle! 0hen he gras#ed her ankle and asked her, +Did %ou take a drink u#stairs?- She laughed and leaned forward in her saddle, and whis#ered& +0wo! 0wo 7iggers!She wasnt afraid of the horse now, but she was di::%! +George, let me down,- she said faintl%! She felt the horses flesh 1ui er under her leg and looked o er her shoulder when it stom#ed one rear hoof! George said, +;onfound it, Ill sober %ou!- .e handed her the reins, ste##ed back, and sla##ed the horse on the flank! +.old on@- he called, and her horse cantered across the lawn! Josie was clutching the leather stra#s tightl%, and her face was almost in the horses mane! +I could kill him for this,- she said, slicing out the words with a shar# breath! God damn it@ 0he horse was gallo#ing along a dirt road! She saw nothing but the %ellow dirt! 0he hoofs crumbled o er a three9 #lank wooden bridge, and she heard Georges horse on the other side of her! She turned her face that wa% and saw George through the hair that hung o er her e%es! .e was smiling! +,ou dirt% bastard,- she said! 2ho can doubt the scene? 0a%lor tells us that the horse is +7um#%- and #ro es it b% a closel% obser ed detail& George holds the reins$as one must to control a 7um#% horse when one is standing on the ground$+close to the bit!- 0hat Josie is sitting on a real horse, and a 7um#% one, is #ro ed b% further authenticating details& 0he horses flesh 1ui ers +under her leg,- and when the writer tells us that Jose#hine +looked o er her shoulder when it stom#ed one rear hoof,- we are at once con inced b% both the horses action and the womans res#onse! Since Josie is di::% and #resumabl% not a good rider, we are full% #ersuaded b% the detail telling us +her face was almost in the horses mane,- b% the #anick% wa% in which she talks to herself, +slicing out the words with a shar# breath,- b% the fact that, riding down the dirt road, she +saw nothing but the %ellow dirt,- b% the +three9#lank wooden bridge- (in her alarm she looks closel%), b% the fact that she hears Georges horse before she sees it, and b% the fact that, turning to look at him, she sees George +through the hair that hung o er her e%es!- 6'amining the scene carefull%, we disco er that something like half of it is de oted to details that #ro e its actualit%!

;om#are a short #assage from a comic tale in Italo ;al inos ;osmicomics (translated from the Italian b% 2illiam 2ea er)! 0he narrator, old Bfwf1, is recalling the da%s, in the ;arboniferous #eriod of the #lanet, when osseous, #ulmonate fish, including Bfwf1, mo ed u# from the sea onto land! Our famil%, I must sa%, including grand#arents, was all u# on the shore, #adding about as if we had ne er known how to do an%thing else! If it hadnt been for the obstinac% of our great9uncle "ba "ga, we would ha e long since lost all contact with the a1uatic world! ,es, we had a great9uncle who was a fish, on m% #aternal grandmothers side, to be #recise, of the ;oelacanthus famil% of the De onian #eriod (the fresh9water branch& who are, for that matter, cousins of the others$but I dont want to go into all these 1uestions of kinshi#, nobod% can e er follow them an%how)! So as I was sa%ing, this great9uncle li ed in certain mudd% shallows, among the roots of some #rotoconifers, in that inlet of the lagoon where all our ancestors had been born! .e ne er stirred from there& at an% season of the %ear all we had to do was #ush oursel es o er the softer la%ers of egetation until we could feel oursel es sinking into the dam#ness, and there below, a few #alms lengths from the edge, we could see the column of little bubbles he sent u#, breathing hea il% the wa% old folks do, or the little cloud of mud scra#ed u# b% his shar# snout, alwa%s rummaging around, more out of habit than out of the need to hunt for an%thing! <artl% we belie e, or forget to disbelie e, what ;al ino tells us because of the charm of old Bfwf1s oice* and #artl% were con inced b% i id detail! I will not labor the #oint$the fish9animals +#adding about- on shore, the i id #icturing of great9uncle "ba "gas home (the mudd% shallows among the roots of #hotoconifers), the i id image of the fish9animals #ushing themsel es +o er the softer la%ers of egetation until we could feel oursel es sinking into the dam#ness,- the s#ecificit% and a##ro#riateness of the measure +a few #alms lengths,- the column of little bubbles, the great9uncles habit of +breathing hea il% the wa% old folks do,- the +the little cloud of mud scra#ed u# b% his shar# snout, alwa%s rummaging around, more out of habit than out of the need to hunt for an%thing!;onsider, finall%, the #iling u# of authenticating details in I an Bunins +0he Gentleman from San Francisco,- a more con entionall% narrated, serious tale! 0he #assage #resents an ocean liner crossing the 3tlantic! On the second and third night there was again a ball$this time in mid9ocean, during the furious storm swee#ing o er the ocean, which roared like a funeral mass and rolled u# mountainous seas fringed with mourning sil er% foam! 0he De il, who from the rocks of Gibraltar, the ston% gatewa% of two worlds, watched the shi# anish into night and storm, could hardl% distinguish from behind the snow the innumerable fier% e%es of the shi#! 0he De il was a huge cliff, but the shi# was e en bigger, a man%9storied, man%9stacked giantC! 0he bli::ard battered the shi#s rigging and its broad9necked stacks, whitened with snow, but it remained firm, ma7estic$and terrible! On its u##ermost deck, amidst a snow% whirlwind there loomed u# in loneliness the co:%, diml% lighted cabin, where, onl% half awake, the essels #onderous #ilot reigned o er its entire mass, bearing the semblance of a #agan idol! .e heard the wailing moans and the furious screeching of the siren, choked b% the storm, but the nearness of that which was behind the wall and which in the last account was incom#rehensible to him, remo ed his fears! .e was reassured b% the thought of the large, armored cabin, which now and then was filled with m%sterious rumbling sounds and with the dr% creaking of blue fires, flaring u# and e'#loding around a man with a metallic head#iece, who was eagerl% catching the indistinct oices of the essels that hailed him, hundreds of miles awa%C! One can see at a glance that the details are s%mbolic, identif%ing the shi# as a kind of hell constructed b% the #ride of modern man and more terrible than the #ower of the De il! But m% #oint at the moment is onl% this& that here too, as e er%where in good fiction, its #h%sical detail that #ulls

us into the stor%, makes us belie e or forget not to belie e or (in the %arn) acce#t the lie e en as we laugh at it! If we carefull% ins#ect our e'#erience as we read, we disco er that the im#ortance of #h%sical detail is that it creates for us a kind of dream, a rich and i id #la% in the mind! 2e read a few words at the beginning of the book or the #articular stor%, and suddenl% we find oursel es seeing not words on a #age but a train mo ing through 4ussia, an old Italian cr%ing, or a farmhouse battered b% rain! 2e read on$dream on$not #assi el% but acti el%, worr%ing about the choices the characters ha e to make, listening in #anic for some sound behind the fictional door, e'ulting in characters successes, bemoaning their failures! In great fiction, the dream engages us heart and soul* we not onl% res#ond to imaginar% things$sights, sounds, smells$as though the% were real, we res#ond to fictional #roblems as though the% were real& 2e s%m#athi:e, think, and 7udge! 2e act out, icariousl%, the trials of the characters and learn from the failures and successes of #articular modes of action, #articular attitudes, o#inions, assertions, and beliefs e'actl% as we learn from life! 0hus the alue of great fiction, we begin to sus#ect, is not 7ust that it entertains us or distracts us from our troubles, not 7ust that it broadens our knowledge of #eo#le and #laces, but also that it hel#s us to know what we belie e, reinforces those 1ualities that are noblest in us, leads us to feel uneas% about our faults and limitations! 0his is not the #lace to #ursue that sus#icion$that is, the #lace to work out in detail the argument that the ultimate alue of fiction is its moralit%, though the sub7ect is one we must return to$but it is a good #lace to note a few technical im#lications of the fact that, whate er the genre ma% be, fiction does its work b% creating a dream in the readers mind! 2e ma% obser e, first, that if the effect of the dream is to be #owerful, the dream must #robabl% be i id and continuous$ i id because if we are not 1uite clear about what it is that were dreaming, who and where the characters are, what it is that the% are doing or tr%ing to do and wh%, our emotions and 7udgments must be confused, dissi#ated, or blocked* and continuous because a re#eatedl% interru#ted flow of action must necessaril% ha e less force than an action directl% carried through from its beginning to its conclusion! 0here ma% be e'ce#tions to this general rule$we will consider that #ossibilit% later $but insofar as the general rule is #ersuasi e it suggests that one of the chief mistakes a writer can make is to allow or force the readers mind to be distracted, e en momentaril%, from the fictional dream! /et us be sure we ha e the #rinci#le clear! 0he writer #resents a scene$let us sa% a scene in which two rattlesnakes are locked in mortal combat! .e makes the scene i id in the readers mind* that is, he encourages the reader to +dream- the e ent with enormous clarit%, b% #resenting as man% concrete details as #ossible! .e shows, with as much #oetic force as he can muster, how the heads ho er, 7aws wide, slowl% swa%ing, and then strike* how the teeth sink in* how the tails switch and lash, gro#e for a hold, #ound u# dust clouds* how the two snakes hiss, occasionall% strike and miss, the two rattles roaring like motors! B% detail the writer achie es i idness* to make the scene continuous, he takes #ains to a oid an%thing that might distract the reader from the image of fighting snakes to, sa%, the manner in which the image is #resented or the character of the writer! 0his is of course not to sa% that the writer cannot break from the scene to some other$for instance, the conser ationist rushing toward the snakes in his 7ee#! 0hough characters and locale change, the dream is still running like a mo ie in the readers mind! 0he writer distracts the reader$breaks the film, if %ou will$when b% some sli# of techni1ue or egotistic intrusion he allows or forces the reader to sto# thinking about the stor% (sto# +seeing- the stor%) and think about something else! Some writers$John Barth, for instance$make a #oint of interru#ting the fictional dream from time to time, or e en den%ing the reader the chance to enter the fictional dream that his e'#erience of fiction has led him to e'#ect! 2e will briefl% e'amine the #ur#ose and alue of such fiction later! For now, it is enough to sa% that such writers are not writing fiction at all, but something else, metafiction! 0he% gi e the reader an e'#erience that assumes the usual e'#erience of fiction as its #oint of de#arture, and whate er effect their work ma% ha e de#ends on their

conscious iolation of the usual fictional effect! 2hat interests us in their no els is that the% are not no els but, instead, artistic comments on art! 2e e come a long wa% from our o#ening 1uestion, +If there are no rules, or none worth his attention, where is the beginning writer to begin?- 3mong other things, %ou ma% im#atientl% ob7ect, we e raised the s#ecter of a great morass of rules& Dont tr% to write without the basic skills of com#osition* dont tr% to write +what %ou know,- choose a genre* create a kind of dream in the readers mind, and a oid like the #lague all that might briefl% distract from that dream$a notion wherein a multitude of rules are im#lied! But nothing in all this, I #atientl% answer, has an%thing to do with aesthetic law or gi es rules on how to write! 0hat literature falls into genres is sim#l% an obser ation from nature, com#arable to 3dams obser ation that animals need names! If one is to write, it hel#s to know what writing is! 3nd the fact that all three of the ma7or genres ha e one common element, the fictional dream, is another obser ation, nothing more! 2e are s#eaking, remember, onl% of realistic narrati es, tales, and %arns$that is, fictions #rimar% forms$so that in listing wa%s in which the reader can be distracted from the fictional dream, as I will in <art 0wo, I am in fact dealing onl% with things to watch out for when stri ing for the effects of traditional fiction! 8% #remise of course is that before one can work well with metafiction, one needs some understanding of how the #rimar% forms work! /et us turn again, then, to that o#ening 1uestion& 2here should one begin? I ha e said that a good answer, but not an ideal one, is +2rite the kind of stor% %ou know and like best-* in other words, choose a genre and tr% to write in it! Since were li ing in an age er% rich in genres$since a gi en student ma% ha e encountered almost an%thing, from tales like Isak Dinesens to "ew ,orker realistic fiction, from surreal, #lotless fictions9in91uestion9and9 answer9form to #hiloso#h% enriched and dramaticall% intensified #rose renderings of something like the ision in ;a#tain 8ar el comics$such instructions to the writer ma% #roduce almost an%thing! Set off in this wa%, the writer is sure to en7o% himself, first riffling through genres, disco ering how man% and how com#le' the% are, then$tongue between his teeth$knocking off his brilliant e'am#le! 0he a##roach has the ad antage of reminding the student of what freedom he has, how ast the #ossibilities are, and the ad antage of encouraging him to find his own uni1ue #ath! 0he reason the a##roach seems to me not ideal is that, e'ce#t in the e'traordinar% case, it wastes the writers time! It instructs him to do something he cannot realisticall% be e'#ected to do well$and here I mean +well- in the alwa%s urgent artists sense, not the more casual, more gentlemanl% wa% in which we do things badl% or well in other uni ersit% #rograms! /et me e'#lain! 0rue artisits, whate er smiling faces the% ma% show %ou, are obsessi e, dri en #eo#le$whether dri en b% some mania or dri en b% some high, noble ision need not #resentl% concern us! 3n%one who has worked both as artist and as #rofessor can tell %ou, I think, that he works er% differentl% in his two st%les! "o one is more careful, more scru#ulousl% honest, more de oted to his #ersonal ision of the ideal, than a good #rofessor tr%ing to write a book about the Gilgamesh! .e ma% write far into the night, he ma% a oid #arties, he ma% feel #angs of guilt about ha ing s#ent too little time with his famil%! "e ertheless, his work is no more like an artists work than the work of a first9class accountant is like that of an athlete contending for a cham#ionshi#! .e uses faculties of the mind more easil% a ailable to us* he has, on all sides of him, sta%s, checks, safeties, rules of #rocedure that guide and secure him! .es a man sure of where he stands in the world! .e belongs on sunlit walkwa%s, in i ied halls! 2ith the artist, not so! "o critical stud%, howe er brilliant, is the fierce #s%chological battle a no el is! 0he 1ualities that make a true artist$nearl% the same 1ualities that make a true athlete$make it im#ortant that the student writer ne er be #re ented from working as seriousl% as he knows how to! In uni ersit% courses we do e'ercises! 0erm #a#ers, 1ui::es, final e'aminations are not meant for #ublication! 2e mo e through a course on Dostoe sk% or <oe as we mo e through a mildl% good cocktail #art%, #icking u# the good bits of food or con ersation, bearing with the rest, going home when it comes to seem the reasonable thing to do! 3rt, at those moments when it feels most like art$when we feel most ali e, most alert, most trium#hant$is less

like a cocktail #art% than a tank full of sharks! 6 er%things for kee#s, nothings 7ust for e'ercise! (4obert Frost said, +I ne er write e'ercises, but sometimes I write #oems which fail and then I call them e'ercises!-) 3 course in creati e writing should be like writing itself* e er%thing re1uired should be, at least #otentiall%, usable, #ublishable& for kee#s! +3 might% will,- .enr% James said, +thats all there is@- /et no one discourage or undermine that might% will! I would begin, then, with something real$smaller than a short stor%, tale, %arn, sketch$ and something #rimar%, not secondar% (not #arod%, for e'am#le, but the thing itself)! I would begin with some one of those necessar% #arts of larger forms, some single element that, if brilliantl% done, might naturall% become the trigger of a larger work$some small e'ercise in techni1ue, if %ou like, as long as its remembered that we do not reall% mean it as an e'ercise but mean it as a #ossible beginning of some magnificent work of art! 3 one9#age #assage of descri#tion, for e'am#le* descri#tion ke%ed to some #articular genre$since descri#tion in a short stor% does not work in the same wa% descri#tion works in the traditional tale! 3nd I would make the chief concern of this small e'ercise the writers disco er% of the full meaning of fictions elements! .a ing written one su#erb descri#ti e #assage, the writer should know things about descri#tion that hell ne er need to think about again! 2orking element b% element through the necessar% #arts of fiction, he should make the essential techni1ues second nature, so that he can use them with increasing de'terit% and subtlet%, until at last, as if effortlessl%, he can construct imaginar% worlds$huge thoughts made u# of concrete details$so rich and com#le', and so awesomel% sim#le, that we are astounded, as were alwa%s astounded b% great art! 0his means, of course, that he must learn to see fictions elements as onl% a writer does, or an occasional great critic& as the fundamental units of an ancient but still alid kind of thought! .omers kind of thought* what I ha e sometimes called +concrete #hiloso#h%!- 2ere not read% 7ust %et to talk about what that kind of thought entails, but we can make a beginning b% describing how an e'ercise in descri#tion might work! 0o the la%man it ma% seem that descri#tion ser es sim#l% to tell us where things are ha##ening, gi ing us #erha#s some idea of what characters are like b% identif%ing them with their surroundings, or #ro iding us with #ro#s that ma% later ti# o er or burn down or e'#lode! Good descri#tion does far more& It is one of the writers means of reaching down into his unconscious mind, finding clues to what 1uestions his fiction must ask, and, with luck, hints about the answers! Good descri#tion is s%mbolic not because the writer #lants s%mbols in it but because, b% working in the #ro#er wa%, he forces s%mbols still largel% m%sterious to him u# into his conscious mind where, little b% little as his fiction #rogresses, he can work with them and finall% understand them! 0o #ut this another wa%, the organi:ed and intelligent fictional dream that will e entuall% fill the readers mind begins as a largel% m%sterious dream in the writers mind! 0hrough the #rocess of writing and endless re ising, the writer makes a ailable the order the reader sees! Disco ering the meaning and communicating the meaning are for the writer one single act! One does not sim#l% describe a barn, then! One describes a barn as seen b% someone in some #articular mood, because onl% in that wa% can the barn$or the writers e'#erience of barns combined with whate er lies dee#est in his feelings$be tricked into mumbling its secrets! ;onsider the following as a #ossible e'ercise in descri#tion& Describe a barn as seen b% a man whose son has 7ust been killed in a war! Do not mention the son, or war, or death! Do not mention the man who does the seeing! (0he e'ercise should run to about one t%#ed #age!) If the writer works hard, and if he has the talent to be a writer, the result of his work should be a #owerful and disturbing image, a faithful descri#tion of some a##arentl% real barn but one from which the reader gets a sense of the fathers emotion* though e'actl% what that emotion is he ma% not be able to #in down! (In an actual #iece of fiction, we would of course be told what the emotion is$telling im#ortant stories b% sl% im#lication is a s#ecies of frigidit%! But knowing the emotion, we should get from the descri#tion no less #owerful an effect!) "o amount of intellectual stud% can determine for the writer what details he should include! If the descri#tion is to be effecti e, he must choose his boards, straw, #igeon manure, and ro#es, the rh%thms of his sentences, his angle of ision, b%

feeling and intuition! 3nd one of the things he will disco er, ine itabl%, is that the images of death and loss that come to him are not necessaril% those we might e'#ect! 0he hack mind lea#s instantl% to images of, for instance, darkness, hea iness, deca%! But those ma% not be at all the kinds of images that drift into the mind that has em#tied itself of all but the desire to +tell the truth-* that is, to get the feeling down in concrete details! In e er%thing he writes$descri#tion, dialogue, the recounting of actions$the writer does the same thing! 3nd so the writer gathers #art$still onl% #art$of the materials with which he does his thinking! 3t this #oint the reader can no doubt guess what the remaining #arts are! Ob iousl% one does not think in e'actl% the same wa%s, or about e'actl% the same kinds of things, in a short stor%, a tale, and a %arn* and reflection on that fact leads to the further obser ation that, as 2allace Ste ens #ut it, +a change of st%le is a change of sub7ect!- It was once a fairl% common assum#tion among writers and literar% critics that what fiction ought to do is tell the truth about things, or, as <oe sa%s somewhere, e'#ress our intuitions of realit%! Aiewed in this wa%, fiction is a kind of instrument for coming to understanding! But we can see that there are #roblems to be sol ed if that iew is to be defended! 0he realist sa%s to us& +Show me, b% a #rocess of e'act imitation, what its like for a thirteen9%ear9old girl when she falls #ainfull%, faintingl% in lo e!- 3nd he folds his arms, smug in the con iction that he can do 7ust that! But 1uestions disma% us! Shall we tell the truth is short, cli##ed sentences or long, smooth, graceful ones? Shall we tell it using short owels and hard consonants or long owels and soft consonants?$because the choices we make ma% change e er%thing! Does fiction, in fact, ha e an%thing whate er to do with truth? Is it #ossible that this com#licated instrument, fiction, studies nothing but itself$its own #rocesses? 3 common answer at the #resent time is that that is the 1uestion the serious writer s#ends his whole life tr%ing to work out b% means of the onl% kind of thinking he trusts* that is, the fictional #rocess! For the moment, we must let that answer stand$with onl% this reser ation& Great fiction can make us laugh or cr%, in much the wa% that life can, and it gi es us at least the #owerful illusion that when we do so were doing #rett% much the same things we do when we laugh at 5ncle .ermans 7okes, or cr% at funerals! Somehow the endlessl% recombining elements that make u# works of fiction ha e their roots hooked, it seems, into the uni erse, or at least into the hearts of human beings! Somehow the fictional dream #ersuades us that its a clear, shar#, edited ersion of the dream all around us! 2hate er our doubts, we #ick u# books at train stations, or withdraw into our studies and write them* and the world$or so we imagine$comes ali e!