Writers: Beware of Good Books, Unless . . .
By Lisa Cron | May 9, 2013 |
Here’s a piece of advice writers are universally given: if you want to learn to write, read good books. As counterintuitive as it may sound, this is almost always bad advice.
First, before your head explodes, I’m not suggesting that you don’t read good books.
Heck, reading good books is probably a big part of what made you want to be a writer. You’ve spent your life voraciously reading ‘em, right? So you know firsthand that when you’re lost in a compelling novel you’re transported to another world, and when the novel ends and you’re delivered back into our own dusty world, you see things a little differently. Or maybe a lot differently.
Stories change us. They inspire us, they give us insight into what makes people tick. Including ourselves. That’s their job. I’m not speaking metaphorically. I mean that literally: we’re wired to turn to story for useful intel. But, ironically, there is one kind of intel it’s very, very hard to gather from reading a great book. And that is information on how to write one.
Why? Because the first job of a good story is to instantly (and chemically) put your analytical brain to sleep. Here’s how a good story grabs us: it makes us curious. What’s going on here? What’s going to happen next? That curiosity triggers a surge of the neurotransmitter dopamine that’s kinda like a chloroform soaked rag when it comes to figuring out how the story is working its magic on you.
But here’s the real killer: it doesn’t feel that way. It feels as if we can see exactly how the writer is doing it. After all, it’s right there in front of us in black and white: the beautiful sentences, the great metaphors, that luscious prose, the fresh quirky voice. It’s so easy to mistake the beauty of the delivery system for the actual content it’s delivering — a story.
I want to break in here and say, in no uncertain terms, that I am not saying that beautiful writing isn’t important. What I am saying is that beautifully written novels – like all novels — get their power from the story they’re telling. Great writing heightens it, deepens it, and makes it more memorable, more compelling, and more filled with what feels like magic. But make no mistake, it’s not the words themselves that are doing it, it’s the “it” – the story – that the words are bringing to life.
So, given that, when it comes to improving your writing, is there a way that reading great books can help? You bet. But it’s hard. First you have to make a “Ulysses bargain” with your brain. Here’s what I mean: In The Odyssey, they’re about to sail around the island of the Sirens, and Ulysses knows if he hears them, he’s going to be seduced into sailing smack into the rocks. So he comes up with a brilliant solution: he has his crew lash him to the mast, and tells them to ignore him, no matter what he says (‘cause he knows damn well he’s going to order them to head full steam ahead into that good night).
That’s exactly what you have to do. As a reader you want to sail away into the story. As a writer trying to master your craft, you want to see the seams, the way things were put together, the way it was done. That means lashing yourself to the mast, and approaching the book in a very specific way at a very specific time in the writing process.
And since the brain doesn’t learn by thinking about things — it learns by experiencing them – I turned to Jennie Nash, author of four novels and three memoirs, and asked her about her experience when it comes to reading other writers’ novels to help with her own writing process. Her answers offer insightful advice on how to approach a great book and, rather than simply fall under its spell, learn from it. Here goes:
Lisa Cron: First, let’s get a little background. I know you’re working on a new novel right now. Where are you in the process?
Jennie Nash: I’ve barely begun. I mean, I have an idea for a story – just a glimmer of a situation, a tiny sense of the people who may or may not be involved. It’s like I stuck the seed in the dirt and put some water on it, but that’s about all. The sun may not even be shining yet.
LC: So you’re still working out your premise. That is early. I’m very interested in what you told me about how you pulled three books off your bookshelf to help you start moving the process forward. Is that something you always do?
JN: Yes. This will be my fifth novel, and I always turn to other books at the start of the process. Sometimes they’re books that I need for some specific point of research – like, for my last book, Perfect Red, I needed to know what was the cosmetics industry like in 1952 – but most of the time, they’re books that at first glance have little to do with what I think I’m writing.
LC: So how do you choose them? Why do you read them?
JN: There’s usually some subconscious reason I start thinking about another writer’s book when I’m trying to start a story, and my job is to try to make that process conscious. So with the novel I’m working on now, for example, the first book I thought about was Girl in Hyacinth Blue by Susan Vreeland. It’s a gorgeous novel about a whole chain of people who bought and sold and lost and gained a fictional Vermeer painting. I first read it about six or seven years ago – maybe more – but when I started to think about this new story I wanted to tell, that book immediately leapt to mind.
At first I thought it was because the book is about a similar topic to the one I’m considering. My story is possibly maybe about a work of art – a manuscript, actually — that gets passed from hand to hand. So I thought that was the reason Girl in Hyacinth Blue called to me. I assumed that’s what I should pay attention to – Vreeland’s tone around the art, her handling of the topic. But what emerged for me as I read was actually not that at all. What I began to pay attention to was structure. Vreeland does something very unusual structurally in this book. She tells the story backwards, starting in what would be the story present and going back to where the story began. It’s incredibly powerful. Will I tell my story backwards? Maybe. I’m not sure. I have no idea. But it’s in my head now — how I could do that if I wanted to.
LC: So while you read, you weren’t lured in by Vreeland’s writing, by her story?
JN: It was a constant temptation because not only is the story compelling, she has luminous prose and unbelievably authentic characterizations. It would have been so easy to let myself get lost in it.
LC: It sounds like a good rule of thumb might be: When you’re reading a great novel to help you with your own writing process, if you find yourself really enjoying it, stop!
JN: Exactly. I really had to fight it. My goal was to pick up only the thread of structure – of how she did it – and follow it, ignoring everything else as best as I could. It’s kind of like looking at a painting and making yourself only look at the yellow, or listening to a piece of music and only listening to the bass.
LC: Did the Vreeland book help you decide about your own structure?
JN: Sort of. I mean, it got me thinking hard about the different structures I could choose. I held the “tell it backwards” idea in my mind, and then I turned to another book – Sarah’s Key by Tatiana de Rosnay. I hadn’t read it, but three people mentioned it to me when I told them about my new idea – they’d say, “It sounds like Sarah’s Key,” or “It kind of reminds me of Sarah’s Key.” When three people mention a book, I don’t ignore it! So I read it. It’s the story of a contemporary woman who realizes she has a personal connection to a very dark day of the Jewish holocaust. It’s a harrowing story, brilliantly told.
LC: Was it even harder to not be swept away by a great book that you hadn’t read before?
JN: Yes. Talk about a dopamine surge (as I know you would say, Lisa!) I had to fight extra hard because I was dying to know what happened next. It would have been really easy to get diverted by that. Instead I kept my focus — I was on high alert for what was happening with the structure. De Rosnay switches back and forth from the contemporary to the historical story, in short, sharp little bursts. The contemporary story is actually told in the first person, and the historical story is told in the third. About two-thirds of the way through, the two stories meld together.
LC: So you were looking at the thread of the structure again.
JN: That’s right. I was trying it on for size, I guess, seeing if my story would be served by this structure.
LC: What did you read next?
JN: One day a book popped into my head and I just had to get my hands on it. I could picture the spine, the cover, the illustrations. It was The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler – a children’s book I probably hadn’t thought about in ten years.
LC: I love that book! I read it to my kids. I can still picture the scene of the brother and sister taking an early morning bath in chilly water of the fountain in the restaurant at the Metropolitan Museum of Art– which is now gone.
JN: It’s a fabulous book. I read it to my kids, too. We loved it. I searched all over the house, and was about to start getting boxes down from the garage, when I found it on the bookshelf in the bedroom of my 17 year old – yellowed, a little beat up.
I started reading it, knowing at this point that what I was looking for was structure – and what I found there blew me away: the story of the kids who run away to the Met is told by Mrs. Frankweiler, the old lady who helps them solve the mystery at the end of the book. If someone had asked that question on a test – who narrated The Mixed Up Files? – I would have sworn up and down it was the girl who planned the whole getaway. I would have bet big money! But it wasn’t. It was this old lady.
That was the final thing I needed to solve my structure problem. I could suddenly see my new story – who it was told by, how it was told, and why. I think my story needs to be told by an old lady who helps a much younger woman solve a mystery related to a missing manuscript.
LC: That’s fabulous – the story itself began to come clear as you “ran it through” the structure you found in other novels. Novels that really, are very different than what yours will be.
What’s more, you just illustrated something crucial: when we’re lost in a story we don’t see how it’s done. Because I had the exact same experience — I would have sworn the novel was narrated by the main character, twelve year old Claudia. In fact, I want to go back and see, because it so upends what I remember.
One quick aside when it comes to just this sort of making the “invisible” visible: writers, take a look at just about any book written in the third person asking yourself this: how is the writer getting the POV character’s thoughts onto the page? It’s usually done so deftly that if someone asked you, you’d swear they didn’t put the characters thoughts onto the page at all. But they do. All the time. It’s where the story lives. Speaking of which, Jennie, having figured out the structure are you ready to start writing?
JN: Not by a long shot. Structure is only a tiny piece of what I have to work out. I still have to figure out what the story is, exactly, and what time frame it covers, where it starts and where it goes, and what the point is — all the things you’re always telling writers they have to know before they start writing. But that seed of a story that was pushed down into the dirt? I feel like it has some roots, now. I feel like the sun is shining on it – the sun that streams in from these other writers’ books.
LC: Thanks, Jennie, for shedding light on how great books can help writers bring their own stories to life. You’ve brilliantly illuminated the crossroad where creativity and intuition meet the hard work of consciously drilling down to the story you want to tell.
What about you? Has a great book ever helped you with something very specific in your writing process? How did you resist the story’s siren song?
Photo by Scott Feldstein via Flickr
Lisa Cron is the author of Wired for Story: The Writer’s Guide to Using Brain Science to Hook Readers From the Very First Sentence and Story Genius: How To Use Brain Science to Go Beyond Outlining and Write a Riveting Novel (Before You Waste 3 Years Writing 327 Pages That Go Nowhere). Her video tutorial, Writing Fundamentals: The Craft of Story, can be found at Lynda.com. Her TEDx talk, Wired for Story, opened Furman University’s 2014 TEDx conference, Stories: The Common Thread of Our Humanity. A frequent speaker at writers conferences, schools and universities, Lisa’s passion has always been story. She currently works as a story coach helping writers, nonprofits, educators and journalists wrangle the story they’re telling onto the page; contact her here.
A good friend has told me that being a novelist has “ruined” novel reading for me. She’s kinda right. As you say, I get tripped up often now on beautiful — a well as bad — writing. I get pulled out of the story to appreciate a beautiful sentence or a clever metaphor. How I avoid this is simply by, as you say, tying myself to the mast and forcing myself through. When I feel myself stopping to appreciate something rather than experience it, I gently pull myself back — no different from when I’m focused on a task (writing a book, studying for a test) and start to daydream. I just refocus. The thing I’ve had to learn, though, is not to chastise myself. Appreciation — and daydreaming — happens. I’m a writer, after all.
Awesome things to keep in mind! More often than not, I get lured in by the Siren call to, say, copy down every delicious morsel of prose I could find. I once found myself copying whole passages out of A.S. Byatt’s Possession – a gorgeous novel – and had to stop myself. Lately my method of tethering myself to the mast has been to put away the pens and notebooks and write notes after the fact – reactions instead of a play-by-play. I have to forget that I am a writer, and at the end of a novel I find my experience continues on in ineffable thoughts rather than rigid notes.
What a wonderful post, coming literally as I tore myself away from the opening pages of a novel (Penpal by Dathan Auerbach) that may help me in much the way Jennie Nash describes. I was trying to study the structure without getting sucked into the tale, a challenge as Auerbach’s narrative is quite gripping.
I also love this post because it allows me a confession. While “in the writing,” as I call it when I finally submit to the story, I don’t read.
Oh, I pick up a book on occasion . . . scan a few chapters . . . scrutinize a page or three. But at a certain point, I stop finishing other books. When writing my debut novel, set in WWI, the suggestions came fast and furious. Yet on an instinctive level I knew I couldn’t afford to be swayed. I needed to see the war, at home and abroad, as my character would see it. Not as Pat Barker’s characters experienced it, no matter how many worthy accolades her portrayals received, but as my youth from Virginia feels it.
Even now, in a lull from being “in the writing,” I still sometimes only study the surface of the book. But I truly read some as well, slipping into their worlds, experiencing them as a reader does.
As for the secret for distinguishing the two, Jennie nails it. You must simply know your intention when you flip open that book. If you want to explore certain aspects – structure or tone or plot – then stick to that task. If you must, keep a post-it note beside you. Otherwise, the siren song of a well-written tale will always lead you astray.
It is important to allow yourself be drawn in when time and inspiration allows. Those subtle, deeper lessons on the craft of story are key, and the reason writers are instructed to read far and wide. Yet I wish to thank you and Jennie for making the distinction, for adding the footnote so often omitted from that sage advice.
Be well, and happy writing.
This idea is very familiar to me as I too have read novels to get a sense of how the author wrote it. It’s not easy, as you say. I like your suggestions; very helpful. Have you ever read poetry to spark an image about a character or idea? Photography/paintings are good to help make the setting concrete and inspire description.
I write short stories and reading the shorts by master writers like Hawthorne, AC Doyle, Edith Wharton, Dickens etc. can be very helpful both consciously and subconsciously to observe their prose, form, and structure. Shorts offer you a wider variety of styles and voice and less time consuming than a novel.
And as an aside, May is National Short Story Month. I hope WU will be doing something here to address writing shorties and flash fiction. Short stories are gaining popularity again. Lunchtime reads of flash fiction are quite fashionable now. “What are you reading for lunch today?” :)
Excellent suggestions. In writing, photos tether me – sometimes of people but more often than not landscapes. I scrutinized tons of old photographs while writing the novel, and kept a select few on my bulletin board. Maps drew me in as well, surprisingly, but something about the old maps took me back in time, not simply the depictions but even the way they were drawn and labeled.
Poems and short stories can help place me in the right space for writing, but they don’t speak directly to my story in the way a special image can. I do, however, like your idea of studying shorts while writing . . . not sure why I never considered that before. Thanks.
Smart post, and I really enjoyed the exchange with Jennie; thanks for being here, Jennie!
The book that impacted me the most while writing my debut was Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife. I was incapable of resisting the siren song of that novel, to be honest. However, I reread it with analysis in mind a second and third time–and also purchased it as a recording! I had been toying with structure and telling a story out of sequence, and her book was like receiving a permission slip from the publishing gods to do whatever I felt I needed to do, to best tell the tale. Truly enlightening.
Always happy to visit WU, Therese!
I think I would vote for The Time Traveler’s Wife as one of the books with the loudest siren call of all — it’s riveting even when reading for the 4th or 5th time!
Fantastic piece–great advice, encouragement and confirmation that we need to learn from each other. After all, Picasso said, “Good artists don’t copy; they steal.” (He was quite well known for sneaking around Matisse’s studio and looking into the window. But that’s another story.) I’m happy to keep flipping through the mountain of tab-filled books on my desk including Time Traveler’s Wife (Therese) and Lisa’s, “Wired for Story.” I
I find that my tolerance for poorly written books has evaporated. The more I write, the more I only want to read exceptionally well-written books.
I read very little when I am in the throes of writing a book. I will often turn to good non-fiction instead. The main reason to not read good books is that they are too distracting, too much of a temptation to read them through the night and avoid the hard work of crafting a scene that’s just not working.
Love the post. The most important element of a good book is the story. The conflict must put something at stake that is worth caring about, or I won’t bother to read through to the end.
You are so right! A beautiful, elegantly told story is inspirational and several made me want to become a writer. Leslie Marmon Silko’s book ‘Ceremony’ comes to mind. I was left thinking, wow! –if I could someday tell a story that well; well, I’d be very satisfied with my life!
What really motivates me now is a lazy metaphor or incorrect usage that weakens a good story. I am left thinking: really? really! I can do better than that!
I recently read a scene that had the heroine scooting to the end of the bed… completely killed what was becoming a steamy scene. I have four siberian huskies and the sight of them scooting across the carpet the the remedy is just not at all sexy. Reading lines like that is the motivation I need, especially when editing.
Oogh, I had a cat that “scooted.” Yech…very funny!
–This is a great post. I am a total slut when it comes to reading. I drink the Koolaid every time, completely forgetting that I even have an analytical brain when I read.
My saving grace is teaching. I have to read analytically to teach creative writing (I run private workshops) and the more I can bring in wonderful examples of published work, the better (for me and for the group)!
I’ve been told to read books like to the one I want to write. Not a good idea because they are too good. I start to over analyze my writing and stop dead. Write first, read later.
A timely post for me. I’ve been considering this very thing. The siren song is why I read, but you are right. It isn’t helpful when I’m ready to crack my story open and perform surgery.
Thanks so much!
Like Therese, I think re-reading helps you resist the siren pull— and like Helen, teaching helps me remain analytical.
I find it helps to study craft and structure in well-written novels that present genres you don’t usually read. This won’t help with market research, of course. But I know I’ll be pulled into a great women’s fiction novel, for instance, as that’s how I’m wired—but a sci-fi novel may offer just as much about craft without my having to shake off quite the same type of spell.
For that reason, though, I do believe there is something to be learned from reading novels that aren’t quite up to snuff, then trying to figure out why. This is a great way to solidify your own tastes, and see the ramifications of the items on your “what not to do list.”
But I watch when I do that. I never read “down” when actively writing, for fear of mind pollution, lol. While writing, I always read “up.”
Lisa-
Your opening made me LOL. Really. This morning I’m working in a coffee bar. Around me folks lifted their heads from their laptops like ducks in a pond. A few glared. One looked envious.
I love your “Ulysses bargain”. Lash yourself to the mast indeed. I have the opposite problem. I must sometimes lash myself to keep sailing through choppy storytelling.
I’ve spent so many years analyzing manuscripts and published novels that I’m cursed with x-ray vision. Even when there are few flaws I can see what’s missing. Seamless reading is for me rare.
But you’re speaking to novelists, who of course have exactly the problem you’ve pinned to the bulletin board. They think they know how great novels achieve their effects, but usually they grasp a simplistic or single explanation.
I once had a client send me a crime manuscript in which there was 100 pages of introduction of repellent characters (later suspects) before the detective showed up. I found it unreadable. The author complained, “But that’s exactly what P.D. James does!”
So I read P.D. James. Sure enough, she did the same thing. But there was a difference. James made sure that each loathsome character was nevertheless human and real. One felt a smidgen of compassion for each one. You had to look hard to see the redeeming quality, but it was there.
There is also the question of influence. I know writers who refuse to read in their genre, especially when drafting, because they don’t want to be unduly influenced. Others find inspiration in reading others. I see both points. I only wish that no matter what their process and pattern authors would push themselves and their stories deeper.
Thanks, Lisa. Another great post. Definitely made my coffee bar morning go faster.
By the way Mr. Maass, YOUR book is part of that “tab-filled mountain of books” I referred to in my response to Lisa above. Lots of circling, stars, energized underlining, and noting of your keywords. PLAUSIBILITY. Love it–and thank you.
Words to write by.
I loved this post, Lisa, and I plan on tying myself to a mast later today, after I drop off my kids at school.
I’m sure you already have a #1 fan and probably a #2-5 as well. May I be your #6 biggest fan?
;)
Terrific post! Thanks you guys!
I too am with Therese and Kathryn. Re-re-reading (yes, three times altogether) a book I love is a great way to see behind the curtain and discover the wizard’s tricks.
As for what can be gained from reading badly written books, I find that when a book isn’t working for me, I start thinking like an editor. I ask myself how I could improve the book (to my taste). It puts me in the mental process of fixing. I view it as extra writing/revising practice. That way, I don’t feel like “I’ll never get back the time I wasted reading this crappy book.”
Love the Ulysses bit. Thanks.
I often find it easier to learn from bad or mediocre novels, by analyzing what didn’t work. When did I lose interest? Why? And so forth. But these are good tips for learning from great novels as well. Thanks!
I can’t remember from where I picked up this advice — maybe Orson Scott Card? — but I took a novel I was reading at the time and deconstructed it. Scene by scene. I’ve done this twice and it was so instructive.
I allow myself the pleasure of eating up a story. Later, I can regurgitate and ruminate.
Great post with much food for thought. Many thanks.
I deal, perhaps in a more unconventional way. I generally read books twice.
On the first pass, it is all about the story – just letting myself dive in and enjoy it. On the second pass, I read it with a critical eye – what worked, what didn’t, what was amazing, what was “pretty writing” that didn’t move the story along, what jarred me out of it. I make notes and refer to them if I review the book on GoodReads or elsewhere. I’m a fast reader, so this works for me. If you’re NOT a fast reader, then the lashing yourself to the mast thing is a good idea.
We don’t have to avoid hearing the sirens’ song – we just have to avoid crashing into the rocks.
[…] Writers: Beware of Good Books, Unless… by Lisa Cron via Writer Unboxed – We’ve all been told “If you want to learn to write, read good books,” but here’s an explanation as to why that’s almost always bad advice. […]