Almost three months have passed since I last updated this blog, and I intend to change that this month. To start of this zealous attempt in writing more posts for my blog, I have asked M.M. Bennetts to start me off by contributing. Bennetts will be writing about my least favourite topic, which is what is better; plot or character driven stories. It's my least favourite topic simply because I usually go on the plot's side, while many of my writing friends side with the character. Anyway, without further babbling from me, have read bellow.
Once upon a time, there was a fellow by the name of Procrustes.
(No, he wasn't called that because he was a crusty and voted in favour of dreadlocks. Honestly, the questions I get asked...)
Anyway, this fellow had a bed. Actually he had an inn. Did I mention he was a Greek--back in ancient Greece? No? Well, he was. Anyway, he had this inn and this bed and he was always keen to invite people in for a meal and then to have a sleep on this amazing bed of his. Because this bed was magic! It fitted everyone perfectly. Which is a pretty cool idea for an age when most people are still sleeping on mats on the floor.
There was only one catch. And that was what old Procrustes meant by 'a perfect fit'.
Because you see, what he meant was that as soon as some sucker lay down upon this 'magical' bed, old Procrustes got to work to make the sucker fit the bed. He'd stretch him on the rack if he wasn't tall enough, or saw off his feet if he was too long...It was a messy business for poor old Procrustes...and who knows what he did with all those extra bits of folks...
Okay, I'm being disgusting. I admit, it's disgusting. But, you'll be pleased to know, this being ancient Greece, obviously there was a hero by the name of Theseus who happened along to give old Procrustes a taste of his own...ah...methods. (I get the impression he didn't like them much.)
Now this myth is used as a metaphor for just about everything that one could name where there are, ah, casualties for the price of one-size-fits all. Which may work. In some people's minds.
But the place I think it works best is in books. Or more specifically, how books are written or driven or whatever you'd like to call it. Plot-driven? Or character-driven?
Because over the years, I've come to see the plot-driven novel as a Procrustean bed of sorts. A place where the poor unfortunates, who happen to be the characters in the thing, end up with their emotional and psychological bits lopped off so that they 'fit' neatly into the plot.
And mind you, some of these plots are so hare-brained, you have to wonder...And you the reader sit there thinking, "He did what? (*voice breaking into awkward treble*) Why would any sane person do that? Heck, why would anyone do that..."
And either you roll your eyes and carry on as the thing gets more and more preposterous, or continue out of morbid curiosity (my besetting sin) or else you say, "Stuff this for a bag of socks..." and go play on Facebook.
Which is why I think character driven novels come out ahead every time.
Think about it--those are the ones that stay with you. Because it's those characters who just stick in your mind and through them, you have the whole of their story...
Of course, the greatest of all character writers is probably Charles Dickens. No matter what your taste in books is, here was a fellow who could write characters who completely take over one's imagination. And because he got paid by the word and therefore wrote the story as it came to him and often didn't know himself what was coming next, the whole novel developed organically. Scene upon scene, action upon action, line upon line.
I mean, yes, he had some pretty spiffing ideas to start with. Think Magwitch, the escaped felon, rising out of the shadows in the marshes in Great Expectations. Now there is a character who is every parent's nightmare and every kid's terror. He's simply too brilliant for words. He holds us enthralled--not just for the duration of the novel, but in most cases, for our whole lives. And in some cases, he never let go--the Australian award-winning author, Peter Carey, wrote a whole novel called Magwitch--that's how much this character gets under our skin.
But Dickens has others. Bill Sykes in Oliver Twist. Fagin. Mr. Micawber in David Copperfield. Noddy Boffin or Eugene Wrayburn in Our Mutual Friend. (Well, just about everyone in Our Mutual Friend, to tell the truth...)
I personally have been riveted by the character of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities. He's a drunkard. He lounges about doss houses--you can practically smell him on the page. Dickens describes him as a jackal--hardly complimentary. But, in this strange mixture of fascination and repellency, you can't take your eyes off the page when he's there.
But the point is, these novels work. They work as a compound. There is no element that sticks out. Nowhere that has you the reader, saying, "Ya, right!" Though you might well find yourself flinching, or saying, "Oh, yuck!" upon occasion...
Because Dickens has the courage to write real characters and let them grow and ruminate and ferment. He doesn't spare us this gimlet view of humanity in all its vices and virtues. He gets them out there and lets them go to play off each other. And that is what produces a drama we can believe in, a drama which holds us rapt, a drama which captures our imagination and holds it for years.
And that's what novelists should be after, surely. I know it's what readers want...
For books and other blogs by M.M. Bennetts, check out the website.
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