Balancing the Balances
A few months ago, I spent a several days wallowing in a literary dilemma. I was preparing to share an excerpt of my work with some people I don’t know and whose judgment I knew I would value. This created a truly magnificent opportunity for overthinking, which happens to be one of my very best skillsets.
Writing is a complex enterprise, and highly idiosyncratic. Finding the balance you want (between action and description, plot and character, clarity and nuance, tension and payoff) means planning and creating on multiple levels. In long-form fiction, the right balance shifts throughout the work, so the author must also consider the balance of the balances. Plus, the balance that feels right for one story will be wrong for another.
There are about nine billion books (give or take) on the craft of writing—which writers reach for partly because we know there’s always something more to master, and because we’re secretly hoping to find the one that tells us we’re already doing everything right.
In creative writing workshops, the same dynamic is in play, but with the added drama of interpersonal dynamics. It’s hard enough to read a book that tells you how to tear apart your work and assess it for weaknesses. Having other people do it for you can be brutal. When you share something you’ve worked on, you need and want feedback. At the same time, it’s very difficult to leave your ego out of it entirely.
Setting the Criteria
So in choosing what to read on this occasion, I wanted to find an excerpt that:
- Wasn’t something I’d already published and therefore would be embarrassed about if the group found major issues
- Was unfinished enough to protect my ego (knowing I could tell myself I just hadn’t polished it enough would help if it didn’t go over well)
- Was polished enough to not be embarrassing
- Would be interesting to read without additional context
- Would be acceptable to a wide range of readers (I knew some of the group don’t read sci-fi)
- Demonstrated my prose style
- Exemplified one or more elements of the balance(s) I strike
The first criterion on the list was the only one I could rate objectively. Evaluating my excerpts on the other dimensions was where it got tricky.
Two Options Diverged
At length, I narrowed it down to two options from my current work in progress. One is a scene I really like where two characters meet for the first time. The perspective character in that scene is Piers, who’s the protagonist in the New Foundation Project series and is an introspective sort. That scene offers an example of the way I portray the internal world of a character, which is an element of my writing that I enjoy and that other readers have told me is notable feature of my stories. There’s also description of the second character through Piers’s eyes, so it is sort of like a double character sketch. Piers reveals a lot about himself by the things he observes about the other. So a lot of things about that excerpt seemed like a good fit for introducing my writing.
Then the doubt kicked in.
That scene was a good example of the deep perspective that plays such an important role in how the story develops—but it might be too limited. The people reading the excerpt wouldn’t know the characters. Since no one in the group has actually read the books, they wouldn’t know that a lot of the story is based on thoughts and feelings. To them, this scene might feel like nothing. I imagined the reaction: Oh, wow. She really did read too much Henry James. And then the excruciating search for carefully worded feedback.
My second choice was a much more traditional “action” scene lifted from an unpublished work. But that one, to me, wouldn’t work out of context. It wasn’t the kind of adrenalin-pumping, universal scenario that drags you along for the ride. I realized that even in that excerpt, the action would only be exciting if the reader was invested in the character.
The Meaning in the Balance
I like scenes like these, which you probably noticed. Context and attention are needed before they come to life. They can feel quiet, because they are so internal. But “still waters run deep” can apply to stories as much as people—there can be a lot going on beneath the surface that isn’t immediately obvious. Sometimes you have to sit with a story for a while, and breathe with a character and let yourself feel what they feel, before you start to feel the currents. It makes it harder to answer “what happens” but it can make for a really interesting conversation about “why.”
Not all plots revolve around Big Moments. Sometimes, the story advances through layers of meaning and realization. Those are often considered “character-driven” stories, but it’s not always a simple distinction. Part of why they can be so satisfying is that when Big Moments happen, they happen to someone who has had thoughts, feelings, and experiences that cause them to react a certain way. I’m fascinated by that chemistry—the reaction intrigues me as much or more than the catalyst.
The excerpt I finally chose is one that moves across the boundary. It starts with the character’s internal state, and later shifts to external action. In the later part, there’s more happening, but what’s going on within the character is what makes the action meaningful.
I’m drawn to stories where the internal context and the external events are equal forces. The balance in stories like that is different than in plot-driven stories, and both can be deeply satisfying—changing the center of gravity within the story changes where the meaning lives. When what a character thinks and feels is given as much weight is given as much attention as what happens, the story asks for a different kind of attention. In return, it invites a more personal exploration of the story’s meaning.
Image courtesy of ChatGPT and Rodin
