CONJUNCTION JUNCTION

by Angela Zeman

Sometimes I wonder why we readers and writers have such a love affair going with the written word. I’m proceeding on the premise that we get just one life. (Reincarnation would be great, but suppose it’s not true?)

Time passes. No matter what we do with it, time does not reverse. So why spend our once-in-a-lifetime irreplaceable minutes reading all this untrue stuff called fiction? Are we throwing those minutes — hours — away? Or is something happening that makes our time spent occupying an alternate universe worthwhile?

Fiction has been characterized many ways. The theory I’ve come across most often is that fiction is one way to fulfill a powerful human need to understand our world. Some say it’s a temporary retreat into a “just” world which, despite its being imaginary, helps us cope with our “unjust” reality. Some writers use fiction as a soapbox from which to flog a favorite cause. Carl Hiaasen has done that for years, to our great enjoyment. Some writers do it not so well. Other theories exist (e.g., we read for vicarious adventure, to visit via armchair exotic locales), but space prevents a comprehensive list.

Still, why do we like fiction so much?

Karl Iglesias, a story consultant and teacher I admire, proposes that good stories are emotion. His hypothesis explains why the same person can read about Rambo, a ditzy process server who never saw a car she couldn’t total, a gentleman diner miffed at what he perceives as a snub (Stanley Ellin, check it out), or even a heart that won’t stop beating (no hints) — and yet like them all.

Connection, according to Karl, is the connection. Okay, I’m being clever there, but I couldn’t resist. Emotional impact is the connection, and of course, what impacts one person emotionally has no effect on someone else.

Unquestionably, our choices of reading material are subjective — as are the preferences of any editor, which is why we writers submit and submit and submit, seeking the (incredibly intelligent) editor who likes what we write enough to pay for it.

Therefore, keeping in mind Karl’s statement, what we choose to write/read says much about us, as does our choice of what not to read. Cruising our bookshelves can be an eye-opening window into our own psyches — if we dare to look. Some might wish to remain happily unaware.

Karl says (I paraphrase) that emotional connection can be caused by any element of the story. It can happen in a moment of dialogue between two characters. Sometimes it’s the overall theme that draws us. Obscure moment or immense, no difference.

Obviously, the story that can generate the strongest emotional responses throughout — that’s the story we remember and love best.

One clear example of this would be the first Star Wars movie. Good vs. evil, archetypes galore. Archetypes are called archetypes because they’re basic universally recognized life-truths repeated so often, they’ve become … well … basic.

Harry Potter — an unhappy, unwanted, bespectacled boy who wishes he’d mistakenly ended up in the wrong family … and then discovers he’s right! Not only is he right, but in his “real” world, he has magic power! What child has not dreamed this dream?

In these two examples, hundreds of thousands of people connected emotionally to many of the feelings embodied by both stories and characters. Huge success. And huge enjoyment, meaning emotional satisfaction.

For those interested, Karl Iglesias compiled a unique collection of words: “The Emotional Thesaurus.” Under the headings of Fear, Hate, Anger, Sorrow, Confusion, Shame, Curiosity, Surprise, Confidence, Desire, Love, and Joy—he lists synonyms. No one could label all emotions, but his lists are lengthy and thought provoking.

So after reading a story you particularly enjoyed, step back. What part made you feel emotion? Did that emotion satisfy you, make you uncomfortable, make you think about the story long after closing the book? Then apply the same questions to a few more stories. Taken together, the answers will be revealing, and who knows where that self-knowledge might lead?

Writers can dig just as deep, but in a different way: list story ideas you considered, whether they were eventually written or not. If you find a commonality buried within the words, you might discover that a deeply held belief or feeling has been informing your writing. Usually that belief, more commonly called theme, repeats itself even when the writer switches subgenres, protagonists, or story elements.

I recently heard a writer complain, “I’m writing the same story over and over. Why am I doing that?” He didn’t mean literally the same story. It’s just that he’d spotted his “theme” and was frustrated in his attempts to change it. He didn’t realize how perceptive he’d been. Many writers never find the deep theme beneath their words. But knowingly or not, most writers continue to write their “theme” all through their career.

In the recent flurry of newsprint devoted to Philip Roth, didn’t a critic mention Roth’s literary preoccupation with his penis? Wonder what emotion Roth’s penis made him feel, to which his fan base related?

Yes, I do happen to know my theme, but regretfully it has no relation to a penis, which might have been kind of fun.