The Mask of Fiction & Key Points

 

The Mask of Fiction

 

The fiction writer's aim, of course, is not merely fabrication; it is fabrication whose aim is to enlighten, to lay bare the soul and spirit, to declare the supple and subtle complexities of our existence. And if it's done well, it's as tricky an endeavor as the pickpocket's, for every writer of fiction must be, first and foremost, a liar—a liar with a noble aim, of course, but a liar nonetheless. And the aim of the liar, his one true guiding light, is deception.

Key Points:

1. The conventional notion of autobiographical fiction is of a work where the author exploits the characters and events of his own life, where the story he tells is, in essence, his own life's story or some portion thereof—the characters and circumstances perhaps altered somewhat from the truth but only enough to keep the story rolling along, to keep it interesting, or to invoke with some measure of clarity to the author's message.

2. The author writes the way one walks through a dark and unfamiliar hallway or alley—blindly, hesitantly, fearfully. Once he was nearly finished with the book Decorations, he realized he'd written a novel about grief and regret, about the terrible pain and sadness that can overtake a life. He had disguised those feelings. He had given them the mask of fiction. He had assigned them to other characters whose lives looked nothing like my own, but they were my feelings nevertheless. Their lives were, in some shadowy and indecipherable way, his own life. His own grief and regret, had enabled him to imagine those terrible emotions in others, to create a world where those one loves are irretrievably lost.

3. The writer's recognition of the autobiographical nature of his work would not be particularly meaningful, of course, if it had not relevance to the reader. When a fiction writer recognizes that this is his obligation – not merely to tell a good lie but to tell a lie so good that it has the very ring of truth, the taste and touch and smell of truth—he begins to see that his own life, his own notion of right and wrong, of how we are meant to live our lives, must always be there in his work.

4. Writing teachers frequently exhort students to write what they know. What we know, though, is not all there is to us. We are also, in a way, what we don't know. It's not just writers, after all, who are searchers, who long for companionship and affection, who wish each day so make something more of heir lives. Young writers might be well served—both in pursuit of their craft and in pursuit of their lies—if they attempt to write beyond what they know.

5. Both reading and writing are acts of supreme faith. They are both a call to grace, a belief in the miraculous—that we might come to see through stories what we had not previously seen, that we might come to understand what had, before that moment, remained uncertain, undefined. The mask of fiction, of writing and reading stories, does not, in the end, disguise our faces but instead reveals who we really are. In the end, I think, stories acknowledge life's difficulty and sadness but insist that we go on anyway, that we always hold to our faith, to our belief in grace.

6. It is both a great privilege and a terrible struggle for fiction writers to offer so much in their work, to connect stories that attempt to inch their way toward an answer to that difficult question of why we do what we do, what it is exactly that we hope to offer the world.

 Excrepted from Creating Fiction, edited by Associated Writing Programs president, Julie Checkoway

 

Description

 Unable to secure a coveted spot in a creative-writing program? Unwilling to make the life changes necessary to do so? Creating Fiction is a fiction-writing course from some of those programs' top instructors. Among the finest of these 23 never-before-published essays about fiction writing--each of which is accompanied by a few writing exercises--are those by Jane Smiley on revision, John Barth on plot, Carrie Brown on the writing of magic realism, and Julie Checkoway on "The Lingerie Theory of Literature" ("The fundamental secret ... to the effective ending," Checkoway confides, "is to practice the restraint one sees in those Victoria's Secret lingerie ads--enough coyness to tantalize, enough enigma to tease, but never, ever, too much naked abandon").

And Philip Gerard, author of Hatteras Light and instructor at UNC-Wilmington, has written a standout piece about structuring the novel and story collection. "It astonishes me," says Gerard, "that intelligent people who would not hold a wedding, plant a garden, or even slap together a utility shed without exhaustive planning nonetheless regard the novel as a spontaneous literary event that just happens onto the page." Of course, there are many novelists who would disagree with Gerard about such planning, but Gerard is not advocating writing an outline and sticking to it. "The central paradox of writing the novel," he says, is that "you have to know where it's going, but when it speaks to you, shows you a better direction, you have to be ready to abandon your plan and listen to the story." Gerard also has unorthodox ideas on the organizing of story collections. While most writers obsess over story arrangement, Gerard's approach is more relaxed. "Enough readers read at random within the collection," he advises, "that worrying too much about the order of stories may distract the writer and editor from more important considerations." And whatever you do, don't be overwhelmed by the concept of writing a book. "Nobody writes a book," says Gerard. "What you write every day is a piece of a book, a fragment, a scene." --Jane Steinberg

Product Description

Visit the workshops of twenty-three of the best fiction-writing teachers in the country. Learn how to revise from Pulitzer Prize-winner Jane Smiley. Find new ways to evoke time and place from Richard Russo, author of Nobody's Fool. National Book Award - winner Charles Johnson offers a passionate discussion of the writer's apprenticeship. Lan Samantha Chang, author of the acclaimed story collection Hunger, presents strategies for structuring stories. John Barth, one of the most influential writers and theorists of the past forty years, explores elements of storytelling. Creating Fiction is a partnership between Story Press and the Associated Writing Programs, an organization of nearly three hundred college and university writing programs. The contributors, members of the AWP, have taught thousands of students the art and craft of telling stories. Now their experience and wisdom can be found in one comprehensive book.

Creating Fiction, edited by Associated Writing Programs president, Julie Checkoway

How to Edit and Proofread Content

How to Edit and Proofread Content

Use Effective Time Management & Beware of the Grammar Check Trap

Before you turn in any manuscript, you must take the time to proofread and edit the document carefully. Merely using Spelling and Grammar Check through Microsoft Word will not get the job done. Instead of rushing to proofread ten minutes before the paper is due, you need to take proofreading seriously and allot a substantial amount of time for the activity.

Once you've finished writing a manuscript, it's a good idea to "let the paper rest" for a while and come back to proofread it later. It's easier to see grammatical and stylistic glitches if the paper isn't fresh in your mind. Focus on the style, grammar, and spelling in every single sentence.

If you only rely on Spelling and Grammar Check, it's highly probable that you'll still have many errors in your paper. Spellcheckers miss all kinds of usage errors (they're vs. there vs. their, for example) and other grammatical problems. These simple errors hurt the readability of the document by distracting your reader, which in turn damages the paper's credibility.

Read the Paper Out Loud 

Reading a document aloud is a common technique used by both beginning and professional writers. Reading a paper out loud slowly will help you catch phrases that don't "sound right" and will let you focus on what's there on the paper, not what you meant to say. You can also use any program that reads aloud; this is what works best for me.

Read the Paper Backwards 

Another helpful technique used by professional writers is reading a paper backward. What this means is that a writer starts by proofreading the last sentence. You read that sentence, making sure there were no misspellings or mechanical errors. Then you move on to the next-to-last sentence, and so on. Writers do this because reading a document backwards takes it out of context. You're able to isolate the sentences and their grammatical issues by reading it backwards.

Read the Paper Out Loud and Backwards

 Use this hybrid method by incorporating both techniques provided above.

Use the Pencil or Ruler Method 

Some writers use a pencil or ruler as a guide to focus on each individual sentence as they proofread. This technique stops a person from getting ahead and helps one concentrate on the sentence at hand.

Use the Each Sentence As Its Own Paragraph Method

One helpful method for focusing on both sentence variety in your writing and grammatical/mechanical errors within paragraphs is to reformat your document by making each sentence its own paragraph. Instead of using double spacing with sizeable paragraphs, convert your document to single spacing to examine each sentence in a line-by-line fashion. You format the paper by taking every sentence and placing it on one line by itself to look for grammatical errors, unnecessary repetition, and places where you can vary the lengths and types of sentences used in your prose. Since sentence variety ~ using different types and varying lengths of sentences ~ creates strong cohesion (a.k.a. "flow"), writers use this method to look for ways to make the document stylistically stronger.

 *For example, if I were to present the paragraph above, here is what it would look like using the "each sentence as its own paragraph" method: 

One helpful method for focusing on both sentence variety in your writing and grammatical or mechanical errors within paragraphs is to reformat your document by making each sentence its own paragraph. Instead of using double spacing with sizeable paragraphs, convert your document to single spacing to examine each sentence in a line-by-line fashion. You format the paper by taking every sentence and placing it on one line by itself to look for grammatical errors, unnecessary repetition, and places where you can vary the lengths and types of sentences used in your prose. Since sentence variety (using different types and varying lengths of sentences) creates strong cohesion (a.k.a. "flow"), writers use this method to look for ways to make the document stylistically stronger.

*For example, if I were to present the paragraph above, here is what it would look like using the "each sentence as its own paragraph" method:

One helpful method for focusing on both sentence variety in your writing and grammatical or mechanical errors within paragraphs is to reformat your document by making each sentence its own paragraph. Instead of using double spacing with sizeable paragraphs, convert your document to single spacing to examine each sentence in a line-by-line fashion. You format the paper by taking every sentence and placing it on one line by itself to look for grammatical errors, unnecessary repetition, and places where you can vary the lengths and types of sentences used in your prose. 

Since sentence variety (using different types and varying lengths of sentences) creates strong cohesion (a.k.a. "flow"), writers use this method to look for ways to make the document stylistically stronger.

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The Real Importance of reading as a Writer by Stephen King | Writing Quote

 

The Real Importance of reading as a Writer

 

by Stephen King

 

The real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing… It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn’t, what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor.

--Stephen King

 

 More Writing Quotes

 

About the Author 

Stephen Edwin King (born September 21, 1947) is an American author of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, crime, science-fiction, and fantasy novels. Described as the "King of Horror", a play on his surname and a reference to his high standing in pop culture, his books have sold more than 350 million copies, and many have been adapted into films, television series, miniseries, and comic books. King has published 64 novels, including seven under the pen name Richard Bachman, and five non-fiction books. He has also written approximately 200 short stories, most of which have been published in book collections. Wikipedia

 

 Stephen King Books at Amazon

New Rules of Storytelling

 

New Rules of Storytelling 

Seven storytellers talk about breaking down traditional storytelling formulas in order to redefine what it takes to tell a good one.

The Writer's/Artist Job is to Tell the Truth by Joseph Conrad (PDF)

The Writer's/Artist Job is to Tell the Truth

 

by Joseph Conrad 

 

(eText)

 

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential—their one illuminating and convincing quality—the very truth of their existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts—whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism—but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims...

 

About the Author

Joseph Conrad (born Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, Polish: [ˈjuzɛf tɛˈɔdɔr ˈkɔnrat kɔʐɛˈɲɔfskʲi] (audio speaker iconlisten); 3 December 1857 – 3 August 1924) was a Polish-British writer regarded as one of the greatest novelists to write in the English language. Though he did not speak English fluently until his twenties, he came to be regarded a master prose stylist who brought a non-English sensibility into English literature. He wrote stories and novels, many with a nautical setting, that depict trials of the human spirit in the midst of what he saw as an impassive, inscrutable universe. Wikipedia

The Writer's/Artist Job is to Tell the Truth by Joseph Conrad

 

The Writer's/Artist Job is to Tell the Truth

by Joseph Conrad 

 

(PDF)

 

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line. And art itself may be defined as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. It is an attempt to find in its forms, in its colours, in its light, in its shadows, in the aspects of matter and in the facts of life what of each is fundamental, what is enduring and essential—their one illuminating and convincing quality—the very truth of their existence. The artist, then, like the thinker or the scientist, seeks the truth and makes his appeal. Impressed by the aspect of the world the thinker plunges into ideas, the scientist into facts—whence, presently, emerging they make their appeal to those qualities of our being that fit us best for the hazardous enterprise of living. They speak authoritatively to our common-sense, to our intelligence, to our desire of peace or to our desire of unrest; not seldom to our prejudices, sometimes to our fears, often to our egoism—but always to our credulity. And their words are heard with reverence, for their concern is with weighty matters: with the cultivation of our minds and the proper care of our bodies, with the attainment of our ambitions, with the perfection of the means and the glorification of our precious aims.

It is otherwise with the artist.

Confronted by the same enigmatical spectacle the artist descends within himself, and in that lonely region of stress and strife, if he be deserving and fortunate, he finds the terms of his appeal. His appeal is made to our less obvious capacities: to that part of our nature which, because of the warlike conditions of existence, is necessarily kept out of sight within the more resisting and hard qualities—like the vulnerable body within a steel armour. His appeal is less loud, more profound, less distinct, more stirring—and sooner forgotten. Yet its effect endures forever. The changing wisdom of successive generations discards ideas, questions facts, demolishes theories. But the artist appeals to that part of our being which is not dependent on wisdom; to that in us which is a gift and not an acquisition—and, therefore, more permanently enduring. He speaks to our capacity for delight and wonder, to the sense of mystery surrounding our lives; to our sense of pity, and beauty, and pain; to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation—and to the subtle but invincible conviction of solidarity that knits together the loneliness of innumerable hearts, to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity—the dead to the living and the living to the unborn.

It is only some such train of thought, or rather of feeling, that can in a measure explain the aim of the attempt, made in the tale which follows, to present an unrestful episode in the obscure lives of a few individuals out of all the disregarded multitude of the bewildered, the simple and the voiceless. For, if any part of truth dwells in the belief confessed above, it becomes evident that there is not a place of splendour or a dark corner of the earth that does not deserve, if only a passing glance of wonder and pity. The motive then, may be held to justify the matter of the work; but this preface, which is simply an avowal of endeavour, cannot end here—for the avowal is not yet complete. Fiction—if it at all aspires to be art—appeals to temperament. And in truth it must be, like painting, like music, like all art, the appeal of one temperament to all the other innumerable temperaments whose subtle and resistless power endows passing events with their true meaning, and creates the moral, the emotional atmosphere of the place and time. Such an appeal to be effective must be an impression conveyed through the senses; and, in fact, it cannot be made in any other way, because temperament, whether individual or collective, is not amenable to persuasion. All art, therefore, appeals primarily to the senses, and the artistic aim when expressing itself in written words must also make its appeal through the senses, if its highest desire is to reach the secret spring of responsive emotions. It must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, to the colour of painting, and to the magic suggestiveness of music—which is the art of arts. And it is only through complete, unswerving devotion to the perfect blending of form and substance; it is only through an unremitting never-discouraged care for the shape and ring of sentences that an approach can be made to plasticity, to colour, and that the light of magic suggestiveness may be brought to play for an evanescent instant over the commonplace surface of words: of the old, old words, worn thin, defaced by ages of careless usage.

The sincere endeavour to accomplish that creative task, to go as far on that road as his strength will carry him, to go undeterred by faltering, weariness or reproach, is the only valid justification for the worker in prose. And if his conscience is clear, his answer to those who in the fulness of a wisdom which looks for immediate profit, demand specifically to be edified, consoled, amused; who demand to be promptly improved, or encouraged, or frightened, or shocked, or charmed, must run thus:—My task which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see. That—and no more, and it is everything. If I succeed, you shall find there according to your deserts: encouragement, consolation, fear, charm—all you demand—and, perhaps, also that glimpse of truth for which you have forgotten to ask. To snatch in a moment of courage, from the remorseless rush of time, a passing phase of life, is only the beginning of the task. The task approached in tenderness and faith is to hold up unquestioningly, without choice and without fear, the rescued fragment before all eyes in the light of a sincere mood. It is to show its vibration, its colour, its form; and through its movement, its form, and its colour, reveal the substance of its truth—disclose its inspiring secret: the stress and passion within the core of each convincing moment. In a single-minded attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth, shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind to the visible world. It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly, holds by the convictions expressed above cannot be faithful to any one of the temporary formulas of his craft. The enduring part of them—the truth which each only imperfectly veils—should abide with him as the most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism, Romanticism, Naturalism, even the unofficial sentimentalism (which like the poor, is exceedingly difficult to get rid of,) all these gods must, after a short period of fellowship, abandon him—even on the very threshold of the temple—to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken consciousness of the difficulties of his work. In that uneasy solitude the supreme cry of Art for Art itself, loses the exciting ring of its apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has ceased to be a cry, and is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at times and faintly encouraging.

Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch the motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to wonder languidly as to what the fellow may be at. We watch the movements of his body, the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up, hesitate, begin again. It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be told the purpose of his exertions. If we know he is trying to lift a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a more real interest at his efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure. We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and perhaps he had not the strength—and perhaps he had not the knowledge. We forgive, go on our way—and forget.

And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk a little about the aim—the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult—obscured by mists; it is not in the clear logic of a triumphant conclusion; it is not in the unveiling of one of those heartless secrets which are called the Laws of Nature. It is not less great, but only more difficult.

To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour, of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile—such is the aim, difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve. But sometimes, by the deserving and the fortunate, even that task is accomplished. And when it is accomplished—behold!—all the truth of life is there: a moment of vision, a sigh, a smile—and the return to an eternal rest.

1897. J. C. 

 Excrepted from The Children of the Sea: A Tale of the Forecast by Joseph Conrad

 

About the Author

Joseph Conrad (born Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski, Polish: [ˈjuzɛf tɛˈɔdɔr ˈkɔnrat kɔʐɛˈɲɔfskʲi] (audio speaker iconlisten); 3 December 1857 – 3 August 1924) was a Polish-British writer regarded as one of the greatest novelists to write in the English language. Though he did not speak English fluently until his twenties, he came to be regarded a master prose stylist who brought a non-English sensibility into English literature. He wrote stories and novels, many with a nautical setting, that depict trials of the human spirit in the midst of what he saw as an impassive, inscrutable universe. Wikipedia

Sci-Fi Magazine Halts New Submissions After a Surge in AI-Written Stories | Writer's News

 

Sci-Fi Magazine Halts New Submissions After a Surge in AI-Written Stories

 

 AI-generated fiction has quickly become a problem for genre magazines.

 

Neil Clarke at Clarkesworld says,

"Since the early days of the pandemic, I’ve observed an increase in the number of spammy submissions to Clarkesworld. What I mean by that is that there’s an honest interest in being published, but not in having to do the actual work."

 Read more...