Castle of Days (1992) SSC

by Gene Wolfe

  Let’s change the metaphor. There are tigers in zoos and there are tigers in circuses. The tigers in zoos are strong and sleek and beautiful, and potentially quite dangerous; but they don’t do anything. The tigers in circuses are no stronger, no sleeker, no more beautiful, and no more dangerous; but they do things that surprise us and perhaps even frighten us a bit. We see them in action. People pay to get into circuses, but zoos are free. Now do you get the picture?

  If I could give you just one piece of advice for the story you’re going to enter in the next contest, it would be this: Think of yourself as a wild-beast trainer, and your idea as a big cat in your show. Walking out onto the stage and saying, “Hey, look at my lion,” isn’t going to cut it. So what show—not what kind of show, that’s amateur talk—are you going to put on? Is your idea going to jump through a hoop of flame? Is it going to climb onto the shoulders of two other ideas and roar?

  Well, oil up your whip and make sure you’ve got a good, stout chair, because somebody’s going to have to make it do that, and that somebody is you. You’ve got an idea in your head, and that’s good; now let’s see you put your head in the idea’s mouth.

  Faithfully,

  Gene Wolfe

  Four Letters

  FROM A LETTER TO SHARON BAKER DATED FEBRUARY 25, 1983

  I wish I could claim deleting Chapter I as a bold and original stroke, but it is the sort of advice one learns to give after teaching a few workshops; a great many stories begin with the material the author generated in making the scene real for himself. Sometimes it should go in the fire. Sometimes it should be tucked back—see my The Shadow of the Torturer, in which Chapter II was originally Chapter I. Sometimes it should be left where it is; but beginners seldom even consider the question, and it is one of the jobs of a workshop instructor to make them.

  No, that you couldn’t bear to part with the verse is not a sign that you should have. That idea comes from Dr. Johnson’s “Read over your compositions, and whenever you meet with a passage you think particularly fine, strike it out.” But the quote should be taken in context. Dr. Johnson was criticizing a historian who salted his history with imaginary details. The quotation is applicable to fiction only when the “passages” are extraneous to the story in the same way the bad historian’s fancies were extraneous to the events he purported to relate. There is a certain type of writer who sees his stories primarily as means for advancing his opinions, to which humanity is too sensible to listen when they are presented plain. When we read his works, we find the characters making speeches, and it is of those speeches (which the reader soon learns to skip) that he is most proud. You are not one of those writers.

  You ask if I know any rules for epilogues. The only ones I know are that an epilogue should differ markedly in style from the preceding matter, and that it should deal with events after the formal close of the story. Do you recall the man who read The Acts of the Apostles because he wanted to find out what happened to Peter? Epilogues are for him. Changing the book to fit what you had learned was just the normal evolution of a story. That’s what all of us do, if we learn anything. Don’t confuse the fluidity of manuscript with the immutability of print.

  By “what’s right,” I take it you mean morally, rather than artistically. Your agent says the scenes are not exploitative; your group leader says they are. To exploit something in the sense we’re discussing here is to use it meanly or unjustly. If for example your use of the material violated some agreement you made with your informants, that would be unjust. If you implied that you would make no use of the facts given you (as apart from the identities of the boys), then to use them would be mean. However, it would be legitimate to ask why you were told these things at all, if you were to make no use of the information.

  In considering these decisions, you have to keep in mind that there are actually three parties involved—your informant, your readers, and yourself. Between your informant and yourself, there is generally an implied agreement that in return for your time and attention you may use his information, provided the use is not damaging to him. Between you and your readers, there is an implied agreement that in return for your readers’ money, time, and attention, you will tell the best story you can. That is not rationalization. If your book ends up as an “ordinary” paperback, it will be read by 20,000 people at least. To many of the 20,000, the $2.75 or so they paid will be serious money. What was your agreement with the boys? Are there circumstances under which the acts of your characters might be identified as theirs? (Frankly, I can’t imagine how anyone could know which boy told you what.)

  You say your leader “suggests a close watch and suggestions from me.” I’m not sure I understand what he means by a close watch; but my feeling about agents is that if you have one who requires close watching, you should get another one.

  By suggestions I assume he means possible markets. If you know of a publisher who’s publishing stories similar to yours, there’s certainly no reason you shouldn’t tell your agent about it. However, it will be to your advantage to turn your attention away from the finished work and toward a new one as quickly as you can. The surest way I know to fail as a writer is to wait until one story sells before starting another.

  “Is there a way to tell the difference between an idea for a short story and an idea for a novel?” Sure. If what interests you most is what’s going to happen, that’s a short story. If it’s the people or the scene, that’s a novel. Of course there are short stories that have been blown into novels because novels are more profitable; and there are novels that have been done as short stories because their authors were lazy—plenty of each.

  FROM A LETTER TO PATTY BOWNE DATED MEMORIAL DAY 1983

  If I read your stories and told you they were good—or that they weren’t—it wouldn’t mean a thing. I’ve been writing for half my life, and I still send stories to Ed Ferman (I’m just pulling his name out of the air, I could as readily give you half a dozen others) of F&SF that I’m sure he’ll buy but that he turns down. Recently my agent sent him “From the Desk of Gilmer C. Merton,” which I would have said he’d never take, and he bought it.

  If you learn only one thing about writing from me, Patty, I hope it’s that it’s useless to send your work to writers, teachers, relatives, and friends; and most especially useless to send it to self-appointed critics. If you want criticism (and suggestions), join a writers’ club or enroll in a workshop. Otherwise, send your stories to editors who have money to pay you and a book or magazine in which to publish your work. If Ed Ferman buys your story, it’s publishable by definition. If he doesn’t, it doesn’t mean a thing, because George Scithers or Ellen Datlow or Terri Windling may—but only if they get a chance to see it. I once sold a story on the thirty-fifth submission. If you want to read it, you’ll find it reprinted in a book called Mother Was a Lovely Beast.

  You see, the thing is that I’m not Ed Ferman. I don’t know what he already has in inventory; and I don’t get to read the letters he gets from readers. And he and the other people like him are the only ones who count.

  Let me tell you a secret, something nearly all the writing books and writing teachers will keep from you. Almost anyone who wants to can learn to write, just as almost anyone who wants to badly enough can learn to play the fiddle or swim. I have no idea whether you’re doing publishable work now; I can’t have one until I see your byline someplace. But I know that someone who writes the letters you do can learn to write if she wants to. Do you? It’s a question only you can answer.

  FROM A LETTER TO SHARON BUTLER DATED NOVEMBER 11, 1983

  No, it’s not hard to strike a balance between saying too much and confusing and discouraging someone and being too general and positive. Beginning writers are confused already, so no further harm can be done there, and real writers write more when they’re discouraged, so it’s obviously good for them.

  How come I knew you’d get something published when you didn’t? Because of my vast (okay, half) experience as a wor
kshop teacher. I have learned that when you get an enthusiastic beginner who’s obviously willing to work very hard and who’s already writing border-line material that shows frequent flashes of real ability, that beginner will succeed unless hit firmly and often by a truck. The wise workshop teacher then encourages that beginner so he can take credit for her afterward.

  The tough thing—as you’ll discover when you’re a workshop teacher yourself—is what to do with the people who show no talent at all. Because they sometimes blossom. I’m told that when Ed Bryant went to Clarion he was considered the Student Least Likely to Make It. Now he’s probably the best-known writer to come out of that Clarion class, and nearly all the rest have sunk without a trace. How can you look at Ed-Bryants-in-embryo and see fine short-story artists fighting to get out? I taught Clarion in 1975, and Stan Robinson was in my class. His work was mediocre. About a month ago I nominated his “Black Air” for the Nebula, and his novel The Wild Shore will be out soon.

  Glad you and your agent are in harmony now.

  We’re a couple of weeks back from England, where I made a signing tour for Arrow (my British pb publisher). It was great fun, perhaps the best trip of my life, and to cap it Sword got the British Fantasy Society’s award (the Derleth Award). It’s even uglier than the World Fantasy Award, which I’ve got it standing next to, and I love it! Somebody should do a little piece about writing trophies, I think. The Hugo (I don’t have one, alas) is charmingly old-fashioned-modern, like Art Deco. Nebulas are lovely and make great bookends.

  FROM A LETTER TO ELLEN KUSHNER DATED APRIL 2, 1985

  Actually, I don’t know whether you’re an idiot or not. All of us are idiots at times; today I discovered I’d been an idiot, and I haven’t the least intention of giving you the details.

  And I knew that some of the things you said in your first letter were meant as jokes. But since I’m not always an idiot, I know that people sometimes joke about things they’re afraid (or ashamed) to say seriously.

  Last time I tried to explain why I answered as I did. I don’t think I got my point across, so I’m going to try another tack. You want your talent measured by a novel you’ve already finished. I won’t do that, because:

  No one should be judged in that way on a first novel. (And calling a first novel a third novel doesn’t make it one.)

  “So far” is over now. You wrote on 3/19. About three weeks will have passed by the time you get this. If you’re a writer at all (and you have to be—you’re too obstinate for anything else) you’re wiser, smarter, and more mature now than when you wrote—and a whole lot better than you were when you decided not to redraft p. 400.

  You have confirmed my suspicion that you’re lazy; and if you aren’t willing to follow the first book up with a second, I don’t give a damn whether you’re talented or not, and neither does anyone else. Maybe you’re sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to quit, but I’m not. If you are, quit already; just don’t get me mixed up in it.

  I wish you’d pin down for me just what Life Experience is; I probably don’t have any either. Marriage and a baby? Windjammer cruise around the world? A year in a canning factory? My suggestion: Go to the Soviet consulate and express your entire willingness to infiltrate wherever they have no one filtrated already. They’ll assume you’re a double agent, and you’ll meet interesting people and have the time of your life.

  Either that title, The White Queen, has to go or you have to tie it to Carroll some way. Have you read my story “In Looking-Glass Castle”?

  Since you’ve the fantods and have never workshopped, here’s another idea: in Boston, Damon Knight was talking about reviving the Milford Conference in December; write him, say I told you, and ask him to invite you.

  Meanwhile (notice how devious I am) send your Liavek story. I’m trying to get my Liavek story, “Choice of the Black Goddess,” which is just as silly as it sounds, back from Virginia Kidd. If I succeed, I will send it to you so you can advise me to take up finger painting.

  Achieving Dramatic Scenes: The Cat in the Starfleet’s Attic

  Dramatic scenes are to fiction what two-by-fours are to a house—the basic stuff that keeps all the other stuff up. Many beginning writers seem to have trouble with them; but after talking with such writers in several workshops, I have concluded that their problems result from misconceptions. Once they understand what a dramatic scene is (and what it is not), things get better quickly.

  A dramatic scene is a depiction of an event or unified series of events intended to arouse emotion in the reader.

  Notice that I said depiction, not description. When Chuck comes up to Bob and says, “Gosh, Bob, you’re not going to believe this, but Sue-Anne just threw her cat down the well,” the throwing of the cat into the well is not part of the dramatic scene. It is only the telling that constitutes a part of the dramatic scene (the conversation between Chuck and Bob). That means that if Chuck is not lying, and if the throwing of the cat is not shown somewhere else, the author has blown the opportunity for a good scene.

  Since Chuck’s telling Bob about the cat does not count, it should be obvious that the author’s telling the reader in the same way does not count either. But it is not. At least half the unpublishable stories I have read have started something like this: “Cat sat at the bottom of the dry well, licking her paws. How fair this strange world of Highhome had appeared from the viewscreen of Milky, her saucer. How friendly most of the natives had seemed, especially Sue-Anne, until … .” This story is beginning at its end, and the author is going to tell us what it would have been like if only somebody had written it. The sole dramatic scene has Cat at the bottom of her well. All the opportunities for drama in the landing, the first encounter with a Doberman, and so on have been thrown away.

  Beginning authors do this because they are afraid they cannot handle the dramatic scene they sense they need. If they were to try to write it, they might fail—but by not trying, they have failed already. What is worse, they have failed to learn everything they might have learned just by attempting the scene. If I have a job interview and fail to show up, not only do I not land the job, but I do not get any inkling of why I did not get it—except that I really did not try to get it.

  One last misconception, and the blame for this one falls squarely on books about writing and articles like this. A great many of them tell the beginning writer that dramatic scenes must have conflict; and as a result the beginning writer tries to stick in conflict where it does not belong; his lovers cannot meet without quarreling, and soon the reader wonders why they became lovers at all.

  Conflict is at the center of nineteen stories out of twenty; and in fact, most dramatic scenes involve conflict. When the plucky survivors try to get their limping emergency pod all the way to Highhome, a planet with air, there is conflict between them and the inhuman void of space. When Tlon Ebrt sweats every time he catches a glimpse of that sinister greebo vine, there is conflict between his need to stay straight and his longing to shoot up. But remember, a dramatic scene is simply a depiction of events intended to arouse emotion in the reader. In “The Doctor of Death Island” the former mistress of a prisoner who had been held in suspended animation came to visit him in prison. She was about sixty now, he was still thirty-five. He felt mingled affection and pity—she longed for the future she had lost. I think it was a good dramatic scene, but there was no conflict. There is no conflict in “Silver Blaze” when Holmes explains that the horse is the “murderer,” but it is a famous scene. There’s no conflict when Hugh Rogers finds the beginning place, but it is a wonderful scene. (You have not read Le Guin’s The Beginning Place? Go read it!)

  Now that we have brushed aside the dust and know what is not a dramatic scene, and understand that such scenes need not include conflict (though most will), let us get to the scene itself. How do you do it?

  To start with, you must know the kind of emotion you are aiming for; that is because the location and props must be handled in a way that will evoke it. A
place or thing in a story is never menacing, inspiring, uncanny, or whatever of itself; it is the mood that the writer brings to it that makes it so. Suppose that you are writing a horror story and want a scene in an attic. The attic is dark and reeks of decay; great cobwebs, heavy with dust, hang like the curtains of some unspeakable theater, and so forth. But wait! What you need at this point is a love scene. Very well, the attic is silent, private; a beam of moonlight strays through one dusty window; the old music box has not forgotten its waltz; the brocade settee … Or perhaps you feel the need for comic relief here. Fine, the settee will collapse when the lovers embrace on it, throwing them onto grandma’s old dress form, where the squirrels have nested.

  And it is all the same attic.

  Once you have set the stage, all that is left is for you to bring on your characters and show them saying or doing something that is in some way important to them. If the reader believes in your characters and cares about them, then watching them say or do it will arouse his feelings—it is as simple as that. You have just three things to work with: thought, word, and action. You can show the reader what any character is thinking, you can let him hear what the character says, or you can show him what the character does. Think of them as a knight, a rook, and the queen. The queen—action—is the most powerful piece, but in most games a good player uses every piece he has, and in some games he may never touch his queen.

  Even when the queen comes into play, a short move may win the game and a long one lose it. If Jad Fenris is the commander of the Confederation’s DeepStar Fleet, he looks silly swinging haymakers in Central Control; by moving his finger a couple of centimeters he can blow up Highhome and its three billion people.