Random Thoughts on Dramatic Tension
I was thinking about some recent posts at three a.m. when, as usual, it was too hot to sleep. In the first, the poster linked to Michael Dirda's review of Neal Stephenson's latest book. The bottom line for Dirda was, "Well written, but boring." A day later, in a locked entry or I would link it, another poster made a cri de coeur against Jane Austen, wondering why anyone would consider her books readable. I'm not going to repeat my response--nothing I haven't said here--the thing that stayed with me is, here are two authors lauded as brilliant, and I will lay a bet of any sum you care to name that neither Stephenson nor Austen sat down to the desk saying, "Well, time to write a boring book."
So I've been thinking about dramatic tension. One of the reasons most of us read is the fun of trying on different mental states and exploring different places, or by outguessing the characters. The expectation of resolution. I don't mean just the plot resolution--the case is solved, wedding bells for hero and heroine, the ring gets tossed into the volcano--but emotional resolution, sometimes philosophical resolution, intellectual resolution, answers to the questions raised, even if the answers turn out to be more questions. It's that sense of completeness, heightened by the snap of the real.
I think the question gets vexing when trying to quantify which resolution is important, and why. A book can be criticized by one reader for being full of boring monster fights when the next reader is loaning the book to his best friend, and standing over his shoulder to watch the friend read those pulse-pounding monster fights. Moby Dick is considered boring for its many side trips into the details of the whaling industry, but that's the best part of the book for other readers. Jane Austen's work is constrained and frivolous for some, deeply ironic in its sharp observations about human beings and emotionally satisfying for others.
Some of that might be attributed to taste, and some to experience. When a new reader encounters that slight young thief with the emerald eyes and discovers that underneath the dirt and the scruffy clothes 'he' is really the lost princess, the story becomes delightful. For an older reader who has traveled alongside many lost princesses who dressed as street urchins before recovering their thrones, that discovery causes a sigh: we know where this story is going, and unless the setting, characters, and prose are exceptionally engaging so that that idea fresh again, we find it easy to set aside.
I think it is safe to say that no author decides to include a boring part in a book. There is dramatic tension in all aspects for the writer who sees the shape of the story from inside. The question that makes the learning author anxious is, how to get the reader to feel that tension. Some say "better prose" others say "snappier pacing" and a third set will say "I want twists, I want to be surprised."
The snap of the real
Is that what makes resolutions convincing--large ones as well as small? I don't mean injecting more realism, necessarily. Though that can certainly help a story become convincing. But one can go too far, at least for most readers. I know I'd lose interest fast in a story that plodded in a semblance of realtime, including each bite chewed and swallowed, every visit to the rest room, the process of choosing and donning clothing (and doing laundrag), the hunt for the car keys. I think the realistic detail that makes the scene resonate with experience is important, but as important is constructing convincing states of mind behind behaviors. I say that, but I'm aware that many readers won't recognize certain states of mind--they haven't the experience--and others won't care about the circumstances of those states of mind. Like the reader who just doesn't care that women in Jane Austen's day pretty much only had marriage as an option unless they were rich. The anxiety and determination that drives Charlotte Lucas to marry Mr Collins despite the fact that she doesn't love him (or even find him attractive) is fascinating to some of us, and tedious to others.
One thing I've noted of late is how the Zeitgeist is propelling us to re-examine heroism. Is that because so many of us long for a hero to rescue us from the hideous morass of politics, the scary state of the environment, from which it appears there is no escape? It's been interesting looking at reactions to The Dark Knight--some think the movie great for its moral ambivalence, its powerful performances twisting around the deliberate diminishment of a man into a caricature of malicious intent. Others left the theater feeling tired of noisy nothingness and fear and anxiety and depression; I saw one reviewer say that after the movie was over they felt like they'd been locked in a room with CNN on at full volume for two hours.
What is a hero, what do people think is heroism but isn't, and above all, what is the cost of heroism, those themes seem to be drawing a lot of us to explore. Cost. I think there's something important there. In a Mary Sue story, the protag wins everything because the author sets it up that way--the hero wins because he or she is the hero. In a sentimental story, the louder the emotional trauma, the bigger the payoff: someone suffers tremendously, which nets them superpowers, and that saves the planet, the city, the kingdom. Many readers find these stories satisfying resolutions, others want to see that ending earned.
I don't really have any conclusions--as I said, I've been up since three a.m.--but I thought I'd toss out these thoughts and see if anyone has any insights to offer.
So I've been thinking about dramatic tension. One of the reasons most of us read is the fun of trying on different mental states and exploring different places, or by outguessing the characters. The expectation of resolution. I don't mean just the plot resolution--the case is solved, wedding bells for hero and heroine, the ring gets tossed into the volcano--but emotional resolution, sometimes philosophical resolution, intellectual resolution, answers to the questions raised, even if the answers turn out to be more questions. It's that sense of completeness, heightened by the snap of the real.
I think the question gets vexing when trying to quantify which resolution is important, and why. A book can be criticized by one reader for being full of boring monster fights when the next reader is loaning the book to his best friend, and standing over his shoulder to watch the friend read those pulse-pounding monster fights. Moby Dick is considered boring for its many side trips into the details of the whaling industry, but that's the best part of the book for other readers. Jane Austen's work is constrained and frivolous for some, deeply ironic in its sharp observations about human beings and emotionally satisfying for others.
Some of that might be attributed to taste, and some to experience. When a new reader encounters that slight young thief with the emerald eyes and discovers that underneath the dirt and the scruffy clothes 'he' is really the lost princess, the story becomes delightful. For an older reader who has traveled alongside many lost princesses who dressed as street urchins before recovering their thrones, that discovery causes a sigh: we know where this story is going, and unless the setting, characters, and prose are exceptionally engaging so that that idea fresh again, we find it easy to set aside.
I think it is safe to say that no author decides to include a boring part in a book. There is dramatic tension in all aspects for the writer who sees the shape of the story from inside. The question that makes the learning author anxious is, how to get the reader to feel that tension. Some say "better prose" others say "snappier pacing" and a third set will say "I want twists, I want to be surprised."
The snap of the real
Is that what makes resolutions convincing--large ones as well as small? I don't mean injecting more realism, necessarily. Though that can certainly help a story become convincing. But one can go too far, at least for most readers. I know I'd lose interest fast in a story that plodded in a semblance of realtime, including each bite chewed and swallowed, every visit to the rest room, the process of choosing and donning clothing (and doing laundrag), the hunt for the car keys. I think the realistic detail that makes the scene resonate with experience is important, but as important is constructing convincing states of mind behind behaviors. I say that, but I'm aware that many readers won't recognize certain states of mind--they haven't the experience--and others won't care about the circumstances of those states of mind. Like the reader who just doesn't care that women in Jane Austen's day pretty much only had marriage as an option unless they were rich. The anxiety and determination that drives Charlotte Lucas to marry Mr Collins despite the fact that she doesn't love him (or even find him attractive) is fascinating to some of us, and tedious to others.
One thing I've noted of late is how the Zeitgeist is propelling us to re-examine heroism. Is that because so many of us long for a hero to rescue us from the hideous morass of politics, the scary state of the environment, from which it appears there is no escape? It's been interesting looking at reactions to The Dark Knight--some think the movie great for its moral ambivalence, its powerful performances twisting around the deliberate diminishment of a man into a caricature of malicious intent. Others left the theater feeling tired of noisy nothingness and fear and anxiety and depression; I saw one reviewer say that after the movie was over they felt like they'd been locked in a room with CNN on at full volume for two hours.
What is a hero, what do people think is heroism but isn't, and above all, what is the cost of heroism, those themes seem to be drawing a lot of us to explore. Cost. I think there's something important there. In a Mary Sue story, the protag wins everything because the author sets it up that way--the hero wins because he or she is the hero. In a sentimental story, the louder the emotional trauma, the bigger the payoff: someone suffers tremendously, which nets them superpowers, and that saves the planet, the city, the kingdom. Many readers find these stories satisfying resolutions, others want to see that ending earned.
I don't really have any conclusions--as I said, I've been up since three a.m.--but I thought I'd toss out these thoughts and see if anyone has any insights to offer.