Effective Fiction: Twisted Reality of The Sun Also Rises

I like to read. Reading is fun. Reading is relaxing. Reading is my life.

Okay, part of my life, but a large part. Good thing, too, because I also like to write. The two go together cheek by jowl. (Do you like the Shakespeare allusion? I'm kind of proud of it. It took me years to fit it into conversation.) In fact, reading and writing are so interrelated that everything I've ever read finds itself, in some measure, influencing whatever I write, whether by way of inspiration, direction, or methodology.

The good and the bad, the genius and the mundane, the enlightening and the exasperating all give me something to emulate or avoid.

Interestingly, the trait that weaves its way memorably into all literature is the use of realism. Not Realism, the literary movement of the 19th and 20th century, but realism, the faithful recreation of actual life experiences, situations, conversations, and characters.

"The faithful recreation of actual life experiences, situations, conversations, and characters"....Sounds laudable. Every piece of fiction should attempt to be real. Right?

One would think. But too much reality, especially poorly done or pointless reality, can annoy a reader to the point of using a Kindle to actually start a fire, a fire that annihilates every paper and ink factory, every book binder, and every forest that provides the raw material used for printing books.

Few people can imagine that level of frustration, but it exists. At least it did when I took American Literature III in college.

The American literature survey course at my school had three levels. Each had its positives and negatives. It was school. Nothing is perfect.

For example, American Lit I, the first class in the survey, had itsdown side. You can only read so many overwrought ramblings of Hawthorne and Poe; so many political tracts and documents of Jefferson, Paine, and Hamilton; and so many infernal images of Jonathan Edwards' sermons before you want to help God cut the spider web holding you over the Lake of Fire. But we knew once we were finished with that step, it would be over and we could move on to more modern writing. Like the intrepid students that we were, we got over it and moved on.

Thank goodness for American Lit II. Realism! Realism as it should be. Mark Twain made us laugh. Stephen Crane revealed the horrors of the overly-romanticized Civil War. Walt Whitman energized and unveiled true poetry.

Those realistic writers of the 1800s created worlds in which we could never live, but worlds we knew actually existed. We knew because of their words. Through words, we heard Twain's paddle wheelers working their way up and down the Mississippi. Through words, we smelled the gunpowder explode and felt the sticky on our cheeks as we trudged across Cranes's battlefield. When Whitman wrote "O Captain, My Captain," we felt the sorrow over Lincoln's assassination rise in our throats and choking the breath from us.

"This is literature the way it should be," we thought. "It captures the senses. It inspires our thoughts and reinforces our values. It is real! Yea, Realism!"

Then came American Lit III. The 20th century and the Lost Generation.

I wanted to bite the head off a gopher.

Oh, it was a good class for a few weeks. Then came the most frustrating book I had ever read. It is still in my bottom five of all time. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.

I know, Papa fans. Saying that any item in the Hemingway canon might be bad is blasphemy punishable by flaming bamboo shoots stuck up your nostrils, but I have my reasons for believing that book is terrible. Here's the story:

Springtime came early that year. It was April and the snow was only six feet deep.

The class syllabus said it was now time for Hemingway. I had read The Old Man and the Sea in high school, and unlike my classmates, I thought it was brilliant. I loved the story, the symbolism, the language, the warm weather, the conflict of man and nature, everything. So when the prof smiled and assigned The Sun Also Rises, I was not daunted. I was excited. "Lemme at it," I snarled. "Hemingway. HEMINGWAY! This is going to be so good."

Then I began reading.

The story was so...meh. After a few hours of reading Jake Barnes's ramblings, I began to wonder, "Is anything ever going to happen in this book?" Concerned that I might be missing something, I asked the prof. She told me just to hang on until the end, so I did, confident––well, half-confident––that even though there were only ten pages left, this "classic" surely had a gigantic climax that would leave me gasping for air and mouthing an awestruck, "Oh, my ... Wow!"

(Spoiler alert)

No such luck.

NOTHING HAPPENED!!

Not in the last ten pages. Not in the preceding 240 pages. NEVER! In 250 total flapping ink-infested leaves of paper, not a single event of note occurred.

I was miffed. Miffed? No, strike that. I was livid. Did I say livid? Heck, I was thoroughly urinated! Unable to wait for class in two days, I jammed the book into my backpack and climbed the six flights of stairs to her office two steps at a time. I barged through the door and plopped angrily into the chair in front of her desk.

Words would not form. Instead, I just kind of growled. Spittle drooled down my chin. My teeth itched. I was still mad, so mad I wanted to chew off a leg. Mine. Hers. I didn't care.

"Is there a problem?" she asked, annoyingly polite and unruffled.

I huffed. I lowered my head and peered over my glasses.  I wiped the spit from my jaw with my forearm. "You told me something would happen," I grunted.

"I told you to hang on and finish the book. Did you?"

I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the space between her eyebrows. If I could hit that spot just right with a hurled piece of chalk...

"And ...?"

I took a deep breath, sat back in the chair. and collected my thoughts. Finally certain I wouldn't scram and attract campus security, I began, "I have to ask a question, if you don't mind."

She leaned forward, her arms on the desk. "I'm here to answer questions. What would you like to know?"

I gulped, pursed my lips, and closed my eyes. "Okay,"I said. "What was the point of that?"

Maybe it was the sound of my book slamming onto her desk. Maybe it was because I accidentally knocked over the stack of books next to the door. Maybe it was because, despite my best efforts, I did scream a little when I uttered the word that. Whatever it was, it resulted in a pounding on the door and an urgent clamor of "Are you all right, Professor?" "What the hell's going on in there?" and "Leave her alone alone! I've got a gun!"

The professor rose, patted my shoulder to calm me down, and answered the door. She stepped outside and assured everybody she was fine. (But I swear I heard her say, "It's just a student who finished The Sun Also Rises. It will be fine.")

In retrospect, I have to admire the instructor's patience and inner peace when she came back into the office. She calmly poured herself a cup of coffee, returned to her chair, and cooly explained. "You have to understand Hemingway's purpose here. This was more than people traveling through Europe, going to bullfights, and wanting to have sex they can never have."

"What was it then?"

"It was a great author showing the aimlessness of an entire generation."

"In other words,  the theme is 'Life is boring'?"

"Yes."

I shook my head.

"Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You wanted us to read this book to show us life is boring?"

"Yes. Well, not me. Hemingway. He does it pretty convincingly, don't you think?"

I inhaled deeply and sighed. "Ma'am," I explained, "I live in a town of 124 inhabitants, including dogs, cats, and my neighbor's pet skunk. We have no school, no library, no entertainment. My parents have one car they use to go to work. I have no money, so I ride a bicycle sixteen miles one way to get to school. I KNOW BOREDOM! I don't need to be reminded."

"But the book is so real," she countered.

I stood, went to the door, and opened it. I paused and thought. "You know what?" I said. "I hate real."

I've grown up since then. I've learned to read critically and to read widely. I've learned to accept the bad literature with the good. Consequently, I know a certain amount of realistic portrayal is a good thing.

I've learned another lesson about literature, however. The whole reality thing—while positive in the right amount—is easily overdone. Overdoing anything is a practice to avoid.

So that's what I want to talk about next.

For the next few postings, then, I'm going to explore the role of reality in creating good fiction: Where reality goes wrong, what MUST be real in a story, and what areas of your story can use a bit of invention and stretching.

I know there are more areas to explore, and I'm certainly willing to delve into them or let you have your say.  If you have more ideas, please leave a comment or send me an email.