The Ethics of Fiction

This week at our meeting, we talked about Haley's new project, a fiction piece (novel? short story? long form essay?—we'll know when she does) based on a crime committed in Idaho in the 1980s. The first section she submitted this week was riveting and started a long discussion about how important fiction can be. Without giving too much away (you'll have to wait for the highly anticipated book/short story/long form essay release: you heard it here first), this piece forces the reader to examine preconceived notions about people's "goodness" or "evilness." More specifically, does an "evil" person deserve to die at our hands when humanity is far from black and white?

This got me thinking (again) about how important what we do is. You know us writers: we have shameful egos, so a favorite topic is always our own importance. Joking aside, though, art truly is an astonishingly significant force in societal conscience. Think of Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin or Charles Dickens's many novels illuminating the lives of England's poor. It's not that America didn't know the facts about slavery before Uncle Tom's Cabin; abolitionists had been holding rallies and distributing pamphlets for decades already. But Stowe's compelling narrative and three-dimensional characters mobilized a nation in a way facts and figures hadn't yet—and maybe never could.

Haley's piece asked us all to examine our assumptions about criminals, and how we as a society punish them when perhaps we've also created them. It made me think of C.S. Lewis' quote from The Abolition of Man:

"We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honour and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful." 

Lewis contends that society shares blame for the criminal's wrongdoing, especially through our systems of education and law.

Haley's story reminds us that criminals are humans and that we as a society bear some burden for their wrong. But she's not doing it the J'Accuse way: there's no strongly-worded letter to the editor or discussion points at the end of each chapter. She's simply laying out the story—based on real facts—and asking the reader to see a different side of reality. We may not even notice we're being encouraged to think while we read the fascinating story.

Dickens did this particularly well, especially through his use of sarcasm and wit. His characters were so brilliantly layered that their soapbox moments conveyed Dickens's opinions without heavy-handed editorialization or didactic prose.* One of my favorite examples is in Oliver Twist, where Dickens's thoughts on capital punishment are clearly articulated through the mouth of Fagin in a moment of clever dramatic irony:

“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. The prospect of the gallows, too, makes them hardy and bold. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of them strung up in a row, and none left to play booty or turn white-livered!”

The author's position is articulated with humor and irony, and the reader is confronted with the task of thinking.

Not all of us are working on groundbreaking ethical dilemmas, of course. But Lindsey's 90s nostalgia and Tasha's thoughts on love and loss and Emery's scathing deconstruction of modern weddings—they're all equally powerful. Whether it's Ashley's young adult fiction about military kids or my memoirs of early motherhood, writing is important. It's important because it keeps us human, it keeps us connected. And maybe connection is part of how we, as a society, bear the burden of each other's wrongs. Maybe connection is our starting point for looking for an answer to the tough questions.

In case you're wondering, yes, this is an appropriate time to break out in song. 

*I realize this point is debatable, but hey. I think Dickens isn't too didactic to be enjoyable. I guess that's probably because I agree with him. 

Maybe I know you too well...

The most challenging part of writing group isn’t presenting my vulnerable self to the others when it is my turn to present words for critique and it isn’t analyzing the work of others. It isn’t getting there on time (although if I try to carpool with Lindsey, that is an issue) or remembering what the heck I am supposed to be bringing. The hardest part of writing group is separating what I know about the members from the writer, the voice, they portray on the page.


When I read a book or short story (or even long-form journalism) by some author I don’t know personally, I am able to read the words as they are. I form the story in my own mind without any preconceived ideas about the person who wrote it. The story is pure. The same is not true in writing group. I am friends with these women—I have been in their homes, met their significant others, had maybe one too many drinks with them. So, for example, when I read a fiction piece by Ashley, all I see in the main character is her so all of my suggestions, questions and criticism is based on what I know about her. But that doesn't lend well to GOOD suggestions, questions or criticism.


This is not just true for fiction pieces but it can also hinder my ability to really understand a non-fiction story for what it is meant to be. Is that joke in Haley’s piece hilarious just because I can imagine her delivering the line? Does Emily’s birth story make me smile just because I watched as she grew the baby inside of her? I don’t know. I don’t know how to step back and read as if I don’t know these people—because I do know them.


Ultimately, as a writing group, how do we remove ourselves enough to deliver constructive feedback as an audience rather than as friends? This, so far has been my biggest struggle.

Writing Prompt: A Collaborative Story A-Z

What would writing group be without some wine-assisted hilarity? Every week we start our meeting off with either a writing prompt or a topic of discussion. When we're feeling serious, these discussions and exercises are grave and weighty. We're hardly ever feeling serious. 

Ashley brought this prompt to a meeting in September. We each submitted an anonymous a sentence starting with the letter a, and as a group we chose our favorite. Haley's won, with all of its intergalactic potential, and we counted off through the alphabet one by one so that each of us had letters to begin the rest of our sentences (i.e. I ended up with E, O, T, etc--without knowing what my fellow writers were doing with their sentences). Our collaborative story is horrendously confusing, and of course funny. 

Prompts like these always make me think of how absurd the creative process can be, and how sometimes the silliest things spark a new project or send me in a different direction. That's one of the best parts of writing group--you never know what's going to come out of our nerdy writing talk. In this instance, it wasn't so much creativity that I took from it, as a close look at my sentence structure alongside my friends'. Holy cow my sentences are long! (And yes, you're reading more examples of these monsters right now.) In other meetings, we've talked about sentence structure and variety. This exercise helped me notice how my sentences probably tend toward unbelievably long incoherent messes of words strung together--and also lack of variety. 

Thanks, unnamed planet, for showing me the potential error of my sentence ways. Without further ado... 

Untitled 

By Writing Rainbow

A long time ago, on a planet not too different from this one, two strangers met and their lives changed forever. Before theses strangers met, however, we must trace the steps to how this chance meeting saved a galaxy.

Cars lined the street, but sat empty and covered in dust. Dingoes gathered around the couple for the ceremonial eating of the baby. Eclipses happened often here on this cold planet, leaving inhabitants angry and stir-crazy, explaining the odd happenings of late. Fortunately for the two of them, they were both equipped with an equal but different set of useful skills. Gone were the times when places like this were safe. Home wasn’t home anymore. In case you hadn't noticed, this was a deranged place.

Just as she started to speak, he put his finger to her mouth. Karo corn syrup was the only liquid available and useful for the job. Left unattended, she looked both ways and quickly snatched the necklace off the table. Moreover, she wasn’t totally convinced that he would even understand the gravity of her situation. Not long after that, the happy couple found themselves in a rap battle.

Outside the dwelling, there was a loud wailing howl. Patterns had emerged and she couldn't help but wonder if he saw them too. Questions buzzed through her mind as she whirled from the shock. Recklessly swerving through the narrow streets, he drove the car toward a destination they still hadn’t identified. Singing loudly, the dingo chorus took it to the bridge. "Thank you ma'am," he said with a tip of his space helmet. "Unbelievable," he said quietly.

Victory would be hers, however it needed to be won. Where would they even go? Xanadu the soundtrack would play on repeat for infinity. Yet to this day, the full story is as confusing and convoluted as I have here described it. Zig-zagging into darkness, everything went black.