Image: Randalyn Hill - unsplash
I think a lot about the writing craft—I also have read a shelf full of writing books, probably more. Currently, I’m part of George Saunders’ Substack newsletter group (Story Club), which I can’t recommend highly enough. I decided to start my own substack as a place to share some of the thoughts and discoveries I’ve made about the writing process… and sure, some of my publishing experiences as well.
I’ll offer this newsletter for free to begin with, and then a bit later, it will go to paid subscriptions… not much, whatever is the lowest platform.
But rather than a lot of intro stuff - let me jump into it.
One of the biggest shifts in my writing happened when I came upon the mantra that is the title of this post. It’s not like I hadn't read it before. Vonnegut talks about it in his rules for writing:
7. Give your reader as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
I knew this quote - and respected the hell out of Vonnegut. But I still resisted. I can’t tell the reader everything! Why would they continue reading? Don’t I have to hide some stuff?
Like a lot of writers I had to work through this—so convinced that to create suspense, mystery, intrigue, (hell, even interest!), I needed to obscure and obfuscate. It’s taken me perhaps two decades to understand that this is a wrong approach… and it creates kinda shitty stories. Sorry, but yes, I really believe this. I’ve told other writers, both young and established, about this mantra… but not everyone agrees. But for me anyway, I’ve come to understand Vonnegut’s rule as pointing to using obfuscation as a crutch. If I’m not confident enough in my story, maybe I’ll hide something to make it seem more interesting, or damn, at least make it more literary. Those buggers are hiding shit all the time! (No Craig, they are not.)
Kurt V. telling me, “No Craig, literary writers are not hiding shit. Not the good ones.”
When I finally started to accept this notion of telling readers what is going on at all times, in others words being kind to them, something happened to my writing. For one thing, it made me work harder at the stories I was telling. If a story was too weak to stand on its own two feet, then it simply needed to be better. Added to this was the development of the main two questions I ask myself during editing:
Why this story?
Is it true?
I’ll talk more about this editing process in a future post. But to say that these ideas are connected. Also to say, I don’t ask these questions in first drafts—in fact, I try to ignore everything in a first draft, but just give myself over to what is emerging on the page.
Even in a first draft though, I will ponder why I’m telling a story, and where is the truth—and by truth, I mean the great lies us writers tell. Or let’s call it “the fictional dream” as John Gardner wrote about in his brilliant, The Art of Fiction. Opening myself to this sort of truth-telling is another way of being kind to you, my dear reader. I don’t want to waste your time with something that isn’t true. I also don’t want to hide my motivations.
The late great John Gardner showing that if you have a pipe you automatically know a lot of stuff about writing.
One of the best lines I ever wrote was in a story called Samurai Bluegrass, which was published in Carve magazine a number of years ago. It was a story about grief, and I disappeared deep into the character who had lost his partner, as he tried to put his life back together. In this small excerpt, I was thinking about that feeling of loss, and the rawness of emotion that is palpable when others try to be helpful.
Susan started asking me to come to church after the accident. I said no for a few months. I didn’t want to hear about God being so good and answering prayers and sing happy hymns about him.One night at Susan’s, I stayed up late drinking wine and talking. Stephen had put Zack down and, probably thinking he should leave us alone, he went to bed.
“Jim, anger’s part of grief,” she said.
“Not in the mood for this, Susan.”
“It happens. We’re human.”
I just shrugged. She was patient with me.
“If there’s anything you need, we can help.”
“There is something,” I started. “I’d like her back.”
I’ll leave it there for now. If you’d like to read the short story, you can find it here: Samurai Bluegrass.
Thanks for reading. Be kind.
Isn't there a tension between what you don't need to hide vs. the reveal at the end? Meaning hiding facts just to be coy or clever works against your story; when I come across that, it takes me out of the story, makes me aware of the artifice instead of lost in the art. But, particularly in writing crime and suspense, you're not exactly hiding shit but you're trying to find an ending that's both surprising and, once the reader gets there, inevitable.