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The World is Inside Out

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How do you think of our world?  How is it organized, in your mind?  Geographically?  Planet, continents, countries, regions, states, counties, cities, neighborhoods, streets?  Politically, by a range of authority from dictatorships to democracy?  By religion?  By class?

Do you see the world as dichotomies?  City versus country, ocean versus land, young versus old, starving versus fed, believers versus the lost, fashion versus style, Yankees versus Mets?

For you, is history a textbook about everyone else?  Are you sitting on the riverbank, watching history pass?  Or, are you in the waters, actively swept downstream or paddling upstream against the current?  Is history, to you, mostly your personal story?  Does that have an arc?

How do you measure time?  By birthdays?  Or, by changes inside you that you don’t write on your refrigerator calendar?  Do you measure time by toys, from rag dolls to Barbie to American Girls to skateboards?  By shoes, from Keds to Christian Louboutin?  By jewelry, from mood rings to charm bracelets, to pearls, to piercings?

Worldbuilding is not just for science fiction and fantasy authors.  For those writers it is, of course, imperative to make clear how their alternate worlds or futures work.  Society, authority, laws, religion, and more must be worked out, consistent, named, detailed, and made credible and understandable to readers.  Even magic, when done well, is not just wand waving but an operating process with costs and consequences.

Authors of historical fiction have similar imperatives but in truth all authors create worlds, which may feel on the page vivid, generic or absent, like a grayed-out screen behind the forefront action.   In many manuscripts I read, the story world is presumed, or lightly detailed, or overly schematic, or—almost always—described in mainly visual terms.

The real world of your life is not just what anyone would see through their eyes.  It’s your concept of it.  It’s the blend of the history of others and your own.  It’s an impression, a puzzle, a long shot and a close up, an anxiety over status, a role-playing game, a family rock in rushing rapids, laws to ignore and principles to hold dear, a journey through a garden and a stroll across a continent, the clothes in your closet, the car in your garage, the hopes you have, the realities you face, the people you disappoint and the strangers to whom you are kind. 

To you, time is both instants and eras, an enemy to fight and a friend in troublesome days, a cell phone app and a cardboard box, a burning responsibility and dead grass on fire, crashes and freefalls, a drowning pool and autumn air.  Time isn’t a constant chronometer, but a whimsical god and an ever-changing relationship.  It whirs, heals, recalls, edits, comforts, terrifies and more.  It’s invisible yet as clear to you as bacteria under a microscope or the moon through binoculars.

Stephen King’s The Dead Zone (1979) is the story of John Smith, who as a boy sustains a skull fracture which he forgets and, as a young man, a head-on car collision that puts him into a coma for four-and-a-half years.  When he wakes up, he has second sight.  He can see the past and future of people he touches.  The period of Smith’s coma is covered by King from the points of view of Smith’s parents and Smith’s girlfriend, his fellow schoolteacher Sarah Bracknell.  Having just decided that she loves him, Sarah is devastated by Smith’s accident and is herself, for a while, suspended in time.  The year is 1970:

Sarah Bracknell kept school during her days.  Her afternoons and evenings were not much different than they had been following the breakup with Dan [her college boyfriend]; she was in a kind of limbo, waiting for something to happen.  In Paris, the peace talks were stalled.  Nixon had ordered the bombing of Hanoi in spite of rising domestic and foreign protests.  At a press conference he produced pictures proving conclusively that American planes were surely not bombing North Vietnamese hospitals, but he went everywhere by Army helicopter.  The investigation into the brutal rape-murder of a Castle Rock waitress was stalled following the release of a wandering sign painter who had once spent three years in the Augusta State Mental Hospital—against everyone’s expectations, the sign painter’s alibi had turned out to hold water.  Janis Joplin was screaming the blues.  Paris decreed (for the second year in a row) that hemlines would go down, but they didn’t.  Sarah was aware of all these things in a vague way, like voices from another room where some incomprehensible party went on and on.

Sarah is a character who because of grief has left the timeline.  She is suspended, her world devoid of history, her future blank.  King captures his story’s place and time by dropping concrete details of real historical events and made-up story world happenings (the Castle Rock rape-murders), and then by juxtaposing those with the quality of Sarah’s experience.  She was in a kind of limbo, waiting for something to happen.  The story world of The Dead Zone comes alive not because of what we see but because of what Sarah feels.

Building your story world starts with defining how society works and how it looks.  But that is only a start.  Your story world is the whole experience of your protagonist of it.  To fully immerse us in that world, try these methods:

  • List the following factors in your story world: unique laws, unspoken rules, familiar customs, common assumptions, civic goals, social values, signs of security, status symbols, honors and taints, tokens of power.  Next, list your protagonist’s opinion of each of those.  In each case, assign another character whose opinion contrasts with your protagonist’s.
  •  Who are heroes, icons and saints in this story world?  Does your protagonist share the common view, or have private suspicions?  Whom does your protagonist emulate or ignore?  Against whom does your protagonist rebel?  Whom would your protagonist hate to disappoint?
  •  Whom in your story world does your protagonist like, and why?  Of whom does your protagonist have a low opinion?  Why must your protagonist conceal that?  When does it burst out?
  •  Draw your protagonist’s family tree.  How many relatives?  Where does each live?  What does (or did) each do?  Who is successful, who is crazy?  Who’s rich?  Who’s in jail?  Who loves your protagonist the most?  Whom does your protagonist treasure, and why?
  •  What’s going on in this story world that has nothing to do with the plot?  Pick something and write a newspaper account of it.  Then connect it to the plot.  Whom in the story can be involved?  How does your protagonist think that involvement has changed that person?
  •  Map your story’s river of time.  When is the river narrow and rushing?  When is it broad and still?  The narrow, rushing part is for the most dramatic action.  Instead of rushing, instead time dilates and slows.  In broad and still stretch is when you can majestically summarize.  At these spots, time collapses and speeds by.  At each part of the river, what is your protagonist’s experience of time?  How does your protagonist measure it?

The setting of a story is both its time and place.  The most effective way to bring those alive is not by coldly describing them from the outside, but conveying your protagonist’s whole experience of them from the inside.  Not outside in, but inside out.

The world is more than what we see.  It’s how we bleed through our days and laugh through our nights.  It’s home, history, holidays, hotrods, beer, ugly shoes, beautiful hearts and most of all how we feel about everything.  Your world is richly experienced—by you.  Your story world can be too—by your protagonist.

What’s something about your story world that’s different?  How is your protagonist’s experience of that different than yours or mine might be?

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About Donald Maass

Donald Maass is president of the Donald Maass Literary Agency. He has written several highly acclaimed craft books for novelists including The Breakout Novelist, The Fire in Fiction, Writing the Breakout Novel and The Career Novelist.

Comments

  1. Hi Don and thank you for this much needed post this morning.

    How do we as writers overcome the seemingly futile and subsume the visual with language? Harder still, how do sci-fi and fantasy writers make a world real to a reader that isn’t? Hardest, in my opinion, is conveying the experience of art (or something as hard to describe).

    There’s a point in Phillip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Ship where two characters stop and look at Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream.

    “The painting showed a hairless, oppressed
    creature with a head like an inverted pear, its
    hands clapped in horror to its ears, its mouth
    open in a vast, soundless scream. Twisted
    ripples of the creature’s torment, echoes of
    its cry, flooded out into the air surrounding
    it; the man or woman, whichever it was, had
    become contained by its own howl. It had
    covered its ears against its own sound. The
    creature stood on a bridge and no one else
    was present; the creature screamed in isolation.
    Cut off by—or despite—its outcry.” (p.
    114)

    Not a bad attempt at describing the painting, but does it subsume the visual?

    How is your protagonist’s experience of that different than yours or mine might be? My answer: Maybe my protagonist can translate the situations in my story world easier than I can because they are part of the art. In Dick’s story, the description of the scream is compared to another character (a non-human replicant) and their description of a different piece of art.

    “a young girl, hands clasped
    together, seated on the edge of a bed, an expression
    of bewildered wonder and new, groping awe
    imprinted on the face” (p. 115)

    I can’t experience the painting the same way as the human character, or the non-human character, but I know which experience I’d be closer to having.

    • Phil Dick, ask me, wrote in an objective, pulp/noir style in which character emotions are largely left out. That passage about “The Scream” is an example.

      It describes the painting, but who is doing the describing? It could be anyone. What’s missing (to our more modern eyes) is what the observer feels not about the painting, but about the experience of viewing it. Not the art itself but the self.

      If you see what I mean.

  2. Oh thankyouthankyouTHANKYOU!

    I have broad strokes and teeny tiny dots making up my story world but I can’t seem to get the whole picture. That second bullet point, about heroes and saints, private suspicions, rebellion and disappointment, is an inspiring trigger.

    Taking a step closer to admire the details, then taking a few steps back to see how it all connects.

    Working on a dystopia, I realized that it can’t just be about breaking laws or confronting a figure of authority, but rather about how our world shapes us and how we decide to shape it for generations to follow.

  3. I love this, Don! As always, wonderfully thoughtful and full of useful ways to explore the concepts in our work. I wonder if this is why my favorite literary fiction authors tend to be those who also (or at the same time) write speculative fiction. It seems to me that speculative authors have a leg up, here, since this type of worldbuilding is overtly required. They have to learn it early and without doubt, so perhaps my favorite authors are good at applying it to all of their work in a way that’s less common in non-speculative stories. Just a thought. Thanks for the topic!

    • Spec fiction authors are indeed good at creating worlds, but that is not the same thing as a protagonist experiencing that place.

      As readers we can be treated like tourists. Or, we can be welcomed as confidants. Which would you rather be? I know my answer.

  4. Hey Don – This essay is rich with story fuel, and since I have a long drive ahead of me today, I know it’ll power my thoughts for much of the day.

    I’m particularly struck by your river analogy. Rivers have always been central to my world-building. And today I can see the world of my story, its timeline and events, as a river, gathering story tributaries, gaining strength, inexorably making its way to the sea. My protagonists are the type to naturally seek the strongest currents. They not only don’t resist, they paddle for more speed through the treacherous narrows. They’re heedless of the danger because they feel destined.

    As I get older, I can see how much of my work hinges on the concept of destiny and choice. My characters feel both allured by it and dread for it. They choose to believe destiny is providence, in spite of its inherent doom. I hope I can convey how this feels to each of them—how it informs their worldview, and colors their perspectives. This story river definitely has a swift current, even when it’s not apparent from the surface. I hope I can convey that. Your great prompts here are bound to help.

    I suppose it’s a lot like my life as a writer. I’m of an age where I feel both the allure and the doom of the current. Destiny is far from foregone, but the choice has definitely been made. May as well seek the swiftest current and paddle like hell.

    Excellent essay. Thanks for the mental exercise for my journey (both today in the car, and for paddling down my story river).

    • Where are you heading, Vaughn?

      The allure and doom of the current. Paddling for more speed in the treacherous narrows. Heedless of danger because you are destined.

      See? You haven’t named a single character or told me one thing about how your story world looks, but already I can feel it pulling me along. That’s the power of inside out.

      Drive safe. You can’t write your way out of the traffic on I-94.

      • You actually guessed correctly – heading right down I-94, to the Big D. It’s our anniversary. Definitely a moment to pull in the paddle, drift and reflect, and celebrate. Thanks again!

  5. There’s a rickety old farmhouse in my story that people consider derelict, but that my protagonist sees as a palace because her family has history there. Likewise, in the beginning, she views her weird family and podunk down as limiting dull albatrosses around her neck. But at the end,because of what she experiences on her journey, everything looks different. The world gets turned inside out. It goes from either/or to both/and. And what i most hope to convey is that she knows that even this isn’t an ending but another beginning. That despite every attempt she makes to pin it down, life is never static. Thank you for your wonderful prompts and though-provoking post.

  6. Hi Don!

    We’ve talked before about how much less removed from history we are than we often perceive ourselves to be. It’s interesting to take a step back and see how the same historical event that was merely a passage in a textbook for some (if they’re even aware of the event at all) was the catalyst for someone else’s life taking a hard left turn into uncharted territory, shaping and changing their entire world for the rest of their life. My grandmother is half-Japanese, and was sent to an internment camp when she was 4 or 5. That changed her and her family for the rest of their lives. When she went to a commemorative event decades later at the site of the camp, she made small talk with a shopgirl at the airport nearby. This girl, in her early 20’s, growing up in close proximity to the camp, had no idea the Japanese internment had ever even happened. Same place, overlapping timelines, one changed forever by what happened, one completely unaware.

    History is facts and and plotpoints on a linear plane of arbitrary measurement. The emotions, injustices, apathies, sufferings, rejoicings, and lessons learned knit the fabric of humanity surrounding that plane.

    My fabric doesn’t look like yours, but when you get enough pieces of fabric together you can create something beautiful.

    • We talk about seeing the world through others’ eyes, but better is hearing others’ experience.

      I wonder how many internment camps have gone unnoticed, or exist around us right now without our being aware? What seems acceptable to us today, but will not seventy years from now?

  7. Don, your questions always push me to explore new areas. Your first prompt, about the factors in my story world, is especially rich with new ideas for me.

    The discussion of the excerpt from Stephen King also helped me. I’d been pondering about how to include events from the outside world when my protagonist feels isolated from it. The notion of naming events that echo hers and exploring her reaction opens new possibilities. I also see that I need to look closer at that feeling of isolation and tease out more of its strands.

    Thank you!

  8. Great post, Don. I try to turn the world, the landscape of relationships inside out. What should be a normal mother-daughter relationship is not, is fraught with lies and concealment. Then there’s the father, early dead, thus unknown and therefore honored as the better parent. The landscape or scenery of this family is gradually revealed and what my MC must do is then apprise her surroundings through a new lens, decide what is real, believable and can then hold her up, help her continue on her journey.

    • Families are history. Families are our place. Families are, to us, more real than houses and backyards. Sounds like you’ve got a green one for your story.

  9. Hi, Don:

    This:

    “List the following factors in your story world: unique laws, unspoken rules, familiar customs, common assumptions, civic goals, social values, signs of security, status symbols, honors and taints, tokens of power. Next, list your protagonist’s opinion of each of those. In each case, assign another character whose opinion contrasts with your protagonist’s.”

    I love the bits about saints and sinners, too, but the point about identifying which other characters have differing or contrasting viewpoints is wonderful.

    So often we only regard the character web in terms of how conflicts play out on the exterior action plot line. This creates so much more thematic and emotional richness, and intensifies and provides nuance to the story’s various conflicts.

    Thanks for this. Going in my “Don’t Forget” file.

  10. Don, I’m working on a new book but the old historical still pulls me and reading your essay, I couldn’t help but think about it. My protagonist loves the garage she lives in; she thinks of it as a giant dollhouse. But a new neighbor, possible friend, thinks just the opposite, that it’s a stinky old garage with a motor oil stain. Reading your essay reminded me how the situation is going to turn worse and to an American audience, bleak and despairing, but my hope is that my protag’s sunny attitude will win them over. She’s alive and free!

    As always, thanks for the thoughtful questions that help me to probe my story people deeper.

  11. Don,
    I have to disagree with you about hi PKD. In fact… Electric Sheep is actually a study of humanity vs artificial intelligence and most importantly a study of human emotions with a focus on empathy. The main character is an exploration of feelings vs alienation. He’s all too human when he wonders if he’s not human… I could go on and on… but that’s a discussion for another day.
    Great post, I especially like the Stephen King example. Thank you.

    • Must admit, I have not read Electric Sheep in years. I did read The Man in the High Castle again not long ago. Loved it, but noted the different way emotions are handled now, overall, than in 1962.

      I’ll have to reread Electric Sheep. Not a bad assignment, as homework goes. Thanks.

  12. Hello, Don!

    I love your idea of time as a bigger part of the setting. It becomes more deliberate with your method. I especially liked the example of The Dead Zone. In my story, time suspends after death in the family. I can see where adding a few sentences would show how she experienced the loss.

    Thanks for sharing!

  13. Don, have you read Tell the Wolves I’m Home? It’s the next breakout novel we’re dissecting, and IMHO Rifka Brunt excels in this arena. (She excels in many things, including that overarching sense of hope you stressed in an earlier post.) It’s fascinating to see how she uses setting and convention to amplify conflict rather than distract from it, as well as to set mood, of course.

    On another note regarding geography: I’m finally attending the Surrey International Writers Conference–think I’m in your Masterclass, too. I’ll come say hello, but thought to give you a heads-up in case you needed to, oh, I dunno, steel yourself for the experience. ;)

  14. Thanks for yet another piece of inspiration Don. Though I relate to your point about applying this inside out principle to our fiction, the thing that came to mind as I was reading was how the process of journaling really changed how I appreciate the seemingly mundane. Over the last several years I have developed an evolving habit of chronicling my days, which involves habits that let me reflect on the past and its implications on the present. The story of my life, as it unfolds on paper, seems more extraordinary than I’d give it credit for if left only to my recollections.

    I suppose my protagonist has been cut from the same cloth, in many respects. The few who have read my work in progress to date commend me for my world-building. I have been asked, on more than one occasion, if I have a giant wiki of my world and how much time I’ve spent building everything to make the world seem so alive. The thing is, I don’t build it much at all. I just enter the protagonist and the world unfolds from their experience. I do have a wiki to keep track of things later on, as a later part of questioning logic and continuity, but it’s definitely not a part of the storytelling process. Like my own work with journaling, I feel when I’m developing drafts of my given work in progress like I am very much trying to record the details of an ordinary life, and of course the world that unfolds around that is fascinating (to me, anyway), only because the protagonist’s life and what makes it real is fascinating.

 

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