The Limits of Authorial Intent
By Kristin Hacken South | October 24, 2024 |
Please consider two scenarios with me:
- A writer I know, the author of several New York Times bestsellers, once described her consternation when a fan came up to her at a conference and thanked her for writing a book that encouraged her to leave her husband. The author went home and pored over her book and could find nothing in it to suggest that course of action.
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Abraham Lincoln is said to have greeted the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin by saying, “So you’re the little woman who wrote the book that started this Great War.”
Did the fan in the first scenario misread the book? Might the author have missed what she placed in her story? In the second scenario, Harriet Beecher Stowe deliberately wrote her book to highlight the horrors of enslavement, but could that one book really have enough power to start a war?
To put it another way: in today’s litigious society, can authors be held legally, morally, or financially responsible for actions resulting from the reception of their books?
Books do not spring from a publisher’s press like Athena emerging from an oblivious Zeus. Books have authors. Authors have things they want to say. The distance between an author’s intended meaning and a reader’s reception of it, however, can be as wide as the gap between the North and South Rims of the Grand Canyon.
The Oxford University Reference defines authorial intent as ”a position that argues that the creator of a text possesses a privileged understanding of its meaning and that consequently, any interpretation that contradicts this understanding must defer to the author’s intentions.”
For theorists, this is a position to be argued. For writers, it impacts our ongoing relationship with what we write. By this line of thought, we, as authors, create one authoritative meaning of our text by writing it. We have the right to tell readers that they are right or wrong in how they interpret it. We are the gods of our worlds, and we can identify blasphemy when we hear it.
A visit to any book club will show the impossibility of expecting such worshipful obedience. I claim the right to attempt to manipulate the heck out of my readers, but I don’t have the hubris to think I can control them. Readers themselves—that contentious set of nonlinear thinkers and freewheeling feelers—complete the reading experience from the vantage of where their life’s hike has taken them. The view from the North Rim necessarily differs from that of the South Rim, while the stream of story flows blissfully along, unaware of the chasm it creates.
We might not have complete control, but I do believe that there can be correct and incorrect ways to write a scene or a book to make certain reader responses more likely. Two examples spring readily to mind:
Donald Maass points out that readers anticipate the trajectory of a book from page one through the presence of promise words that signal tone and direction. Misleading their anticipation through the use of tone-deaf words can lead to confusion and the disappointing sense that a book didn’t live up to its promise. Some word choices promote the desired expectation in a reader while others thwart it.
Grammatical choices can also steer understanding in subtle ways. In the following example, both sentences include exactly the same words, but the conjunctions and word order change the emphasis:
Although she hoped to visit her friends in northern England sometime, she chose to stay home.
Although she chose to stay home, she hoped to visit her friends in northern England sometime.
In the first instance, staying home is the final decision. She chose. In the second sentence, there’s a sense of yearning and a hint that she might still go–sometime. The words are identical, but the implication is as reversed as their order. (Next year, Penny and Jacqui!)
Skillful writing piques interest and nudges readers toward hoped-for responses but does not dictate a monolithic meaning. Readers supply their own rainbow of reactions when such literary gems refract the sunlight of scrutiny. Perhaps this is why some books continue to fascinate generation after generation. Conversely, writing that affords a stingy single interpretation is no different than propaganda, advertising, or a sermon, and often ages just as well (see, to this point, modern critiques of Uncle Tom’s Cabin).
I see value in viewing books as living entities, somewhat like children. As a mother, I played a central role in bringing my children into existence, but what they do with their lives is theirs alone. Books, too, grow and morph, mature, and sometimes die as they go out into the world. “That did not age well” is a critique but also a recognition that assumptions and tastes change.
I take a semi-mystical approach to the work of writing. I have a certain amount of control over what I create, but I believe that writers can also be conduits through which ideas flow without our awareness. I have experienced times when, in the heat of creation, my writing incorporated layers that I did not consciously seek out. I honor those experiences both in myself and in other writers.
We never know in advance the reception our writing will receive. We can hope, dream, dread, or desire, but once a book is out of our hands, so is our control over it. Acceptance of this limit drives me to edit thoughtfully and to delay publication until I feel satisfied that what I put into the world accurately reflects my current understanding and level of skill. After that, I can only hope that the melding of my work with the needs of its readers will create whatever impactful experience is in their best interests, even when I don’t quite see how they got there.
How much ownership can you claim over your creations once they go out into the world? To what degree are you responsible for the conclusions your readers reach?
How do you, as an author, respond to people who found something different in your writing from what you thought you wrote?
Kristin Hacken South is happiest on the days that she works on her fiction, which to date has included a few short stories, two middle grade detective stories, and two adult novels. She lives in Atlanta, with three independent book stores within walking distance of her house. Her idea of a good time is still a day in the desert with a trowel in one hand and a notebook in the other.
[coffee]
Kristin thank you for launching my day with so many deliciously phrased literary notions! I feel that our responsibility ends after engaging the reader with perspectives that challenge them to think afresh about the conflict in their own lives.
As for what the author intended being seen differently, I had that experience with my very own novel! It was a full year or more after the publication of my debut (which I had been shaping for 8 years pre-pub) that I first entertained a brand-new notion about one of the relationships in it.
Everyone—including me—thought that the ambitious choreographer Dimitri was using dancer-protagonist Penny to further his own career by drawing her into a sexual relationship. I mean, readers were so aligned with Penny that they hated him for it. And yes, I intended the reader to feel indignation on her part when he leaves for the long-anticipated European tour without her.
But this was a consequence that was key to understanding the challenges of the first-person narrator I had created—I’d wanted to show how her body image disorder held her back by skewing her perceptions. It wasn’t until a particularly in-depth book club discussion that I fully registered the unreliability of her account. She had convinced me that she had never picked up on Dmitri’s interest in her—but in rereading, I saw that the signs my subconscious had laid down were all there! For the first time, I realized that it was quite possible that he loved her the best he could, given her shaky self-worth, until he could do so no longer without surrendering the meaningful goal he so dearly desired.
So I agree—writing is part intent and part mystery! No wonder we love it.
You write, “She had convinced me,” of your first person protagonist — what a telling aspect of the writing process! I love that after eight years of thinking about it, you were still surprised by aspects of the characters over whom you theoretically held all the authority.
Thank you for this comment, Kathryn!
Good morning Kristin. Here are my responses to the two questions you pose at the end of your post:
1. I “own” what I write in the most obvious sense: I made it. It wouldn’t be if I hadn’t made it. What readers make of what I write is contingent on the entirety of what they bring to their reading. About that I have no say, so I can’t be responsible for what they take from my writing.
2. I am delighted when someone gives me a fresh take on something I’ve written. It’s a true gift. It can also be very amusing when someone’s takeaway is at odds with what I intended. That’s a different kind of gift.
Thanks for your posts. I always take something away from them worth having.
Hi Barry!
It says a lot (in a good way!) about your nature that you would consider a contrary reading to be a gift rather than a threat to your authority as the creator of your worlds. I can imagine feeling frustrated by it. This is a good reminder that it really is out of our hands and that a sense of humor about it is the healthiest reaction.
You make an excellent point! In my novel, “When Robins Appear,” a character has had an abortion as a teenager. Readers have had polar opposite views on where my story stands on the issue. One commenter said it had a thinly disguised pro-life agenda. Another said it was clearly pro-choice and, if they had known, they wouldn’t have read it. A beta-reader had told me they thought it was noncommittal on the subject, which they said was a good thing. So, there you have it. You can’t control readers’ interpretations, no matter how carefully you believe you have worded a theme, a thought, a stance. I think today’s politics are a prime example of how people may hear/read the exact same words in the exact same context, but come away with completely different interpretations and react accordingly.
See, this is what I mean! I judge the ability of your readers to take away completely contrary messages, in this instance, as a sign of skillful writing. People come to a topic like abortion with such strong feelings that they are likely to magnify any signs of perceived bias on your part. It’s probably not a coincidence that the one reader of those three who knew you personally saw your writing as even-handed. What I wonder if whether any readers were able to think about the issue in new ways as a result of reading your book.
I’m thinking again about Uncle Tom’s Cabin, an extreme example of fiction turned to didactic purposes. I don’t suppose anyone could mistake the anti-slavery message of that book, but neither does it leave room for readers to develop their own opinions about it. I think a book with lasting appeal trusts readers to take the final steps in forming the meaning of it. It sounds like your does.
Your post is interesting and raises many questions. But writing has always been plastic. Just moving two words around can alter a meaning. Maybe not in the major points of a novel…but even so, that is what we are exposed to when agents, reviewers, even family and friends have their say after reading our works.
Yes, Beth, exactly.
I don’t suppose most of us will have our writing subjected to the literary analysis of students, professors, and professional critics, but I remember clearly writing in high school English essays that “the author is saying,” or “the author wants us to see,” or even “the author uses symbolism [of whatever kind] to show…” In cases like that, there is a clear sense that the author’s interpretation of their own work matters to how I (as a lowly young student) was allowed to read it.
It’s freeing as a reader not to think that way, but I wonder as a writer how much input I actually get. Your observation that small things like wording and word order can have a big impact agrees with my impression that I want to be very careful about what I put out into the world, while also recognizing that no amount of care can prevent people from reading things differently than how I thought about them. For that reason, I listen when beta readers tell me what they got from my words, even when I think they might have read carelessly — if they read it that way, others are likely to do so as well.
Readers respond differently and uniquely to stories. Just look at comments on Amazon or Goodreads. Are those people even reading the same book?
Actually, they are, but every reader filters the a story through their own mind, beliefs, biases and experience. To some extent, people read in a story, or select from it, what they want to read.
To some extent. That is not to say that a novel is a Rorschach Test. To Kill a Mockingbird made a point. All Quiet on the Western Front. Of Mice and Men. You get the idea. The point is that there is an interplay between story and reader.
Authors have responsibility but readers do too. The author’s’ charge is to write a strong, effective story with a point. How to respond and how to act are the reader’s responsibility.
Are authors therefore absolved from what a given reader does? Are leaders? Politicians who say “fight like hell” and then act dumb when followers actually riot? Good questions. Good post.
This balancing act between recognizing that our words have power and honoring the agency of readers strikes me as a good reason for caution mixed with resignation. The worst thing, in my opinion, would be to write a book that doesn’t evoke any strong reactions at all. I suspect you might agree with me there. :)
I do agree!
Donald, your comments are much appreciated about writing and readers interpretations of authors writing. I learn a lot as an newbie unknown. 📚🎶 Christine
Kristin, this struck me: “… in today’s litigious society, can authors be held legally, morally, or financially responsible for actions resulting from the reception of their books?”
No. “The devil made me do it” doesn’t work. For sure, the devil can tempt, as can other people, but a person has to take responsibility for their own actions. Nobody is coercing anybody when they make a suggestion in a story. We write what we write, but once it’s in the reader’s hands, they bring their own sensibilities to the story.
I’ve been inspired by many a story, but never to do evil. And I write to make a difference, to give voice to those who don’t have one. I do find this whole thing mysterious, how stories come, how they develop. So much of it is unconscious. I wrote a novel, BOUND, that has become a favorite among many parents of disabled children. It was such a happy surprise–I thought I was writing a book about the bonds of love and responsibility between two sisters, inspired by that one sentence in Genesis: Am I my brother’s keeper?
Thank you for a thoughtful essay.
Hi, Vijaya!
I’m actually curious if anyone has tried that defense in court. Donald (just above) pointed out that political leaders can make statements that others act on and then both deny their culpability. Is the lack of a position of authority the difference here? People read books of their own accord and authors have no relationship of power with them. It’s even more nuanced with fiction than with non-fiction because fiction can seem to suggest more than one take on a given topic through the show-don’t-tell method of simply presenting the story and letting others interpret it.
It sounds like your BOUND is a great example of additional layers of good existing in your writing when you didn’t consciously know you were putting it there. What a wonderful mystery!
In his novel Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles, Ron Currie Jr. asks (or so I assume) the same question, Kristin. His protagonist is sued because his book isn’t true but the reader believed it was.
First, let me say this was a really well-written and thought-provoking essay. Thank you, Kristin!
My take: I have never written anything fictional “to make a point” about anything. I am inspired by characters that interest me, often based on traits I’ve noticed in people I know in real life, and/or by situations, “real” or imagined (and if “real,” they must be re-imagined) in which those traits are challenged — and also by places, likewise. A “point” then arises from the story itself. One of the six novels I have written over the years actually announced its theme to me quite early on, and my current WIP started with one that I consciously chose for it early in the planning process, and that seems to have faded, and something different has emerged from — the characters themselves. Incidentally, one of the characters in the book — a minor character, in a relation to a major character — may or may not have had an abortion. I changed my mind about this several times. I strongly support abortion rights and will rant on about this subject given the slightest opportunity — and I am really fed up with women writers whose characters support abortion rights but, finding themselves pregnant even under the most unpromising circumstances, suddenly decide to go through with it; this seems like an act of cowardice on the writer’s (not the character’s) part. I really wanted my character to have an abortion and, even years later, accept her decision as a necessity. BUT in this case, considering the characters and situations involved, the story itself almost demands that the whole controversy and trouble caused by her friends’ assumption that she had an abortion turns out to be a colossal misunderstanding: she was, in fact, never pregnant at all. (Instead, she was actually a responsible young woman who got birth control at a time when it was difficult for an unmarried minor woman to do so.)
Thank you for this thoughtful response and exploration! Yes, the question of how deliberate or apparent a theme of a book may be is an interesting one. I agree with you that it has to start with story, because if you are simply trying to make a point, readers can feel that the experience is flat. The nuance of a well told story allows for people to come to deeper conclusions because they had to work for them. Your particular example is an interesting one in that your understanding of your character’s experience evolved over time. Kudos to you for honoring the story over some theoretical point to be made!
Kristin, WOW, this has turned out to be a hot controversial topic. All comments read. Most of my historical fiction debut book readers were of my age in the late 1950-1960s. They identified with the protagonists relationship and family problem. Their kids now know what their parents could have gone through, especially with racism. My book sequel will be reviewed by sensitivity reader to pass on the inclusion of a Black-American secondary character who has a relationship with a white woman, who dies. The friendship continues with the protagonist in a musical professional and part of her family way. As racism was apparent during that time, and edging toward acceptance, I hope I get it right, having lived in that era and know first hand the pros and cons. 📚🎶 Christine
I’m glad you’ve enjoyed reading and thinking about all of this! I did hope that authors would have something to say about this beyond the sterile arguments of the critics and scholars, and y’all definitely came through! :) The example that you gave from your own work is an interesting one for thinking about how readers can see something differently as the outside society changes its views. Thank you for bringing that up!