 My
reason for writing stories is to give myself the satisfaction of visualising
more clearly and detailedly and stably the vague, elusive, fragmentary
impressions of wonder, beauty, and adventurous expectancy which are conveyed
to me by certain sights (scenic, architectural, atmospheric, etc.), ideas,
occurrences, and images encountered in art and literature. I choose weird
stories because they suit my inclination best - one of my strongest and
most persistent wishes being to achieve, momentarily, the illusion of some
strange suspension or violation of the galling limitations of time, space,
and natural law which forever imprison us and frustrate our curiosity about
the infinite cosmic spaces beyond the radius of our sight and analysis.
These stories frequently emphasise the element of horror because fear is
our deepest and strongest emotion, and the one which best lends itself
to the creation of Nature-defying illusions. Horror and the unknown or
the strange are always closely connected, so that it is hard to create
a convincing picture of shattered natural law or cosmic alienage or "outsideness"
without laying stress on the emotion of fear. The reason why time
plays a great part in so many of my tales is that this element looms up
in my mind as the most profoundly dramatic and grimly terrible thing in
the universe. Conflict with time seems to me the most potent and
fruitful theme in all human expression.
While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and
perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent type
of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a certain
small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about unknown
outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the prison-house of the
known and the real into those enchanted lands of incredible adventure and
infinite possibilities which dreams open up to us, and which things like
deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and flaming sunsets momentarily suggest.
These persons include great authors as well as insignificant amateurs like
myself - Dunsany, Poe, Arthur Machen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood,
and Walter de la Mare being typical masters in this field.
As to how I write a story - there is no one way. Each one of my tales
has a different history. Once or twice I have literally written out a dream;
but usually I start with a mood or idea or image which I wish to express,
and revolve it in my mind until I can think of a good way of embodying
it in some chain of dramatic occurrences capable of being recorded in concrete
terms. I tend to run through a mental list of the basic conditions or situations
best adapted to such a mood or idea or image, and then begin to speculate
on logical and naturally motivated explanations of the given mood or idea
or image in terms of the basic condition or situation chosen.
The actual process of writing is of course as varied as the choice
of theme and initial conception; but if the history of all my tales were
analysed, it is just possible that the following set of rules might be
deduced from the average procedure:
-
Prepare a synopsis or scenario of events in the order of their absolute
occurrence
- not the order of their narration. Describe with enough fulness to
cover all vital points and motivate all incidents planned. Details, comments,
and estimates of consequences are sometimes desirable in this temporary
framework.
-
Prepare a second synopsis or scenario of events - this one in order
of narration (not actual occurrence), with ample fulness and detail,
and with notes as to changing perspective, stresses, and climax. Change
the original synopsis to fit if such a change will increase the dramatic
force or general effectiveness of the story. Interpolate or delete incidents
at will - never being bound by the original conception even if the ultimate
result be a tale wholly different from that first planned. Let additions
and alterations be made whenever suggested by anything in the for mulating
process.
-
Write out the story - rapidly, fluently, and not too critically - following
the second or narrative-order synopsis. Change incidents and plot
whenever the developing process seems to suggest such change, never being
bound by any previous design. If the development suddenly reveals new opportunities
for dramatic effect or vivid story telling, add whatever is thought advantageous
- going back and reconciling the early parts to the new plan. Insert and
delete whole sections if necessary or desirable, trying different beginnings
and endings until the best arrangement is found. But be sure that all references
throughout the story are thoroughly reconciled with the final design. Remove
all possible superfluities - words, sentences, paragraphs, or whole episodes
or elements - observing the usual precautions about the reconciling of
all references.
-
Revise the entire text, paying attention to vocabulary, syntax, rhythm
of prose, proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, grace and convincingness
of transitions (scene to scene, slow and detailed action to rapid and sketchy
time-covering action and vice versa... etc., etc., etc.), effectiveness
of beginning, ending, climaxes, etc., dramatic suspense and interest, plausibility
and atmosphere, and various other elements.
-
Prepare a neatly typed copy - not hesitating to add final revisory touches
where they seem in order.
The first of these stages is often purely a mental one - a set of conditions
and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set down until I
am ready to prepare a detailed synopsis of events in order of narration.
Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual writing before I know how
I shall develop the idea - this beginning forming a problem to be motivated
and exploited.
There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing
a mood or feeling, another expressing a pictorial conception,
a third expressing a general situation, condition, legend or intellectual
conception, and a fourth explaining a definite tableau or specific
dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales may be grouped
into two rough categories - those in which the marvel or horror concerns
some condition or phenomenon, and those in which it concerns
some action of persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or
phenomenon.
Each weird story - to speak more particularly of the horror type
- seems to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic, underlying horror
or abnormality - condition, entity, etc. - , (b) the general effects or
bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of manifestation - object embodying
the horror and phenomena observed - , (d) the types of fear-reaction pertaining
to the horror, and (e) the specific effects of the horror in relation to
the given set of conditions.
In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve the
right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs. One
cannot, except in immature pulp charlatan-fiction, present an account of
impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena as a commonplace narrative
of objective acts and conventional emotions. Inconceivable events and conditions
have a special handicap to over come, and this can be accomplished only
through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story
except
that touching on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very
impressively and deliberately - with a careful emotional "build-up" - else
it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being the principal thing in the story,
its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events. But the
characters and events must be consistent and natural except where they
touch the single marvel. In relation to the central wonder, the characters
should shew the same overwhelming emotion which similar characters would
shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a wonder taken for granted.
Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder I
try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the
reader should feel. A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.
Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction.
Indeed, all that a wonder story can ever be is a vivid picture of a
certain type of human mood. The moment it tries to be anything else
it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis should be given
to subtle suggestion - imperceptible hints and touches of selective
associative detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague
illusion of the strange reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of
incredible happenings which can have no substance or meaning apart from
a sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.
These are the rules or standards which I have followed - consciously
or unconsciously - ever since I first attempted the serious writing of
fantasy. That my results are successful may well be disputed - but I feel
at least sure that, had I ignored the considerations mentioned in the last
few paragraphs, they would have been much worse than they are.
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