Hello one and all. Long time no see. My previous installments have approached the ritual of writing from a fairly personal perspective. Since that time, I have been teaching a writing workshop, on and off, both privately and more recently through the University of Falmouth. These classes begin with me blathering on about the terms of narrative structure, hopefully providing the students with the tools of analysis that prove helpful both in reading and writing fiction. From there, we move on to an analysis of a few short stories and excerpts, deconstructing them line by line to work out what the author was up to.

I have used, as examples, the first four or so pages of “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber” (Hemingway), the opening to John Gardner’s Grendel, the first few pages of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row, and so on. But in each instance, of course, I can only offer my own reading of authorial intention, pushing hard the notion that in each instance, the author in question knew what he or she was doing. But verisimilitude is always a hard sell.

The final example I use, was pulled from my own writing, since it’s what I know best, and more to the point, I know that I knew what I was doing. That said, I should emphasize that so much of what goes on, in the act of composing, runs at a subconscious level. The point, when discussing the excerpt I am going to offer up here, is that once you have fully absorbed the various tools used to create narrative structure, you will reach a place in your writing where it all hits you, bright as the birth of a sun in your mind: just what is possible in fiction – in language itself.

This moment should come as revelation, leaving you stunned with wonder, and before you, tumbling out like the fruits of a cornucopia, all the possibilities awaiting you. That’s the idea, anyway.

Well. I will be taking a chance here, as I’m offering no build-up via the other authors, each one of whom belongs in the canon, and can be considered demonstrably brilliant, and so, by thrusting this excerpt your way, and then adding the deconstructed version, I risk the (usual, when it comes to me) accusation of arrogance, or self-indulgence, or, deadliest of all, presumption. The risk redoubles in that, once you read the deconstructed version, you may well level upon me outright disbelief – that I’m just making this shit up, and that there’s no way I knew what I was up to, to the extent that I seem to be letting on.

Best I respond to that one now. It’s not a question of making this shit up: the point I’m trying to get across is that, once you fully internalize the elements of narrative structure, you can select for yourself any section of any story you write, and do the same exercise in deconstruction. In fact, I accept the imminent challenge right here: select for me any four- to five-page excerpt from any work I’ve ever published, and I will deconstruct it in the same way as I have deconstructed the excerpt here. That won’t be an exercise in bullshit: it will be me knowing what I’m up to when I write.

That might come across as a boast, but even that response misses the point. It’s all craft. Let me repeat that: IT’S ALL CRAFT. You can learn it. You can master it. And once you do, the world of fiction opens up to you, as a writer (and indeed, as a reader), with immeasurable possibilities.

One last point. Nothing in the above statement in any way negates the notion of inspiration, or even the aspects of creativity that seem, if not divinely inspired, then certainly operating on a wholly different level (finding the muse, the key to the door, or the ‘zone’). The great pleasure one finds, however, in looking back on what one has written (muse-driven or not), and seeing just how well and seamlessly it all worked, makes the whole endeavour worthwhile.

So, the excerpt in question. How well did it work? There are two answers to that question, only one of which I can address. How well did it work for me? My answer? It worked well indeed. Tweak the question and ask: how well does it work for the reader? And that is the one I can’t answer. No author can. But what we do is put everything in place, mindfully, with the intent of guiding the reader to the places where we want them. We do it overtly. We also do it subtly, and I do mean subtly. We do it using language and its myriad gifts: rhythm, sentence pattern, sentence length, sentence structure, beat, pace, voice, point of view, tone, atmosphere, diction level, psychic distance, exposition, dialogue, setting, foreshadowing, subtext, symbol, theme, plot.

Somewhere back among the reader comments in one of my earlier essays, someone ragged on whatever it was I had written, calling it all bullshit. Hmm. Well then, consider this my call on that reader.

Following this introduction, the excerpt will be offered up, to be read as is. The section comes from my novel Forge of Darkness. It doesn’t need much by way of contextualizing, not for the deconstruction to follow, in any case. If so inclined, do read it as a discrete piece, and let it sit for a while.

The follow-up presents the same excerpt; only this time I went back and deconstructed it. What does that mean? Well, I go into the raw mechanics, and offer up my reasons for doing what I did. If I do suffer from a presumption here, it’s that I hope it might prove helpful or useful for beginning writers, and for readers of fiction.

Cheers

Steven Erikson

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“Steven Erikson reading a book.” Wikipedia Commons

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