Leave Them Wanting More?

Here's an essay by Cory Doctorow about fiction, movies, and games giving audiences what they need instead of what they want, or think they want:

Against Lore

Writers hijack the reader's "empathic response. . . . A storyteller who has successfully captured the audience has done so by convincing their hindbrains to care about the tribulations of imaginary people." Part of accomplishing this trick consists of drawing the reader or viewer into collaborating with the creator, so to speak. Our minds ruminate on what might happen next, how the fictional crisis will be resolved, and how the writer will pull it off. The tension builds, to be released when the outcome fulfills, exceeds, or subverts our expectations in a satisfying way.

"Your mind wants the tension to be resolved ASAP, but the pleasure comes from having that desire thwarted. . . . You don't give the audience what it wants, you give it what it needs." What fun would a fantasy roleplaying game be if every monster could be killed in one blow? Who would want to know the killer in a murder mystery in advance (on first reading, at least -- I've read many detective novels with pleasure over and over, because the enjoyment of a well-written mystery lies in more than learning whodunit)? Readers of romance know the hero and heroine will find fulfillment in a happily-ever-after conclusion, since that's inherent in the definition of a romance, but we want to remain in suspense until the end as to how the writer will accomplish the seemingly impossible feat of getting them together.

On one level, according to Doctorow, writers, stage magicians, con artists, and cult leaders are all doing the same thing. "Getting us to care about things that don't matter is how novels and movies work, but it's also how cults and cons work." They "leave blanks" for the audience (or mark) to fill in. They don't tell us everything; rather, they privide gaps for our imaginations to work. Horror mavens often note that the monster in the reader's mind usually exceeds anything the writer or filmmaker can reveal on the page or screen.

According to Doctorow, the skilled creator or performer "delights in denying something to the audience, who, in turn, delights in the denial. Don't give the audience what they want, give them what they need. What your audience needs is their own imagination." As far as that statement goes, I agree with his analysis. He makes lots of cogent points. I emphatically part ways with him, however, when he presents an argument against supplying too much "lore." Why do "series tend to go downhill"? First off, he states this alleged problem like a universal truth. To the contrary, in my view, many series just keep getting better, as the format allows for expansion and exploration of the fictional world. Barbara Hambly's Benjamin January historical mystery novels offer only one example of several I could mention. He applauds the fact that, "The first volume in any series leaves so much to the imagination" and the background elements "are all just detailed enough that your mind automatically ascribes a level of detail to them, without knowing what that detail is." No real argument there. If the author does a good job, we're eager to learn more about the setting and characters, and our minds are "churning with all the different bits of elaborate lore that will fill in those lacunae and make them all fit together." But Doctorow proposes that an author's filling in those "lacunae" is usually a bad thing.

He insists, "A story whose loose ends have been tidily snipped away seems like it would be immensely satisfying, but it's not satisfying –- it's just resolved," and "Lore is always better as something to anticipate than it is to receive. The fans demand lore, but it should be doled out sparingly. Always leave 'em wanting more." Well, a fictional work literally following this principle would leave me feeling cheated. When I start a new Barbara Hambly mystery, the first thing I do is flip to the back looking for the author's afterword and am slightly let down if there isn't one. I've reread the appendices to S. M. Stirling's alternate history PESHAWAR LANCERS more often than I've reread the novel itself. I want the monster to be numinous and enigmatic for much of the story, sure, but by the end I want a clear look at it. I want to know its origin, strengths, and weaknesses. I enjoy the detailed description of Wilbur Whateley after his death in Lovecraft's "The Dunwich Horror." In an SF story, if there are aliens I want to know all about their biology and culture. Politics aside, my major gripe with J. K. Rowling is her failure to deliver that guidebook to the Harry Potter universe she kept promising. Her worldbuilding appears sloppily ad hoc, a problem the snippets on the Pottermore site didn't fix.

Maybe this tendency on my part comes from having begun my professional career in literary analysis rather than fiction? (I started writing, though, as an aspiring horror author. Does any teenager, no matter how bookish, aspire to be a literary critic? But I DID always want more backstory, more delving into the mind of the "monster.") Or it could be just a quirk of my personality. How do you feel about lore? Do you avidly read guidebooks to your favorite authors' series? Or do you prefer some facets of the stories to stay unexplained?

Margaret L. Carter

Please explore love among the monsters at Carter's Crypt.

Based on a True Story

Historical fiction typically places invented characters and plotlines against the backdrop of real events, sometimes including encounters with famous people of the past. But historical novels of another type retell actual episodes from the past and differ from straight history or biography by introducing made-up incidents and characters without violating the recorded facts as generally accepted. Then there's the oxymoronic "nonfiction novel," exemplified by works such as Truman Capote's IN COLD BLOOD and Alex Haley's ROOTS, purporting to report history as it happened but in novelistic style, also with the insertion of invented walk-on characters, minor incidents, and dialogue:

Non-Fiction Novel

Wikipedia remarks that the definition of the form can be "flexible." Judging from the range of their examples, the word I'd use is "fuzzy." Some of the books they mention strike me as simply standard-model historical fiction. So the difference between that genre and the so-called nonfiction novel seems to be one of degree.

Sharyn McCrumb has written several novels based on murder cases in American history, notably THE BALLAD OF FRANKIE SILVER, THE BALLAD OF TOM DOOLEY, and THE UNQUIET GRAVE. She includes afterwords supplying the real-life background of the stories. In the author's afterword to THE BALLAD OF TOM DOOLEY, she answers the question of how much is true with, "As much as I could possibly verify." In the story itself, she fills in the gaps with her own conjectures based on what she considers the best evidence. THE DEVIL AMONGST THE LAWYERS, while also retelling an actual trial, takes some liberties with history, as McCrumb explains in her afterword.

Barbara Hambly's novel about the later life of Mary Todd Lincoln, THE EMANCIPATOR'S WIFE, with flashbacks to the former First Lady's youth and her marriage to Lincoln, follows a similar narrative strategy. It adheres to historical facts as known while creatively expanding on them.

Alternate history is a different thing, making deliberate changes in critical events to create a counterfactual world. For instance, S. M. Stirling's currently running series based on the premise that Theodore Roosevelt regained the presidency in the 2012 election is one outstanding example. Secret history, on the other hand, tells stories of critical events that fall between the cracks in documented history, without contradicting recorded facts (e.g., magical combat between British and German witches during World War II in a world otherwise resembling our own past).

What about autobiography? CHEAPER BY THE DOZEN, by Frank Bunker Gilbreth Jr. and Ernestine Gilbreth Carey, has been labeled a "semi-autobiographical novel," although from what I've read about it, the contents are factual. The book does skip around chronologically, however, and it omits some facts, mainly that the Gibreth family never had twelve children living at the same time. The death of one daughter in childhood is not mentioned. The "All Creatures Great and Small" series, by James Herriot (real name Alf Wight), shifts further toward the fiction category. While the incidents in the books really happened, names and other identifying characteristics of people in the episodes have been changed.

How far can a work that claims historical accuracy go with author-created elements before it crosses the line between straight history or biography and fiction?

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt

Accessible Writing

The April 2020 issue of RWR (magazine of the Romance Writers of America) contains an article titled "The Literary Craft of Accessibility," by Rebecca Hunter. She begins by analyzing the difference between literary fiction and genre fiction, for which she focuses on level of accessibility: "Literary fiction expects the reader to come to the book, while genre fiction books come to the reader." To put it simply, literary fiction expects the reader to work harder. It would be easy to conclude that denser novels are therefore of higher quality than less "difficult" works, a "false—and harmful—hierarchy" the author warns against. I readily agree that a "literary" novel may be difficult and dense for the sheer sake of difficulty, putting unnecessary roadblocks in the reader's path from the mistaken notion that lucid prose and a clear narrative thread equate to "dumbing down." And a genre novel can include deep themes that make a reader think and challenge her established assumptions.

Hunter undercuts her cautionary reference to false hierarchies, in my opinion, by contrasting "lyrical" and "thoughtful" with "fast-paced" and "light," the latter suggesting a "more accessible style." A genre novel can be accessible, yet sedately paced and deeply emotional. Some factors she lists as contributing to degree of accessibility include length of sentences, breadth of vocabulary, balance among action, atmosphere, and ideas, moral clarity or ambiguity, how clearly the characters and plot fulfill "expectations set in the beginning of the story," and "use of cliches, idioms, and other familiarities." I have reservations about some items on the list. For example, I don't think a novel has to lean heavily toward "action" to be accessible. Many romance novels don't, nor do many vintage favorites in other genres. GONE WITH THE WIND is one perennial bestseller that has many more reflective and emotional scenes than action scenes in the popular sense of the word. I find the mention of "cliches" off-putting; while familiar tropes, handled well, can be welcome, an outright "cliche" is another matter. Another feature, "amount of emotional complexity spelled out for readers," sounds as if excessive telling over showing is being recommended. Every writer must balance all these elements in her own way, of course, and Hunter does address the shortcomings of cliches and "telling." She points out that "frankly, there are lots of readers who like this familiarity and clarity." So an author needs to know her target audience well. "Each reader's preferences are different. . . .there are readers for all accessibility levels." Hunter also discusses theme, which she defines as "an open-ended question our story asks" and briefly covers the possibility of increasing a work's complexity by adding additional thematic layers.

Personally, I enjoy a book with a varied, challenging vocabulary and complex characters and emotions. What make me impatient are works that appear to be confusing for the sake of confusion, such as failing to clearly distinguish characters from each other or coming to a conclusion that leaves the reader with literally no way to be sure what happened—by which I mean, not an ambiguous ending deliberately designed to allow multiple interpretations, but one in which it's impossible to puzzle out the plain sense of what transpires on the page. As Marion Zimmer Bradley used to say in her submission guidelines, "If I can't figure out what happened, I assume my readers won't care." Levels of acceptable "accessibility," of course, vary over the decades and centuries according to the fashions of the times. Long descriptive and expository passages, common in nineteenth-century novels, would get disapproved by most editors nowadays, no matter how well written. Something similar to the opening paragraphs of Dickens' A TALE OF TWO CITIES ("It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. . . ."), although accessible in the sense of easily understandable, probably wouldn't be accepted by most contemporary publishers. It also used to be common for authors to include untranslated passages in foreign languages, especially in nonfiction but sometimes even in fiction. Most nonfiction writers up through the early twentieth century assumed all educated readers understood Latin and Greek. Dorothy Sayers inserted a long letter in French into her Lord Peter Wimsey mystery CLOUDS OF WITNESS; the publisher insisted on having a translation added. On the other hand, to cite a contemporary example, in Barbara Hambly's Benjamin January mysteries, set in Louisiana of the 1830s, January's erudite friend Hannibal often includes Greek and Latin quotations in his speech. They add flavor to the story's atmosphere, but understanding them is rarely necessary for following the story; when it is, Hambly clues us in as needed. Readers who'd be put off by this kind of linguistic play simply don't form part of her target audience, but then, such people probably aren't fans of historical mysteries in general, which require openness to navigating an unfamiliar time and place.

Hunter's article also doesn't discuss accessibility in relation to genre conventions. For instance, Regency romance authors probably assume their target audience has some familiarity with the period, if only from reading lots of prior novels in that setting. Science fiction, in particular, expects a certain level of background knowledge from its readers. We should know about hyperdrive and other forms of FTL travel, if only enough to suspend disbelief and move on with the story. Some SF stories expect more acquaintance with the genre than others. Any viewer with a willing imagination can follow the original STAR TREK, designed to appeal to a mass audience. Near the other end of the accessibility spectrum, the new posthumous Heinlein novel, THE PURSUIT OF THE PANKERA (the previously unpublished original version of his 1980 NUMBER OF THE BEAST), envisions a reader with a considerable fannish background. The ideal reader knows or at least has some acquaintance with Edgar Rice Burroughs' Barsoom books and E. E. Smith's Lensman series. That reader also has a high tolerance for dialogue about the intricacies of alternate universes and the heroes' device for transiting among them, on which the text goes into considerable detail at some points. Optimally, that fan will also have read Heinlein's own previous work, at least his best-known books. This novel is not the way to introduce a new reader to Heinlein, much less to SF in general.

It seems to me that "accessibility" forms a subset of the larger topic of reader expectations. So the question of how accessible our work is (or needs to be) comes back to knowing the expectations of the target audience.

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt

Good Out of Evil?

In Barbara Hambly's CRIMSON ANGEL (which I reread last week), the protagonist of the series, Benjamin January, a free colored resident of antebellum New Orleans trained as a surgeon in France but making his living as a musician, unearths the notebooks of a physician known as "Dr. Maudit" ("Accursed"). The doctor drugged and vivisected hundreds of slaves, many of them bought for the purpose. The quandary of whether to benefit from the information in those notebooks addresses an ethical problem still relevant. The situation brings to mind Dr. Mengele, the Auschwitz "Angel of Death," who performed cruel experiments on concentration camp inmates, especially twins. If Mengele's studies had yielded any useful knowledge, would it have been morally right to preserve that information? In the case of Mengele, the question is moot, because by all accounts his methods were flawed and his "experiments" useless. In Hambly's novel, however, given the state of medical science in the 1830s, the doctor's dissection of living bodies yields a wealth of knowledge unobtainable in any other way. January is strongly tempted to keep the notebooks, recognizing many instances where the discoveries recorded therein could have saved patients' lives if he'd had that knowledge in the past.

Is it simply wrong to profit from the evil actions of another, even if the result would contribute to the welfare of many people? Or would preserving the knowledge gained by vivisection of unwilling victims salvage some good out of the original evil? Couldn't it be argued that failure to use the information would mean their deaths have been completely wasted? One character in CRIMSON ANGEL says "it is wrong to keep the profits of a crime" because such behavior "is an incentive—a permission—for others to commit crimes for the sake of the rewards." In the end, January decides he must destroy the notebooks despite his bitter regret for the loss of the knowledge in them.

This scenario relates to perennial hot topics in medical research and bioethics, especially nowadays with issues surrounding experimentation on embryos and stem cells.

The episode mentioned above isn't a true spoiler for CRIMSON ANGEL. You can still enjoy plenty of suspense in reading the book, which takes place in New Orleans, Cuba, and Haiti, and discovering the deeper secrets behind the murders. I highly recommend this long-running series, which begins with A FREE MAN OF COLOR. Hambly has done in-depth research about New Orleans and the South in the 1830s, and through the experience of a mixed-race (but mostly black) protagonist, she explores the nuances of race relations in the former Spanish and French colony where Americans are seen as brash interlopers who don't understand the subtle distinctions of the racial caste system and the free "colored" demimonde.

Margaret L. Carter

Carter's Crypt

BACK FROM ARCHON 31

My flight from St. Louis to Ft Myers, FL landed at noon. It's 141 pm. I haven't unpacked but I'm blogging. Go figure.

Q -Why didn't I blog from the con? A - My brand new Sony Vaio died.

Q - Is this going to be a great recounting of what went on at Archon? A - No. Read my first line. I just got off the plane. I'm exhausted. But they say a picture is worth a thousand words...

Autographing session with Barbara Hambly. (!!!!) We had lunch Thursday and I can't wait for her Anne Steelyard series to come out. More on that later...

Saturday's panel with Elizabeth Moon (who is funny and delightful and just all around wonderful), me (behind toy dog--will explain that later, also), Carol Berg, Richard White, Joy Ward, Janni Lee Simner

Stacey Klemstein (cutie redhead on far end) on panel with Rachel Caine, Rae Morgan/Monette Micheals and others.

Vic Milan (who is a hoot) and my agent, Kristin Nelson on a beginning writers panel.

And now for the fun stuff:

I also had dinner with Jacqueline Lichtenberg and Jean Lorrah, and was on a panel with them as well. WHAT A THRILL! Briefly, Jean has a wonderful, warm smile and sparkling eyes. Jacqueline is one of the most elegant gals I've met--BUT when she smiles, she's an imp! They're both beyond brilliant them and meeting them was top notch.

Hugs all, I need a nap... ~Linnea

http://www.linneasinclair.com/