‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the word was God,’ or so it seems according to John 1:1 of the King James Bible. If you were to read Genesis it states: ‘In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.’ Now, I am not a religious person but, nevertheless, this seems slightly contradictory to me. What actually came first, the Word or the creation of heaven and Earth? Does it depend on which text was produced first? I’m no doubt aware that the argument would be that God is the Word so therefore the creative acts by God constitute ‘the beginning’, but this still does not account for the fact that the first word is in fact ‘In’. Although, maybe I’m being pedantic…

Maybe another way of considering the beginning of a text is to think about it in terms of a slightly different question, such as when does your holiday begin? Is it the moment you get to wave your all-inclusive wristband at a bartender to order that first ice-cold San Miguel? Is it the instant you feel the jets roar as you begin take-off? Maybe it is when your suitcases are clamped shut, the daily ritual of the countdown each day in work, the final payment for the holiday? Go even further back and the adventure could begin when you book it, earlier still when you flick through the sun-kissed images of the brochures or even the conversation when you decide you need a holiday. Further still, it may be a holiday you’ve dreamed of for years ever since Dave and Sue (from next door, they’re always bloody going away) returned from theirs and couldn’t wait to show off their tans. The point here is that a journey of any sort – whether it be taking a holiday or indeed writing a book – has a starting point and it is certainly occurring before your pen reaches the paper.

So, what of the beginning of a novel? What is it that a writer must do to ensure that the reader stays the course? Numerous challenges are presented to readers which can be problematic as writers are unable to discern the literary ability of their readership. Readers are already presented with lots of new information regarding names of characters, social circles, family, personality traits (some of which are hidden); they also have the problem with getting used to a writer’s chosen style. As David Lodge argues: ‘However one defines it, the beginning of a novel is a threshold, separating the real world we inhabit from the world the novelist has imagined. It should therefore, as the phrase goes, “draw us in” ‘(2011, 4-5). Depending on the reader this may only allow for their interest to be maintained across the opening few chapters while some may read the first page before returning it to the book to the shelf.

Some writers are able to summarise a key theme within the first sentence alone. Jane Austen’s opening sentence to Pride and Prejudice (1813) begins: ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’ (p. 5). The issues of women’s purpose in society at the time coupled with the popular institution of marriage, not least the desire for it, meant that this single sentence captured the tensions of all the events which followed thereafter. Presented as a statement, it also points out, rather ironically, that this is a truth as opposed to a socially constructed convention. Another example, cited in John Mullan’s How Novels Work (2006), reviews the example provided by George Orwell in Nineteen Eight-Four (1949) which is: ‘It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.’ Mullan observes that ‘The statement is made as if it were natural and already we are made to inhabit the logic of dystopia’ (2008, 36). 
Such succinct sentences may not be appropriate for use in every novel, but a few lines or sometimes even the first page can provide guidance to the reader for what lies ahead. Read the opening paragraph to Dickens’ A Christmas Carol (1849, 33):

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’ name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

The first three words present a simple statement: ‘Marley was dead’. This is, after all, a ghost story so the reader is given the identity of the first ghost that they will later be introduced to. It is presented as fact, having been witnessed and signed to by a number of people who would have overseen the funeral, Scrooge himself was there to witness his old friend lying in the coffin. He was, as Dickens re-emphasises, ‘dead as a door-nail’. So why would a writer go to such lengths to insist on making this point? As the well-known story goes, this is a tale of the supernatural so Dickens was preparing his audience to set aside their grip of reality and lend their imagination to the story which lay in wait. Dickens, later on the same page, even overtly makes this point: ‘There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate.’ He wants the readers to embark on the journey and suspend their beliefs. A secondary theory may be because Victorian society could have been shocked or outraged as they were at other Gothic tales; by reiterating the fact that it was simply a story – of community and goodwill – he not only represents the supernatural as entertainment but he is also able to continue offering a critique on the plight of the unfortunates living in London at such a time of festivity.

The essence of characters can also be captured in these opening lines. One good example is of the laissez-faire attitude of the – sort of – self-titled character in Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi (2009) as if he couldn’t even be bothered to think of an original name, very clever indeed. The attitude of the character Jeff, who is a writer himself, is humorous and engaging from the beginning, but he is tired of writing about mundane topics and things which he does not find interesting. This defeatist and frustrated monologue is embodied by a single line he types out on an email to his editor and it simply reads: ‘I just can’t do this shit any more. Yrs J.A.’ Yes, he couldn’t even be bothered typing it out fully such was his contempt for the piece of writing which he had been commissioned to do. Furthermore, after mulling over whether to send it, he then deletes the draft and goes for a walk! This attitude towards other people and situations he finds himself in is consistent throughout the novel unless he finds something intriguing or exciting but, as a reader, you cannot help but appreciate that you’re reading about a writer who is writing about writer who doesn’t want to write. Alright?

Now that we’re past that tongue-twister we can have a look at the last example from Nathan Filer’s The Shock of the Fall (2013) which focuses on narrative. I’ll review narratives properly another time but this example is certainly worth a look as it’s one I’ve always remembered, the opening lines read: ‘I should say that I am not a nice person. Sometimes I try to be, but often I’m not. So when it was my turn to cover my eyes and count to a hundred – I cheated’ (2013, 1). Does this first person self-evaluation mean that he is not a nice person? Not necessarily, but you would be led to believe that this is indeed the case. It’s also somewhat comically that the example he drew upon is cheating in hide and seek. What is important though is the reliability of the narrator and these opening sentences are for the reader’s attention so that they can think about these things as they move forward. Without wishing to spoil too much of the story I believe that these statements he makes are in fact true – to him – but his mental state is not one which can determine accurate events from his youth. He believes these things and relays them faithfully but that does not necessarily mean they are true. You’ll have to read the novel to find out more.

As a reader myself I once recall attempting We Need to Talk About Kevin (203) by Lionel Shriver and being blown away by a saturation of elevated language. My initial experience was not one that flowed so I was unable to get caught up in the text until a good four or five chapters in. The vocabulary was challenging so ‘Google define’ was my best friend, the epistolary to an absent reader was as yet unappreciated and I had not been able to warm to the narrator. I’m sure these challenges will come around again in future when I attempt a new author but – and I’m not ashamed to say it – I could have put the book down. I didn’t. It turned out to be one of my favourite of all time and I have recently found it in a classroom being taught to A level students which pleases me. How close was I to missing out on such an experience though?

The journey of every multi-selling novel out there is the same; in the beginning they start with just one reader: you. You are the words and, while you may not necessarily create them, you breathe life into them and create something in the process.

Happy writing.

A blog by Steve Marshall

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Resources / further reading:

Austen, J. (1813) Pride and Prejudice. This edition published 2003. London: Penguin Classics.
Dickens, C. (1843) ‘A Christmas Carol’ in A Christmas Carol and Other Christmas Writings. This edition published 2003. London: Penguin Classics. Pp. 27-118.
Dyer, G. (2009) Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. This edition published 2015. Edinburgh: Canongate Books.
Filer, N. (2013) The Shock of The Fall. This edition published 2014. London: The Borough Press. 
Lodge, D. (2011) The Art of Fiction. London: Vintage. Pp. 3-8.
Mullan, J. (2006) How Novels Work. This edition published 2008. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pp. 9-39.
Shriver, L. (2003) We Need to Talk About Kevin. This edition published 2011. London: Serpent’s Tail.

So far we’ve identified how to create a productive and supportive writing environment. We’ve also met the challenge of what to write about by utilising our often neglected experiences to help inspire our writing and call forth minute details from our lives which may be of benefit to the story in progress. Our final look at this little trilogy of complaints from students will focus on ‘where’ to start their story.

The word ‘where’ in this question can be interpreted in a number of ways: a physical place, a setting for the story and how to structure a story. In looking at the first problem we can consider the writing environments discussed in the blog two weeks prior. We may also look beyond that to the planning for writing, so exactly where is our starting point? It may be the first time we put pen to paper, the planning for our writing environment, a brainstorm for a character, a story board for the action, bullet points of the spine of the story, an idea you had on  your way to work or maybe it all comes back to a life experience which after years of waiting leaps forth with a refreshing point of view on something unchallenged. This may have echo back to the question of when writing begins, to which I agree, but where do these activities take place? Mobile phones are capable of documenting notes and short lists while any device with access to Word will enable you to start the story, or planning of it, in any manner of places. A note pad is equally effective if you have a half hour break at work but – personally – the best time for me to do most of my thinking is when I’m driving. When I’m sat in traffic for two hours a day I can drift off for a few minutes at a time, high above the cars queueing bumper to bumper on the A470 and far away from the daily monotony of ‘rush-hour’. Once you’ve reached your destination you can document any important notes on your phone to revisit at a time that suits you. With the technology that’s now available writer’s need not be chained to a desk or lock themselves away in a room of one’s own. Thinking about your writing, particularly in the early stages of development, can take place wherever you have freedom of thought.

The second and slightly more pertinent element of this question is where to stage the story. This comes down to one simple equation as to how much research you will need to engage with in order to be successful. If you grew up or lived in the place where you wish to set your story then you can draw from your own experiences (see last week’s blog) to add detail to the setting thus enhancing the reading experience for the reader. You may still wish to take photographs of the area and research some of the history but it will still be benefitting from your touch of warmth – or negativity – which accompanies each description. 

Another important consideration to account for is whether the chosen setting is relevant to the theme of your story. Notable examples from the past include the use of Venice for Othello, the Yorkshire Moors for Wuthering Heights and London for The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The ‘where’ in this context means that the chosen setting should embody characteristics of the main protagonist or antagonist, or should emphasize key themes or sub-plots of the story. A shadowy tale of people not being true to themselves or others, holding secret meetings in dark alleys alongside some particular virtue being gradually worn away until it is sunken without trace, would certainly play out better in Venice than it would in – for argument’s sake – Marseille.

The final ‘where’ is concerned with how to structure a story and there are a variety of points which can introduce your reader to the action. Biographical or autobiographical novels generally start at the beginning of the main characters life or certainly pick up from their formative years. Other novels really can introduce the reader at any point the author wishes; novels such as Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’ Diary and Nathan Filer’s The Shock of The Fall focus very heavily on the main protagonist and open by subtly introducing the reader to some of the character’s main flaws through an introduction from the character themselves, often at a low point of embarrassment or tragedy. Lionel Shriver’s We Need To Talk About Kevin starts its journey after the tragic events which hang ominously over any nature versus nurture debate carried out throughout the reading of this wonderful novel. Likewise, Margaret Attwood’s Alias Grace and Alice Walker’s The Color Purple both begin their narrative after the main event (e.g. murder / rape) have taken place. Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights is a framing narrative which starts in the present day, Nelly Dean then relays the tale of the house and family’s history before returning once again to the present day. At this point I could reel off numerous examples of different author’s carefully chosen entry points to novels but it really does depend on what your story is and how you wish to tell it, basing your chosen structure on how best to relay the tale and which option would create the biggest effect on the reader. For example, a thriller may begin at a moment of high tension, just before the explosive ending, but may go back in time and relay the tale in a chronological order until it reaches, and then resolves, the mystery / tension from which it began. You’re the author so it is always your choice but you must at some point think of the effect on the reader.

At this point it is also useful to tie in any proposed storyline with a review of your character. As we have already discussed in an earlier blog, you can build your character from scratch and think about literally dozens of traits, such as their likes and dislikes, which will dictate their choices and provide a framework from which you can check for consistency as you move along. However, if you have decided upon your story and where it will begin you can work it in reverse order to shape your character. For example, if you had decided upon a failed bank robbery as the defining moment of your story then there are a number of questions you could think about in relation to your character: what has driven them to commit the crime, who they know who could assist them, the circles they move in, their experiences with weapons, what planted the seed of thought to do it, where else in their past they’ve displayed a failure to plan properly, and so on. You could continue asking yourself question after question and keep working it backwards until you find or create role models, shaping events and social circles which eventually lead your character to this moment. By building these layers you are – one would hope – left with a highly detailed background story filled with anecdotes or historical events which will also contribute to your novel or short story in their own way.

This blog, along with the two entries prior to it, were all pretty much the result of a number of conversations with students. As I write these blogs each week I always try to be flexible and embrace a wide range of questions or challenges that all new writers may face. I am now looking forward to returning to a little more technical analysis and will spend the next few weeks looking at a variety of approaches to the novel. Writing is a particularly individual endeavour so continue writing, continue challenging yourself and continue to have faith in your own ability. 

As always, please do feel free to leave any comments you have below. Happy writing!

A blog by Steve Marshall

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Last week we discussed creating the right environment within which students can write creatively. I also documented two other concerns which students raised when faced with the challenge of writing creatively which was what to write about and where to start. 

What to write about is what I hope to address in this week’s blog. These concerns no doubt present themselves to writers across the spectrum of experience, but those who have been writing for a while have more experience in reading and writing which will aid them. The other big difference is that the more you write the more confident you will be at starting the process. For younger or less experienced writers the lack of reassurance and validation of their work can prevent them from committing to a task. As an advocate for various disciplines of English I always refer to reading as the key to unlocking or improving a variety of skills such as vocabulary, punctuation, sentence structure, etc. Others may choose to disagree but what is without doubt is that reading – if coupled with proper analysis of literary techniques – can help students of writing to identify, mimic and even attempt to emulate a range of styles and approaches. Nevertheless, there are ways which we can help to get young writer’s brains whirring and their pens dancing across the page.

‘I don’t know what to write about.’ Not a problem. Let’s start with the basics which would be to write what you know. This could be a day at the seaside, a recent holiday or a concert that you attended. This is all well and good and if you were to ask a class to write about what they know the majority of the students would engage with the task, but simply reporting a series of events in detail would not get them thinking creatively, this is merely ‘reporting’. Maybe, in these circumstances, would be better to suggest the use of a sentence alongside their experiences, such as: ‘It all went horribly wrong when…’ or ‘But we had no idea what was just around the corner…’. The use of these sentences may generate creativity and prevent them from straying from a more factual path. You may still receive a few comments which state that they haven’t been on a day out, a holiday or to a concert so still have nothing to write about; in these instances I would suggest that they choose a destination or concert which they would like to visit or attend and write about that instead. Not only are these students actually thinking creatively about the task but if they need further support allow them to carry out research on their subject which is a valuable part of the process for creative writers. Some have lots of experiences to draw upon while others don’t – or claim they don’t – but I don’t see either as a problem. 

A further argument to ‘write what you know’ is provided by Nathan Englander, the critically acclaimed author of What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank. Englander says that “write what you know” is one of the best and most misunderstood pieces of advice, ever. It paralyzes aspiring authors into thinking that authenticity in fiction means thinly veiled autobiography. If you’re a drunken, brawling adventurer, like Hemingway, no problem. But Englander, who grew up in the Orthodox Jewish community of West Hempstead, New York, says he spent a lot of his childhood watching TV, playing videogames, and dreaming about being a writer. So if it doesn’t mean authenticity, what does the phrase mean? Englander goes on to suggest that what you know are in fact emotions. If you have felt love or loss, hatred or fear, or anything on life’s kaleidoscope of emotions then write about them and the readers will feel it. While I actually agree with this it still strikes me that the reader will be experiencing or sharing in something authentic unless these emotions are harnessed in order to produce something completely new.

Personally I think that everyone has a story to tell but this doesn’t mean that every person’s autobiography would be a thrilling read. What I do mean is that everyone has a number of life experiences which are unique to them and some of these have shaped the way that they have reflected on a particular event and their view of the wider world on an ongoing basis. Rather than write about ‘these’ places, people or scenarios they can simply provide the nucleus of an idea from which other stories can be told. If you’re writing about a night out in a foreign country it may be that you found your bar straight away but walked past an intriguing doorway from inside of which you could hear music thumping. For the purposes of your story you now suddenly recall these details as your character stumbles down some dark alleys in the vain pursuit of a particular person when upon locating them finds that they have entered this run-down underground club covered in graffiti with burly, somewhat sinister looking doormen outside, and yet when you got inside you quickly realised that this underground club was not one which welcomed you. It could be that you spent a night at a small gig and watched as one of the women in front of you was unable to take her eyes off the woman beside her. This observation can take on a life of its own as you imagine her ignored fixation as the woman beside her obliviously dances and talks to the woman standing in front of her. 

Rather than write about any of the things you actually witnessed in a matter of fact fashion, they may simply provide elements of your story. For example, you may recall details of the concert venue and use some of these features to create a setting for part of your story. The surroundings which you have witnessed first-hand then lend themselves to describing something in greater detail than you may perhaps have imagined. Equally, these same girls in front of you could inspire a whole new plot. The woman fixated on the other could be a psychopath or an old friend, or it could indeed be a scene of unrequited love. As always, these are simply random suggestions but the point I am making here is that small observations from real-life experiences can contribute to or help shape your story and characters.
 

If these glimpses of our past can contribute to the creation of stories then so too can TV programmes, inanimate objects and our general understanding of the world which we can thank our family, friends and enemies for. We all know someone ‘like that’ and we can all ‘remember when’ so let’s use every day we’ve had on this earth and create something new, something only you with your unique history and personality would be able to create. Rather than ‘write what you know’ maybe the phrase better employed for new creative writers is to ‘use what you know to write’.

As always, happy writing!

A blog by Steve Marshall

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Resources:

Gots, J. (2012) ‘“Write what you know” – the most misunderstood piece of good advice, ever.’ in Big Think. 1st March 2012. Accessed online at: https://bigthink.com/think-tank/write-what-you-know-nil-the-most-misunderstood-piece-of-good-advice-ever

The other day I found myself in a situation no doubt familiar to lots of tutors of creative writing who, when offering a group of students time to write something creative, was greeted with a chorus of ‘I don’t know what to write’. Rather than viewing this solely as a resistance to doing work or a lack of creativity I see it as a challenge to myself and as an opportunity to challenge them. So, what were their real concerns?

Firstly, the environment within which they were working – a secondary school – can, without making any apologies here, be more intimidating and less conducive to a supportive atmosphere giving genuine constructive feedback.

Secondly, students complained that they wouldn’t know what on earth to write about which, if you have read my very first blog, should not be a concern to anyone with any life experiences to call upon.

Finally, as some murmurs never made it to my ears, it was the difficulty of knowing where to start which made the task a little overwhelming. It is these very concerns along with the advice I gave them which I wish to reflect upon and I will tackle the first of these issues today.

The environment within which students produce writing and indeed share it is a pressing one. Students of literature and / or creative writing at A level or beyond will appreciate that sharing their creations with the rest of their group in order to obtain feedback is a valuable part of the process. The early days of creating the right environment to do this is a delicate process to manage so that nobody feels unable to share their work; this could be heavily influenced if the tutor sets class rules for feedback or sets the class the task of setting the ground rules themselves. Still, some pupils may be shy and may not wish to read their poetic lyrics aloud, so what then? A whole class approach could possibly be broken down into smaller groups or even, if it is the best way to build confidence, separating everyone into pairs which may seem less threatening. Yet another approach could be to set up a space within which students can upload their work and then students – if individual accounts are created – can provide feedback while taking responsibility for their responses. Ultimately, it may take a few weeks of positive feedback from a tutor before someone is willing to accept that they do in fact have talent, so a further step for the initial weeks with a group of new students may be one to one feedback. However, always be aware that the writing produced may be deeply personal so while the individual has drawn upon a real experience to inspire their writing it may be that they are not quite ready to share it with a wider audience just yet.

Creating a space that allows people to write is also of the highest importance; light, heat and writing resources must all be available as must the ability to work in peace for any period. This does not necessarily mean peace and quiet as some writers may find working to music or background noise easier so this also needs to be carefully considered. Although the process of writing and learning to improve one’s writing is a collaborative effort, the act of writing is a particularly individual process so an appreciation that one size does not fit all is required.

If you are a student reading this then I implore you to continue writing and to start, or continue, sharing your work without fear. There are a great many ways that you can improve your writing.

The first of which is to read; read a lot but, most importantly, read a variety of authors and genres. The various skills and techniques that can be found in one author may be different from another, you must also appreciate that to subvert a text or  genre you must first understand it’s ‘rules’ and that will not happen without reading.

Secondly, you must challenge yourself to write in a variety of voices, tenses, narration styles and genres as the only way you will be able to reflect on these skills is by reviewing what you have actually produced. In addition to this, writing in a variety of styles will enable you to put into practice many techniques that you have identified in other authors and will allow some of the greater influences to flow through your own work in your own inimitable way.

Finally, share your work with others even if it only starts with friends and family before including your lecturer and classmates. A word of warning though: you are likely to hear ‘good’ and ‘nice’ quite a lot. Your peers and particularly your lecturer will have considerably more experience in reading and creative writing so will be able to provide much more valuable feedback with which you can revisit your first drafts.

Receiving criticism – no matter how constructive – is a painful experience and the more of your soul that reaches the page the more painful it is to hear that is not a ready-made best seller; however, if you want it to be then you need this feedback. Not everyone will appreciate your style and not every reader will understand the deeper meaning of your text, but if you want to publish in your career then at some stage you will have to declare that last edit as final and send it off for the scrutiny of publishers. You may be surprised that your peers and college or university staff are just as supportive and hungry for you to succeed as you are for them to enjoy that very same success.

Read, write and share. Happy writing!

A blog by Steve Marshall

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‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, which, he presumed, was another way of saying, ‘Well, goodbye for now, have a pleasant afternoon’ (2007, 54).

Wow. That’s a brave opening even for me and yet a nine year-old boy had no trouble at all in uttering this phrase. Why? Well, put simply, he had been brought up to believe that such a phrase and the salute which accompanies it was actually polite. The boy in question is young Bruno from a fantastic novel which I have only just got around to reading John Boyne’s The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas and, at the time of me writing this, the film was showing on Netflix as well. While the film has received praise from all quarters we are of course here to discuss literature… and the book is far better anyway. What did intrigue me about this book were the various techniques used to display childhood innocence, which is the topic of today’s blog.

Having worked with children for a number of years as well as having a child of my own I am forever amazed by the way that they see the world before they are influenced and, just like in this book, it would put many of us to shame. As we have seen from the example already provided, imitation is one way that children try to learn new things and fit in with their peers or seek approval from their guardians. This places a huge responsibility on the person(s) guiding these young minds, but unfortunately this can lead to the transferal of bad habits as well as good habits.

‘Yes, but they’re different aren’t they?’ said Shmuel.
‘No one’s ever given me an armband,’ said Bruno.
‘But I never asked to wear one,’ said Shmuel.
‘All the same,’ said Bruno, ‘I think I’d quite like one. I don’t know which one I’d prefer though, your one of Father’s’ (2007, 127).

If we look at the extract above, Bruno does not actually commit to whether he would prefer the Star of David or a swastika on his armband. The simple reason for this is because the influences upon this decision are equally great. It would be an assumption to guess which one he would choose but it is safe to say that he is probably drawn to both due to the fondness for the two people who wear them. Choosing one would mean risking disappointing the other party.
Before Bruno, or any child, commits to a decision he may decide to ask questions first:

‘Can I ask you something?’ he added after a moment.
‘Yes,’ said Shmuel.
Bruno thought about it. He wanted to phrase the question just right.
‘Why are there so many people on that side of the fence?’ he asked. ‘And what are you all doing there?’ (2007, 115).

There are many other reasons why children ask questions (and don’t stop) but that is to satisfy their quest for knowledge about a particular subject and to enhance their understanding of the world around them. As a reader, we see through Bruno’s eyes as he looks through his bedroom window catching his first glimpse of the concentration camp. An education in history and our own understanding of the world means that we immediately comprehend the environment in which he now inhabits and the one which he observes, but we are in a unique position compared to the young narrator. The world in which he has been brought up in means that he has no concept of segregation and children simply while away the hours playing games together. The fence itself is alien to him as are the striped pyjamas and many other differences he is discovering between himself and Shmuel, highlighted even more so by the fact that they share the same birthday which, to Bruno, means they are almost identical.

One of the reasons for this lack of comprehension is because children are often sheltered from the truth. This is usually done to protect them from the corruption and harsh reality of the world while coupled with a belief that children are incapable of processing the truth; in light of the topic we are discussing it may well be that children may have been able to highlight just how absurd and inhumane the displayed behaviours actually were. Boyne recognises this and plays on this, this is seen in one instance when Bruno decides to keep Shmuel a secret from his family: ‘Bruno was of the opinion that when it came to parents, and especially when it came to sisters, what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them’ (2007, 132). 

Boyne also plays with the children’s lack of comprehension in terms of the language that they employ. Both Bruno and Gretel refer to Auschwitz as ‘Out-with’ and the Fuhrer as ‘The Fury’. As young children learn language they often go through a stage of word replacement for anything they can’t quite pronounce but these examples bring remarkable connotations with them; ‘Out-with’ could easily be read as comparable to the Nazi’s attempt at culling those of the Jewish faith (amongst others) while ‘The Fury’ brings to mind words such as ‘rage’ or ‘anger’ rather than the literal translation of ‘leader’.

In addition to making sense of language, children make sense of their surroundings by supposing upon what is going on around them. This is not unique to children and examples can be found in literature of ancient civilisations attempting to seek meaning and reason in the events of nature. In The Epic of Gilgamesh and Homer’s Odyssey there are a number of narratives which explain the world around them as acts of the Gods, the Romans and Pagans also sought to rationale their environment by relating events to acts of deities. There are further examples to be found in modern society and literature as scientists seek to discover, evidence and explain anything which remains a mystery while writers, such as Mary Shelley, play on scientific discovery through their writing, and in Shelley’s case her most famous novel: Frankenstein.  

In attempting to explain away Shmuel’s father’s absence, Bruno says: ‘I imagine the men were taken to work in another town and they have to stay there for a few days until the work is done. And the post isn’t very good here anyway. I expect he’ll turn up one day soon’ (2007, 195). This response between adults would be seen as a mature response to make the other person feel better or, at best, blind optimism, but this example – viewed through Bruno’s eyes  – is a genuine rationalisation of the circumstances presented.

If you are in any doubt as to the differences between an innocent narrative compared to a world-weary response then look no further than the following example. This extract is taken from Martin Amis’ The Zone of Interest and occurs when a solider describes a truck-load of bodies being ferried past a new set of prisoners when, unfortunately, some parts become visible:

‘He said that about half a dozen of them half flopped out over the railboard; he said that it made him imagine a crew of ghosts being sick over a ship’s side. With their arms swinging. Not just any old corpses either. Starveling corpses. Covered in shit, and filth, and rags, and gore, and wounds, and boils. Smashed-up, forty-kilo corpses’ (2015, 37).
It doesn’t leave much to the imagination does it? Yet no-one questions it. Who were those people? Why are they dead? What will happen to them now? Are they dead? Will they go to hospital? The prisoners who witnessed this certainly knew what this scene meant for them which is why panic ensued.

The reason I have brought up this topic is to highlight that innocence is an equally powerful way of highlighting ignorance and horror. The graphic depiction above is most certainly effective but I would like you to consider the stories you are writing once more and consider these questions:

• Are there characters who would inhabit these spaces who would have a completely different view of events than the one your narrator is sharing? 
• If so, what would their understanding of events be and does that add anything to the text? 
• Is it consistent with any of your themes to have an innocent yet unreliable narrator? 

These are all important things to think about, but I would suggest re-writing one scene from a short story or novel that you’ve produced through the eyes of someone slightly removed from the social sphere, level of intelligence or rank of the setting or characters in which it is taking place. Otherwise, simply read The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas and see if that inspires you.  

Don’t forget, we are all trying to make sense of the world around us. Happy writing!

A blog by Steve Marshall

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Further reading:

Amis, M. (2015) The Zone of Interest. London: Vintage.
Boyne, J. (2007) The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas. London: Definitions.
Lodge, D. (1992) The Art of Fiction. London: Penguin Books.
Mullan, J. (2006) How Novels Work. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Sebald, W.G. (2011) Austerlitz. London: Penguin Books.

‘Look at our apples

Russet and dun,

Bob at our cherries,

Bite at our peaches,

Citrons and dates,

Grapes for the asking,

Pears red with basking

Out in the sun,

Plums on their twigs;

Pluck them and suck them,

Pomegranates, figs.’

(Excerpt from Goblin Market, 352-61)

Are you salivating yet? An abundance of fruit just inviting you to have a taste. Last week I gave you food for thought as we considered how, in writing, the act of eating can reflect status or social interactions. I now want us to think about food some more, focusing in particular on some of the figurative associations of eating.

Close read the extract above. What are you first thoughts? To suck, to lick; even saying these word aloud can engage your tongue and ignite your mind. What about the shapes of the fruits themselves, each bearing a resemblance to parts of the body? The goblins who are attempting to entice Laura to taste their goods are like the sirens who lure sailors to their doom.

Paying heed to Rossetti’s religious background, we can also read the poem as a fable of sorts. If we see the fruit which the goblins are trying so hard to sell as ‘forbidden fruit’, the goblins themselves as a snake and Laura as Eve, we are transported into the Garden of Eden. Laura ‘sucked and sucked and sucked the more / Fruits which that unknown orchard bore’ (L 134-5); could this passage in itself be referring to the tree of knowledge? Inferences could be made about the poem serving as a warning to women not to engage in sexual acts with men: sexual knowledge will bring their downfall.

There are many other explorations of the figurative significance of eating in literature. To take Bram Stoker’s Dracula as an example: there are many readings which centre around the act of the vampire feeding off of others. These readings highlight patriarchy, phallogocentrism, the contemporary practice of using blood transfusions to reduce madness caused by bad blood, taboo subjects such as menstruation and, yet again, sex. Yes, the act of phallic shaped incisors piercing a woman can be interpreted as an act of penetration. Likewise, early in the novel, Jonathan Harker watches in a trance-like state as no less than three of the Count’s mistresses attempt to feed on him. There are many sexual references to ‘red lips’ and ‘voluptuousness’, and a description of one of the women ‘on her knees… [arching] her neck… lower and lower went her head… then the skin of my throat began to tingle’ (1897, 45). The whole feeding frenzy reads as a scene not unlike that found in a romance novel, and yet it is describing a female vampire feeding on a human male.

Through the sexualisation of female vampires and their degeneration to an almost animalistic state, it could be argued that links with sex and religion can again be found. Lucy’s state is altered from each transaction – as it were – making her less and less wholesome. Indeed, her transformation from a respectable woman into a heinous devil-incarnate could be viewed as a warning to women: if left to ‘survive’, she would eventually act like the aforementioned female vampires we have just discussed. After a stakeout at the tomb, Lucy is now described somewhat differently: ‘The sweetness was turned to adamantine, heartless cruelty, and the purity to voluptuous wantonness’ (1897, 225).

At the time of writing it is rapidly approaching Valentine’s Day, when food becomes the language of love. Nigella Lawson has made a career out of sexualising food, so let’s give it a go ourselves. Treating the food allegorically, try describing the act of eating. Use verbs in the present tense to engage the reader’s senses. Employ alliteration to emphasise the ‘mouthfeel’ of your words, rolling them round on your tongue before giving life to them. The aim, of course, is for your reader to salivate at the thought of the images you’ve conjured, whetting their appetite to read on. Any more for any more? Happy writing.

A blog by Steve Marshall

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Further reading:
Lodge, D. (1992) The Art of Fiction. London: Penguin Books.

Mullan, J. (2006) How Novels Work. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Rossetti, C. (1995) ‘Goblin Market’ in Selected Poems of Christina Rossetti. London: Wordsworth Editions Ltd.

Stoker, B. (2003) Dracula. First published 1897. London: Penguin Classics.