Mark Graham's Blog, page 3

MUSIC AND FICTION

Music – the right music – is a thing of the soul. The right music, however, is completely personal. We all have that special music that absolutely strikes the right chord – a terrible pun – and moves us to a place, literally, of joy. Something swells inside us. We can feel it right down to our toes. Glorious.

We all have that special playlist that can jolt us in a matter of moments from a tough, down-in-the-mouth frame of mind, instantaneously peppering our mood with energy. My songs are my songs and yours are yours. We can share them, but they can’t possibly have the same impact. They might even come from the same genre. Some of them might even be a product of the same artist. We might even share a favorite song or two. It doesn’t matter. What moves my soul is proprietary to me. No way a piece of music can move two people in exactly the same way.

Fiction at the hands of a master is also a thing of the soul. My favorite piece of fiction is special in a way only I can feel it. You might like The Old Man and the Sea as much as I do, but the idiosyncrasies that make it a favorite of yours can never be matched. If you and I both claim the simplicity of the writing and the depth of the characters as the magic that drives our love of Hemingway’s masterpiece, how it moves our spirit cannot be duplicated.

When we turn a friend onto a special song you’ve discovered on iTunes, a part of us wants that friend to be touched with the same emotion and joy we experienced. Better just to hope they might like it enough to download onto their iPod. We love to share a great read with another person and to talk up all the ways it got us fired up, but it’s probably best not to have undue expectations regarding that person’s reaction. You can share, you can discuss, you argue and critique, but what you can’t do is trade souls.

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ART AND FICTION

Most of us think of art and fiction more or less in the same breath – the writing of great fiction most certainly being an art – but let’s put this obvious connection on the back burner for the moment.

You don’t just wake up one morning and call yourself an artist. No more than you do a writer. Picking up a paintbrush and standing in front of a canvas doesn’t make you an artist. Dropping a chunk of clay on a pottery wheel and digging your hands into it doesn’t make you a potter. You can probably see where I’m going with this. It takes extraordinary dedication, practice, and skill to turn a blank canvas into a true work of art. The best potters spend thousands of hours trying to raise their craft to the level we call art.

Writing great fiction definitely takes talent, but it takes more than that. The subtleties of fine writing don’t just happen. They come with time, refinement, and thousands upon thousands of words. They take understanding. Often what you think is good today will strike you as needing work tomorrow. And that’s a good thing. A great artist evolves from something less than that over time. Same with the best writers of fiction.

Here’s another thing. I can look at a painting in a world-class museum and see something magical: a work of art. You might see the very same painting and walk right past it, unimpressed. It doesn’t matter what a critic says or writes about that painting. His or her comments don’t dictate a painting’s worth. That’s for you and I to decide.

Same goes for good fiction. As a writer, you can’t give any one person’s opinion more weight than it deserves. There is always someone with a negative word. No problem. Just keep writing.

The beauty of painting, pottery, sculpture, or whatever your chosen passion is that you don’t have to start out to create a work of art. It’s all about expressing yourself, and it’s the expression that sets you free. The very same goes for putting pen to paper.

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INTIMACY AND FICTION

Think of how empty our lives would be without the intimacy that makes our most important relationships meaningful, powerful, and just plain fun. It’s true that we tend to think of intimacy in a sexual context. And let’s face it; the sexual aspects of intimacy are pretty high on the list of things that bring energy to our primary relationships.

Intimacy, however, is much more complex than that. Intimacy is about sharing a touch, a whisper, a poem. Intimacy is about sharing a dream, a hope, a whimsy. Intimacy is about sharing problems, fears, and doubts. It’s about relying upon someone’s kindness and trust. It’s about knowing you can be yourself with someone and all your flaws are not only acceptable, but cherished.

So what, you might ask, does this have to do with fiction? Simply that the best fiction is built upon layers, just as intimacy is. If sex is the first thing that comes to mind when someone utters the word “intimacy,” story is probably the first we think about in a good piece of fiction. We think second perhaps about character and those faces that populate our story. But what about setting? Where is often as important as what in storytelling.  And what about dialogue?  If the words our characters speak are not real, then you can say goodbye to a character the reader will truly be invested in. And how about that little trick we call foreshadowing? Good fiction leads the reader along, tempting them, enticing them, surprising them.

Like intimacy in a sound relationship, good fiction does not deceive. It does not mislead simply to be clever. It does not settle for contrivance any more than intimacy would false pretense. And now that I think about it, a great piece of fiction is one of the most intimate things a reader can experience.

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DIAMONDS AND FICTION

A little history: Diamonds, a gem stone women love and one men love to buy for women, comes from carbon. Carbon, which is neither loved by women nor very frequently purchased for them by any man in his right mind, is what we call an element. Not too exciting, you might say. Carbon, however, needs to be given a bit more credit than that since it is one of the most abundant elements in the universe, and, oh yeah, just happens to form the basis of most living organisms. Diamonds are one of carbon’s high points. The earth hit a homerun when it began spitting out diamonds.

Diamonds as a precious and highly prized stone has a long history, going back to Cleopatra, Nefertiti, and Helen of Troy. But here’s the thing. Diamonds aren’t the most attractive things when they come out of the ground. Put them in the hands of a master diamond cutter, however, and then you’re on to something special.

Fiction is not that different. Fiction, like all writing, comes from the most basic of linguistic element: a collection of letters that form a collection of words. Yes, I know, too obvious even to mention. We are all aware of the letters, and we’re all pretty handy with the words. But the best fiction is, like the millions of years that the earth spends turning carbon into diamonds, a high point in the use of those words. It takes time, and it’s well worth the effort.

There are lots of diamond cutters. There are only a few masters. That is not to disrespect any of those you enter the field.

There are lots of people who venture into the field of writing, and I applaud them all. It’s when you string those letters and words together in such a way that a reader can’t put your book down that you’ve come close to turning your rough-cut diamond into a gemstone worthy of your girl friend or wife or a woman named Cleopatra.

COLOR AND FICTION

Color is one of Mother Nature’s most astounding gifts. The blue of the sky, the greens of the trees, the gold, grays, and browns of the desert. Color is Mother Nature’s invitation to feast our eyes on images so alive that sometimes we lose track of her gifts and begin to take them for granted. Then, magically, the tulips of spring burst open in all shades of pink and yellow or the setting sun washes the sky in oranges and reds unmatched by any artist’s palette, and we pause at the sudden reminder that, oh yeah, this a living, breathing painting we’re living in.

Color is a state of mind. Picture a rose. Picture a lilac. Picture a sunflower. Pink, lavender, yellow.  We ask our minds to paint the same rose yellow, the lilac pink, and the sunflower lavender. In the blink of an eye, our world changes, because our imagination is boundless.

The best fiction respects the reader’s imagination in a slightly different way. A descriptive passage does not have to provide every detail. A scene does not have to provide every nuance. A child crying doesn’t have to portray every emotion. A good writer respects the reader’s ability to fill in the blanks. In fact, a good writer stimulates the reader’s imagination by giving a scene only the color that it needs to spur the imagination. Description beyond that which holds the reader’s attention can be the death knell to movement, pace, and momentum. Now you have a real problem on your hands.

Color doesn’t have to be splashy or vibrant; it just has to be compelling and evocative. Nothing could be truer for the art of fiction as well. Color need not be a stranglehold, only a kick-start, a sensuous touch, an eye-opener. The best fiction gives the reader a paintbrush and an ever-changing canvas and says, “Help yourself.”

FIRE AND FICTION

As the myth is told, mankind can thank the Greek titan Prometheus for the gift of fire. Prometheus apparently had a soft spot for humans and knew we needed fire to have any chance of rising above the fray.  Zeus, ruler of Olympus and Lord of the Sky, didn't share this fondness for men. And since he was not eager for us to have power over fire – or much of anything else really – it was left to Prometheus to perform an act of thevery unparellelled in the annuls of myth and mystery. As the story goes, he stole a fiery flame from the lightning that Zeus controlled, concealed it in a hollow stalk of fennel, and brought it to man. The rest is history.

Fire provides heat, light, and fuel. Fire nurtures the soil. Fire stimulates growth and regenerates our ecosystems. Okay, we all know this. But fire's most important gift is driving the imagination to new and often dangerous heights. There is not a soul on earth who isn't fascinated by the mystery of fire: the way it moves; the sounds it manufactures; the vibrant colors it produces; the danger it brings to mind.

The job of good fiction is much the same. If the imagination is not stimulated by the intrigue of the story, the depth of the characters, and the choice of setting, the writer is off to a bad start.

Fire is hypnotic. Fiction should be. The reader is ready and willing to fall under the author's spell. It's the author's job to make sure it happens.

Fire has a menacing aspect to it. The best fiction produces a certain peril as well; the reader has to be introduced to a world where something compelling is in the air or what's the point. Fire is seducing, and who doesn't like to be seduced. Good fiction is also seductive. When the author finds the perfect balance between the conflict painted by the story and the jeopardy in which the characters find themselves, he or she is onto something special.

WATER AND FICTION

Water is one of the five elements. We've all heard that. Water quenches fire and nourishes wood. What we don't often hear about is perhaps best described by the teachings of Taoism that praise water for traveling to lowest points in the earth, the valleys where all life begins, the rivers that carry nourishment that eventually feeds the most isolated forest and the rains that paint even the highest mountaintop.

Water is the source of beauty in forms we often take for granted. Even the most beautiful sunsets – like those rising above snowcapped mountains or tracing the horizons of oceans far and wide – are made magnificent by broken clouds and swirling mists, all the products of the unappreciated glories of water.

In the world of fiction, character is like water. You can't have life without water. You can't have story without character. Even the best plot sours without characters the reader can sink his or her teeth into, characters who land on the page in one form and leave at the end in another. Characters who grow or shrink, succeed or fail, live or die.

Water provides outcome. Growth in the garden, turmoil in the flood. It is the outcome of the character in a well-written story in which the reader banks his or her commitment. The outcome doesn't have to be good nor desirable, but it must be worth the reader's investment.

I like developing a character that has enough depth to turn a reader on, even if this run of emotion is negative. The reader doesn't have to identify completely with any one character, but they must be compelled in some way by every character. Indifference is the worst possible critique a reader can apply to a character.

Water breathes life or death into everything is touches. The plant that thrives in a good rain can be drowned in a storm. Characters well-portrayed do the same for any piece of fiction.

TREES AND FICTION

I love trees. You may know the feeling. There really are very few things in this world more beautiful and more captivating.

I love the perpetual nature of a tree's growth cycle. I am fascinated by the fact that this cycle of growth can truly only be affected by Mother Nature and how much sun and water and unexpected weather she might choose to bring into a tree's world day to day. Sure, I can give the trees that I have planted extra water during a dry season, and I can prune any dead branches. I can spend time out in the mini forest that is now a part of my backyard and believe there is genuine communion between tree and human. But once a tree has taken root, it will magically sprout leaves in the spring, flower some weeks after, and spread its seeds come summer. It will gain a foot or so in height until it reaches its prime. It will grace the world with autumn colors and loses its leaves in the winter.  Truly a marvel of birth and rebirth.

Producing a work of fiction isn't, at least for this author, all that different. There are cycles that seem as perpetual as the trees I've planted. The plot idea that I plant going into the process is rarely fleshed out. A character is just a piece of the puzzle when I first dedicate a name, a profession, a bit of physical description, and the first semblances of a state of mind and a personality.

Like the pear tree or the maple, I might have a fair idea of the shape and the eventual outcome, but the trip in between is governed by where I am in my thought process every day when I turn on the computer. A phrase here or there can shift the dynamics going forward, and that is amazingly exciting.

I might have an idea about the final product, but the final product in many ways has a mind of its own, just like the tree in the backyard. That's why I plant it.