Writing is an act of exploration
A stark realist, grounded in the visible limits of a man tapping keys or scratching with a pen, would call my current stage of the writing process prewriting, brainstorming, ideating. If one could see through my mind, witness with all her senses what I bear witness to, she would call this anthropology, cartography, pilgrimage.
I once heard in an offhand comment, “The only kind of person with a bigger God complex than a doctor is a writer.” While this sentiment may be true of some writers, it does not align with my philosophy of writing. This sentiment derives from the assumption that writing is an act of creation, and the stories one writes are the vessel for the world one has created. No, I believe that writing is an act of discovery, exploration, and depiction; both my stories and I myself are the vessels for the world I have discovered.
Map of the world known to Europeans, drawn in 1529 by Diego Ribero. Notice that the North American West Coast is missing.
Let’s put this philosophy into context. A writer of contemporary fiction writes about the real world he sees before him, having experienced its intricacies enough to weave a story out of them, with people he has met and places he has visited as building blocks. Likewise, a writer of historical fiction writes about the real world as it existed in a time that she could not have seen, having researched its intricacies enough to weave a story out of them. But neither of these writers created the real world. The real world was (and still is) discovered, explored, and depicted. If you look at the map above, drawn in 1529 by Portuguese cartographer Diego Ribero, you’ll notice nebulous, undefined areas in the Americas and Asia, which at the time were unknown to Europeans. I’ll bet that many writers, in the early stages of their book’s development, can sympathize with the feeling of working with an incomplete map. One of the numerous traits shared by fictional worlds and the real world is that they must be explored before they can be depicted.
Fantasy fiction writers do not create the worlds they write about any more than realist fiction writers do. Both approximate the world we’ve grown up in, to varying degrees, then incorporate elements delivered via the imagination. Sure, the author makes decisions on hair color and who does what when, but if an author throws elements together into fiction that seems implausible to the reader, the narrative falls apart; therefore, writers do not have absolute power over their stories. “Wordbuilding” is a commonly used and deeply appropriate term in fantasy circles, and I believe its connotations vitally differentiate it from “worldcreating” (a term not typically used). To build, one requires raw materials delivered from forests and quarries. A writer’s raw materials are experiences, delivered from the real world, from other stories, or from unknown external sources. And of course, a builder is not necessarily an architect. (Ian, Dana, Jess, Paul, Cameron, Charity, Rachel, Connor, other writers, do you agree?)
When I imagine the Timestage world, I do not feel as though I have shaped its geography with my hands or physically given birth to the people who inhabit it. I feel as though I have caught a glimpse of a land that somehow existed before I ever set foot on its soil, similar to my homeland in some ways. I feel as though I have been introduced to a unique person, with his own traits that I can only learn by growing better acquainted with him. I explore it piece by piece. But if I did not invent these pieces, how did I find them? I believe they are revealed to me by an external unknown; every culture has a slightly different notion of this, but perhaps the most universally known is the Muse.
“Hesiod and the Muse” by Gustave Moreau, 1891.
I could ramble on and on about this gorgeously crafted painting. Hesiod, one of the most ancient Greek storytellers, plays the lyre under the guidance of his muse. Rather than directly instructing him, she hovers close behind, whispering in his ear. Rather than forcing his hand, her fingers gently rest on his wrist. This is exactly how I feel the presence of my muse in my own life—it speaks wordlessly through my mind, brushing back the curtain between me and my next character, occasionally leading me down new paths throughout the Timestage world. And while I never leave our world to inhabit my story world, I explore it nonetheless—Timestage exists somewhere in the Great Mystery, my muse is its conduit to me, I am its conduit to my books, and someday, my books will be its conduit to the real world.
The Muses were the Greek goddesses of the arts, and enabled humans to play instruments, sing, dance, and write. Similar deities appear in Hinduism (the Apsaras), Roman mythology (the Camenae), and Norse mythology (the Völva). Before some of you accuse me of being pagan, allow me to remind you that when John Milton invokes his muse at the beginning of Paradise Lost, he is almost certainly referring to the Holy Spirit. And before some of you accuse me of being a zealot, allow me to remind you that the muses have been widely interpreted as a universal condition of humanity, ranging from the most strictly defined deities to the very abstraction of inspiration itself. What really matters here is that my stories do not come from me, but rather come through me. Regardless of how you choose to view inspiration, I invite you to explore the Timestage world along with me, piece by piece.
Today, I have stated outright my philosophy on writing. From now onward, may it be evidenced in my words, my phrasings, and in my dependence on the Great Mystery, that invisible fountain from which all inspiration flows.
What’s your personal mode of expression? What inspires you? How do you relate to such things on a philosophical level?
I agree. That’s how I feel about my stories that I write too. I discover the worlds and help them find form to share with others…big universes go beyond that too, it’s what the fans and others write and even before that, all those who give feedback on the story through it’s many forms.
You are definitely on my wavelength! You’ve extrapolated the philosophy of discovery into a vitally connected philosophy, which I also plan to write about someday: writing is an act of sharing.
Very well put! A lot of authors talk their characters almost as if they’re real people, like the characters are bossing the authors around and explaining what they would rather be doing. Your philosophy taps into this mindset that authors don’t so much create characters and worlds as discover them. I always love those moments: when I think I know everything about my story and suddenly the story takes control and shows me something I didn’t expect.
Exactly. It’s such a surreal feeling when a character resists my direction as an author. It surprises and enlightens me, almost the same feeling I get when I learn something new about a friend. That’s what sets truly dynamic characters apart from cliches and artificial robot people—they seem to exercise their own free will.
I think you phrased it well “my stories do not come from me, but rather come through me.” I never got that far with my novel but when the story flowed, it was of it’s own accord, and trying to force it got me nowhere. The same for a few short stories…some of them I always wanted to extend, but they were already complete, and there was no more to tell without corrupting it. One of the hardest things I experienced while writing was trying to explain my ‘vision’ of story elements to my then-boyfriend (now-husband) who was trying to help me illustrate. As hard as I tried I couldn’t quite satisfactorily describe to him the things that I saw, that I KNEW to be true for my story so that he could depict them visually.
“Corruption” is precisely the word I would use to describe a story or a character that has been twisted and coerced by its author into something that it was never meant to be. They feel wrong, sterile, sometimes even violated, to the point where I can’t stomach them. Stories must be allowed to take their natural course.
I strongly sympathize with your struggle over describing a story element to someone who hasn’t experienced it in the same way. For my part, I write my blog the way I do because it’s the only way I can naturally convey my stories in their present form. Thanks for sharing!
@ Jessica – Sometimes I FEEL stories. That’s the really difficult part of writing. Not getting down the actions, the words, the settings. Capturing the feeling.
I love this Brendan. These ideas we discussed together and this prompt you explored with me is amazing to read as a final product.
Thanks Dory! Talking this concept out with you was immensely helpful in getting my words flowing when I sat down to write. Good thing you’re such a patient listener.
you asked my opinion on the difference (if there is one) between builders and architects. perhaps this is simply my experience working in landscape construction and ranching – but i think it applies to writing as well – but in part i think that what you said is true. builders are rarely the architects of what they build. that said, in real life applications and the writing process as well, sometimes the builders would make a better architect due to their experience in the real world (of construction or what have you). often times it is easier for the builder to design a more efficient plan than an architect who is in an office all day.
much the same could be said about writers and the different roles they play. i think that as authors we need to play both roles equally. much like the builder we use the raw materials to construct the world or plot in our stories. but it is also up to us to decide how to use those materials and what we make from them.
not sure if that’s what you had intended or not… but there’s my two cents!
Connor, I think you’re definitely on to something when you say that “sometimes the builders would make a better architect due to their experience in the real world.” While there is certainly a difference between those who craft and those who create, greater experience in that craft heightens one’s ability to produce quality work. A builder who has gotten his hands dirty knows more about structural integrity, just as a writer who writes (and reads) lots of material knows more about narrative structure and what makes a story believable. The only way to truly excel at something is to immerse yourself in it. Bearing that in mind, I suppose blogging is an appropriate exercise for writers! Thanks for your interpretation of that metaphor; what are your thoughts on the rest of the post?
Very excellent sir! For a topic that varies so much from writer to writer, you did a great job of pulling together the aspects of writing that unites us all together! Bravo!
I absolutely agree with the concept of writing as discovery. I once heard a great description of the writing process as the effort to clear fog away from the page in order to discover what’s written there.
On the other hand, I’m a big believer in the demands of craft — although I agree with your distiction between building and architecture, Brendan. In Anglo-Saxon, a poet was a scop — a “shaper.” And of course someone who writes plays is a playwright — as someone who builds ships is a shipwright.
Ian, you sure can turn a phrase. That’s a gorgeous metaphor, one that I’ll surely steal and claim as my own. And yes, writing is a grueling task (thankfully, considering the enormous mass of written material floating around as is). I suppose the point I was trying to make is that channeling your source of inspiration (whether it’s a friend, another story, or what have you) is in its own right an element of “shaping.” Craft obviously requires discipline in order to develop, and as for me, I need a lot of practice. If you have any strategies that helped you hone your craft, I’d love to hear them.