Gerard Houarner

by Gerard Houarner

Alex Grey, advising artists:

Keep going. Never give up. Your life is a labyrinth, not a maze. Dedicate your work to something higher than yourself…

One of the many struggles creative types face is the problem of labeling. Being dropped into a bucket and cast as a certain “type” eliminates options and choices for both audience and artist.  While not without rewards, it’s also a trap, as when a market dries up, a fashion fades, new media and avenues of distribution pop up. The bucket gets kicked, and nobody cares about who or what is spilled.

Publishers, critics, editors, writers, fans like to drop stuff we write into buckets called genre. It’s a convenient habit. Like a good sofrito, genres contain a number of specific, predictable elements, with an occasional surprise, that satisfies an audience’s “taste” and hunger for a particular kind of story.

This assumes people know what they want to read, and what they don’t. Many do, of course, or at least gravitate to the comfortably familiar. But lots of folks are looking for something “interesting,” without really knowing what they’re “interested” in. It’s easy to turn off those people with labels and all the cliches associated with them – few want something identified as literary talking head novel on the beach, or a book that seems to promise a grue fest during a family crisis.

Every now and then, perhaps even seasonally, like hurricanes, a debate arises about the needs the few – publishers, critics, editors, writers, etc – and the needs of the many – that segment of the population looking for something interesting to read. Not fans, specifically, but that elusive and highly prized grail for anyone seeking wealth, fame, critical acceptance into the various canons of literary tradition, or just the next mortgage payment: readers.

Sharper thinkers and more experienced hands have dealt with the topic here and elsewhere, lately, and I find myself in agreement with the direction taken by those who want to be known simply as writers. Yes, pin us down and at any given time we may be writing horror, fantasy, post-modern slipstream, mystery, romance, science fiction, suspense, thrillers, media tie-ins, but even in that moment we are in fact much more than any of those things. We contain multitudes, we cannot be labeled.

And I agree that there’s nothing to be gained by being dubbed the “king/queen of whatever” because we are in fact cutting off a healthy segment of that general readership who may not look at us if we’re trapped in a market niche that does not, on it’s face, attract them. I agree that, unless you’re trying to start a cult, it’s better to be inclusive than exclusive when looking for an audience.

And yet, I struggle with being just a “writer.” Maybe I can afford to struggle because I don’t write for a living.

In the profession I’ve pursued for a living, I’ve chosen the population I work with, and how far to rise up the education and career ladder (determining how much money I make and how much time I have left to do other things, like write), and where I work, and through research and opportunities, even how. I do all kinds of crazy stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with a job dealing with people (like, drive a truck and pick up/deliver supplies; work a loading dock; perform light maintenance on machinery; housekeeping – my old clinic director in the Fordham section of the Bronx regularly cleaned out the toilets), but I’ve also specialized to give myself the kind of experiences that make the day job rewarding in ways beyond making money. What I’m saying here is that it’s one thing to lay down bricks, pump out articles or novels, or shepherd the ill back to some form of health. People also bring something to their work, if they have any passion about it. They do something special that sets them apart(okay, sometimes they’re incompetent, and that also sets them apart, but I’m trying to be positive here!). Writers zone in on specialties, too.

As creative types, we’re drawn to particular subjects. We’re compelled to explore them through our art. This stuff comes through no matter what we write. This “vision” may be the reason why our work is sometimes sought out by an editor. This vision is what drives us to create, it’s what makes us crazy – we pick at wounds, stare at accidents, peer into mysteries rather than put our feet up on the coffee table to watch whatever’s on television while tipping back a few brews.

Considering passion, specialties and subjects, I can’t help thinking many of us are more than just “writers.”

We’re also encouraged by modern marketing to “brand” ourselves, to become known through our “platforms” to a wider audience eager to consume our “product.” Though this kind of stuff goes beyond the writing of books, it is just another kind of labeling. It’s a way of busting out of a genre or type of writing, of becoming sui generis.

So maybe that’s the secret to the whole genre problem – writers need to become their own “genre.” For example, is modern commercial fantasy really fantasy, or is it a genre called Tolkien? Is commercial horror just horror, or is it King?

Instead of shunning labels, or embracing a single one, maybe we should cut them up and fashion a patchwork quilt coat for ourselves. Readers might not like all the colors, but could still find their interest tweaked by finding favorites mixed in with the rest.

Ridiculous, I know. Critics will never sign on. Neither will publishers. How would you even describe the mash-up? Inspirational romantic speculation? Dark literary tragedy? If it bleeds, it’s horror. If it’s about language, it’s literary. If there’s magic, it’s fantasy. If someone’s trying to solve a crime, it’s a mystery. Obvious. Simple. These are the rules. This is what makes sense to most readers.

But, of course, stories are about all of these things. And more. In different degrees and proportions, according to the writer’s passions and tastes.

Here’s another problem with being a “writer” – how do you explain to people what you do? I bring up the fact that I’m a writer pretty frequently in conversations with people I meet – obnoxious, I know, but there it is. And the next question is, what do you write? (As opposed to the first statement, which is, I have a great story you could write down and we’d split the money.)  It’s the first question asked at the very occasional literary functions I might attend, having steeled myself against vacant looks from editors and agents and perhaps actually caught someone’s attention.

Science fiction, horror, thriller, romance – these are the standard answers. Everything. Yeah, cookie-cutter. What are you working on now? Why, I’m blending romance and science fiction war genres in a cutting edge, far-future, cyberpunk adventure featuring a strong-female lead – interested?

The eyes glaze.

Well, yes, people is an answer. Characters. Troubled, magical, even disturbed and positively deranged individuals. I must say it wrong, because even to me I sound like a smartass.

If you mention a genre that’s out of favor with the people you’re talking to, the conversation withers. If you spin a clever web of short and sweet plot summaries, or whip out log lines and high concepts, or recount a few vivid anecdotes about your imaginary character, and people listen, you’re doing a hell of a lot better than a lot of writers I know.

What else is there?

Adventure. Family. The past. Hope. Darkness. The future. Faith.

There’s a zillion of them, of course. They point to something larger, a personal subject that transcends the mechanics of any particular form or commercial genre, that might help a writer, or any creator, bring passion to whatever they might try their hand at. Of course, we all write about all of these things – I understand, I’m treading lightly on the “alternative to genre” ground I’m laying down, here.

But I am searching for a way to engage readers, or curious bystanders (even innocent ones).

People want labels. They’ll put them on you if you don’t define yourself (oh, you write that Star Trek stuff, or, do you know Stephen King? or even, I used to love Murder, She Wrote).

So maybe a way to go is to define yourself by the subjects that fascinate you, that drives you no matter what part of the field you’re tilling. Maybe it’s a step in creating your “brand,” your own personal genre.

I can’t help being drawn to “dark.” What do you write? Oh, I like to write about people dealing with darkness, you know, struggling against what’s inside them, or something going on around them. Sometimes it’s horror, or science fiction. Fantasy. Funny stuff, too. Hell, even this blog I write for called Storytellersunplugged gets dark. But I throw in a few jokes, here and there.

Or, I like to write about things like what’s behind that door marked “Do Not Enter” at the back of your store.

Yeah, I know, it needs a lot of work. I’ve got to mine the “subject” to find all the different ways it can represent my work to really own it, to sell it in casual conversation. And yes, I know labeling myself as a writer of “Dark Fiction” will turn off all the people looking for hope and inspiration in the first line. But, you know, I don’t usually give hope or inspiration in the first line, and if I do, you’re in for a world of hurt. Oh, I’ll get to hope and inspiration, and it might even make it to the last line. But if the “happily ever after” gets added at the end, then I’m afraid there’s not going to be a lot of passion attached to those words.

It all seems silly, doesn’t it, fighting for attention while at the same time resisting the human need to categorize. A writer of dark fiction. It sounds too much like the “speculative” writer trying to escape the sci-fi trap. I don’t see the sui generis thing working itself out through it, either. It’s better than horror writer, or dark fantasy author. Maybe. But it does feel just a tiny bit better than just “writer.” At least for me. Because life is short, time shorter, and people’s attention span can be measured in micro seconds.

Whether we like it or not, we might need to use just a tiny bit of that time collaborating with the “forces of darkness” within and around us to define the label that’s coming down on our heads.

by Gerard Houarner

I recently picked up another book of fairy tales – the Annotated Classic Fairy Tales, edited by Maria Tatar, from Norton. I have sizeable library of this kind of stuff and really don’t need any more material, but you know how it is – I still have my Bullfinch’s from the 60′s but I also picked up the latest edition, too, because it was….fresher.

The first section of the book features illustrations – Scenes of Storytelling – dating back to the late 17^th century. Most depict groups gathered around a storyteller in various home settings, some with spinning wheels in the background. The more modern illustrations focused the sense of intimacy by showing a mother and child bonding over a story

I was reminded of Native American storyteller figures, which in turn had me thinking of petroglyphs and cave paintings and Mayan and Aztec temple decorations and glyphs, some of which anthropologists believe were meant to be shared by fire light after taking hallucinogens.

And, of course, there are the campfire tales and songs, the legends recounted by bards for courtly audiences, the parables and lessons repeated in sacred spaces by priests for their followers and students.

Just as all this was percolating in my feeble brain, Linda and I were invited along for a Ghost Tour of lower Manhattan, conducted by Gordon Linzner, and sponsored by the Garden State Horror Writers Association. Gordon, besides being the former publisher of Space and Time magazine as well as a licensed NYC tour guide (yes, there are licenses for these things, and tests, as well – accept no substitutes or amateurs!), greatly enjoys the performance aspects of storytelling. So we wandered about the East and West Village for three hours as the sun set and night closed around us, hearing various tales of murder and mayhem by a guy in a cape and top hat, sporting a wolfshead cane, while hordes of young folks partied on around us, oblivious to the bloody ground on which they staggered. We had fun.

The associations eventually led me to the idea of intimacy, and how stories have always been a way for people to bond, both with the storyteller and each other, while receiving warnings and promises about life, and other cultural information, in the form of characters and their adventures.

I was reminded of how intimate not only hearing stories can and should be, but of the kind of focus humans sink into when engaged in the performance of a play, or watching a movie in a big, old-fashioned theater, or gathered in circle listening to music while surrounded by darkness. There is an intensity of emotion and connectivity (between story and audience, and among audience members) that transcends the kind of entertainment meant to simply pass the time. There’s a connection with the moment that creates a deeply satisfying experience, a memory that lingers past the normal expiration date of everyday life. Maybe, a bit of meaning spontaneously combusts in our fleshy shells, creating the belief that there’s a purpose to our lives.

Well, whatever.

There’s no getting away from how intoxicating communing with the arc of a story can be. Competitive sports is nothing if not a story, each contest a conflict complete with characters and a resolution, the stakes rising over the course of a game, a season or a set of trials until a champion emerges. Sadly, shopping and the consumer economy can also be looked at as a story, the hackneyed remains of primal hunting cave paintings.

Definitely, whatever.

I also remembered the rush I once enjoyed while reading Vance and Dostoevsky and Tolkien at various stages of my life, experienced only infrequently these days because there’s so little time to read and so much of it irritates me. There’s a powerful sense of intimacy, not so much with the writer but with the story, that roots the reader in his or her own imagination, transported there by someone else’s words.

What’s involved in this intimacy? Interaction. In the case of traditional, oral storytelling, there’s the sense of community, of being in a physical place and specific time, sharing an experience that is only partially rooted in the physical world. The real “magic” (and how I’ve struggled to avoid using that word – but I don’t want to google human neural activity and start talking about the chemicals we create in our bodies to transmit pleasure, either) happens in the head. Something happens, through the power of words or music or imagery, that elevates a bunch of people sitting around into a community sharing a common experience.

So one point I can drag out of this reverie that might be relevant to this blog would be the importance of treating public readings as more than an opportunity to mumble one’s way through one’s own story. There’s some “game” involved, theatrics, showmanship. A little training, perhaps. It’s worth the trouble to practice, to read aloud, to spend some time with a teacher, because a reading is an opportunity to widen an audience, if only by one or two folks. Maybe people might actually show up for conventions readings if a certain kind of reputation was built up. Call it a throwback to the old days of campfire tales. Not every story is going to work in such a situation. But a darkened bar, or even a painfully bright hotel meeting room, can still play host to a great experience for listeners who will want to know more about your work.

That’s an obvious point. More useful, perhaps, might be a question along the lines of what some others have talked about here and other places: where are the places people are going to for their stories? Where else is that sense of intimacy being created? Where are the new camp fires? Temples?

Okay, outside of professional wrestling. And maybe politics. Oh, yeah, and sports.

Heartening to me are the numbers being pulled down by young adult authors, beyond Potter. Yes, there seems to be a lot of dark romance involved, but there’s also a love of traditional story being nurtured, with characters and emotional throughlines and a use of the fantastic as metaphor for bigger, deeper concerns. Younger readers may have a lot more of themselves to give to what they read than adults, who are less distracted by hormonal changes and more involved with day-to-day survival. Whatever’s happening, there seems to me to be a very deep, intimate connection with the stories they’re reading. They’re immersed in their own “golden age” of writing. Future readers in training. Or, if not specifically readers, future seekers of stories beyond the stuff you get off the digital channels, the stuff that doesn’t involve too much interaction.

Games. They seem distant to me, locked into a certain kind of mode, stuck in the shallows or back currents of story, with a pulp a focus on action and setting, maybe not so much on character beyond a role necessary for the action of occur. Maybe I’m wrong, I’m just watching and listening to others play from the outside. I certainly haven’t been drawn to game play, which tells me something. I get bored. I can never get away from the fact that I’m playing in someone else’s backyard, and the options are very limited, and the visuals still look like cheap SciFi Channel movie CGI, and there’s nothing interesting for me to do. People tried to get me involved in Second Life, but seriously, I have enough with my First Life. There’s no real point for me in that kind of interaction, in that form of intimacy. I can’t even get into message boards. Obviously, I’m too old.

But there’s a hell of a lot of interaction in game play. Friends and family lose themselves in these things (when they could be reading my stories, or yours!). There’s intimacy, with others and with what’s happening in the gameplayers’ heads. And story.

I don’t know how to tell stories for this medium. I need a Photoshop program for reality and for what goes on in my head. A super typewriter. Bigger words. I’m thinking games which force players to change roles depending on choices made, which throw in plot changes from larger forces going on in the game’s background (higher levels), would be interesting. Of course, there’s commercial hell to play if the player is forced into unwanted roles. Not my problem. But there’s a hell of a lot of interaction.

Back to more traditional storytelling.

Podcasting is a blast back to storytelling roots – a human voice, telling a story, using a device that whispers the words right into your head. James Patrick Kelly won a Nebula for story “published” this way, and has an interesting deal with audible.com for podcasts of his stories. So in this multi-tasking world, you can have music coming through your ear buds, or stories.

There’s something called a cell phone novel in Japan, and they’re turning into best sellers.

So, the point? Hmm.

Rekindling the magic of storytelling through emerging technology. Saving the power of words and language in the face of non-verbal imagery. Renewing the bonds of community, humanity (hotlink to your favorite anthem here), and storytelling by collaborating with readers while still retaining personal creative vision (okay, yes, I’m going sci fi). Looking for the audience. Saving books. Telling stories.

Filling a spot on the blog with….whatever.

by Gerard Houarner

So this is “frames” business is yet another metaphor for writing, applicable in particular, I think, to scenes, the bricks a writer uses to create the structure of a story.

Abstract, I know. That’s all I’ve got. Nothing warm and fuzzy. So much of life seems to be about how we view what’s going on in the world and what we do about it. Filters, frames, they’re just the color of the lenses we looking through. As I said when I started this blogging business, I’m going through my own process over here. Visualizing. Interpreting. Throwing stuff out there. Maybe something will work for somebody. Maybe nobody’s paying attention. So it goes.

If a “picture is worth a thousand words,” how many fewer words can you get away with and still get the picture? Maybe even get something the picture can’t convey?

Photographer friends talk about “framing” a picture, and, of course, film is all about narrowing down the chaos and randomness of setting and background and interactions into a mesmerizing block of light, shadow and color on a screen. Looking at a scene as it’s being filmed, you wonder what kind of sense it’s going to make. But punch that final cut up on a screen and reality’s taken on a new flavor.

 The frame has cut down reality to a manageable, even more meaningful, chunk of input.

Or, screw in a pair of ear buds and turn up your private sound track, and suddenly you’re the star of your own movie screening just for you inside your head. You’ve framed your world with music.

I guess you could also call frames a kind of “filter,” which I talked about last month. But for some reason, the concept is more visceral for me, a bit less abstract, more of an actual tool for the storytelling process than a psychological mind set.

Poe talks about making every line in a (short) story build character or advance action. Everything matters, everything has meaning (unlike life, unless you’re a spiritual individual). There’s a focus to a story that’s unlike most things we experience in life. Its power is in our need for meaning, or, in the case of more modern philosophical perspectives, our point of view on existence.

A “frame” is just another way of looking at this need (on the part of “writer/story” as well as “reader”).

To make every line matter, it might help to look at the entire story in a frame – the old “movie going on in my head” trick, or a broad mural spread across an alley wall.

But, of course, that’s a lot to ask, holding on to an entire story in one’s head. To really get a handle on those pesky relevant and irrelevant details, that big picture might need to get broken down to each scene, exchange, piece of action, like a “storyboard” of a movie (or an actual graphic story) which summarizes the essence of a bit of action in a single image. Or, if you’re more language-oriented, a series of haiku, poems, zen koans, jokes, sub-titles, or who knows what else.

 If you want to be concrete about it, yes, an outline.  But I’m going for something more inspiring, something that captures the emotional subtext of the story for the writer, and the reader.   I’m thinking more like bits of dialogue, images, phrases, touchstones you want to reach.

Whatever the technique, I’m really talking about are short cuts that capture broad actions or events which also serve as banners around which relevant details can rally.

Some of you may need to jam that frame with all kinds of stuff – research, lines, background, setting, just general cool stuff. I know I can have piles of notes for a piece, even a scene, and then the sickening realization comes over me that it’s not all going to fit. It’s not all relevant to what’s really going on. The frame is bursting.

In that sense of story as picture, what goes on in a single frame of the overall narrative needs to propel the viewer to an (emotional) reaction, spark an (intellectual) insight. What’s going on in the frame is a combination of balance and motion guiding the reader along to the next part of the story’s journey.

The picture in that frame should be of the most important thing happening in that particular part of the story, just as (as it’s been said by Howard Waldrop) a story is about the most important thing happening in a character’s life (I qualified that one in a past blog, but really, who am I to do so?).

So if a picture is worth a thousand words, and you’ve got a that many banging around in your head about what’s going on in the scene, zoom in on that picture and instead of describing or noting every last thing, find the ones that matter only to the character and the action.

To make it less abstract, you have an opening: a page and a half to grab a reader’s attention and get them interested in what happens next. That’s your hook, your splash page, the first view of action that matters to characters and folks looking in. That’s a frame.

There are consequences to what happens in that first frame. Reactions. Subtle or grand, the choices and decisions unfold, each in its own frame, until an ending (of some kind, and I know how you post-modernists love those endings that don’t really end) is reached.

Yes, there are other ideas, cool bits, but do they really belong to this particular story? Do they develop the character so the reader understands why choices are made that lead to the ending? Are they relevant?

For me, picturing each scene or part of a story in its own frame sometimes helps to contain it (nd me). Not always successfully, of course. And, of course, like many of us I usually have at best only a general idea or a situation in mind for an ending, so that opening is subject to continued scrutiny as the story develops, twists, changes.

As the story progresses, I find myself adding and deleting stuff from previous sections because they were either missing and necessary to achieve the ending, or became irrelevant. That opening is usually the most revised part of a story, for me. Sometimes it’s like a damned Picasso, just layers of stuff re-structured and re-painted. If I were wiser, better, etc, I’m sure the whole story would be attacked the same way. (The Mystery of Picasso documentary offers a fascinating view of the transformations possible by digging deeper into what going’s on in the frame – and that’s just from a visual perspective.)

Anyway, if you’re the type of writer who finds breaking down a story to smaller parts meaningful (and I know most of you are actually saying to yourselves – wtf? I just write until there’s nothing left to say and then I cash my check and move on to the next project), then the idea of a frame can help focus on what’s important and what’s not in each part, and through the overall arc of the story.

For each frame, like a painting, there’s light and shading to consider, literally, in the realm of the sensory details you include to make the scene and characters come alive, and in the style of writing – the words you choose, pacing, level and use of detail. And all of that detail is showing the motion of characters literally or symbolically heading somewhere.

 A thousand words may be needed to describe that picture, but since visual and verbal processes are different, you probably don’t need those thousand words.  The cool thing about writing is that you can pare down that picture, make the frame smaller, cut to the next bit faster than even a movie.  Or, you can go deeper, shade and color character for more complex textures, richer meaning in both character and plot.

Well, if frames and Poe don’t work for you, here are a few other comments I’ve taken on my photography which may help just as much from the vantage point of writing.

Don’t take flat pictures, look for angles, lines or details in a flat surface to bring perspective and depth to an image.

Character is in the eyes.

Look behind and around your subject in the frame for distractions, then move or get closer to edit them out of the frame.

Put the lens cap back on and just walk away –

Wait a minute, that’s not helpful for taking pictures or telling stories.

Dammit, everybody’s a critic…