Pure
Fiel a Verdad
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2001
- Posts
- 15,135
Recent NYT 'writers on writing'
http://www.nytimes.com/2003/02/24/books/24MAYN.html
Let Your Characters Tell You the Story,
by Joyce Maynard
[...]
Here's what I believe happens when a writer begins her story with an authentically realized character (as opposed to one from central casting, formed out of the necessity to see a certain preordained action take place). If she allows him to take shape slowly on the page, if she resists the urge to make assumptions based on what she thinks he should do, he'll take on a life of his own and very nearly reveal the direction of the story.
The process that comes to mind here, that most resembles the one I undergo when I embark on bringing a character to life on the page, is that old art class exercise I still love, the contour drawing. You set your pencil on the paper and keep your eye firmly locked on the face of your subject, and then you let the pencil begin to move. You don't look down at the paper. You don't allow yourself to tidy up the image, and because of that, the image you create is likely to be a strange one.
An eye may show up on a cheek, the brow intersecting an ear. The strange thing is, an honestly executed contour drawing, created by a patient hand and a more patient eye, often conveys a more accurate rendering of the subject than one of some more deftly executed suitable-for-framing likeness.
In every novel I've written, I began with character, and allowed the drama to emerge out of human nature and relationships. Whether or not the story I constructed in my novel "To Die For" ultimately answered the questions posed by the real Smart case never seemed of import to me. I didn't write a novel about that case, and the only authenticity I cared about was that I remain true to the nature and motivations of the characters I'd invented. [...]
http://www.nytimes.com/2003/02/24/books/24MAYN.html
Let Your Characters Tell You the Story,
by Joyce Maynard
[...]
Here's what I believe happens when a writer begins her story with an authentically realized character (as opposed to one from central casting, formed out of the necessity to see a certain preordained action take place). If she allows him to take shape slowly on the page, if she resists the urge to make assumptions based on what she thinks he should do, he'll take on a life of his own and very nearly reveal the direction of the story.
The process that comes to mind here, that most resembles the one I undergo when I embark on bringing a character to life on the page, is that old art class exercise I still love, the contour drawing. You set your pencil on the paper and keep your eye firmly locked on the face of your subject, and then you let the pencil begin to move. You don't look down at the paper. You don't allow yourself to tidy up the image, and because of that, the image you create is likely to be a strange one.
An eye may show up on a cheek, the brow intersecting an ear. The strange thing is, an honestly executed contour drawing, created by a patient hand and a more patient eye, often conveys a more accurate rendering of the subject than one of some more deftly executed suitable-for-framing likeness.
In every novel I've written, I began with character, and allowed the drama to emerge out of human nature and relationships. Whether or not the story I constructed in my novel "To Die For" ultimately answered the questions posed by the real Smart case never seemed of import to me. I didn't write a novel about that case, and the only authenticity I cared about was that I remain true to the nature and motivations of the characters I'd invented. [...]
Thanks.
