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trant_book_n_curio2015-07-28 08:59 pm
sarasa_cat) wrote in trant_book_n_curio2015-07-28 08:59 pm
A History of Lies - 1 [Cullen, Varric, SFW]
A History of Lies - Fiction, History, and Sausage: 1
Dragon Age, Cullen & Varric, SFW
Cullen and Varric discuss how to write fiction and history
.
“A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.” —Saul Bellow
A HISTORY OF LIES: FICTION, HISTORY, AND SAUSAGE
1.
According to a novelist whom I occasionally meet for drinks and sometimes for cards, stories should introduce their main conflict as soon as possible. Readers are impatient. They want to know the protagonist’s goals up front so they can guess at the obstacles the protagonist will face. Putting it bluntly, this novelist said, “for the most part, the craft of storytelling is nothing more than how a writer satisfies the expectations of a specific genre.”
I’m not sure I agree, but his works are popular and he certainly knows how to spin a yarn. This is a novelist who cranks out one page turner after another. You may of heard of him — his name is Varric Tethras. One evening at a tavern, the two of us were discussing how to write a story so Varric decided to share one of his tricks with me. In his words, “Look, Curly, you got to nail the beginning and that means far more than just coming up with a snappy first line.”
The overall idea that he explained went like this: even though you use the beginning of the story to set up the main pieces on your grand chess board of conflict, stories usually work best when the opening doesn’t come right out and say what the conflict really is. Instead, the story should introduce the key players and let these characters tip their hand to reveal their desires. This shows the readers who these characters are. Meanwhile, the story should drop sly hints that foreshadow the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Basically, a good story uses slight of hand while building suspense. The reader feels tension brewing, yet they are at the mercy of the story’s twists and turns. So, the reader becomes engaged as they puzzle out where the story will go. Then, once the air is thick with electrical charge, the sky darkens to black as the storm clouds let loose their deluge.
By now the reader is fully invested and the stakes for the protagonist are high, even deadly. The reader rips through the sequence of climatic actions, guessing and then second guessing how matters will resolve. If the writer does their job well, during the story’s final reveal the reader experiences a sudden moment of “Ah-ha!” as the pieces finally click together. The inevitable has been revealed. From there, the reader plows through the remainder of the story’s climax to find out how the protagonist’s situation turns out. They hang on every word to see if their predictions for the characters’ final resolution are confirmed. And, according to this novelist, the best stories end by satisfying the reader’s curiosity while leaving them with a sense of longing.
Of course, no story can tie up every loose end. Stories are abstractions. The beginnings and endings of stories are artificial constructs that do not exist in the real world. While I find the artificial nature of beginnings and endings a worthy question to ponder, this novelist said that if a writer becomes too hung up on the philosophical nature of what they are writing, they’ll spend years writing themselves in circles rather than sending their manuscript out for publication.
He is probably right. That is, he is probably right about writing fiction. When writing history, it is important to unpack the story that occurs before the story that the historian is trying to explain. But, besides that, written accounts of history actually have a few things in common with fiction.
I made an off-hand comment to Varric about historians using many of the same techniques as bestselling novelists.
Varric chuckled. “Good thing you aren’t from Orzammar. The Shaperate would have your head for spreading blaspheme.”
“I bet that is the reason why you feel lucky to have been born up here.”
“One of many reasons. Trust me, one of many.” He raised his glass of ale and offered a toast. “To life on the surface.”
I clanked my glass against his before knocking back the rest of my drink.
“Of course,” Varric continued, “whenever something is labeled as blaspheme it’s a sign that it contains an important kernel of truth. Here’s how I see it. The difference between fiction and history is like this: readers of fiction expect authors to take them for a ride. Readers expect surprises. As long as the story entertains them, they’ll let the story meander. History is different because readers want the story explained to them up front. Most of the time, people just want to hear what they already believe they know. Take it from me. When writing history, it’s best to keep things simple.”
“I don’t know about that. I think you’re underestimating people.”
“Have you seen the reviews for The Tale of the Champion? Historians panned it, labeling it a meandering work of hyperbolic trash. Everyone else assumed it was a fictional novel. Trust me, history is like sausage. No one wants to know how it is made.”
By then I was a little too drunk so I responded a little too loudly. “And both risk giving you indigestion.”
“Speak for yourself, Curly.”
“You know, I don’t think I agree with you. At least, not about the sausage part.” I sipped the foam off of my fifth glass of ale — a glass that had been promptly refilled by our attentive server.
“Speaking of sausage, you know what I find funny? Back in Kirkwall people always made disparaging comments about Fereldan food. Yet, after eating tonight’s special — hey, what do you Fereldan’s call this?”
“Toad-in-the-Hole with onion gravy.”
“Great name. It conjures up imagery of rural life and a hearty meal. And I mean that as a complement. I’ll take this bacon-wrapped sausage in bannorn pudding any day over Corff’s infamous Pig Mash at the Hanged Man.”
“My mother used to make this dish every year at Wintersend,” I said.
“To think that I spent my entire life believing that Fereldan cuisine was nothing more than boiled mutton fat with a side of overcooked peas.”
I laughed. “You’ll find no shortage of greasy stew and grey peas if you know where to look.”
“How about you tell me where not to go and I’ll take your word.”
“But you’ll miss out on classic Fereldan cuisine.”
“Curly, I’m not a soldier. There is only so much damage my tastebuds are capable of taking.
“Fair enough, but let’s get back to what we were just talking about. I don’t think I agree with you about people only wanting to hear what they know. When history is presented as fact, with no explanation of how it was written, people think that they are being fed propaganda. Folks want to know the truth behind the historical accounts written by Chantry scholars and senior circle enchanters.”
“So now you claim to know the truth.”
“Well, I know a few things that are probably true. I saw a lot while I was in Kirkwall. Given the state of the world today, people might want to know the real story, despite how complex it is.”
“Fine. Maybe people like you want to see how the puzzle fits together, but most people aren’t in your position. Most folks want an entertaining tale where the hero wins. Otherwise, just give them a short summary that provides a clean answer. When it comes to history, people only want to know things like ‘this leader was good and that enemy was bad,’ and this is why we throw an annual parade celebrating the good guy’s victory. Meanwhile, we use the bad guy’s name in daily speech as a warning of what should never happen again. Here’s the best part of it: it doesn’t even matter if today’s bad guy was last year’s good guy. People just want to know who they should cheer for.”
“You have certainly become cynical.”
Varric clucked his tongue. “Well, coming from you, perhaps I have.” He knocked back the rest of his ale. “Look, Curly, even though you weren’t born into the nobility, you spent most of your life in the Chantry. I know there were problems in the Templar Order, but Chantry folk led far more pampered lives than everyone else. For most people, day to day life is hard. People are far too busy trying to make ends meet. That’s the heart of it: people are busy and that is why they prefer simple answers.”
“Or entertaining stories.”
“I knew a few drinks would turn you around.”
.:.
... next ...
go to Table of Contents
Dragon Age, Cullen & Varric, SFW
Cullen and Varric discuss how to write fiction and history
.
“A great deal of intelligence can be invested in ignorance when the need for illusion is deep.” —Saul Bellow
A HISTORY OF LIES: FICTION, HISTORY, AND SAUSAGE
1.
According to a novelist whom I occasionally meet for drinks and sometimes for cards, stories should introduce their main conflict as soon as possible. Readers are impatient. They want to know the protagonist’s goals up front so they can guess at the obstacles the protagonist will face. Putting it bluntly, this novelist said, “for the most part, the craft of storytelling is nothing more than how a writer satisfies the expectations of a specific genre.”
I’m not sure I agree, but his works are popular and he certainly knows how to spin a yarn. This is a novelist who cranks out one page turner after another. You may of heard of him — his name is Varric Tethras. One evening at a tavern, the two of us were discussing how to write a story so Varric decided to share one of his tricks with me. In his words, “Look, Curly, you got to nail the beginning and that means far more than just coming up with a snappy first line.”
The overall idea that he explained went like this: even though you use the beginning of the story to set up the main pieces on your grand chess board of conflict, stories usually work best when the opening doesn’t come right out and say what the conflict really is. Instead, the story should introduce the key players and let these characters tip their hand to reveal their desires. This shows the readers who these characters are. Meanwhile, the story should drop sly hints that foreshadow the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Basically, a good story uses slight of hand while building suspense. The reader feels tension brewing, yet they are at the mercy of the story’s twists and turns. So, the reader becomes engaged as they puzzle out where the story will go. Then, once the air is thick with electrical charge, the sky darkens to black as the storm clouds let loose their deluge.
By now the reader is fully invested and the stakes for the protagonist are high, even deadly. The reader rips through the sequence of climatic actions, guessing and then second guessing how matters will resolve. If the writer does their job well, during the story’s final reveal the reader experiences a sudden moment of “Ah-ha!” as the pieces finally click together. The inevitable has been revealed. From there, the reader plows through the remainder of the story’s climax to find out how the protagonist’s situation turns out. They hang on every word to see if their predictions for the characters’ final resolution are confirmed. And, according to this novelist, the best stories end by satisfying the reader’s curiosity while leaving them with a sense of longing.
Of course, no story can tie up every loose end. Stories are abstractions. The beginnings and endings of stories are artificial constructs that do not exist in the real world. While I find the artificial nature of beginnings and endings a worthy question to ponder, this novelist said that if a writer becomes too hung up on the philosophical nature of what they are writing, they’ll spend years writing themselves in circles rather than sending their manuscript out for publication.
He is probably right. That is, he is probably right about writing fiction. When writing history, it is important to unpack the story that occurs before the story that the historian is trying to explain. But, besides that, written accounts of history actually have a few things in common with fiction.
I made an off-hand comment to Varric about historians using many of the same techniques as bestselling novelists.
Varric chuckled. “Good thing you aren’t from Orzammar. The Shaperate would have your head for spreading blaspheme.”
“I bet that is the reason why you feel lucky to have been born up here.”
“One of many reasons. Trust me, one of many.” He raised his glass of ale and offered a toast. “To life on the surface.”
I clanked my glass against his before knocking back the rest of my drink.
“Of course,” Varric continued, “whenever something is labeled as blaspheme it’s a sign that it contains an important kernel of truth. Here’s how I see it. The difference between fiction and history is like this: readers of fiction expect authors to take them for a ride. Readers expect surprises. As long as the story entertains them, they’ll let the story meander. History is different because readers want the story explained to them up front. Most of the time, people just want to hear what they already believe they know. Take it from me. When writing history, it’s best to keep things simple.”
“I don’t know about that. I think you’re underestimating people.”
“Have you seen the reviews for The Tale of the Champion? Historians panned it, labeling it a meandering work of hyperbolic trash. Everyone else assumed it was a fictional novel. Trust me, history is like sausage. No one wants to know how it is made.”
By then I was a little too drunk so I responded a little too loudly. “And both risk giving you indigestion.”
“Speak for yourself, Curly.”
“You know, I don’t think I agree with you. At least, not about the sausage part.” I sipped the foam off of my fifth glass of ale — a glass that had been promptly refilled by our attentive server.
“Speaking of sausage, you know what I find funny? Back in Kirkwall people always made disparaging comments about Fereldan food. Yet, after eating tonight’s special — hey, what do you Fereldan’s call this?”
“Toad-in-the-Hole with onion gravy.”
“Great name. It conjures up imagery of rural life and a hearty meal. And I mean that as a complement. I’ll take this bacon-wrapped sausage in bannorn pudding any day over Corff’s infamous Pig Mash at the Hanged Man.”
“My mother used to make this dish every year at Wintersend,” I said.
“To think that I spent my entire life believing that Fereldan cuisine was nothing more than boiled mutton fat with a side of overcooked peas.”
I laughed. “You’ll find no shortage of greasy stew and grey peas if you know where to look.”
“How about you tell me where not to go and I’ll take your word.”
“But you’ll miss out on classic Fereldan cuisine.”
“Curly, I’m not a soldier. There is only so much damage my tastebuds are capable of taking.
“Fair enough, but let’s get back to what we were just talking about. I don’t think I agree with you about people only wanting to hear what they know. When history is presented as fact, with no explanation of how it was written, people think that they are being fed propaganda. Folks want to know the truth behind the historical accounts written by Chantry scholars and senior circle enchanters.”
“So now you claim to know the truth.”
“Well, I know a few things that are probably true. I saw a lot while I was in Kirkwall. Given the state of the world today, people might want to know the real story, despite how complex it is.”
“Fine. Maybe people like you want to see how the puzzle fits together, but most people aren’t in your position. Most folks want an entertaining tale where the hero wins. Otherwise, just give them a short summary that provides a clean answer. When it comes to history, people only want to know things like ‘this leader was good and that enemy was bad,’ and this is why we throw an annual parade celebrating the good guy’s victory. Meanwhile, we use the bad guy’s name in daily speech as a warning of what should never happen again. Here’s the best part of it: it doesn’t even matter if today’s bad guy was last year’s good guy. People just want to know who they should cheer for.”
“You have certainly become cynical.”
Varric clucked his tongue. “Well, coming from you, perhaps I have.” He knocked back the rest of his ale. “Look, Curly, even though you weren’t born into the nobility, you spent most of your life in the Chantry. I know there were problems in the Templar Order, but Chantry folk led far more pampered lives than everyone else. For most people, day to day life is hard. People are far too busy trying to make ends meet. That’s the heart of it: people are busy and that is why they prefer simple answers.”
“Or entertaining stories.”
“I knew a few drinks would turn you around.”
.:.
... next ...
go to Table of Contents