Under The Rocks Are The Words

A philosophical movement on the nature of writing

When we first begin to draw as children, we start with the shapes of things, thinking in the simplest terms, the outlines and forms of the world as we see it. There are triangular trees and square houses, celestial circles in the sky, and oval dogs on the ground. We begin with the shape of the things, and then we color them in.

If we continue chasing art into adulthood, we eventually understand that most of what we see is made manifest by the presence or absence of light. We start to experience the world as defined by shadows that reveal half-formed objects and distorted shapes. We see only a tiny part of the known universe, and the rest lies in the shadows, unseen, unrealized, and unheralded.

To make an object appear realistic on the canvas, we are forced to distort its natural shape because objects don’t have a constant silhouette in our perceived reality. Their form is only revealed to us in fractional ways determined by the presence of light and shadow, and our relation to it. There is depth and perspective, and our sense of reality is distorted because of it. What we see is not really what is there because our minds fill in the rest of the puzzle with what we think we know.

We don’t have to see the entirety of the ball to know it’s a ball. We learn to trust that there is much more to life than what we can see because there is literally more there than meets the eye.

This is how we learn to write, as well.

When first we begin to tell stories, we explain everything in a very straightforward manner. The subject did this and said that — then another thing happened, and everyone cheered. We have yet to construct an authentic world for the action to take place, so it’s very two-dimensional. It’s all shapes and no shadows; the seemingly extraneous details that make a story come to life are not yet there.

I’m not talking about interminable description here, but the sensory cues that can breathe life into a story and draw the reader in. We must leave a door open for the reader to enter, because if there is nothing for them to latch onto emotionally—no aspect that resonates with them—it won’t feel authentic or real, and they will dismiss it as fake, or worse, juvenile. It’s the fake building facade on a movie set. It looks like a real building, but there’s no life inside because it’s only inches deep.

Peripheral Problem Solving

Sometimes I like to think of writing as a problem to be solved. We have an idea, one that has shaken us from our slumber and demanded that we address it, and now we have a proof to be solved. It’s both metaphysical and mathematical, quantitative and qualitative. Unlike in math, there is no one single solution to be found, but two plus two must still equal four. There has to be a logic to it, no matter how ethereal it may be. There is no one in life more precise than the poet, after all.

This is not to suggest that we must be analytical in our process. As a writer—and in life, I suppose—I’m entirely intuitive when it comes to process, yet I still believe in rules and structure. Whatever cockamamie scheme you’ve ginned up, it still must follow a logic that the reader can follow. There must be a linear flow of understanding that once you’ve established a premise, you must follow that premise to the end. There’s nothing creative about confusing the reader. They’re your rules; the least you can do is follow them.

Too many people attempt to solve a problem by staring directly at it, hoping that by sheer force of will, the solution will reveal itself. This is a bit like staring at the TV, hoping you can use The Force to change the channel. In my experience, it rarely happens that you solve a problem by tackling it head-on, and if you do, you’ve likely taken the most obvious approach and garnered the most obvious solution, which may be enough for you, but it shouldn’t be.

If you want to come up with something original, which is the only thing of real value, you have to place yourself in close proximity to the problem, either literally or figuratively, and then sit quietly and patiently, paying close attention to your peripheral vision. What appears tangentially or just nearly out of sight? What is the effect of the problem? How does it manifest itself in the world around it?

It’s like the wind or a black hole. We can’t see it but we can see its effects on the space around it, so we know it exists. How do we describe the wind? By describing how it alters what we can see and feel. We are moved by the wind because we experience how it affects us.

Climbing The Wind

“‘You’ve got to climb the wind,’ he said to me. ‘When you sail a boat, you’ve got to climb the wind all the time.’”

Richard Bode, in his memoir First You Have To Row A Little Boat explains that in all the years since he learned to sail as a boy, he’d met innumerable sailors who understood the theory of sailing to the most technical point but couldn’t explain it plainly. But this one salty Long Island boat captain, who had taught him to sail, had been able to distill it down to a bit of illustrative prose he could understand.

“It was from the captain’s vivid imagery — Climb the wind! — that I first perceived the delicate balance between myself, my boat, and the sea.”

Poetry and metaphor are how we both teach and learn the balance of life. We think we want a step-by-step instruction manual that will tell us exactly what to do and when, but that never works. If someone told you the mechanics of how to swim, step-by-step, it would not do you much good were you to be suddenly thrown into the water, unable to swim. You have to get in the water and flounder around a bit.

The French poet Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said, “If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up men to gather wood, divide the work, and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea.”

We learn best from real-life experience, which is incredibly messy and altogether human, but we begin slowly, and knowledge comes to us first in a trickle, then in a rush. We must first be inspired to take the journey, and then be given proper tools to ensure our success. This is why a good teacher sets landmarks in the student’s mind so that the writer will recognize them when they reach those milestones in their travels. You still have to figure out your own way, and you will, but when you get there, you’ll know you’re on the right track because there is indeed a friendly cow standing under a tree by the side of the road, and you are climbing the wind.

Teachable Moments

I heard a famous actor talking about great directors he’d worked with, and he spoke fondly of one he thought gave him a particularly useful note. He’d just completed a take in a scene, and the director walked over and said simply, “There’s more at stake here.”

Instantly, the actor knew what the director meant and what he needed to deliver to make the scene work. The director didn’t tell him how to do it, what emotion to bring, what to say, or how to say it. He merely explained the situation in a way the actor could understand and act upon. The stakes were higher than the performance he had just given suggested.

When the stakes are high, there is no single emotional response that would be truthful, because it’s incredibly complex and so much depends on the character and the situation. Simply knowing that there is a heightened sense of expectation for the character in that moment, allows the actor to tap into a range of emotions that can carry the scene.

I don’t believe you can teach someone to be a good writer, but you can give them the tools that will allow them to teach themselves if they have the gift and the desire. Talent is an arbitrary gift that is given neither freely nor equitably. It’s like good looks. It’s handed our randomly and capriciously. You’re either born with it or you’re not. The beautiful people didn’t earn their good looks. It’s mostly genetics and happenstance.

Good writing is difficult enough that only the strong survive so the ones who don’t have the gift or the drive to see it through, will quit on their own. It’s a self-selecting occupation and most fall by the wayside without much fanfare.

I tell you this because not only do you need to be a good student, but a good teacher as well. You need to be your own teacher and to do that, you need to understand the lessons, so the student in you can learn. You don’t have to know the way, but it’s helpful to know what signs to look for along the way.

Searching The Shadows For A Side Door

I am not trying to be intentionally opaque, suggesting that you write in code, or that you resort to symbolism in your work. I am urging you to look for the less obvious side door as you go about the task of finding your story. Think about the thing you want to write about and figure a way in that doesn’t involve the grand front entrance. Find an open basement window you can squeeze through, then take a look around. Basements are fascinating places and can tell you a lot about the people who live upstairs.

When you’re approaching a subject to write about, you don’t want to follow the well-worn path to the door. You want your own unique take on things. Your idea doesn’t have to be earth-shattering or revolutionary. It just needs to offer a fresh perspective; your unique take on it because of your individual point of view. Spend some time walking around the outside, looking for cracks, open windows, doors slightly ajar. Consider what is next door or just outside. What sort of neighborhood are you in? Who are the neighbors? Who, or what, lives in the shadows?

I did consulting work for Disney World many moons ago, and one of my biggest frustrations with them was that they would photograph everything perfectly lit and in perfect focus. Nothing was out of focus or in shadow. It was disturbing and otherworldly, and not in a good way, either. More like someone was going to remove one of your kidneys and sell it on the black market. That’s certainly not how the spaces were designed, nor is it how they were presented in real life. That’s just not how we see the world. They were trying to show what things looked like and I kept trying to get them to show what it felt like.

It’s a bit unrealistic to believe that readers will ever see what you see in your mind’s eye. You could describe a place you were both just in and they probably wouldn’t recognize it. It’s too subjective. But what you can do is make them feel how you want them to feel. You can give them an emotional framework to consider that sets the stage for where you want to take them.

There’s something to be said for allowing a little mystery in your writing. What can you imply but leave unsaid? Bring a little poetry to your analytical take. Make room for the shadows and the things that abide there. As we get more advanced in our craft, we discover that what we leave out, is just as important as what we put in.

Beauty And Tragedy

For all my philosophical meandering, there is a practical application to all this, and that is to look past the obvious to seek a deeper truth. You think your story is about your recent divorce, the birth of your firstborn, that trip upstate in your 20s, your love of sweet corn, or a recent trip to the post office. It can be all those things, but what else is it? What did you learn? What can we learn? What is the theme? What’s the blurb on the cover of the book that this scene is ripped from? You took the time to write it and you expect the reader to take the time to read it, so it better be about something.

Norman Maclean wrote “A River Runs Through It” in his 70s, a few years after he’d retired from four decades of teaching English at the University of Chicago. It was the only book he ever published, at least while he was still alive, and consisted of a novella and two short stories. While it borrows heavily from his life, it’s not a memoir, but a work of fiction. I think most of us think of it as the story of his life, it’s so well told.

Throughout his life, Maclean obsessed over two main themes in his life: tragedy and beauty. The title story is a perfect encapsulation of that philosophy. But what is the story about? Is it a story about fishing? About our inability to help those closest to us? Two brothers and how differently they responded to a changing world?

One of the many publishers who rejected the book said, “These stories have trees in them.” It is all of those things, of course, but it’s mostly about the confluence of beauty and tragedy.

What will your story be about?

Is it the wind and the rain, or is it redemption and gratitude? Thinking indirectly, looking out of the corner of your eye, searching in the shadows for a side door, and recognizing that everything we experience is not always how it appears will help you to find the deeper truth in your stories. Take the reader on a journey of discovery, but remember to always bring them back home again. When all else fails, look for the cow under the tree and climb the wind.

The most powerful stories are those that teach us something true and honest about ourselves. We are drawn to vulnerability and exquisite detail because that is the human part we recognize as a reflection of who we are: sensual beings, terrified of our own mortality. Tap into that and you will never be at a loss for readers.

Follow David Todd McCarty on Mastodon.

Under The Rocks Words Writing