Writing What You Don’t Believe
By David Corbett | January 11, 2019 |
Photo “face time-2” by Albyn Davis
No, this isn’t about writing dishonestly. Quite the contrary.
I’m returning to a topic I’ve touched on before, but with a different slant this time around. Please bear with me.
We live in an era of such extreme social and political division that if often seems tensions cannot resolve without matters coming to blows—or blood. The increasing number of mass shootings underscores this point, as does online acrimony and the testimony of virtually every retiring senator, regardless of party, that something is broken in our current political culture.
Writers are not in the division biz. We’re in the understanding biz. Every book in some sense attempts to address a truth that the writer felt was previously overlooked, undervalued, or misunderstood.
Truth, though, is a tricky critter. It conjures analogies to greased pigs and invisible songbirds.
Let me lay my cards on the table: I do not believe truth exists objectively, like this desk in front of me or the moon. I’m schooled in this position by a long line of American Pragmatists, most notably William James, John Dewey, and Richard Rorty.
James famously said, “What’s true is what works,” and earned the eternal scorn of European philosophers whose belief in truth was very much grounded in Platonic and Kantian idealism and mathematical certainty.
But James’s point was really quite profound. He was implicitly asking: How do we know something is true? And his response was: When we use it, we tend to be more successful than not.
So when I say a book—and for our purposes here, I mean a work of fiction—attempts to address a truth previously overlooked, undervalued, or misunderstood, what I mean is that the writer, in posing the crucial story question, What if…? in some way hopes to show that certain ways of acting in the world—whether believed to be conventionally “right” or “wrong”— achieve their desired ends or don’t.
Does courage always win the day? Honesty? Love? Faith? Family? Or are we better off embracing skepticism, enlightened (or naked) self-interest, moral flexibility, violence, power? Is there a middle ground? If so, who does it favor? Do we, as novelists, even have to decide? Or is our job to show how all of these inclinations collide and interact and contaminate each other in the endless scrum known as human life?
Milan Kundera, in The Art of the Novel, refers to “the fascinating imaginative realm where no one owns the truth and everyone has the right to be understood…the wisdom of the novel.”
Fair enough. But how do I honestly go about creating and portraying characters whose beliefs are not just different from mine, but utterly repellent to me?
One of the most frequent criticisms leveled at the otherwise widely praised All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr was how one-dimensional its Nazi characters were. I don’t mean to cast stones at Doerr—I have been guilty of this fault myself, and deserve to be called on it. It’s an open question on whether it reflects a lack of moral honesty, a lack of empathy, or plain old fashioned laziness, but it’s not just a technique issue.
Sometimes, sure, for the sake of enhancing conflict or tension, we seek to accentuate the differences between characters, especially those in an adversarial relationship, so that the battle between them reaches the heightened pitch that readers want.
But are we really slaves to reader expectations? Let me invoke what Stephen James refers to as the Reader’s Paradox: Readers always want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong.
So, no, we are not slaves to reader expectations. We are in fact obligated to defy those expectations in rewarding ways.
The issue isn’t whether we need to make our Nazis or slave traders or cheating spouses consummate villains for the sake of dramatic tension. Rather, it’s whether we can bring ourselves to understand why the Nazis or the slave traders or the cheating spouses believed what they believed, felt what they felt, and acted as they acted, without sacrificing tension.
Like I said, we’re in the understanding business. But mere intellectual understanding won’t take us far enough in the “fascinating imaginative realm” of the novel. We have to engage our hearts, not just our minds. We have to empathize with those Nazis, slave traders, cheaters. We have to understand, as the saying goes, that they are the heroes of their own narrative.
Is that even possible in every instance? How do I even begin to contemplate embracing the mindset of a torturer, a child molester, a rapist—and why should I try?
I’ll answer the last question first: Because we’re artists, not jurors. If that doesn’t suit you, there are plenty of other lines of work.
I’m not saying it’s easy understanding—better yet, empathizing with—people whose view of the world, how it works, and how others should be treated, is drastically different than mine. I know it’s not easy. If it were, there would be no need to write this post.
Let me once again lay my cards on the table: Although I accept that most moral conflict one encounters in stories breaks down to self-interest vs. concern for others—the selfish vs. the selfless, in simple terms—I think the real evil in human conduct lies with neither of those positions categorically. The real evil is objectification.
When you decide that another human being is unworthy of being thought of as anything other than a this or a that—libtard, racist, cluck, sexist, deplorable, elitist—you are trying to cut off any further recognition of the merit not just of what that person has to say but who they are. This is cowardice juiced up on spite.
For writers, it’s also poison.
The same holds true for any label you decide to slap on a character: narcissist, weakling, fascist, criminal. This diminishes the character to make life easier for the writer.
Sure, once upon a time, when writers were in the thrall of characters along the lines of Theophrastus’s moral types—the flatterer, the newsmonger, the gossip, the cuckold, etc.—characters were reduced to this sort of imaginative straitjacket. What they did arose from what type of person they were. The were immutable types.
Renaissance humanism began to chip away at that kind of over-simplification (except in comedy and satire), to the point that today what we expect are characters who resemble live human beings. And live human beings are not objects. They are complex, contradictory, capable of change.
Objectification also fails the dramatic tension test. Although it is true we amplify tension by creating a Unity of Opposites, as Lajos Egri described it in The Art of Dramatic Writing—a situation where two characters are competing for the same thing: the loved one, the money, recognition, dominance, victory—that does not preclude us from being able to justify both of their positions.
Nor does it diminish the stakes if I can see that each adversary has a legitimate stake in the result. I simply need to understand that their positions are mutually incompatible—in a contest between them, only one can truly prevail.
To quote another wise author who wrote an exemplary writing guide, Oakley Hall in The Art and Craft of Novel Writing notes that the most compelling drama always pitches Good vs. Good. When we can understand the legitimacy of both positions we become far more invested in the contest, because we know one of them must lose, and we understand the value of what that loss will mean.
To do this effectively as writers, we need to see the world through the characters’ eyes, not merely our own, even when this means empathizing with positions or behavior we ourselves find repellent.
Why? It’s the job.
Things to consider when you go about this imaginative exercise include:
- What cultural influences—family, faith, friendship, education, regional singularities (food, music, pastimes)—have shaped the individual’s understanding of what’s valuable in the world?
- To what extent did the character embrace those culturally-inculcated values? To what extent did she question, reject, or rebel against them?
- State the individual’s values explicitly: what does she consider virtues? What are vices? What makes someone a good person? What makes someone evil? What gives life meaning? What crushes the human spirit?
- What outside forces acted against those values in the character’s life? How did the character respond?
- How did she view the other side—how dangerous, insidious, untrustworthy were they?
- Did anything happen in the individual’s life to make the other side seem even more dangerous, insidious, untrustworthy?
- Specifically identify who the character now considers heroic, noble, strong, lovable?
- Specifically identify who the character now considers to be criminal, corrupt, weak, unworthy.
- How are what the character considers virtues reflected in people she loves? How are what she considers evil reflected in people she mistrusts, avoids, hates?
- Who had power in the character’s world? Who didn’t? Why? Which side was the character on? How has that influenced her values?
- Who got what they wanted in the character’s world? Who didn’t? Why?
- Who is the character’s “tribe”—the social circle in which she feels most accepted? Has anything happened in the individual’s life to strengthen or weaken her bond to this tribe? What would she have to do to get kicked out of the tribe? Has she ever considered it? Will she consider it in the course of your story?
- From the character’s values and his tribe, construct what you would call the way of life she seeks to recover, maintain, create, or defend. How does she want the world to be? How do people behave–in peaceful harmony? Bare-knuckle freedom? Military discipline? Strict obedience to the elders or the law? Who are the idols of that way of life? Who are the enemies? Who are the traitors?
I can’t recommend strongly enough doing this kind of backstory exploration through scenes. Don’t just answer the questions—imagine the incident that best reveals the answer.
Finally, as one last exercise, compare this character’s values not just with those of the other characters in your story–compare them to your own? How do your own values measure up now? How would you make your own case against the values of this character who seems to stand for things you find insupportable? Could you win an argument with them? Would an argument, let alone a discussion, even be possible? How does that make you feel? How might that make your characters feel? How might it make your readers feel?
Although this is a good first step, I’m a firm believer in exposing oneself to the opinions and the personal biographies of people who represent a distinctly different world view from your own. If you’re an atheist, read C.S. Lewis or G.K. Chesterton or Reinhold Niebuhr. If you’re a believer, read Bertrand Russell or Richard Dawkins or Albert Camus. If you’re a liberal, read a conservative like Thomas Sowell or Jonathan Schoenwald. If you’re a conservative, read a liberal like Richard Rorty or Garry Wills. If you’re white, read writers of color; if you’re a man, read women; and vice versa.
I’d also recommend George Lakoff’s Moral Politics: How Liberals and Conservatives Think. It does a creditable job of identifying the core values and metaphors that inspire liberalism and conservatism. Once one recognizes that one’s political opponents are coming from a position of values, not spleen or mendacity, it’s much easier to understand where they’re coming from—and to create and develop characters who hold positions vastly different from one’s own.
None of which is to say every character you write should, down deep, possess a heart of gold. The Nazi will still believe in the superiority of the Arian race, the slave trader in the sub-human nature of the slaves he buys and sells, the cheater in his right to betray his spouse. It will be in the development of the internal moral argument that the character uses to justify that behavior that you will escape the sin of objectification, and instead see him as something more than a this or a that.
What difficulties have you experienced in justifying the world view character who views the world much differently than you? How did you resolve the difficulty? How did that work out? What way of life do you have a hard time understanding or empathizing with? How might you create characters who represent that way of life?
Note: I know I’ve covered some of this ground before in previous posts, but it seems particularly germane as we head into 2019, and I thought it was worth another round of discussion.
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
This is always an interesting discussion for me. This topic often makes me think about The House of Sand and Fog, which did an amazing job of showing both sides of a conflict, how each side had a legitimate point of view and why they saw each other as enemies. I believe in understanding why our characters are the way they are without reaching for the easiest, surface explanations. I actually find it easier to write the story if I answer these questions.
That’s an excellent example, Marta. Not only do we come to understand the legitimacy of both sides, we see their humanizing flaws as well, which helps us realize no one has an absolute moral high ground from which to hurl thunderbolts. Thanks for mentioning it.
“I think the real evil in human conduct lies with neither of those positions categorically. The real evil is objectification.” Well said. Thanks for this essay .
Thanks, Maureen.
Though we may disagree about the nature of truth, I wholeheartedly agree with everything else you say in this post, and especially with this statement: We are artists, not jurors.
At the risk of misquoting (or perhaps we should just say I’m paraphrasing here) Chekov said that while fiction may raise a question, it must not answer it. And I think that is the essence of not being a juror. Instead, writers act as both the prosecuting attorney AND the defense attorney in their stories. It takes courage to NOT give an answer, to allow characters to be both sympathetic and utterly wrong or even evil.
I don’t know about Dorr’s intentions (though I adored that book) but I would say that the criticism of the Nazis being two-dimensional is perhaps a bit unfair. We are seeing the Nazis in that story either through the eyes of those being conquered or the eyes of a young boy who at first admired them but then struggled with the inhumanity of their practices. I think it was a fair portrayal when you take into account those lenses.
Thanks for this thoughtful and thought-provoking post, and especially for the list of questions to consider about our characters.
Hi, Erin:
I’ve been on something of a Richard Rorty binge lately, who bases much of his thought in John Dewey’s work, and a recent New Yorker article on the economist-philosopher Elizabeth Anderson also noted her debt to Dewey, so I’ve been very much inside the Pragmatist corral of late. I perfectly understand your objection, and will save our debate for some later date when we can conduct it over coffee and pastries.
That’s a valid point about the portrayal of the Nazis in ATLWCS.
I’m going to post something below about two points I neglected to mention in the original post, but I’m glad you found the post thought-provoking.
Also, thanks for the Chekhov quote and the prosecutor-defense analogy. Our good friend James Scott Bell usually mentions in these kinds of discussions how he always writes a “final summation to the jury” for each of his main characters. I think that’s a brilliant technique.
P.S. I tend to think everything Chekhov ever said is on the money. One of my favorites: “Every thing I know about human nature I learned from me.”
Well, David, as you reminded me throughout this challenging essay, I asked for it. You’ve pushed me to some real cranial cavern delving. And I’m about to head out for a day of wine tasting (not too terribly far from you, actually). Somehow I foresee the depths getting murkier as the day goes on, in spite of the enlightenment you’ve cast here. But this is the job ( though strictly speaking, the wine is a chosen obstacle).
In the interest of keeping it as straight forward as possible, I’m going to confine today’s exploration to one character, and a secondary one, at that. He’s the adopted son of a Persian slave in the palace of a noble Greek family that is seized by Gothic raiders. His only friend is the neglected daughter of the Goth chieftain. And in the course of the story he learns that his birth mother is the daughter of the Greek noble (late Roman Empire, Black Sea region). Aaaand his only friend ends up killing the birth mom. Right there in front of him. He flees to his uncle (a shipping magnate – who hated his sister, the kid’s mum). The kid’s conflicted when he discovers that Uncle’s central mission in life is to destroy the Goth chieftain and all his kith and kin (still has feelings for the mom-slaying Goth girl – they’re getting to *that* age).
Seems like he’ll provide a nice spectrum through which to explore your “pushy” prompts. Seriously, timing aside, thanks much for seeking to nudge us to another level. We did indeed ask for it. And will again. (Thank you, sir, may I have another?) Cheers!
Hi, Vaughn:
Where are you? Northern California? That’s wild.
I think your genre in particular lends itself to fruitful examination of all sides. Although not history, it uses history as its foundation, and history provides an excellent example of each side believed in the fundamental rightness of its cause and its way of life.
But I wonder if even puberty can overcome the antipathy your adopted son of a Persian slave would feel toward someone who killed his mother. That’s some pretty deep and dark water. Not impossible to fathom, but the Goth girl’s justification better come from a place the young man can truly understand. This ain’t Romeo and Juliet, or at least not until Romeo kills Thibault.
Fascinating stuff to contemplate as you sip the vineyard fare.
Yes, one helluva set piece preceding the mom murder. And this alone is more the foundation than any sort of standalone remedy, but the birth mom and the slave mom are rivals, and before the boy realizes she’s his real mom, he resents her cruelty and conniving. Your teachings will be a help. Wish me luck in pulling it off!
Yes, in Sonoma, reunion with college friends residing in the Golden State. Being here in the off season has really taken the edge off. Well, that and the wine. Thanks again.
You’re about 25 miles away from me right now. I hope you get at least a glimmer of sunshine. Been a rainy week. But you should have the tasting rooms pretty much to yourselves. Have a blast!
I see a path to your solution. Fascinating. Good luck!
This is a fantastic post–so valuable not just for writers, but for humans in our current polarized world. Thank you for this post, David. I’ve shared it on my FoxPrint Editorial Facebook page for other authors.
The great Steven James quote–Readers always want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong–is that the novelist/craft writer you are referring to?
Yes. Steven mentions it in Story Trumps Structure. Glad you found the piece valuable. And yeah, given what appears to be a very rough year ahead, it will be difficult but necessary to keep some of these principles in mind. Thanks for chiming in and for sharing the post.
I’ve been struggling for the past few weeks with the organization of my WIP, and though that’s not the issue you’re addressing today, your post makes me realize that I’ve been taking the character of my antagonist for granted. Thanks for making me recognize that problem–I think understanding him much more deeply will ultimately help solve the organization problems as well.
Your posts always make me take a closer look.
Taking the antagonist for granted is a very, very common problem. We tend to think of him/her in generic terms as the source of the trouble, without bothering to ask: why? I hope this piece helps.
Hello Everyone:
It’s been a very strange week, with return travel from Norway, a sick dog, and both my wife and I suffering from one of the worst colds either of us has ever had — it just won’t go away. All those distractions prevented me from adding two key points I thought worth mentioning.
First, once you’ve done your work on your “antagonist” character, look for elements of their world view that they actually share with the protagonist — and you. Then ask why they still seem incapable of using that commonality to form a bridge instead of a bulwark.
Second, what I am proposing is something akin to what is referred to as the “principle of charity” in historical and philosophical biography: the principle of charity, according to the philosopher Simon Blackburn, requires that the analyst “maximize the truth or rationality in the subject’s sayings”. There are several versions of this principle, analogous to Occam’s Razor in the sciences. The principle of charity requires that you take the claims, words, and arguments of a subject at face value unless there is compelling direct evidence to the contrary.
One interpretation of this principle is that you assume benign motives on the part of your subject unless there is direct evidence to the contrary.
In other words, don’t assume you’re “antagonist” is dishonest, hypocritical, hateful, bigoted, or ignorant unless there is clear and convincing evidence to support that view.
I like this. Thanks for adding it.
Wow, there are SO many lessons in this wonderful post:
– Writers are not in the division biz. We’re in the understanding biz.
– Readers always want to be able to predict where the story is going. And they always want to be wrong.
– …we are not slaves to reader expectations. We are in fact obligated to defy those expectations in rewarding ways.
– The real evil is objectification… When you decide that another human being is unworthy of being thought of as anything other than a this or a that
– I’m a firm believer in exposing oneself to the opinions and the personal biographies of people who represent a distinctly different world view from your own.
And finally…
– Why? It’s the job.
Great stuff, David. Thanks for once again making us THINK.
As far as what difficulties I’ve experienced in justifying the world view of an unKeithlike character, that’s easy: pissing off a reader who mistakes that character’s views as being my own. I’ve received bad reviews – and have even been castigated in person more than once – for various FICTIONAL characters’ words or actions from my books. But once I overcome the shock – and the desire to clarify my own views – I can congratulate myself on apparently having written that character convincingly.
Occupational hazard, I guess. Why? It’s the job.
You remind me of one of my favorite quotes from Randy Newman: “The problem with irony is that people have to know what you really believe to get the joke.”
I have a friend who works for a highly respected literary journal that published a piece from the late Robert Stone that included two white rednecks using the N-word. It was given to an intern to review and she excoriated the piece and Stone for being racist. When my friend, at the behest of the journal’s editor, tried to gently suggest that Stone was trying to truthfully represent the mindset of the characters, the intern responded that only a hateful, bigoted person could suggest such a thing, and she left the journal.
To which both my friend and I responded: Wow.
I fear this kind of mindset is gaining traction in certain quarters, and I think it’s really unhealthy — in a distinctly sanctimonious way. And yet this view is shared by many of our ideological opponents, with whom we get lumped when we try to argue this point. And that, again, is objectification.
Sorry you had to go through that, but it seems to be a sign of the times.
Thanks for chiming in, Keithster. Have a grand weekend.
Here are a few things that came to mind as I read this article.
“I think the real evil in human conduct lies with neither of those positions categorically. The real evil is objectification. … When you decide that another human being is unworthy of being thought of as anything other than a this or a that …”
I agree that this is evil, but we should have a reason for calling it evil. If all people have intrinsic worth, not because of what they think or do, but because of what they are, human beings, then we have a reason for this notion. Where that intrinsic worth comes from is another question for another discussion.
But there is a deeper question here. Where do the concepts of good and evil come from? Why should we conceive of them at all? Maybe it’s related to our desire for truth. Regardless, pragmatism doesn’t suffice. Altruism is usually considered good — unless you’re Ayn Rand — but it is often harmful and self destructive. It’s not pragmatic as, say, power.
“I do not believe truth exists objectively”
Are we to take this in an absolute, objective sense? Or is it your subjective observation? Why do we — and philosophers down through the ages — grapple with the notion of truth? The drive to find truth seems deeply planted in the human heart. Why? Statements describing relative truth seems self-refuting, so why should we shun absolute truth? Because it would be transcendant?
“But how do I honestly go about creating and portraying characters whose beliefs are not just different from mine, but utterly repellent to me?”
My rather simple solution is first to understand the major worldviews. Then I give one to my character, possibly because it heightens conflict in the story, and I have them act in accordance with it. Any aberrant behaviors come from the personality type I’ve given the character.
There are a lot of deep philosophical and theological issues swirling just under the surface of the discussion in this article. I thought I’d mention a few that impact my writing.
Thanks for giving us a thought-provoking article!
You’re right, there’s grist for some pretty serious philosophical argument here. I accept that challenge, good sir, and respond briefly thusly:
Objectification isn’t evil because of some abstract notion of objective worth, but rather because it provides justification for harming others and believing that harm is inconsequential. We need nothing more than observe how it has been used to justify everything from homophobia to genocide to garden-variety spite to see that.
Concepts of good and evil are transmitted culturally generation to generation and observed in our daily conduct with others. We connect evil with harm to others and good with what generates well-being in ourselves and others. Contradictions arise, we reassess what we consider good or evil, and proceed. Again, there is no need to refer to a mystical or absolute Good or Evil.
Pragmatism does not elevate power above anything else. On the contrary, Pragmatism is directly connected to both science and democracy as these are the two human institutions invented so far best suited for determining what works. Are they perfect? Of course not. But nothing is. They’re merely the best we have, and we use them to determine as best we can what is the best way to maximize human well-being and minimize suffering. Again, one does not need an ideal Good or Evil to value well-being or devalue harm. It’s fundamental to the organism. I know what hurts. I know what feels good. Others may disagree. This is why democracy and science are needed — they propose methodologies for working that out somehow.
You claim statements affirming relative truth are self-refuting, but that wrongly assumes these statements assert an absolute truth. That reasoning is circular. Rather, Pragmatism asserts we are in the constant process of trying to determine what works. “Truth” is something that can only be asserted concerning sentences. The world simply is. All our attempts to gain knowledge are determined valuable or not on the basis of how we use them, and how their results prove beneficial or not. (Also, all claims regarding absolute truth end up being tautological, so that’s no escape.)
I agree that giving characters perspectives that reflect major worldviews is helpful, but also a bit abstract. I think it’s wise to ground that major worldview in the day-to-day experience of the character, her social world, what she loves and fears. Otherwise we risk making our characters mere mouthpieces.
Thanks for the thought-provoking comment!
David–I have a question.
What you lay out here is a demanding colloquy for the writer to have with herself, as it relates to developing characters at odds with the writer’s own world view and values. And every question you ask the writer to pose to herself underscores your commitment to fiction as perhaps the most concentrated path (still) to broadening and deepening our appreciation of consciousness.
But as I read with admiration, it occurred to me that this ambitious challenge should not be taken up until the writer has finished the rough draft. To do otherwise, to attempt to apply the rigorous process you put forward while in the act of trying to create the raw material out of which a finished work might finally result would be, IMO, overwhelming. I can’t be my own toughest critic or self-editor–about negative characters or much else–until I have the thing more or less shaped.
Is this just me, or not? What do you think?
I agree with you, Barry, except in the instance where the writer is having trouble at the outset staging the conflict meaningfully, or gets stuck midway through because the conflict feels forced, contrived, or unconvincing. Then it might be worthwhile to do some backstory work on the antagonist to bulk them up so that their presence in the story isn’t merely functional, but is rooted in their character, their world view, and their values.
Generally, I think blowing through a first draft is an excellent idea because it gives you something concrete to work with. Writing is rewriting, but you can’t revise what you haven’t written.
Have a great weekend.
What difficulties have you experienced in justifying the world view character who views the world much differently than you?
Part of my written process for each scene is ‘becoming the character.’ Until I get there, I can’t write in that pov. Keeps me hopping.
Biggest compliment I’ve received lately on my writing:
Writers think [their] characters are dear to them because we create them, but to the readers, they aren’t creations, they’re real people. You’ve even got me pulling for Bianca, for pity’s sake!
Bianca is the villain.
Each one of the three pov characters gets parts of me not granted the others; in their circumstances, possibly I might have become them.
Have recently moved to Davis, CA. How far is that from you?
We’re down in the bay area, so about a 45 minute drive. We love Davis. Wonderful bookstore downtown — The Avid Reader. The UCD veterinary hospital is top notch.
Excellent post, David. The way you’ve taken a deep dive into the now-platitude about even the antagonist seeing him/herself as the hero of the story is helpful, as are your questions.
I know you’re writing about fiction, but these skills are even more rewarding for those writing memoir. In the memoir classes I teach, I stress that this exercise of trying to see the world through the antagonist’s eyes is one of the great gifts of writing memoir. Digging deeply into the person’s view of the world, the writer often begins to build the bridges you mention–and of course here we’re talking about a bridge with a real person in the writer’s life.
Hi, Barbara:
This warmed my heart. I teach at the San Miguel de Allende conference and there are a LOT of memoir writers there, and I always try to be conscientious of how these techniques serve their purposes.
The final chapter of the upcoming book is titled Writing as the Examined Life, and it very much deals with the issue of seeing character work as self-examination. I quoted Chekhov above and I stand by it again here: “Everything I’ve learned about human nature I learned form me.” I don’t think that’s totally true, but I think we always ground our observations most insightfully when we recognize them in ourselves.
Thanks for chiming in.