Seeking Immersion Conversion
By Vaughn Roycroft | October 6, 2014 |
photo by Marc-Olivier Maheu
“As a reader you recognize that feeling when you’re lost in a book, right? You know the one – when whatever’s going on around you seems less real than what you’re reading and all you want to do is keep going deeper into the story… Well, if you’re writing that book it’s real for you too.” ~Sara Sheridan
Lost and Loving It: I’m with Sara Sheridan. I love getting lost in a book—totally immersed in the world of story. For me the feeling includes losing track of time and of what else is going on around me; not wanting to stop and anticipating getting back to it between sessions; being left with a wonderfully dazed feeling at the end, and then reminiscing about it long afterward. At its best, an immersive read makes everything else fade from conscious thought. It’s like being in one of those sensory deprivation tanks, except all of your senses are tuned in to story. Even the physical book disappears—pages are turned by rote. In fact, one of the primary reasons I write is in an effort to replicate the immersive experience others have provided for me.
It’s not quite as straightforward as it is with reading, but on my best writing days I come very near to achieving total immersion. Very early on I found that, like Sheridan, I am readily able to lose myself in my own work. On these days I can very clearly see and feel my story-world, from whichever character’s perspective I am writing. It’s all so real.
I suspect that achieving this state results in some of my most original work. Besides, it can be a real rush! It’s what hooked me on this crazy-making gig, and it keeps me coming back.
Wading through, Floating Downstream, or Diving Deep? I’ve read quite a few wonderful books this year, but I’ve noticed that not all of them have provided me with the immersive experience I am describing. Some books are well-written, funny or sad, and even fast-paced, and yet I am not immersed. It’s more like being led along by story than being lost in story. Some make me feel like I’m wading through—they’re not deep, but the course to the destination is clear enough. And others feel more like tubing downstream—a lovely ride with periodic rapids, often with very pleasant scenery. These stories can be entertaining and relaxing, but they don’t provide an immersion experience.
“A good book should leave you slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.” ~William Styron
There have also been a few that I suspect would be considered less well-written, and yet I am totally willing to dive in and be lured into the layered depths of story. The best, of course, are those that accomplish both—lyrical writing as well as a compelling lure to go deep. I love it when, as Styron describes, I am left exhausted once I’ve surfaced. A book like that is satisfying in ways that are obviously beyond being entertaining or relaxing.
Inconsistent Immersion Provider:
“A reader is not supposed to be aware that someone’s written the story. He’s supposed to be completely immersed, submerged in the environment.” ~ Jack Vance
One of my favorite compliments is when readers who know me say, after reading my work, that they completely forgot about who wrote the story as they read. It’s a sign they may have been immersed. I can always tell when readers have actually been to my world. I’m talking about those who’ve truly gone deep, not just viewed it from afar. I can sense it in the knowing way they discuss the characters, in the often unexpected ways in which they connected with the story.
It’s a wonderful thing to have someone not only invest the time to read your work, but connect with it on such an intimate and personal level. It’s like someone actually visiting the world inside your head and not only finding it to their liking, but discovering a bit of themselves there. How cool is that? It’s like unveiling your soul’s light and not only having someone admire its shine, but feel its warmth or use it to provide some small measure of added illumination to their path. And those who have immersed themselves in my world, and have come back in some way changed or revitalized, encourage me to strive to be a better guide for others.
Of course I’ve also had readers who’ve just floated along on the surface, reporting back that they’ve had a pleasant ride. And then there are those who’ve waded in only far enough to suspect it’s not for them and turned back. Worst of all, there have been a few who seemed willing, even anxious for a swim, and turned away after dipping in a toe. Brrr.
I realize that every story has its right readers. Some might say good enough is good to go. But I’ve seen my progress. I’m not satisfied with an inconsistent conversion rate. I know I can continue to increase my percentages. It’s not just that doing so will be the difference in my pursuit of publication. Rather, it’ll make the difference as to whether or not I have a shot at making a career of this gig.
Easier Read Than Done:
“Evolution dictates that the first job of any good story is to completely anesthetize the part of our brain that questions how it is creating such a compelling illusion of reality. After all, a good story doesn’t feel like an illusion. What it feels like is life.” ~Lisa Cron
Sometimes I feel like the world’s slowest learner. I read incisive craft books like Wired for Story, by WU’s own Lisa Cron, and I know that readers are relentlessly hunting for the elements of story from the first page, the first sentence. I read and reread the openings of books that have not only captured me, but have lured me to go deep. And I study those that… well, didn’t. I feel like I have a firm grasp on the critical concepts.
And then I open the doc to revise my own work.
Damn, what happened to that firm grasp? For me this lure to depth is a slippery little devil.
The goal is elusive. There are essential ingredients, but no sure formulas. Success will require both simplification and the addition of nuanced intricacy. I must strengthen essential story elements, eliminate detracting clutter, and increase tension, both internal and external. It’s a tall order. And, damn, am I ever shortsighted when it comes to analyzing my own shortcomings. It’s enough to make me short-tempered. Luckily I have towering mentors with longer patience and keener insight to the way forward. I am grateful for their example and continued belief in me.
Upping the Odds:
“Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own.” ~William Hazlit
One thing that’s been very helpful is having had multiple readers’ feedback for multiple manuscripts. It’s extremely enlightening to see which openings have been more successful, and what is working and what is not. Study is necessary, but it really comes down to practice. So even a short story—heck, even a blog post—can be a learning experience.
One success will not ensure the next. But it’ll up the odds.
Hence, every attempt, success or failure, increases my odds for drawing in my right readers—those who can be enticed to dive deep, and who might even find illumination there. And hopefully the effort will not only lay open their secrets for them, but reveal my own to me as well.
How about you? Feeling ready for a dive? Do you crave immersion in your reading? Do you seek to provide it with your work?
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
I always say I want to write an ‘airplane book’ — the type of book that’s so immersive, you don’t even look up during takeoff. That’s the type of book I want to read as well.
Liz! Don’t tell me you don’t give your total attention to the stewardesses for the safety spiel… you’ve heard a thousand times. Seriously, great example, and a fantastic goal. Thanks, Liz!
Love this:
“And then I open the doc to revise my own work.
Damn, what happened to that firm grasp? For me this lure to depth is a slippery little devil.”
Yep, yep and yep. Clarity on craft often seems to be an illusion when it come to applying it to my own work. Maybe if I read that book one more time…
Back at ya, Densie: “Clarity on craft often seems to be an illusion when it come to applying it to my own work.” Nicely done!
Just this past weekend I critiqued a friend’s opening pages, and I knew as I wrote my notes that I was speaking to myself as much or more than to her. Why is this stuff easier to see in others’ work than in our own? All we can do is to keep diving. Thanks, Densie!
Immersion – what a great topic, and the best kind of goal.
But how hard are those first pages?! The real meat comes later on, yet those first pages have to entice like the aroma of fresh-baked bread, and that first bite has to make them say, “Mmm, I’ve gotta have more.”
Yes, I’ve noticed the effect in readers – those who’ve smelled the freshly baked bread are much more likely to report digging in to the meat. Such a neat trick, baking aromatic bread. Easier for some than for me, but worthy of dedicated practice. Great analogy and point, Carmel, thanks!
Immersion conversion… that’s an interesting phrase. Your post really made me think, Vaughn. Yes, I seek it in fiction particularly. In non-fiction I am basically shopping for the good stuff, the nuggets of wisdom I need to build my wisdom and my work. So that means I’m moving faster, trying to be productive.
I think you’re describing a soul connection that is rare, in fiction as in life. Don’t you? We have it with a few people, but not many. Same with books, with stories. We are connecting with our imaginations, the way we see, hear, taste, touch and smell the words in our minds, but not just our minds, not just our imaginations.
We are connecting (or not) with our deepest longings and fears, the stuff of our enduring soul.
Deep thoughts, but hey…. You started it!
It is deep, Mia (especially for a Monday), but I agree. The best kind of immersion experiences certainly feel like a soul connection. I’ve experienced it as a reader, anyway. Some connections are easy – like meeting someone you feel like you’ve known all your life. There must be myriad cues that initiate and support the feeling, but who knows what they are, or in what combination they will work?
I think your suggestion hints at there being varying depths of immersion. I can be submerged and see and experience without truly deeply feeling a story. Seems like those deep feelings are derived from thematic issues that grip us and pull us even closer to the emotional heart of the story. I’m hoping to make that kind of connection with at least a few other humans through my work. It’s a worthy aspiration.
Thanks for taking the subject even deeper, Mia!
Vaughn there is so much I appreciate in your article. However, not every reader is “relentlessly hunting for the elements of story from the first page, the first sentence.” That has never been my goal when I’ve picked up a book, and I suspect it is not the goal of most readers. Only writers think this way because they’ve read a million craft books that tell them to think like this (Sorry if that offends anyone but it’s true.) Certainly readers want to be drawn in, but intelligent readers know that every book is different, and therefore what draws them into the story and the lives of the characters will be different.
Like Fran Lebowitz, i want to be transported. But how that happens, I really don’t care; although if I had to say, it would be character more than story that first brings me in. And the writing, the voice of both story and writer.
I’m not looking for “hooks” in the first sentence, or the first plot point at 20% or the lull at the end of the “second act” before the storm, or whatever the various formulas out there for “structuring the novel” dictate. I’m looking for something I haven’t read before–or if I have read it before, I want something else. What that something else is, is mysterious. In large part, it’s “Voice,” with a capital V, because voice is not merely style or rhythm or cadence or visual spatial awareness of one word next to another, which causes writers who love language to substitute a synonym because it looks and sounds better next to the words on either side: Voice *is* who the writer is, through and through. It’s their signature (just as art experts can tell a forged work from the real deal because they say the artist’s signature is in every brushstroke). The mystery of a great book lies in its ability to immerse me in the characters’ world; so that time in my own world disappears and that of the characters’ takes over.
A brief discussion took place on Tonia Marie Harris’s wall on Facebook the other day about this very thing–what makes a novel a “breakout” novel (to use Don Maasse’s term); or a “blockbuster” novel (to use Albert Zuckerman’s term)? The truth is this: Nobody knows. You can do all the right things according to craft books and proclaimed “gurus” and still not win over the hearts and minds of readers. And you can do many, many things that go completely against the prevailing advice and admonishments and end up with Harry Potter or The Night Circus.
In the end, what the commercially successful book comes down to is that the writer wasn’t trying to write a bestseller. The reader unconsciously recognizes this and is relieved. The pressure is off the reader to be “fashionable.” They can read the story according to the dictates of their own heart, because they recognize the writer was simply writing the story they fell in love with deeply with and felt compelled to write. A story the writer loved so much, they wanted to share it with other lovers of words, and so invited the reader to enter the open door of their house and step with them into a new world of make belief.
Hi Sevigne – Thanks so much for your thoughtful reply. You make a lot of excellent points here. And I agree with you about character and Voice (with a capital V!) being the most powerful elements to immersion. I also agree with you about hooks. At least those that feel like hooks. I suspect that a lot of those types of opening lines are written by writers trying to write a bestseller.
Although she certainly doesn’t need me to defend her, I will say on Lisa Cron’s behalf that I believe she is inferring that the so-called “relentless pursuit” of story elements is subconscious. And, for me, even though character and Voice lead the way, something has to be happening to the character pretty quickly. I suppose I could be proven wrong, but I don’t want to find out the opening was a dream. ;-)
Thanks for the great enhancements to this conversation, Sevigne! I’ll go check out the conversation on Tonia’s page.
I didn’t know it was something Lisa Cron says, I thought I was responding directly to your thought. I haven’t read her book and look forward to hearing her in person in November.
Thanks for your comment, Sevigne. You make me more determined to trust my storytelling instincts, the gut feeling that, although I might be flying in the face of the writing gurus, what I’m doing is right for my story. It’s easy to lose track of that in the push to succeed.
To me there are no gurus in writing. There are great writers but no great gurus. Once we realize the truth of that, we can be inspired by certain experts (I’m almost always inspired by Donald Maass’s suggestions, and I loved being in Mary Buckham’s classes when she used to teach) but we know that in the end everything we need to write authentically is already in us–formed or nascent.
So much of writing advice, especially story structure, as it’s often called these days, comes directly from the dramaturg Gustav Feytag and his pyramid, which he created to analyse Greek tragedy and Shakespeare’s five act plays. And from Aristotle’s Poetics, which also refers solely to drama. There really is no history of craft writing. We have purloined the idea of the three- or four-act story structure from theatre (though some believe it came from film; it did not, Freytag and Aristotle were dead and gone long before story telling in film became vogue).
I want to clarify that understanding structure, or the decision to break it, is paramount. Some people, when they read my thoughts about originality and the subconscious, think I eschew structure for the sake of originality, or simply trusting whatever some nebulous thing called the subconscious will produce. Or that I find the notion of using structure abhorrent. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Everything in the universe, after the initial impulse of pure inspiration, is founded on a very specific structure, born, and part and parcel of the initial inspiration. (It’s why, sometimes, when we are deeply inspired, out of the blue, without warning, we find ourselves able to write an entire piece in one breath and we look back we see the entire structure is there and it appeared without our thinking of it consciously until we were done. We trusted the whole process because we knew everything was present and correct.)
Our physical entity is almost entirely structure. Our internal structure, the skeleton, define the action of the muscle and how they allow us to move. The brain has a structure, and so on.
When writers ask me to beta read their work, or I offer, one of the main things I’m looking for is logic and coherence, neither of which can be present without a very solid understanding of the story’s structure. Structure is what gives the writer the freedom to follow their gut instinct. But that structure must be internalized and come from the writer’s story–not the other way around. It’s not something someone else can dictate to your story, even though the market would have you believe this is how it’s done.
Form follows function. Function is the writer’s inspiration and reason to tell this story, this way, this time, because…? (only the writer can answer this). Form is the structure or format in which that idea is shared. But, in the end, what the writer wants to say trumps all, as far as I’m concerned. Because structure, if it’s not entirely clear in early drafts can be sorted out and fixed, once the writer understands what is not yet on the page, which they can see their mind but have not yet revealed to the reader.
I esp. liked that last paragraph … and this is why I love revision.
Vaughn,
You hit so many buttons here, I don’t know where to start. I, too, feel like a slow learner. The elements of craft that make so much sense when I hear or read about them elude me when I sit down to work. But when the non-linear part of my brain nudges out the ‘accountant’, (this is where immersion happens for me), magic can happen. The odds go way up, at least. I crave immersion when I read, and like you, I write because I want to give that to readers. That desire keeps me going during the dark times. Thank you for talking about this today!
I love the thought of that non-linear part nudging aside the accountant, Susan – so perfect. And you’re right – there can be no magic while in “accountant-mode,” can there? And yes, I too use my desire to provide it to keep me going on those dark days. I’m glad the piece resonated for you. Thank you!
Your commitment to creating an immersion experience will pay off, Vaughn. Every little thing you do, all the new ideas you allow to percolate as you come to your work again and again and relentlessly address the question, “How can this be better for readers?” will result in that hands-down conversion rate you’re looking for.
What I enjoy in reading this is your oppenness to feedback at every step along the way. You aren’t afraid to hear comments from readers that might mean you have to rewrite the whole beginning. Many writers want to hear how great their writing is, rather than hearing how effective it actually is. Those who seek the latter, like yourself, will work with the truth to optimize – a distillation process, if you will. For me, I love hearing from readers at every step of the way; there’s nothing like an informed opportunity to combine revision with forward-writing.
Looking forward to testing the waters of your story world soon. Something tells me I won’t be disappointed.
Hey John – Yes, as an editor I’m sure you occasionally run into a lack of willingness to revise. I’ve always professed to a willingness, but I must admit, early on my inner-writer-child sought only that approval – and may have even thrown a tantrum or two. It’s been a long haul to get to this point, but the drive comes from wanting to up those odds, to provide what I crave from fiction to others.
Thanks for your sharp perspective and your kind words!
“Damn, what happened to that firm grasp? For me this lure to depth is a slippery little devil.”
That’s what happened to me this morning when I was pondering POV. I just want what I envision in my head not to be mangled by my hands. Gah! Why is that so hard?
I love sinking into a story, forgetting that there are such things as pages and it is my goal to keep my readers up late at night with my story people taking up residence in their heads.
Thanks for a wonderful post.
Oh-how-I-love this, Vijaya: “I just want what I envision in my head not to be mangled by my hands. Gah! Why is that so hard?”
It *is* hard, isn’t it? You’ve reminded me of the Ira Glass taste/talent gap. At least we can celebrate the fact that we have good taste, right?
Thanks for the perfect addition to the conversation!
She is a marvellous writer! Words are like soft putty in her hands.
Aw, thank you … but many of them had to be squeezed out after several drafts. My early efforts often end up as paper balls for the cat!
Well, you know, cats just wanna to have fun (just like girls)…. xxxs
I couldn’t agree more. I’m always looking for that immersion, and when I don’t find it, I usually put the book down. There just isn’t time to waste on a book that hasn’t reached out and grabbed me.
And yes, as an author, it’s the ultimate goal to create a piece of work that does that to others. And it’s so tricky. All the elements must be balanced, or it just doesn’t work.
I fear its subjectivity also has a part to play. Or my fave agent rejection line: “I just didn’t connect with the main character.”
Thank you for the very thoughtful post, Vaughn!
PK – I get where you’re coming from regarding giving up on a book that’s not providing immersion. I can be grabbed by elements that don’t feel like the kind of immersion I’m trying to convey – humor springs to mind. But if I read a book like that, I find myself scrambling for a trusted immersion provider on the next read. Susan, above, mentioned the word ‘crave’, which I think is perfect.
Yes, and that pesky subjectivity! We don’t connect with every person we meet, in person or online, so why would we, as writers, expect every reader to feel a connection with our characters? Like I say, all we can do is strive to up the odds.
Thanks, and best wishes for mastering the tricky balancing act, PK!
If reading were not a subjective experience, we’d have many millions of books fewer to read in the world. Don’t you think? That is the absolute beauty of writing and reading. Because the entire experience is so subjective, we get to see a unique facet of humanness through the writer and within ourselves.
Well, you know just how much I agree with this! (And I remember feeling just this when I was reading your second book! :) ) Great post, Vaughn!
I DO know. And – shucks – thanks for your kind words about book two, Coach! You’ve made my day. But, as we’ve also discussed, no reader is going to read an entire book one to find immersion in book two. Thanks in no small part to your help and the inspiration of your own work, I think progress is being made. And hey, it always helps a batter to feel that contact with the ball, right?
Beautiful post, Vaughn. There’s nothing more satisfying than disappearing into a great story–either reading one or writing one.
Love this: “It’s like unveiling your soul’s light and not only having someone admire its shine, but feel its warmth or use it to provide some small measure of added illumination to their path.”
Best wishes!
Thank you, Cindy! Wishing you immersion in your reading and writing this week!
Vaughn-
It’s the reading experience we all seek. For me, the question is how that spell is created. What is it that immediately causes a reader to dive into the deep end and stay there?
I think it’s a combination of things. At the outset it’s landing in a story world from the first line. It’s feeling at home there, which in turn comes from feeling something warm, hearing an engaging voice, or plain intrigue. All three things are nice to get.
Sevigne made a good point. Being hooked and feeling immersed are two different things. One is attention-grabbing cleverness or maybe a plot trick that snags your attention for a short while.. The other is emotional involvement. That lasts longer.
Immersion over the long haul is created by a number of factors, from learning new things to constantly wondering what will happen next to *caring* what will happen to a character. Surprise. Prose fireworks. Being provoked to think. Hundreds of ways to do it.
The problem with many manuscripts is that they simply don’t do enough of what keeps us immersed. A good exercise with a favorite novel is to read it and *on each page*ask the question, “what is keeping me immersed right now?” Write it down. After hundreds of pages there probably are scores of reasons.
That list of reasons is also a list of techniques, things one can work on and add throughout. They’re the things that cause us to feel immersed. They’re do-able. It’s not magic. It’s the work of the storyteller.
Thanks, Vaughn.
And, yet…
Somehow there is also magic, isn’t there Don? Something we can’t quite put our finger on, the thing that ends up making the breakout novel break out? I expect zeitgeist plays an important role in why some books become a cultural phenomenon at the time they’re released. I’m thinking in particular of The Da Vinci Code, a book that gave the author something like a $6,000 advance and virtually no marketing, which went on to sell over 80 million copies? Why? Its success defies its detractors.
And there is the inexplicable writer’s voice, the thing every agent and publisher is looking for, which can’t be learned from a book. Add that to the many hundreds of subtle things you often point to in your posts and books, et voila…magic, n’est pas?
Sevigne-
Writing (and reading) may feel like a magical experience, but I don’t accept that it is. Not on any level.
What causes us to feel immersed? Black and white words on a page. How did they get there? Fingertips typed them, one at a time, in a certain order.
When we say that the effect Vaughn is today calling immersion is “magical”, what we really mean is, “For some writers those words seem to fall together and do their work more easily than for me.”
In other words, when it looks easy for some we seek to explain it in a way that relieves us of shame. “It’s magical!” Really? Well, there you go! No wonder it’s easy for those guys. They have the special wand.
The problem with magical thinking about writing is that is causes us to surrender our power. Why try harder when a lucky few don’t have to try hard at all? Golly, you either have “it” or you don’t. And what you’ve got is good enough–heck, it has to be because it’s *all* you’ve got.
Thus, if you can’t get an agent, don’t get published, get ho-hum reviews or aren’t popular, well hey. What can you do? It’s not your fault. It’s that magic thing.
Bull. There’s no such thing as magic. Ask a stage magician. They practice harder than you or me, that’s all. I can’t roll a quarter across my knuckles or palm an ace of spades, can you? But I could, with practice. Add a bit of patter and I bet I could even convince you I’m doing magic.
Now Sevigne, I must add this: The act of writing involves flow. We ignore our conscious editor and trust our pre-conscious storyteller. I don’t want to imply that you can think your way to writing great fiction.
You can’t.
However, you can revise. And add. And grow. And learn new techniques. And practice them until they become so automatic that they cease to feel like work. Until they become unconscious, which is to say easy. Which is to say “magical”.
Is it really magic? Really? No, it just feels that way.
No, that’s not what I’m saying.
I am saying there is a mysterious component to the creative process. If there were not, then everything would end up the same. But it’s simply not true that everything is the same. We all have unique fingerprints, we all have unique voices. How did our voice get to be what it is? We may be able to to point to various things and say, “this, and this, and this,” but in the end there is still an unknown quality as to who we ultimately are. When we fall in love with someone, we may be able to name many tangibles that appear to be exactly the same as another person’s but the thing you fall in love with? That’s unquantifiable, if it’s true love.
I’m not saying that the writer doesn’t consciously choose every word and how it’s situated on the page by the end of the process. I never publish anything any other way. When I’m ready for my final draft, I have poured over every word, sentence, paragraph, and every single punctuation mark.
But there is no way to know beforehand which books will become breakout novels, until they do; hence the example of The Da Vinci Code. Or, if you prefer, Harry Potter (but that’s somewhat overused so I was avoiding it).
Sevigne-
Oh, okay. Voice is unique to individual authors, you bet. As it should be. I see what you’re saying.
As to timing and luck, it’s true that some novels are of their time. They capture it. They strike a chord. “Bright Lights, Big City” was a novel like that. It captured a moment in the Eighties.
But there are plenty of novels not strictly of their time that also break out. Would you say that “Like Water For Elephants” somehow caught a moment? Or “The Help”? Or “The Kite Runner”? Those stories are far removed from our time and place.
Or consider any number of classics published long ago that still read beautifully and sell well today. “To Kill a Mockingbird” was definitely a Civil Rights era novel but it’s still beloved. “Lord of the Rings” could not rightly be said to be of any era. Those novels are timeless because they’re great novels.
I wouldn’t want to rob fiction writing of all of its mystery, or fun. All I mean is that if there are ways to write more powerfully then, well, why not use them?
Don, I’m jumping in here because this discussion between you and Sevigne fascinates me.
Your statement, “There’s no such thing as magic,” makes me think of the stolid Mr. Dursley in Harry Potter. However, I think it’s an excellent comparison, since magic in Harry Potter is meant to be a metaphor for children about the power of imagination. And so it is with writing. We want a magic formula to *know* we have the exact effect we’re seeking. There isn’t one. But this doesn’t mean the magic can’t exist. We have but to go in and believe, to do the hard work, and the magic will exist. (Harry Potter again being a great comparison, taming that magic might only happen after many accidental explosions, failed transfigurations, and a possessed broom that might break a few bones.)
But, let’s forget about magic and focus on reality. You make another great point about magicians. Illusionists perform amazing feats with their legerdemain. You’d never know it’s not magic, unless you knew all their tricks. Storytellers are no different. Storytellers learn not just from practicing, but from observing and testing. An illusionist is deluded if she thinks no one sees the card accidentally sticking out of her sleeve, the same as one is deluded if one merely watches and expects to learn by osmosis. A writer must write, must be willing to fail and try again. A writer must also not be foolish and write in isolation, because it’s possible to try and try again until finally you accomplish the wrong thing.
Don, I’ve read every one of your books and if there’s one take home message for me it’s that the power to change our writing lies within our control. We can choose to read stories critically. We can choose to educate ourselves with craft books and workshops. We can choose to open our eyes by comparing the effect our writing has on us to the effect is has on others. We can come back to the story time and time and time again until it does what it’s supposed to. We can move on to something fresh to gain perspective. We can keep writing and choose to use every lesson to our benefit. We can accumulate a pile of writing and creatively fine ways to use past work in something new. There is no waste, there is no waste, there is no waste.
Magic books are dreams to writers, but storytellers are not concerned with magic. We’re concerned with stories and always making what we write better. We’re busy sweating, losing ourselves in countless moments of devotion to the stories we sculpt with care. But it’s not a labor of pain or agony, it’s a labor of love. When I write I am alive in a way that transcends mere experience. I am not concerned with who will buy this or if what I’m writing right here right now is going to be amazing. I only care about the storytelling and the reality I am trying to create.
Many writers mistakenly mix writing and publishing together. They can be two very different things. I am reminded of something someone told me once: “Something you are good at is something you tell people about; something you are great at is something other people tell you about.” I stopped telling people I am good at writing long ago.
Writing allows for failures, because each of those can be a stepping stone to success. Publishing, though, that is the many lookouts and valleys, the milestones that represent that otherwise rugged adventure. Those are the magic moments, and I truly believe a writer, sufficiently motivated and sufficiently informed, is capable of achieving many of them.
“We want a magic formula to *know* we have the exact effect we’re seeking. There isn’t one.”
This is exactly what I was trying to say. We can do every single thing that Don points us to examine and hone in our work, and we still may miss the mark with readers en masse. That’s the mysterious part. And it’s not just because of less talent than another writer. (Here van Gogh always comes to mind for me, but I will digress if I go there.)
Because of who my parents were and what they achieved, my father in particular, I know there is no magical thinking in the process. But there is magic, however we want to define the “unknown” and ultimately “unknowable.” I find this useful to remember. It strips the ego of believing it is the be all and end all of the creative process. Everything my parents created was founded on a deep knowledge of their art, both historical and technical. It always surprises me when younger or newer writers eschew the classics of which, as Don says, many are timeless. Why? Why do we still read Dickens or Austen or Hawthorne or Twain or Zola or Stendhal or Balzac or Proust, or any number of 18th century and the early 20th century novelists? Why did an entire generation plus adults fall in love with Harry Potter? Rowling’s writing style is not that great and yet she captured something that spoke to hundreds of millions of readers. Yes, it was the story, and yes it was definitely the characters. And, yes, it was the cleverness and inventions and her world building. But it was something else. Something universal. Something every reader could identify with and recognize as being true for them and their experiences of love and heartbreak and ultimately empowerment (as you say, John) in their own lives.
As for why a reader is drawn to a piece of writing. Again, in the end, while 99% may be foretold by the pundits, there is that one percent that surprises everyone, including the pundits. In my case recently I was asked to write an to my parents’ history together. I was surprised because I am not an art historian. I had already selected an established writer to do this and said I could only write about them from my personal experience. There is a moment in the James Runcie’s documentary with Rowling when she shares that often in a room with business people (the theme parks especially) where she would think: Why are you all looking at me for my approval? Well, in a way, something very similar happened after people read my tribute. Emails and calls started pouring in to the auction house for whom I had written the piece saying how moved they were by it and how much it filled in history no one had known before. (It never occurred to me while I was writing that very few people would know the things I know about my parents, because I have lived with their history together my entire life.) The truth is, I never expected anyone to read it. No one reads essays in auction catalogues, no matter who the writer is; well, hardly anyone. I certainly didn’t expect anyone to read my essay. I really didn’t. I was shocked when I began hearing that so many people had. For a long time, I had the experience of “Are they talking about me?” I couldn’t match the emotional response of strangers to the very simple essay I had written. This is what I mean when I say there is a mysterious component to the breakout novel or piece of writing. There are some things we simply cannot know ahead of time. I certainly had no idea my simply-worded tribute would touch so many people who had never met my parents, and on so many different levels. (If the feedback is to be believed.) I’m certain, if I had known beforehand, I would have been too self-conscious to write the truth of my experience so directly from my heart.
John & Sevigne (and Vaughn too, of course)-
I love how the column of text grows ever more narrow. A reminder to keep it brief?
“Universal”. Yes, Sevigne. Interesting. To my eye, the more personal fiction becomes, the more universal it gets. The more distinctive are characters, the more they become like us all. The more unique a setting is, the more it reminds us of home. I am with you on this.
And on this too: Fiction writing complex and difficult to grasp in its entirety. One shouldn’t reduce it wholly to techniques. That would be like those Julliard-trained soloists I used to hear: Technically perfect but lacking soul.
We don’t want that. Maybe we can agree to say that fiction writing is “mysterious” more than “magical”? It’s comprehensible but in those ways its not may lie some of what makes it personal, which is to say powerful.
What a fun discussion! Thanks, Vaughn.
Great post, Vaughn!
And Don, I really connected with this:
“Immersion over the long haul is created by a number of factors, from learning new things to constantly wondering what will happen next to *caring* what will happen to a character. Surprise. Prose fireworks. Being provoked to think. Hundreds of ways to do it.”
Not only did this get me REALLY thinking, but I’ve tacked it to my wall as a constant reminder. Thanks!
Denise Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Thanks, Denise!
Don – Thanks for providing an excellent exercise. Now that’s a full-service comment! I’ve been trying to think like this (what’s keeping me immersed now?) during the last few epic fantasies I’ve read by authors I admire (Robin Hobb, Jacqueline Carey, Patrick Rothfuss, to name a few). As you say, there are a hundred reasons, not just a single driving story question. Each provides layers of conflict and intrigue–often from various points of view. It’s definitely worth writing down. It’ll be interesting to look back at it afterward.
It may not be magic, but it’s delightful when it feels like it is. Thank you!
Yes! Well said. I love to find books and writers that create that depth of immersion for me.
From my early poetry writing days (high school), I’ve called what I strive for ‘invisible writing’. I don’t want my readers to be aware of the words on the page, I want them to be immersed in the story, feeling what the characters feel, seeing what they see. That means putting enough description of the characters and setting to make the story come alive, without slowing the story’s momentum.
For example, I’m currently reading a novel that is beautifully written, but so dense with description that it’s like walking through deep sand. I admire the author’s command of language and metaphor, but reading the book takes effort and I’m not always up for it. Not everyone would feel the same.
From the reviews my own work receives, it’s obvious that writing that’s ‘invisible’ for some readers is ‘opaque’ for others. We have no choice but to write for readers like ourselves.
Great post, Vaughn!
Invisible reading is such an intriguing concept, R.E. And speaking of apt metaphors, walking though deep sand hits home for me, as I live along the Lake Michigan shore. Some days the previous days’ surf has pounded the shore to firmness, making for very easy walking. Other days, particularly while the surf’s up, we are forced to trudge through deep sand. They’re often gorgeous days, but it’s a slog to enjoy them. Nothing beats a pretty day with firm footing. Again, something to aspire to in our work.
Here’s to staying true to ourselves and writing for our right readers. Thank you!
Now we all want to know what you’re reading (well, I do).
Vaughn, a great story is a siren’s song, it lures you down deep and you don’t even realize you’ve drowned, until you reach the last page come up for air and find everything has changed, because that story is now a part of you forever. It’s even more intense when immersed in writing. Lovely post, can’t wait to immerse myself your new work!
It’s always very clear to me in reading it, B, that you are immersed in your work. I definitely found myself drowned while reading Lily’s tale. And I love the feeling of coming up for air and tasting the change an immersion experience provides. Thanks so much for your unfailing support, my friend!
This is where I’m at now- knowing my story so well that the reader can trust it from the first page. I think that’s the little key that gets the whole piece going, all the cogs and gears running smoothly behind the surface of the story. Trust. It’s a slippery bugger because we have to trust our voice, story, and logic first.
After reading Cron’s book and every Maass book I can get my hands on (among a whole slew of books), and feedback from readers like you and Sevigne, I finally begin to understand the depth to which we need to know our characters- their secrets, histories, and motivations. Examining my characters has done something amazing- I trust my story and my voice a great deal more. It seems so simple to understand and I could have sworn I got it five years ago.
I think that’s at the heart of what the Greats try to teach- knowing your story inside and out leads you to trust yourself in new ways which in turns gains readers trust and leads to immersion for both writer and reader.
It goes back to the basics of learning and practice. What is it they say about the difference between the master and the beginner? You are very much further along than I am and count me blessed for having a mentor like you.
The wisdom which is so apparent in this comment make it plain you are further along than you think. Trust is a tricky little devil to grasp and hold on to, as well. Sounds like you rightfully trust yourself, which is rightful. You’ve definitely got a powerful Voice, Tonia (with a capital V, as Sevigne would say). And direction. The fact that it seems simple now demonstrates how far you’ve already come.
I know we’ve both wavered from time to time. But I am quite certain you will find success as a storyteller, again and again. I’m pleased and proud to be a part of your incredible journey, my friend!
Sorry about the double rightful – but it’s rightful, dammit! ;-)
“And then I open the doc to revise my own work.
Damn, what happened to that firm grasp? For me this lure to depth is a slippery little devil.”
Vaughn, I so relate to that. I, too, love to get lost in a really good book that is so well-crafted we don’t even notice the craft. I recognize what makes it so good and think I have finally gotten just s smidgen of the ability nailed down, only to be disappointed when I reread something I just wrote. UGH!!
Sounds like you’re like me, Maryann, in that you’re your own worst critic. I think that’s better than lacking the ability to self-evaluate. I’m glad the piece resonated for you. Keep reading, and keep nailing that ability down, smidgen by smidgen. Those smidgens can really add up! Thank you!
Vaughn, lovely post! I so agree about the immersion. A great story is a siren’s song, it lures you down deep and you don’t even realize you’ve drowned, until you reach the last page come up for air and find everything has changed, because that story is now a part of you forever. The only act more intense is writing the story.
Remember playing pretend? In my neighborhood, we’d become so immersed in our collaborative writing of Cowboys and Indians that we’d get in fights on the bus to school the next day. Dolls took on real personalities, became closest friend or evil sister for the solitary ten year old writer.
Writing a first draft is playing pretend, immersing ourselves in a world of our own making.
Great point, Skipper! I think my first attempts at world-building were with Lincoln logs, Matchbox cars, and plastic army men. Thanks for the addition!
Big conversation happening upstream! I don’t have much original to say.
I certainly crave immersion as a reader, and as a writer, there’s little else more pleasurable than writing from within the state of Flow. That said, I’ve been surprised at how there isn’t a direct correlation between *my* state of immersion when I write and the emotional experience of the reader.
It is an expansive conversation, isn’t it? I’m not sure my observation of the correlation is accurate from a readers’ standpoint. It’s self-evaluation, and it might be self-fulfilling. Certainly the stuff I write while deeply submerged needs very heavy editing, but I think the ideas flow more freely.
Thanks, Boss, for coming over and sharing. I know you’d already read it (and, speaking of editing, suspect you’d cleaned it up for me, too. Thanks for that, too).
I love getting lost in books. The immersive experience is addicting.
I experience that same sort of immersion when I write. I love it, but only in its place.
It annoys me when I’m trying to line-edit, and I get lost in the story. I have to shake myself out and go back to where I remember the text last.
If other readers got lost in my books like that, that would be a very good thing. Myself, it simply means my brain is self-correcting problematic text without notifying my conscious.
Good point about needing to avoid immersion during line editing, Heidi. I hate when my brain stops notifying me. Sometimes happens when servers offer me a round I don’t really need, too. ;-)
Thanks for reading, and for the great addition!
Wow, great post Vaughn. I especially love reading books where the immersion experience is so complete that the book seems to live outside the pages as well. I’ll find myself thinking about the characters, or the setting will pop into my mind and I’ll try to puzzle out some aspect of the plot, a “what if.” It’s harder in my own writing! We’ll keep practicing together, right?
Great point, Lisa! The best kind of immersion seems to take over part of your brain, throughout the consumption period. I love when that happens. And ain’t it the awful truth, that it’s all tougher when it comes to our own work. But it’s a puzzle that keeps me coming back for more. Yes, together! Onward! Thanks for weighing in, my friend!