Creating believable worlds
Aug. 29th, 2010 03:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blatherskiteToday's entry was inspired by Paul Mealing's essay How to Create an Imaginary, Believable World in his "Journeyman Philosopher" blog. Mealing reminds us of the three key elements of any story: the characters, the plot, and the story world. Indeed, I define a "perfect" story as one that captures my interest while simultaneously achieving a successful balance of these three elements, none of which can be neglected:
If there are no characters, then it's a technical document or an essay, not a story. This becomes problematic in SF/F stories that originate as a cool idea, and for which every other aspect of the story provides only the minimal amount of support material required to justify discussing the cool idea.
If there's no plot, then you have a scenario or a vignette, not a story. Something must happen to move the story forward. Even in a story based entirely on dialogue, the characters have agendas (e.g., to persuade, to critique, to teach), and the conflicts among those agendas can provide the driving force for a purely dialogue-based plot in which nothing physically happens.
If there's no story world, reading the story resembles viewing dead insects pinned onto a display board at a (poorly designed) museum: we have no idea of the context, of how it shaped the characters and plot, or anything else that situates the story for us.
In practice, it's impossible to create a story that entirely lacks any one of these elements, and not just because of the tautology that doing so would violate the definition of a story. Even when there are no formal characters, the author-as-narrator takes on the role of a character, and their voice tells you much about the attitudes and personality of the narrator (or the author, if they're one and the same person). Even when there's no overt plot, something must change from the beginning to the end of the narration, and the change or changes comprise the plot; if the only thing that changes is that the story successfully conveys the author's opinion on some subject, the plot becomes one of persuasion or seduction of the reader. Last but not least, it's not possible to create a story that is completely independent of any world; even if the story occurs only in the mind of a character musing about some idea or situation, with their mouth firmly shut and eyes closed, we can infer the character's psychological world (their internal reality) from their choices of what they do and don't describe and the character's physical world based on what their musing tells us about the external reality in which they exist. Mealing makes these points explicitly when he notes that character and plot represent the interaction between (respectively) the inner and outer worlds.
Mealing notes that, like many authors, characters come first for him. He doesn't state that this is the only way to begin, but since others have done so, it's worth noting that there's no one right starting point for stories. For example, my story The Phantom of the Niebelungen began with the notion of a thoroughly unlikable character who is an emotional predator, and evolved into an exploration of how those characteristics shaped his behavior and led to his comeuppance. In dramatic contrast, my story Edge Effect started with my desire to create a believable and reasonably scientifically rigorous alien ecosystem, and then find a way to tell a human-centered story about it. Last but not least, my story At the Body Shop started with the goal of portraying a grandfather–granddaughter relationship in a future context in which the characteristics of how kids rebel against their parents have changed, and represents a careful shaping of plot and character by that story world.
Like many others, Mealing deals with the balance between "playing God" and free will. He paraphrases Colleen McCullough as saying that playing God occurs when you create the obstacles your characters must overcome, but that free will arises when the characters take on a life of their own despite these obstacles. Balancing control with flexibility is an important and difficult balance to strike. A vigorous, active character with a distinct personality may generate their own plot, and I've heard writers report that this is precisely what happened to them: they had this great idea and knew precisely where they wanted the story to go, but then their protagonist completely hijacked the story and went off in a completely different direction. When characters suddenly blossom into this three-dimensionality, it's a wonderful if somewhat disconcerting feeling, but most characters require at least some help, even if that help only takes the form of a sharp blow between the shoulder blades to start them rolling. When their motive energy flags, they may need occasional additional nudges. More importantly, as long as you claim to be an author, you'll have your own notion of the story that you want to tell, and some negotiation and compromise will be required when your characters develop other ideas.
None of this means that you must experience a psychological breakdown and start hallucinating that your characters are real. It's more a case of relinquishing some of your conscious control over the character (i.e., stop being a completely manipulative puppet master) and letting your subconscious empathize well enough with the character that you have a clear sense of what they'll do. (It's a Zen kind of thing.) If you pay attention, you'll notice that most of your real-world interactions with other people are subconscious, and only the difficult interactions require considerable conscious thought. Much the same thing is necessary when writing fiction: you must understand your character well enough that most of the time you'll know precisely how they'll respond, without having to think it through, but for key points in the story, you may need to step back and exert more conscious control.
Mealing discusses the eternal debate among writers over whether or not to outline, and comes down on the same side as I do: use outlines to the extent that they work for you. I once sat in on a fascinating panel discussion on the writing process that included Steven Brust and Tim Powers. Brust noted that he generally starts out with a character and situation, and then steps back to watch where his protagonist chooses to wander. For most of his early fiction, this worked well; lately I've found that it leads to excessive pointless wandering, with no clear goal in sight, saved only by the fact that I typically like his characters. In dramatic contrast, Powers develops elaborate outlines that specify all details of the story, and generally doesn't start writing until he has those details nailed down. I recall (possibly a distorted memory) the two looking at each other as if the other writer was an entirely alien being.
I find that a hybrid approach works best for me, much like planning a vacation itinerary: I decide where I'm starting and where I'm ending, list the key destinations (or points) I want to touch on along the way between those two points, and then set out along that route. But interesting opportunities for side trips often arise, and some of the most memorable aspects of a trip arise when you abandon your original plans and take an unplanned detour; most recently, this happened when my wife and I decided to hike Kilauea Iki crater in Hawai'i, which turned out to be one of the finest hiking experiences of my life. In fiction, this happens when you want to go in one direction but have a sense that the character would probably do something different. Listen to those quiet voices. The key is to provide enough structure to guide your writing process and keep an unruly character on the right path, without putting your ability to explore serendipitous discoveries in a straightjacket.
Mealing believes that creating a believable world starts with creating believable characters. That's certainly true in the sense that characters never exist in isolation: Each is created by, subsequently shaped by, and exists solely within your story world. If you don't know what that world is like, you can't determine how characters begin (e.g., born as a peasant in a feudal society versus born as the heir to the throne), and how they evolve (e.g., live out their lives peacefully in a lovingly described pastoral setting versus being cast into the world on a heroic quest that tests their courage and flexibility). This also constrains their behavioral options along the way. The latter point is interesting, since the story world includes both physical factors (e.g., if nasty people with swords are trying to behead you, you either learn self-defense quickly or you die) and psychological factors (e.g., what it is possible for you to know, how your beliefs shape your actions). In my story Flatlander Pro Tem, the protagonist's psychological constraints involve a unique form of agoraphobia, so I chose a story world that would bring that aspect of character to the fore, then I created a plot that depends entirely on how the character finds a way to overcome a powerful constraint on his thinking.
Mealing notes that it's important to ground a story in a believable character. That's true in all fiction, but doubly so in SF/F, where the more fantastic (in fantasy) or futuristic (in science fiction) the story, the more important it is to provide a comprehensible and believable character as an anchor. Once readers are comfortable with the character, they can use that comfort to find the courage to venture farther afield and explore the events of a complex and sometimes very unfamiliar story world. Once the character is firmly held in the reader's mind, they can begin to explore the world portrayed by that character, and can begin to understand in turn how the world has shaped the character. These first strong hints about who the character is provide additional hints about the range of realistic possibilities for how they will respond to their world. If the character never comes into focus and therefore remains unpredictable, the reader's sense of the world will be similarly uncertain. Even "unpredictable" characters should be predictable in their unpredictability.
Mealing notes that the world is "not just background or setting; it's an interactive component of the story". On the one hand, as I've already noted, the story world shapes the characters and constrains their possibilities both in a physical sense (e.g., humans can't fly without magical or technological assistance) and in a psychological sense (e.g., humans who live in a two-dimensional maze may only be able to imagine flying through a third dimension with help from an outsider). On the other hand, humans shape their world by trying to impose their will upon it; this may be as simple as finding a way to persuade the bullies to leave you alone, or as ambitious as conquering the world and making it your oyster or terraforming an alien planet, but in all cases, it's a journey in which characters strive to create a more comfortable fit with the world they inhabit.
Based on these points, how do you create a believable world? First, you must start by recognizing that character, plot, and the story world are all important; in different stories, the relative importance of these elements may change, but none can be neglected. In this sense, fiction is like a three-legged stool: if any one leg is greatly shorter than the others or if all three legs are too short, you can't sit comfortably on the stool. Second, you must recognize that all three aspects of the story are interconnected and that they continuously shape each other as the story progresses. Although you can try to learn what these relationships are organically, by simply writing and seeing what emerges, it's more productive and produces better results if you at least try to think these relationships through before you begin writing. Subsequently, you can let your understanding of these relationships guide your progress through the story and reduce the number of dead ends you wander down. "Art" enters into this process when you let your gut feeling tell you which elements are most important for any given story, and when you seek ways to emphasize that element while still integrating the other elements in a satisfying manner.
In practice, it's impossible to create a story that entirely lacks any one of these elements, and not just because of the tautology that doing so would violate the definition of a story. Even when there are no formal characters, the author-as-narrator takes on the role of a character, and their voice tells you much about the attitudes and personality of the narrator (or the author, if they're one and the same person). Even when there's no overt plot, something must change from the beginning to the end of the narration, and the change or changes comprise the plot; if the only thing that changes is that the story successfully conveys the author's opinion on some subject, the plot becomes one of persuasion or seduction of the reader. Last but not least, it's not possible to create a story that is completely independent of any world; even if the story occurs only in the mind of a character musing about some idea or situation, with their mouth firmly shut and eyes closed, we can infer the character's psychological world (their internal reality) from their choices of what they do and don't describe and the character's physical world based on what their musing tells us about the external reality in which they exist. Mealing makes these points explicitly when he notes that character and plot represent the interaction between (respectively) the inner and outer worlds.
Mealing notes that, like many authors, characters come first for him. He doesn't state that this is the only way to begin, but since others have done so, it's worth noting that there's no one right starting point for stories. For example, my story The Phantom of the Niebelungen began with the notion of a thoroughly unlikable character who is an emotional predator, and evolved into an exploration of how those characteristics shaped his behavior and led to his comeuppance. In dramatic contrast, my story Edge Effect started with my desire to create a believable and reasonably scientifically rigorous alien ecosystem, and then find a way to tell a human-centered story about it. Last but not least, my story At the Body Shop started with the goal of portraying a grandfather–granddaughter relationship in a future context in which the characteristics of how kids rebel against their parents have changed, and represents a careful shaping of plot and character by that story world.
Like many others, Mealing deals with the balance between "playing God" and free will. He paraphrases Colleen McCullough as saying that playing God occurs when you create the obstacles your characters must overcome, but that free will arises when the characters take on a life of their own despite these obstacles. Balancing control with flexibility is an important and difficult balance to strike. A vigorous, active character with a distinct personality may generate their own plot, and I've heard writers report that this is precisely what happened to them: they had this great idea and knew precisely where they wanted the story to go, but then their protagonist completely hijacked the story and went off in a completely different direction. When characters suddenly blossom into this three-dimensionality, it's a wonderful if somewhat disconcerting feeling, but most characters require at least some help, even if that help only takes the form of a sharp blow between the shoulder blades to start them rolling. When their motive energy flags, they may need occasional additional nudges. More importantly, as long as you claim to be an author, you'll have your own notion of the story that you want to tell, and some negotiation and compromise will be required when your characters develop other ideas.
None of this means that you must experience a psychological breakdown and start hallucinating that your characters are real. It's more a case of relinquishing some of your conscious control over the character (i.e., stop being a completely manipulative puppet master) and letting your subconscious empathize well enough with the character that you have a clear sense of what they'll do. (It's a Zen kind of thing.) If you pay attention, you'll notice that most of your real-world interactions with other people are subconscious, and only the difficult interactions require considerable conscious thought. Much the same thing is necessary when writing fiction: you must understand your character well enough that most of the time you'll know precisely how they'll respond, without having to think it through, but for key points in the story, you may need to step back and exert more conscious control.
Mealing discusses the eternal debate among writers over whether or not to outline, and comes down on the same side as I do: use outlines to the extent that they work for you. I once sat in on a fascinating panel discussion on the writing process that included Steven Brust and Tim Powers. Brust noted that he generally starts out with a character and situation, and then steps back to watch where his protagonist chooses to wander. For most of his early fiction, this worked well; lately I've found that it leads to excessive pointless wandering, with no clear goal in sight, saved only by the fact that I typically like his characters. In dramatic contrast, Powers develops elaborate outlines that specify all details of the story, and generally doesn't start writing until he has those details nailed down. I recall (possibly a distorted memory) the two looking at each other as if the other writer was an entirely alien being.
I find that a hybrid approach works best for me, much like planning a vacation itinerary: I decide where I'm starting and where I'm ending, list the key destinations (or points) I want to touch on along the way between those two points, and then set out along that route. But interesting opportunities for side trips often arise, and some of the most memorable aspects of a trip arise when you abandon your original plans and take an unplanned detour; most recently, this happened when my wife and I decided to hike Kilauea Iki crater in Hawai'i, which turned out to be one of the finest hiking experiences of my life. In fiction, this happens when you want to go in one direction but have a sense that the character would probably do something different. Listen to those quiet voices. The key is to provide enough structure to guide your writing process and keep an unruly character on the right path, without putting your ability to explore serendipitous discoveries in a straightjacket.
Mealing believes that creating a believable world starts with creating believable characters. That's certainly true in the sense that characters never exist in isolation: Each is created by, subsequently shaped by, and exists solely within your story world. If you don't know what that world is like, you can't determine how characters begin (e.g., born as a peasant in a feudal society versus born as the heir to the throne), and how they evolve (e.g., live out their lives peacefully in a lovingly described pastoral setting versus being cast into the world on a heroic quest that tests their courage and flexibility). This also constrains their behavioral options along the way. The latter point is interesting, since the story world includes both physical factors (e.g., if nasty people with swords are trying to behead you, you either learn self-defense quickly or you die) and psychological factors (e.g., what it is possible for you to know, how your beliefs shape your actions). In my story Flatlander Pro Tem, the protagonist's psychological constraints involve a unique form of agoraphobia, so I chose a story world that would bring that aspect of character to the fore, then I created a plot that depends entirely on how the character finds a way to overcome a powerful constraint on his thinking.
Mealing notes that it's important to ground a story in a believable character. That's true in all fiction, but doubly so in SF/F, where the more fantastic (in fantasy) or futuristic (in science fiction) the story, the more important it is to provide a comprehensible and believable character as an anchor. Once readers are comfortable with the character, they can use that comfort to find the courage to venture farther afield and explore the events of a complex and sometimes very unfamiliar story world. Once the character is firmly held in the reader's mind, they can begin to explore the world portrayed by that character, and can begin to understand in turn how the world has shaped the character. These first strong hints about who the character is provide additional hints about the range of realistic possibilities for how they will respond to their world. If the character never comes into focus and therefore remains unpredictable, the reader's sense of the world will be similarly uncertain. Even "unpredictable" characters should be predictable in their unpredictability.
Mealing notes that the world is "not just background or setting; it's an interactive component of the story". On the one hand, as I've already noted, the story world shapes the characters and constrains their possibilities both in a physical sense (e.g., humans can't fly without magical or technological assistance) and in a psychological sense (e.g., humans who live in a two-dimensional maze may only be able to imagine flying through a third dimension with help from an outsider). On the other hand, humans shape their world by trying to impose their will upon it; this may be as simple as finding a way to persuade the bullies to leave you alone, or as ambitious as conquering the world and making it your oyster or terraforming an alien planet, but in all cases, it's a journey in which characters strive to create a more comfortable fit with the world they inhabit.
Based on these points, how do you create a believable world? First, you must start by recognizing that character, plot, and the story world are all important; in different stories, the relative importance of these elements may change, but none can be neglected. In this sense, fiction is like a three-legged stool: if any one leg is greatly shorter than the others or if all three legs are too short, you can't sit comfortably on the stool. Second, you must recognize that all three aspects of the story are interconnected and that they continuously shape each other as the story progresses. Although you can try to learn what these relationships are organically, by simply writing and seeing what emerges, it's more productive and produces better results if you at least try to think these relationships through before you begin writing. Subsequently, you can let your understanding of these relationships guide your progress through the story and reduce the number of dead ends you wander down. "Art" enters into this process when you let your gut feeling tell you which elements are most important for any given story, and when you seek ways to emphasize that element while still integrating the other elements in a satisfying manner.
Thoughtful Post!
Date: 2010-09-03 02:07 pm (UTC)I recall Stephen R. Donaldson (writer of the Thomas Covenant books, amongst others) talking at a MapleCon about the ability in fantasy literature to ensure that the character and the setting mesh - something other genres have more constraints in doing.
Brent Buckner, commenting as Anonymous
Re: Thoughtful Post!
Date: 2010-09-03 02:32 pm (UTC)In SF/F, you can create a story in which it's not even clear that there is a familar center that you're not writing about, so to that extent, the constraints are looser. But because of the unfamiliarity of a typical SF or fantasy environment, the need to mesh character and setting becomes even greater: readers have no shared understanding you can rely on to help them understand. When setting and character clash in any way, it becomes far harder to understand the setting through the character or the character through the setting.
In some cases, the mismatch is sufficiently bad that that it throws me right out of the story: if I can't reliably figure out whether the author is simply incompetent or is providing clues that not all is as it seems, I tend to assume the former in the absence of a compelling reason to keep reading.
Hi Geoff
Date: 2011-09-06 06:52 am (UTC)I know it was written over 12mths ago and I apologise for taking so long to respond.
It's become one of the more popular posts on my blog (in the top ten).
I wish you well with your writing.
Best regards, Paul.
Paul's blog
Date: 2011-09-06 12:20 pm (UTC)