Co-Author the Story with your Reader

Australian novelist Morris West, who during his lifetime sold 60 million books in 27 languages, once said: "[The writer] has to be the kind of [wo]man who turns the world upside down and says, 'Look, it looks different, doesn't it?'"

For me, there's something that separates an author from the pack, and that thing is the author's instinctive ability to ignore obvious descriptions. Instead of relying on the character's eyes, facial expressions or other characterizations to describe emotion, a truly gifted and conscientious writer finds ways to turn descriptions on their heads, so that the reader has a fresh vantage point from which to experience the emotion. These authors use things to convey emotion in ways that dynamically and emotionally enmesh them with the narration.

Done right, the readers are driven to create the story in their minds as they read. As readers' imaginations spark and emotions blaze, they are, in effect, co-authoring the unfolding story. 

For example, a writer could have her character complain this way: Esther rolled her eyes, pouting as she spoke. "I was sick to death of being constantly bombarded with sensational stories in New York City newspapers."

Esther's characterizations show us her feelings, and 'bombarded' is certainly a strong, high impact verb that carries a lot of emotional bang for its buck. But now consider how Sylvia Plath handled the described sentiment in the opening paragraph of "The Bell Jar":

"...and that's all there was to read about in the papers -- goggle-eyed headlines staring up at me on every street corner and at the fusty, peanut-smelling mouth of every subway."

Plath turned the character's complaint on its side by describing the headlines and the places where the papers were sold. The modifiers she chose painted for the reader the emotional portrait of the Esther's feelings. Plath's descriptions allow us see and smell what Esther saw and smelled, and that makes us feel what Esther felt. Her descriptions invite readers to participate in the scene.

I love this quote by humor columnist Patrick F. McManus: "Write out of the reader's imagination as well as your own. Supply the significant details and let the reader's imagination do the rest. Make the reader a co-author of the story."



Question For Next Time: Do you think about your readers as co-authors of your story? Does doing so inspire you?

[Note: I wrote this article for publication in the June 12, 2013 Drama Newsletter on Writing.com. 
Photo Source.]

Celebrating "Daddy"

I've been revisiting Sylvia Plath's poems this week and reflecting on her dark genius.  She is by far one of my favorite poets, because her work never fails to get under my skin and inside my heart.

In Sylvia Plath's poetry, as well as her fiction, suicide is a recurring theme.  And each mention of suicide makes her work all the more haunting for readers today, forty-seven years after she took her own life.  One such poem is "Daddy."

I first discovered "Daddy" a couple years ago when I was researching allegory in poetry.  I was hypnotized by Sylvia's words, by the tone of the piece and the way it affected my emotions.  Then, I found the video on YouTube of Sylvia herself reading the poem.  It became an instant favorite of mine.

I'm going to share that video here, and just below it are the words to "Daddy."  You can scroll and follow along -- I think that makes the experience that much better.  I hope you enjoy it.




Daddy
by Sylvia Plath


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.


~12 October 1962~

What's your favorite poem or poet?