"Looking Over The Writer's Shoulder"
By Paul Grainger
A writer who wants to tell a story involves himself, as soon as he puts
those first words down on the page, in a peculiar form of ambiguity. He
knows, more or less, the direction in which he is heading; every event,
every character and, if he writes well, every sentence and every word,
brings him one step nearer his objective. Before those first words are
written, everything goes, but once he begins the writing process there is
less latitude. One particular person emerges as the main character, another
becomes merely a peripheral figure, and each must content themselves with
their assigned role. The storyteller becomes bound by his own decisions; he
must follow one chosen route from beginning to end.
For a reader, though, the situation is reversed. He takes a book in his
hands that has, as yet, no significance. As he reads it there comes into
being, gradually, a new world. The reader is introduced to new people, not
chosen at random, but created to broaden his outlook on life. What for the
writer is a progressive constraint becomes for the reader - at least for the
time being - an expanding universe.
I say 'for the time being' for two reasons. One: it depends on the
situation, or accumulation of situations, as to how long the reader remains
confronted with new (and therefore mind-broadening) information. In one
book, it is only right at the end that the trump card is laid on the table
(writers of detective stories almost always employ this technique). Whereas
in another all the relevant facts are revealed earlier on, with the result
that the reader shares the writer's perspective of how the story develops.
No new characters appear, and the explanation of events becomes more
important than the events themselves. 'Novels of ideas', for example, are
more often than not characterised in this latter manner: the story becomes
the analysis, and the perspective of, respectively, writer and reader
becomes
more focused. Where the break occurs varies; not only by writer but also by
book.
The second reason is that this difference in perspective is only valid on
the first reading: on re-reading one knows where the story is going.
Setting aside the aforementioned detective novel (which needs to be
'forgotten' before it can be usefully re-read), any book in which the writer
presents the relevant facts early on is in a better position to withstand
re-reading. And this isn't necessarily a tribute to the quality of the
writing alone. An impressively written book can, on first reading, rely on
the development of the plot as a measure of its success, but if that is its
only merit, it cannot be said to have much depth. Any book that has more to
offer the reader is worthy of re-reading, even if the way in which the story
is constructed remains fresh in the mind. The reason being that the story
hasn't been 'devalued' by the first reading, it has become a different
story.
The reader can never recoup the 'innocence' of his first reading of a story,
except if either it has been badly written or he has a bad memory. The more
it is re-read, the nearer the reader's perspective approaches that of the
writer. They will never become one and the same, of course, because even if
the characters are portrayed as, or based on, real people re-enacting real
events, the story remains the product of the writer's imagination. Repeated
readings, however, can give an insight of the writer's thought processes.
The reader becomes bound by the same decision that the writer made: to
follow one chosen route from beginning to end.
Paul Grainger
Copyright 2003