Uncovering Original Ideas

There is no such thing as a new idea. It is impossible. We simply take a lot of old ideas and put them into a sort of mental kaleidoscope. We give them a turn and they make new and curious combinations. We keep on turning and making new combinations indefinitely; but they are the same old pieces of colored glass that have been in use through all the ages.

~ Mark Twain

The sentiment above can be found in Twain's autobiography, and I find it to be an artful way of communicating what I think is simply a plain truth in the world of storytelling--it's all been done before. 

Original ideas are exceedingly rare, and by that I mean that we're talking generational timelines here. The major literary blockbusters of the new millennium aren't original stories. Fifty Shades of Grey and the Twilight saga have been done before (and much better, I might add); even J.K. Rowling's admittedly imaginative magnum opus, the Harry Potter series, owes a narrative debt to the works of such masters as C.S. Lewis and Madeleine L'Engle.

I find this idea liberating and comforting, all at the same time. I recently finished my first fiction since wrapping up my doctoral degree at UCF (a novella about introducing shoggoths into the treatment of infertility), and it has been exhilarating taking work back out on submission and then settling into another story. 

I ran hard today, thinking about which of the dozen or so stories that have been banging around in my head I wanted to write would be. I thought about length and plot and themes and markets. I thought about deadlines and workflow and attempting something new and fresh.

And I found an "in" and I'm thrilled to be working on the next story. 

But the truth remains that every story we write is the product of taking an old idea and running it through the mental kaleidoscope. If the story works and is well told, creative, and says something about the human condition, then the writer has succeeded in making a "new and curious" work of art.

This is a great thing, and it's why I kick back every night for a few hours with a good book. I love reading different approaches to communicating universal truths.

I just read Ray Bradbury's sinister, delightful, perplexing, and masterful short story "The Veldt." It's a vicious tale, told largely in spare, keen dialogue punctuated sporadically with Bradbury's trademark virtuosity for breathless, whimsical description.

But is it a story about technological overreaching? That's a large part of it, sure, but at its core its about patricide and matricide, and the uncanny emotions of the maturing child. In that way, it's as timeless as the works by the ancient Greeks and just about everything in between--up through contemporary stories like Stephen King's "Children of the Corn."

It's important for writers never to become paralyzed by the looming specter of originality. Doing so may actually have an inverse effect, in which an attempt to create something wholly unique spins the artist off into the realm of foolishness, incoherence, or absurdity. 

Keep that imaginative cupboard in the back of the mind open. Listen to the world around you, and work to find those interesting connections that add depth and complexity to timeless human stories. Doing so is a clear and honest path toward good storytelling...

Fiction is a Lens on the World

"But I'll tell you a secret, Cory. Want to hear it?"

I nodded.

"No one," Mrs. Neville whispered, "ever grows up."

I frowned. What kind of secret was that? My dad and mom were grown-up, weren't they? So were Mr. Dollar, Chief Marchette, Dr. Parrish, Reverend Lovoy, the Lady, and everybody else over eighteen.

"They may look grown-up," she continued, "but it's a disguise. It's just the clay of time. Men and women are still children deep in their hearts. They still would like to jump and play, but that heavy clay won't let them. They'd like to shake off every chain the world's put on them, take off their watches and neckties and Sunday shoes and return naked to the swimming hole, if just for one day. They'd like to feel free, and know that there's a momma and daddy at home who'll take care of things and love them no matter what. Even behind the face of the meanest man in the world is a scared little boy trying to wedge himself into a corner where he can't be hurt." She put aside the papers and folded her hands on the desk. "I have seen plenty of boys grow into men, Cory, and I want to say one word to you. Remember."

"Remember? Remember what?"

"Everything," she said. "And anything. Don't you go through a day without remembering something of it, and tucking that memory away like a treasure. Because it is. And memories are sweet doors, Cory. They're teachers and friends and disciplinarians. When you look at something, don't just look. See it. Really, really see it. See it so when you write it down, somebody else can see it, too. It's easy to walk through life deaf, dumb, and blind, Cory. Most everybody you know or ever meet will. They'll walk through a parade of wonders, and they'll never hear a peep of it. But you can live a thousand lifetimes if you want to. You can talk to people you'll never set eyes on, in lands you'll never visit." She nodded, watching my face. "And if you're good and you're lucky and you have something worth saying, then you might have the chance to live on long after--" She paused, measuring her words. "Long after," she finished.

~ Robert McCammon, Boy's Life, 186-7

McCammon, in that passage, perfectly distills a central lesson I try to impart upon my students in our literature courses in the college: receive life.

Our days are filled with wonder and potential, but only if we accept those moments and analyze them. A critical theorist I admire calls those moments in literature, and in life, "reception moments." It's up to the reader, and to the individual, to throw off the limitations of the mundane and celebrate life beyond mere novelty.

It's that observational quality that makes good fiction work, and boy is McCammon's fiction filled with fantastic detail and taut writing...

Ambiguous Endings

I recently read a comment from an editor that said there is a definite art to wrapping up a story. This same editor cited shabby third acts as one of the most common rejectionable offenses. I think there is a lot of truth to that maxim (more as a reader/viewer than as a writer), but I see the other side of the coin also.

A few years ago Stephen King took a lot of heat from his fans for The Colorado Kid. Readers were up in arms that King left the conclusion up to them. The same author was criticized a bit for his wrap-up to The Dark Tower, an ending whose infinite nature I thought was perfectly appropriate, given the complexion of the story arc and our hero, Roland Deschain.

Movies like A Civil Action, whose ambiguous anti-climax (Travolta shrugging, speechless, in a tight close-up) effectively captured the hopelessness of our civil justice system, and No Country for Old Men (an excellent film, across almost every critical criterion) have been taken to task for their open-ended conclusions.

In some cases (and I think this is the case for each of the four works I cited above) I think less is more. It's laudable for an artist to have confidence enough in his or her audience to glean "meaning" from the text without the benefit of overt explanation.

I had an editor request a rewrite on a story that called for a huge chunk of excised "showing" in the third act. His argument was, let's just let them see what they want for themselves. The audience can determine the horror more effectively than we can dictate it to them.

I'm in a similar place with a story I'm revising right now. I wrote a scene that included a blow-by-blow account of the vision in question, then I chopped it. I'm trying to leave the ending far more ambiguous, which allows for a little spectatorial creativity. One of the great strengths of writing horror, I think, is the subjective nature of the subjects that make our skin crawl.

Why not put that individuality to good use?

On another note, I received a personalized rejection on a story I sent to one of the "Big Three" fiction magazines yesterday. I've tried these folks a number of times, and it was gratifying to get a note of encouragement on my progress as a scribbler...