Back to the Future: How to Use Our Craft’s Own Backstory
By Barry Knister | November 7, 2017 |
By Kris Williams via Flickr CC
Please welcome back Barry Knister, one of our own here on Writer Unboxed. After a career in college teaching, Barry returned to fiction writing. His first novel, a gritty thriller titled The Dating Service had been published by Berkley. More recently, he has self-published a suspense series featuring journalist Brenda Contay. Godsend, the third book in the series was released last month, joining The Anything Goes Girl and Deep North. Barry also published a novel for adult dog lovers, a work of magical realism titled Just Bill. The book will be re-released by BHC Press this spring.
Barry served for four years as secretary of Detroit Working Writers. For two years, he was also the director of the Cranbrook Summer Writers Conference. More recently, he wrote “Let me get this straight,” a weekly column on language for the Naples (Florida) Daily News. He lives in Michigan with his wife Barbara, where they serve as staff for Skylar, an Aussie/Sheltie rescue. Barry wants to hear from you, and hopes you’ll contact him through Facebook or his website.
Back to the Future: How to Use Our Craft’s Own Backstory
In the biopic Genius, Jude Law plays Thomas Wolfe to Colin Firth’s Maxwell Perkins. In one scene, it takes three workers to haul boxes of foolscap manuscript into editor Perkins’ office at Scribner’s. Perkins’ job is to machete his way through this scribbled jungle, and turn Wolfe’s undisciplined effusion into Of Time and the River.
Genius isn’t a very good movie, but the story of what Perkins did, for F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway as well as Thomas Wolfe is the stuff of legend in our time. These days, writers must be their own Maxwell Perkins, their own mentors and critics. They must rely on beta readers, other writers in groups, and professional “hired gun” freelance editors to help them identify and develop the potential in their work.
Light My Fire
And we now also rely on accelerants. Arsonists use accelerants like gasoline to set fires in buildings for which they want to cash in insurance policies. I use accelerants to light charcoal briquettes when I grill.
For readers of Writer Unboxed, the idea of accelerants can be applied to the many aids for speeding up the pace of progress as writers. I’m talking about craft books, workshops, online courses, software, conferences, coaching, and probably half a dozen other strategies and “tools” that have come on the market since I started typing this post.
I am a firm believer in the whatever-works-is-good school of craft development, and I know craft aids are highly valued. Occasionally, I make use of such products, especially when I learn about them through an ethical source like Writer Unboxed. I count Self-editing for Fiction Writers by Dave King and Renni Browne among my most important resources. That goes as well for professional editors who have helped me with manuscripts.
That said, I think it’s worth noting that until recently—say, within the last three decades, a time marked by the rise of self-publishing—the process of learning how to write included almost no such aids. There were summer conferences, but otherwise those who got the writing virus looked to the only remedy available—good examples in the form of published stories and novels.
What Was Then Is Now
Is there any way to preserve this traditional, long-haul approach to mastering craft through reading major works, and the new methodologies of our time? I think there is, and I want to illustrate by way of K.M. Weiland’s annotated edition of Jane Eyre.
Weiland brings a great deal to the table. She is a bestselling author of both novels, and conventional craft books (Structuring Your Novel, Outlining Your Novel, Creating Character Arcs, etc.). But please note: a simple online search for “annotated novels” will give you more options.
When I read Weiland’s edition published by Writers Digest Press, the experience was eye-opening. First, Jane Eyre proved again to be a novel fully deserving of its status as a work in the canon of English literature—a classic. Charlotte Bronte reveals her story with a level of command and perception that can’t be lost on any reader who appreciates those attributes. Second, Weiland’s annotations demonstrated for me how a novel first published in 1847 could serve to illustrate, 170 years later, the structural and stylistic elements widely accepted for novels in our time.
Let me show what I mean.
More often than not, backstory (what used to be called antecedent action) is the eight-hundred-pound gorilla crowded menacingly in the corner of the novelist’s study. As Lisa Cron makes clear in “Story First, Plot Second,” her Author in Progress essay, “All novels start in medias res [in the middle of things]…. Thus, the first page of your novel opens with the second half of your story….”
Everyone reading this will know what Cron means: like ourselves and everyone we know, all fictional characters have a past. As your novel’s protagonist and lesser characters charge, march or stroll forward, their comet’s tail past is never separate from them. But woe be to the writer who fails to learn how to gracefully convey what has gone before.
And Jane Eyre? Weiland’s first annotation (this and all others track conveniently in the margins next to the novel) examines how Charlotte Bronte sets the hook with her first paragraph:
There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so somber, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question.
“By opening in medias res,” Weiland says, “[Bronte] cuts through the nonessentials to get to the heart of the story. Her use of ‘that day’ at the end of the opening sentence tells readers that the story is opening at a very specific, and presumably important, moment.” It is important: it’s the day the novel’s protagonist will rebel against tyranny in the house where she is the ward of a domineering woman whose own children are monsters.
In the paragraphs that follow, we see the coldly superior Mrs. Reed’s own children (fourteen-year-old John is especially easy to dislike). We learn Jane is kept separate from them, until she can learn to “acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and spritely manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were….”
As Weiland notes, we are quickly seeing Jane Eyre’s loveless daily world. When Jane shows courage by rebelling, she is locked all night in the sinister “red room,” the bedroom where the master of the household died. Jane experiences such tormented fear of ghosts in this room that Mr. Lloyd, the local apothecary is called in to examine her. He begins the interview by taking a dip of snuff, and when he questions Jane, Bronte uses the moment to deliver backstory. Mr. Lloyd scoffs at Jane’s fear of the dead master’s ghost:
“Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in daylight?”
“No: but night will come again before long: and besides, –I am unhappy—very unhappy for other things.”
“What other things? Can you tell me some of them?”
The novel is narrated in the first person by Jane as an adult, looking back on her early years. She’s ten at the beginning, and now reflects on how young children can feel, but not analyze their feelings.
“Fearful, however, of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre, though, as far as it went, true response.
‘For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sister.”
‘You have a kind aunt and cousins.’
Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced—
‘But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room.’
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
‘Don’t you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?’ asked he. ‘Are you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?’
‘It is not my house, sir; and Abbot [a lady’s maid hostile to Jane] says I have less right to be here than a servant.’
‘Pooh! You can’t be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?’
‘If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman.’
‘Perhaps you may—who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?
‘I think not, sir.”
We are learning about Jane’s backstory in the most natural way as the local equivalent of a doctor questions her. Weiland’s analysis of Bronte’s deft hand at revealing backstory illustrates Weiland’s approach to annotation:
“It’s kind of like that game you play with your three-year-old when you’re trying to get him to eat his lunch: ‘Here comes the airplane! Yum, yum, open up for the airplane.’ * * * That’s exactly what Bronte is doing here. She’s distracting readers with an airplane-shaped spoon so she can slip them a little spinach on the sly. In this case, the spinach is crucial but boring information about Jane’s circumstances at Gateshead Hall and her relationships with the rest of her extended family.”
But That’s Not All, Folks
Reading both the novel and the running commentary is obviously slower, but the point is to learn how the book works, not to get lost in the story. In and of itself, this slower pace also turns out to lead the reader to personal insights s/he might not otherwise have. In the scene above, I came to more clearly see that, even at ten, Jane’s perceptive view of what matters most in life—human connections and love–contrasts sharply with one adult’s simple-minded emphasis on comfort and status.
The slowed pace of reading also led me to notice how Bronte makes brilliant use of telling details. Example: Mr. Lloyd’s use of snuff, powdered tobacco inhaled through the nose. The first time Lloyd takes snuff, it’s a beat that separates lines of dialogue. But when Mr. Lloyd takes the second pinch of snuff, we know something more is going on: this time, he’s motivated by a sense of unease and confusion at learning of what’s been done to a small girl by her wealthy, socially prominent guardian. Today, Mr. Lloyd’s unease might take the form of fiddling with a button or piece of jewelry, or rolling ball bearings in the palm of his hand like Captain Queeg.
Are annotated editions of novels for you? I’m convinced it’s worth a try. Discussions of character arcs and plot trajectories are fine, but communing with a great novel to see how it works is a process that I still think is irreplaceable. Especially when you commune along with the accelerant of a skilled reader’s annotation and commentary.
Your turn: Are annotated novels for you? What other tips can you offer for learning how books work?
After a career in college teaching, Barry Knister returned to fiction writing. For several years, he served as secretary for Detroit Working Writers, and for two years he directed the Cranbrook Summer Writers Conference. He is the author of the Brenda Contay mystery/suspense series. Just Bill , a short novel about dogs and their owners living on a golf course in Naples, Florida will soon be joined by another novel set in the same fictional golf community. Now and then, Barry also gives in to a whimsical impulse, and writes short posts for several Medium publications. He and his wife Barbara live in Pleasant Ridge, a suburb just north of Detroit. Barry looks forward to hearing from you, either through Facebook , his website , or bwknister@sbcglobal.net . Insult comedians are welcome.
You are right about the accelerants and aids available today, which are great. (And are why I stop by WU every day.) You are also right that great fiction is the greatest accelerant of all.
The challenge is in reading great fiction analytically, recognizing good technique even while it is working its slight of hand. Hard to see how the trick is done when you’re enjoying the illusion.
Still, if one is professional about writing fiction, that’s part of the job. Another part is applying the lessons of great fiction to one’s own work, and reading one’s own work with an equally analytical eye. That’s hard too, which is why the eyes of others are so useful.
I wouldn’t say we only need the classics, but in a world of accelerants we have perhaps overlooked a great resource that all of us already have on our shelves.
Terrific post, Barry.
Thank you, Benjamin. As you say, most of us do have a great resource on our shelves, works of fiction that have passed the test of time. But time is the most valuable thing any of us has, so discovering ways to make it more valuable matters a lot. Effectively annotated editions can do just that.
I can recommend the editions of Holmes, Lovecraft, and Frankenstein annotated by Leslie S. Klinger. Pricey but worth it.
Thanks for these recommendations. What a great study aid. I didn’t even know about the existence of such books because I never used one, not even in a literature class. I once took a graduate level class on reading the classic papers (in biochemistry and genetics) and until I took those papers apart I didn’t recognize how truly brilliant and ground-breaking they were. I kept the box of papers along with my notes for many years because I thought I’d like to teach it someday, but after my kids came along and I got the writing bug I knew I’d never go back to the lab.
Well, Vijaya, I guess it might be said that you didn’t leave the lab altogether. You left the one in biochemistry for the one in child management, and then added another, in narrative fiction. Thanks a lot for your comment.
Thank You for this post Barry.
I love annotated works, my favorite being Dante’s Inferno. Without the annotation, I could barely follow it, but with notes I learned about the poet’s political enemies and the fates he imagined for them.
James, I know whereof you speak regarding Dante. Without John Ciardi’s help, I couldn’t have taught Inferno. Thanks for your comment.
Great post. Analyzing my favorite books has helped me become a better writer. I’ve done this for 4 novels, many short stories, and I’ll look forward to reading those annotated books. Still, when you pick apart a novel yourself, you learn so much.
Vijaya, you couldn’t be more right about what’s learned in the process of personally analyzing novels. Not to mention the sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. But if I’m honest, I had a lot of help along the way to being able to do it, in the form of high school teachers and college professors, as well as works of literary criticism.
For some reason we have an annotated version of one of the Alice books, and I had never considered that it has been one of my instructors in this writing game – thanks for the insight.
But I’m sure those nuggets added immesurably to the experience as a reader – and made a lot of the odd Victorian bits comprehensible. All three of my kids had that as part of their homeschooling – the annotator was sitting there giving little lessons.
As a writer, there is a bit of reluctance to inject someone else between me and the direct experience, but I suppose that’s no different than taking English classes in school (something I didn’t do, as I grew up in Mexico). I’m sure I’ve missed things which would have been expounded on in a school – but have always considered that a good thing!
A good annotator, however, has done the work of tracking down the bits which I glossed over – such as the meaning of some of the French and Latin inclusions in Dorothy L. Sayers mysteries, meanings which would have been clear to the educated people who read her novels when they were written, because they would have been expected to at least read both languages.
I wasn’t aware that annotators commented on the writing as writing, with notes about structure or techniques. I shall pay more attention.
Thanks for such a literate post.
Alicia, what an interesting story of your own in your comment. The process of analyzing as opposed to strictly annotating is relatively new. In that regard, it’s like much else in the age of self-help writing instruction, works that approach analysis for writers, not just readers.
Hello,
I’ve rarely commented on Writer Unboxed, although I read the posts. But 2 things engaged me. First, I loved the movie “Genius.” I liked the concept. I’ve often thought about those big 3 writers and their wonderful editor. The movie made me nostalgic for an era before I was born.
Second – I’ve been writing for years. I have two bookshelves of craft books, yet I’ve never read an annotated book. You make a good argument. I published a book in ’16, another manuscript is with an editor. I’m about halfway through a new novel. But, hey, it’s never too late. Love learning something new. Thank you.
Lenore, congratulations on your own writing. I think each writer must find her/his way. If that way is made clearer and smoother through the use of craft books, well and good. But I truly think something important is lost when writers confine themselves to contemporary works in a genre, supplemented by how-to books. That thing lost is the encounter with unique nuance and style in long-tested works. The more of such encounters a writer has, the more likely it will be (I think) for her/him to improve individual style. And for me, style is always an inseparable aspect of substance.
Barry, I have a dog-eared (and because it’s so battered, cat-eared too) copy of Nabokov’s annotated Lolita, edited by Alfred Appel, that is chockablock with notes on Nabokov’s merry literary and historical allusions in the work, some of them very amusing, and many, for my untutored mind, obscure. Many of the notes also deal with structural issues.
Though going to the notes does break the narrative—Lolita is one of my five favorite works—it’s still great to see some background of what the author had in mind, and with Nabokov, there was a lot of mind to mind.
I think K.M. Weiland’s stuff is great. I haven’t read her books, but I’ve read many posts on her site. She is one smart cookie, and an asset to the writing world. Thanks for the post.
Lolita is one of my favorites too, and it’d be interesting to read the annotated copy. Btw, my husband thinks I am very weird to love a book about a pedophile but what can you say?
Well, Humbert Squared’s perversities aside, it’s a work of galvanizing imagination and pirouettes of language that would be remarkable even for a native speaker of English. And it’s durn funny too. I need to read it again, just to be jealous of N’s power.
You’re right, of course, Tom, about annotations slowing down the narrative. But that’s the point–to move slowly enough to smell the literary roses. I guess you could say doing this is a decision in favor of qualitative versus quantitative reading. Thanks for your comment.
Thanks for this ~ have not heard of annotated books that examine structure and craft. So interesting!
Another great book that looks at how several specific novels work – in terms of genre, in particular – is Jane Smiley’s 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel. It’s been indispensable for me.
I’m not one to study the novels I love, because I love them so much, and can’t seem to sacrifice the nourishment of sinking into story….
but some have sent me straight from finishing to going to my desk to try my own interpretation of their brilliance.
Lauren– Any book that generates admiration, and sends you straight to your desk to see what you can do is exactly the right kind of book. What you describe is another way of saying what Saul Bellow said: “A writer is a reader moved to emulation.” Thanks for your comment.
‘I count Self-editing for Fiction Writers by Dave King and Renni Browne among my most important resources.’
Me too. How-to-write instructionals are ten a penny, but I have the King & Browne book in hardcover first edition and it’s a keeper. It’s time I reread it.
David–about the highest praise I can give to a book for writers is to group it with William Zinsser’s On Writing Well. That’s the company King and Browne’s book deserves to keep. Thanks for your comment.
Barry, I’m with you every percent over 100 on Zinsser’s On Writing Well. I read it again every few years.
I’ll confess I had no idea annotated books existed for this purpose, nor that KM Weiland had such an active role in their concoction. Thanks for an informative article, Barry!
We’re dealing with contemporary novels, but the WU Dissection Group attempts to analyze breakout books in just such a way. The process has helped me become a better reader for sure, and I’d hope a better writer.
Jan–I suppose the only risk involved in carefully studying great books or annotated editions is being paralyzed by admiration. But that’s a risk worth taking, don’t you think? Thanks for reading the post, and for commenting.
Your post reminded me of how much I loved K.M. Weiland’s annotated Jane Eyre; it was so instructive to re-read one of my favorite classics with a modern writing-centered analysis. Sadly, the only other book in the Writer’s Digest series is Dracula (skillfully analyzed by Jonathan Maberry, but I don’t like the novel itself). Now I’m off to look for other annotated versions of novels. Maybe someone will eventually annotate a more modern novel?
Shizuka, how good to hear from someone who’s read Weiland’s edition, and shares my appreciation of it. Many excellent critics–“new” critics as opposed to the various current schools or camps–have provided wonderful readings of major works of fiction. But Weiland’s approach is pragmatic, and aimed at enlightening contemporary writers, instead of literary analysis. Thanks for commenting.
Great post, Barry. I am caught up in Jane Eyre mode as my professor brother published a well-researched look at Bronte’s life as an impetus for the Jane Eyre character. https://www.amazon.com/Secret-History-Jane-Eyre-Masterpiece-ebook/dp/B01MDM9AWU/ref=dp_kinw_strp_1
I believe that also reading high quality book reviews is another way of glimpsing what works in structuring a novel. Thanks for this post and your suggestions.
Beth–I’m glad you brought up book reviews. The best of them serve as another kind of accelerant, or maybe filter is a better word. They help to guide writers to those books most likely to be especially good models for their own particular writing projects. Thanks for commenting.
Excellent stuff, Barry! And thanks so much for the kind shout out to the Annotated Jane Eyre. :)
Katie–I meant what I said, and am glad you approve.
This is so exciting. I didn’t know about writing-centred annotated novels. Years ago I was thrilled to read an annotated version of my all time fav, Pride and Prejudice. I was like a pig in mud, rolling around in all the fascinating historical insights! I’m going to go searching for writing-centred novels immediately.
As for slowing down the narrative flow, I had to listen to the whole Harry Potter series in the car when my kids were younger. It was amazing how much more you pick up on when it’s impossible for you to skim through just to find out what happens.
M A Hudson–Your comment gave me a chuckle. I see you held hostage in your car, forced to listen to EVERY WORD of a HP novel. I’ve never been able to skim anything. I just can’t do it. These days, though, when I’m not engaged by a book, I abandon it. I didn’t used to do this, but now that I’m old I’ve decided I have earned the right to not finish every novel I start.