With all that's going on in the world, let's discuss the artist writing in times of trouble.
Thanksgiving is gone. Christmas is around the corner. While I’m sure there were plenty of writers out there writing, I wasn’t one of them. Or, rather, I wasn’t writing fiction—I was working on a book review for a novel coming out in January and going over another writer’s creative nonfiction proposal and a friend’s ideas about the novel he wants to write next. Book review aside, the other two works dealt, in some way, with politics. I’ve written about politics and political novels previously, but now that the election has wrapped up and much of the world is dreading what’s to come, it appears the artists are coming out with art as a reflection of the times even more so than they already did and do. I write this as emergency martial law has been declared by the South Korean president, President Biden has pardoned his son Hunter, the Supreme Court hears a case about transgender rights, and the President-elect’s cabinet are the definition of kakistocracy itself.
Personally, I have two political novels I’m querying. I’m one of those writers that has to get what I’m feeling off my chest, which I do by writing novels about it. What I’ve discovered, having worked on these novels for years, is that the difficult part isn’t the actual writing of the story or the plot—it’s the sentimentalism, the subtlety, the need to ensure that I’m writing around the writing that I’m really trying to communicate through my story. Not because political novels and fiction haven’t directly addressed the issues concerning the writers (and society), but because the writing must be done in a way that doesn’t come off to the reader as a rant. That the writing is intelligent, that it tells a story, that the message comes in at an angle rather than as a Mack truck barreling headlong at the reader so she feels she’s reading an angry Facebook post where everyone bashes each other because there’s no attempt at starting dialogue but rather a base desire to pull out the rhetorical knives to stab anyone with a different opinion.
Artists create art, and when the focus is politics there’s a fine balance between overt criticism (which can be boring in fiction) and thoughtful storytelling (which is my goal when going political). What I read this weekend got me thinking about the best way to write political fiction and, because I reviewed a creative nonfiction proposal, how that might play into the gathering of information needed to inform that fiction. As a writer, I feel (and have felt for years) the calling to write something between a protest/social novel and a political novel, as I feel the subject matter often intersects. I’m getting the sense that others are not only feeling the same way, they’re actively pursuing it whether they’re equipped or not equipped to write meaningful literature on the topics they’re pursuing. And I’m not talking about the writers whose works I read over the holiday—I’m talking about a lot of the writers whose works I’m seeing promoted in fiction writing groups online. I applaud them; I also worry they’re not as self-aware as they should be and aren’t seeking outside readers, professionals in the fields within which they are writing, appropriate research, or even doing revisions to improve their works. But I am happy (and proud) that they’re dipping their toes into the political lava—we need it now more than ever.
I sound critical. I get that. Writers can write whatever they want to write, in whatever fashion, with however much or little research they want to do. It’s not my place to dictate what writers do—I have my shortcomings as well and admit to them. I do try my best to do justice to what I’m trying to communicate without sounding preachy. But I think the writing that makes it out there, that’s published by traditional publishers and/or Indie publishers (known ones, not self-publishing that’s called Indie publishing—though there are some great self-published books out there), should strive for the story, irrespective of the obvious political or social/protest themes and messages being conveyed by the writer. There are ways to do this. Conventions writers can utilize to best ensure they’re not writing diatribes they’re trying to pass off as fiction. Here are some I’ve found helpful, a few that have been provided to me, and that I’ve learned through countless revisions of the novels I’ve written and am querying.
If you’re mentioning presidents, try using their number instead of a fictional name for what’s obviously a real president. Instead of using Trump or Biden’s name (or whoever), trying using 45 or 46 instead. The reader knows who you’re talking about, but they don’t have to have Trump or Biden’s name thrown in their face. It provides enough distance that the story can continue without raising any temperatures or calling attention to the writing.
Here are two of Anton Chekhov’s rules for writing:
Absence of lengthy verbiage of a political-social-economic nature
Total objectivity
And he’s right. Lengthy verbiage of political-social-economic nature is something that should be avoided—at least, in my opinion, in too blunt and direct a way. Of course, like anything in writing, there are exceptions, when done “right.” This is where self-awareness comes in. Here’s an example. You be the judge of which line is “better”:
“He’s a rapist, a convicted felon, and a total traitor. Did you hear him on the bus? Everything about him is outrageous. He's a complete gaslighter!”
OR
“I find his actions abhorrent. The checks and balances in place aren’t doing what they need to do, and it’s something we’re going to have to handle, sooner rather than later. The propaganda machine is too effective and it’s only getting worse.”
For me, the second line is a better line because it’s dialogue that’s part of the story rather than a rant against a specific president we know all too much about. The first line may read better in twenty-five or fifty years, but not so much today. Readers read the newspapers and watch the news for opinion pieces where expressions of disgust such as are exemplified in the first line are expected. In fiction, we want a story; we don’t want to listen to a boring tirade against a specific character who we know from real life.
I’m a big proponent of protest literature and political fiction with a message, even if I don’t agree with the message. I read fiction for the enjoyment of it. I read it to learn things I may not otherwise be exposed to. I read it because it often collates information out there that affects everyone in a way that is easier to digest than, say, listening to pundits on television who may or may not have an agenda. Fiction, as John Dufresne and other say, is the lie that tells the truth, and in today’s crazy world, we need to be open to not only reading and consuming different ways of understanding what’s going on, we, as artists, need to create those fictions that magnify and explain what’s going on, who the puppet masters are, and what their actions mean to the greater world at large. And we need to do it in ways that keep readers reading rather than having them run away from what we’re trying to say as writers, as artists, as chroniclers of the political realities on the ground that get morphed and twisted into things that they are not, into weapons against our best interests.
So, write. Be self-aware. Be objective. Don’t rant. Ranting will accomplish nothing. Let the nonfiction writers and the opinion writers and the social media personalities and influencers yell and bluster and call attention to themselves through their blowhorns. Let them be the spectacles. Your job, if you choose it, is to write a good story. To create art and literature that pulls the truth from the fiction. It’s a heavy task, no doubt. But what is more noble than telling the truth? What is more decent than informing our fellow citizens around the world about the evils that lurk behind the smiles of politicians?
Cully Perlman is an author, blogger, and substantive editor. Reach him at Cully@novelmasterclass.com