The art of convincing

(This article is based on a talk which the author gave to the Perm Seminar on Contemporary English Literature in September 2019.)

When a reader picks up a novel, a short story, any piece of fiction, they know for the most part that they are embarking on something made up. Something ‘untrue’ in the literal sense.

The setting of the fiction may be inspired by a real place, like the Fens in Graham Swift’s Waterland , the characters may be inspired by people who actually existed, like Pat Barker’s characters in Regeneration , and the narrative may roll out among events taken from known history ‒ as in both the above ‒ but the resulting aggregate is never 100% factually accurate. Fiction is invented, in varying degrees. Readers know they will need to work differently with the text. They know that to fully engage and enjoy the experience of reading, they must be ready to sink into a made-up world - an aggregate of untruths and non-realities, and they must make a conscious leap to accept it willingly as ‘real’ and ‘truth’ for the duration of that reading experience. They need to decide to be convinced, decide to believe. The poet Coleridge famously described this conscious shift as a “Willing Suspension of Disbelief” ‒ but what is actually happening in the mind of the reader?

Norman N Holland, Scholar Emeritus at the University of Florida, discussed what neuropsychology has to say about the literary process in his book Literature and the Brain . He gives us a tantalising glimpse in an essay entitled What Brain Activity Can Explain Suspension of Disbelief ? He says:

J.R.R. Tolkien gives another angle in his essay “On Fairy Stories”.

Probably every writer making a secondary world, a fantasy, every sub-creator, wishes in some measure to be a real maker, or hopes that he is drawing on reality: hopes that the peculiar quality of this secondary world (if not all the details) are derived from Reality, or are flowing into it. If he indeed achieves a quality that can fairly be described by the dictionary definition: “inner consistency of reality,” it is difficult to conceive how this can be, if the work does not in some way partake of reality.

I think what he means is this. The fiction itself, the narrative, is not truth, especially fairy stories, perhaps. But to engage the reader, to convince the reader, the characters, fairies or no, have to embody emotional truth, a truth of being human, with which the reader can empathise. Think of Tolkein’s own masterpieces The Lord of the Rings , or The Hobbit . The characters are not human, but are gifted with human values. Concepts of honour, valour, betrayal, and the whole gamut of human emotion are on display in those stories.

So, we know what might be happening in the reader’s mind, a deliberate change of perspective ‒ but how is this shift achieved? What craft skills need to be employed to maximise the reader’s chances of suspending disbelief, to allow them to sink into a made-up world not necessarily easily, but successfully? What craft is needed to keep them in that state for the duration of the reading?

I think it begins before they even start to read the book. The reader, predisposed to try a work of fiction, is in the right frame of mind, surely, and that must help. But then what? I like to think of an unspoken contract between the writer of good fiction (whatever good is…) and their reader. In the ideal world it goes something like this:

Writer: I will not waste your time. I have created a coherent world with believable characters acting out believable events. The whole is crafted in such a way that it intrigues, holds your interest, makes you think, raises questions, and in answering relevant questions, satisfies.

Reader: I will approach this book with an open mind, predisposed to believe in the world you have created, in the characters and in the events which unfold. I only ask one thing. That the rules of engagement are clear, unwavering, so the illusion of reality is not shattered and I can accept them as truth for as long as I need to.

It’s like falling into a dream state. I’m sure all of us, as readers, have experienced those first few pages or paragraphs of all novels, all short stories, when we are utterly aware we are reading, that this may be fine, but it is made up. No dream state this!

We know that reality is that chair creaking beneath us, the smell of coffee in the blue mug on the desk, the sound of traffic outside the window. The buzz of a bee caught against the glass. But there is a ‘something’ that keeps us going, going further, and further, tiptoeing in, until we reach the point at which something else has happened. The alternative reality created by words has taken over. The traffic is silent, the coffee is cold, we don’t hear the chair creaking – and the bee? Well. Let’s hope it’s found an open window. We are well and truly into the experience, immersed in that dream state, surrounded willingly by the fiction, with all its alternate realities, including emotional truth. We are convinced by these characters and their story. We believe.

I’m equally sure you have experienced the converse. Where you were immersed in the world of the narrative, and suddenly, something jarred and you questioned it. “That wouldn’t happen,” you say to yourself. “This character just wouldn’t do that.” Your belief in the truth was broken. You woke out of the dream and sadly, it is hard to get back in. You were perhaps convinced initially, but the writer did not stick to their own rules. They broke the contract.

I thought it might be interesting to look at a few of the books on your list, to see how the writers have employed their craft to maximise the chances that their readers will be convinced.

There is a caveat here. Of course, we writers know we are never going to convince everyone. When you read, or indeed engage with any form of art, you bring to the table yourself as an individual. Norman Holland, whose work we met earlier, argued that writers create fictions as expressions of their personal identities, but readers recreate their own identities when they respond to fictions.

In his book 5 Readers Reading , he reached this conclusion based on case studies of five university students who gave free association responses (according to psychoanalytic technique) to three short stories. Their responses showed clearly that their literary experiences were shaped not by the texts they read, but by their own identities as readers.

Of course, there is the caveat that reading in a language other than your mother tongue can pose other issues, as the demands of another language stand and wave red flags between the author and the reader. The flags say, “I need translating. I need precision. I need analysis…” and more. But hopefully, this is a useful exercise to share with your students, not only to help analyse the craft behind the texts on the list, but also so they might carry it into reading in their own language, or indeed, if they are that way inclined, into their own writing.

Here I’m providing a precis of an essay I wrote some years ago, which appears in the text book, Short Circuit: Art of the Short Story,

The best openers, for this reader, are those in which thanks to some alchemy between voice, title, character and setting, I am transported into a fictive dream, How well those opening paragraphs are choreographed will dictate how successfully your reader is taken up in your world. You have one chance to entice your reader to come along with you, and it is all a question of balance.

I’m talking about shorter fictions. Arguably, the novelist might have a little longer to make the magic work. But I think the theory holds – you haven’t got long before you are in danger of losing the reader. Why on earth should they stick with your work of art when there are a hundred others within reach, which might reward their attention faster and better? I’m thinking of The Booker Prizewinning Life of Pi , which, incidentally, I love - by Yann Martell. I’ve heard both the following comments: “Don’t know what the fuss is about. I gave up after wading through the first fifty pages.” and “You really don’t need to read the first 100 pages. It’s all about philosophy and things. The story starts at page 101, it’s a good read after that…”

That is sloooow! Maybe too slow for some, as is evident. But it’s a delicate balance. Rush your reader too much at the beginning, drop them into a hugely dramatic, pivotal scene with no real lead in -and where do you both go from there? It’s like a seduction, isn’t it? Rush it and the object of your affections will run a mile. Too slow, and they will be off with someone else. (Or another book!).

Here’s the opening of Waterland.

First, you have your first experience of Swift’s wonderful chapter headings:

About the Sluice and the Stars - then,

“And don’t forget,” my father would say, as if he expected me at any moment to up and leave to seek my fortune in the wide world, “Whatever you learn about people, however bad they turn out, each one of them has a heart, and each one of them was once a tiny baby sucking at his mother’s milk…:

Fairy tale words. Fairy tale advice. But we lived in a fairy tale place. In a lock-keeper’s cottage by a river, in the middle of the Fens. Far away from the wide world.”

Read on just two pages, and think of that essay by Tolkien, ‘On Fairy Stories’. How many times at the start of Waterland does Swift mention stories? Twelve. Not just stories but fairy tales? Four. Isn’t he actually playing with us, telling us not to forget that this is fiction? There is constant mention of magic, occult, mystery, darkness, superstition, in his glorious prose, which brings the setting, of an actual place, at an actual time, on the brink of war, and for the main character, on the brink of adolescence, into unforgettable focus. Aren’t we looking at irreality firmly rooted in reality? Haven’t we heard two stories already, a parent explaining the natural world to a child, within those two pages? Haven’t we had a poignant backstory, felt the solitude of loss, the loneliness of the location, its disconnect, whilst at the mercy of encroaching modernity, all in a few lines? I’d argue that Swift is setting out the clauses of his contract to the reader in spades.

Here’s my attempt at his side of the contract: “I am delivering you a complete world to inhabit for the duration. I offer you a sense of a held breath, something floating towards you on a current which cannot be stopped. I will call it the story yet to be told on the second page. In the pages to come I offer you stories in abundance, I offer you the company of living, breathing characters you will come to empathise with, emotional honesty by the boatload, and I offer you the whole in accomplished, beautiful prose.”

And doesn’t Swift fulfil this promise, keeping us on our toes, making us do as we are told in the most literal sense, by scattering reminders throughout the book ‒ addressing the narrative directly to us, listeners, still “Children’? And we don’t mind! We go along with it, because Tom Crick is our teacher, a history teacher, who can quite authentically get away with giving talks on all aspects of history as a backdrop to the smaller stories and intrigues playing out in the novel… as we move through the narrative.

Let’s look, as a compete contrast, at the opening pages of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, by Mark Haddon. First page (noting how the engaging and original chapter numbering system adds hugely to understanding the character of Christopher.):

It was seven minutes after midnight. The dog was lying on the grass in the middle of the lawn in front of Mrs Shears’ house. Its eyes were closed. It looked as if it was running on its side, the way dogs run when they think they are chasing a cat in a dream. But the dog was not running or asleep. The dog was dead. There was a garden fork sticking out of the dog…”

Could this be more different at first read? A strange, detached, precise voice, logical and pedantic. There is something absolutely black and white about this character. You certainly know where you are, too. Or do you? Forget any rules of writing prose, one of which must surely be to beware of repetition, and if writing for young adults, not to limit their prose experience to too simple a palette. In his first short paragraph, Haddon uses the word ‘dog’ nine times. I am joining in the pedantry. The first-person narrative is engaging, immediate, disarming, but I don’t think one could accuse this of being beautiful prose. It mirrors the character beautifully, though ‒ it is functional, just right, no frills, and utterly believable. It skips by.

Perhaps Haddon’s contract for the reader would go something like: “Here you are. On a plate. What you see is what you get, a murder mystery story with everything seen through the eyes of this person, this narrator, who acts like a prism which distorts, separates strands of light. I will separate this mystery like a kaleidoscope into its component strands of logic, so at times, you won’t know exactly where you are. I promise you an original ride, and I will charm you on the way.”

I might argue that actually, Haddon’s contract does not quite cover the final part of the book, the part that deals with his mother, quite enough ‒ and therefore, when the timbre changes, some readers find it unsettling. It differs substantially from the initial unfolding of the book- and turns into something which is no mystery at all, really, but a domestic drama. But by then, Haddon has got us in his clutches ‒ we are so charmed by this completely factual and yet unreliable narrator that we are unable to walk away until we know he’s OK.

What about Grace Notes, by Bernard MacLaverty? No chapters, no headers. The book begins in white space, and in silence.

Which must surely bring the title of the novel into play. With that in mind, we read on:

S he went down the front steps and walked along the street to the main road. At this hour of the morning there was little or no traffic. If there was a car, then it sounded just like that ‒ a car going past in the wet ‒ there was no other city noise.

It is not until the third paragraph that there is an inkling that something is not right. And even then, it is held back so much you aren’t sure if you are picking up the thread. The whole is restrained. Like the quiet notes before a piece of music starts, so quiet, you aren’t sure if you really heard them at all. (The absolute mirror of this is in the closing pages, as the main character, Catherine, listens to her own piece, composed for her daughter, played for the first time, for radio broadcast.

It began with a wisp of music, barely there. A whispered five-note phrase on the violins … if the audience thought themselves mistaken she would be well pleased. Did I hear that correctly? )

At first sight, if you are not paying attention, there is little to set the opening paragraphs apart from many others. By the end of the first page, though, we are getting drawn in. Here is a gentle voice, a character with something wrong, a setting that floats by unremarkably, but understandably. We don’t know who Anna is, but something’s not right. By the end of page two, the detail is building, for this reader, although not compulsive, quite yet. The talcum powder on a shoe is such a human thing, this person feels real enough to me, but is there enough to make me want to be in her company for a whole (I flip to the back) 276 pages…? The constant use of baby images, too ‒ OK, standard poignant stuff, but do I really care yet? (I’m too much of a cynic. So many indifferent fictions begin with a button-pusher to grab my attention. I’m afraid my reaction is the opposite to that which is desired!) And yet, there is a gentleness, a confidence about the prose… the build of sounds, from the swish of a passing car, a random whistle, the vibration of the bus idling, is important. Then the top notes of a woman crying, insistent airport chimes, announcements, the percussion of hammering, screech of a power saw, a donkey’s bray, a baby crying. The “baby-changing room” ‒ the wryness of the pun made out of the words ‒ and that is the turning point for this reader, right at the end of page two. Suddenly, I’m in ‒ and swimming. But is it fair to say that this contract is not as black and white as the other two? MacLaverty seems to be saying “Stick with me for a few more pages, reader. This is a novel you’ll need to concentrate on. Use your ears…” and that’s unusual. I like it ‒ it makes me want to find out. Regeneration, by Pat Barker is a very different kettle of fish. Here, you have an actual figure from history, Sassoon, a war poet, historian, memoir writer. The book begins with Sassoon’s famous denouncing of those pushing the war ‒ an historic open letter which was published in The Times newspaper in July 1917.

It begins:

I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of military authority, because I believe the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.

We read it with familiarity or interest pulling us on. As it finishes, we shift immediately to two people discussing the document, one of whom is William Rivers, the doctor who will become Sassoon’s therapist, and thus the narrative opens out, the document moves into the backstory, the story starts now. A discussion ensues about common enough things, shell shock ‒ which has become a sad cliché of the times ‒ but this is different. Something pulls us on. Voice? Setting? Character, including an iconic figure from both history and literature? A chance to ‘meet’ Siegfried Sassoon? To find out how he might have been in Craiglockhart Hospital for Officers? A chance to meet the extraordinary poet Wilfred Owen ‒ will we? And on we go. Thanks to something allowing us to treat this as if it is real even though, were we to be ‘woken up, we’d say of course – it’s made up.

What is that something? Back to that essay by Holland on brain activity. Here, the perceived and actual authenticity of an historic document lets us sit back and trust the narrative, from the start. As soon as it is discussed, by characters who are based on actual people, although we know logically that no one can have been there to record their conversation we let it roll out, because it is fascinating. It feels authentic. It has truth. But what does that mean in terms of brain activity?

Norman Holland offers a fascinating analysis of normal brain activity in response to reading a work of fiction:

When we are reading a story or watching a movie, we know that we cannot or will not act to change what is occurring, a phenomenon philosopher Immanuel Kant called disinterestedness. Yet because we are not going to act, the brain economizes. We turn off the neural processes that tell us we might need to do something about what we are seeing or reading. The prefrontal cortex does not try to assess the reality of what we are seeing, nor does it trigger motor impulses. That is why when we are sitting in a theater, we do not jump out of our seats to save the blond starlet even though we know she is about to get chopped up by a chainsaw-wielding fiend.

And, I’d add, when we start with fact, as in the case of Regeneration , we carry on willingly, and do not object when what follows cannot possibly be factually or historically correct. This is fiction. We chose to read this as opposed to a historical account. And on we go.

In all the cases above, once the reader has willingly suspended disbelief, once they have bought in to the fiction, and are fascinated enough to be engaged with the narrative, the writers employ strategies throughout to keep that state of mind alive. Whether they do this deliberately or not, and at what stage in the writing or editing process, is another topic. We’ve seen how Swift keeps reminding us we are listening to a teacher ‒ giving the narrator constant authority. Haddon sticks with the quirks of Christopher’s syndrome, labelling chapters in his own way, scattering the text with diagrams. Barker intersperses the Sassoon-Rivers dynamic with glimpses of the progress of other Craiglockhart patients, including a love story between one of them and a local girl. Does that keep us going? Does it enhance, or detract? Horses for courses, perhaps. MacLaverty, once the rhythms of Grace Notes are established, goes to pains (perhaps too many?) to explain to the reader exactly what grace notes are ‒ and applies not just the theories but sounds upon sounds, throughout the novel. Structurally, it mirrors the music described at the end.

( Vanessa Gebbie has won awards for fiction and poetry. She is author of a novel, The Coward’s Tale, and five collections of shorter fictions including Words from a Glass Bubble, Storm Warning, and Nothing to Worry About. )