Some years ago, as a nervous newbie attending my first writing conference, I overheard an interesting conversation. An instructor was explaining to another attendee that a famous writer, whose name I missed, had once said all good novels, regardless of genre, were ultimately mysteries. The idea instantly captivated me, and I spent the next several days contemplating books I loved in a new light. Ultimately, I even introduced an unsolved riddle to provide structure for what became my first novel, which until then had consisted primarily of scenes brimming with emotion but lacking any unifying thread other than the brooding presence of my war-damaged protagonist.
So while the inspiration proved invaluable, a funny thing happened when I recently got around to nailing down precisely which brilliant writer had provided the lifeline for my early efforts. You see, it turns out that either the instructor had taken liberties with the quote, or I had simply misheard it. For what Pulitzer Prize-winning author Eudora Welty actually wrote back in 1949 was this (emphasis mine) – “The first thing we see about a story is its mystery. And in the best stories, we return at last to see mystery again. Every good story has mystery, not the puzzle kind, but the mystery of allurement.”
Delving further into Welty’s essays on writing, a new light bulb went off. For the idea I had initially latched onto, though providing a kernel I sorely needed, consisted mainly of developing story questions for the reader. But Welty’s observations were in regard to an even stronger connection, those deep threads that compel both writer and reader, the type of insights writers reveal when straying from a standard talk to confess “what the story taught me.” It’s the alchemy that takes Gone Girl from being merely another crime thriller to an expose on deceit and manipulation within a seemingly picture-perfect couple. It’s what transforms To Kill a Mockingbird from a collection of anecdotes about a young girl raised by a widowed father into a wider exploration of changing social mores in a segregated community. In short, it is the immersion you experience whenever a story fully engages you, awakening your intellect or triggering profound emotion. When that happens, you are no longer seeking only the answer to plot question x or to learn what happens to character y. Instead, you begin reading in order to better navigate our real world, or to resolve dilemmas in your own life.
Talk about a powerful hook! But how does one tap into that vein? How, in a world of 1-page synopses, 30-second elevator pitches, and 7-point plot structures does a writer develop an “alluring mystery” for a current work in progress?
Revisit the Initial Spark
Fortunately, writers tend to be intuitive and at least passably self-aware. You likely already have a good handle on what drives your interest in your current work. Just remember to return to that well on occasion, and consider whether the story still honors its initial conception. Perhaps your muse had delivered a protagonist with a defining character trait, or an inherent flaw. If so, your interest may stem from a desire to see how a person like that would rise to the occasion, or lash out, in the face of obstacles set before them. Don’t lose sight of whatever initial seed gave life to your tale, even as the plots expand and the characters grow.
On the other hand, perhaps your original idea was a thought experiment. Maybe you wanted to craft a new take on an existing genre. Anthony Doerr once explained that part of his interest in writing All the Light We Cannot See was the challenge of weaving a more nuanced story within the well-tread territory of WWII, one in which not all French resistance participants were dashing geniuses and not all Germans were evil torturers and that, in some circumstances, such enemies might align to protect each other. It is voices such as that one within ourselves we must heed if we are to bring original stories to life.
Ask Your Beta Readers
Then again, sometimes we may be too close to our work. I’ll never forget my surprise when a wise friend pointed out an obvious theme in a novel draft that, while clearly within the pages, had somehow escaped my notice. Her pointing it out afforded me the opportunity to strengthen the thread, to refine it just as I had others placed with intention. The lesson I learned from the experience was to ask for that kind of feedback or, rather, to broaden my queries. Trusted beta readers typically provide honest feedback on strengths and weaknesses in your writing. But when gathering their insights, be sure to ask open-ended questions too. Ask what they consider to be the main point of your story. Inquire what parts touched them, or made them think. Ask for aspects they wish you had pursued farther, or where they feel you held back. Their responses may surprise you, and open an entirely new avenue on a story you thought was nearly finished.
Learn from the Master
Of course, given my newfound appreciation for Eudora Welty, I would be remiss at not suggesting you discover her for yourself. Though she passed away in 2001, three works on writing craft emerged from her nearly five decades of experience publishing novels, short stories and essays. One Writer’s Beginnings, a collection of autobiographical pieces, was published in 1984. It was followed in 1990 by a larger collection of essays called The Eye of the Story, Selected Essays and Reviews. Lastly, following her death, a smaller collection of previous essays was produced in 2002 under the title On Writing. All three are currently available in print, with the latter available in e-book format as well.
Does an underlying mystery propel your current work in progress? What do you feel is the role of mystery in novels (of any genre)? Does a novel come to mind that captivated you by exploring a particularly intriguing concept? Which of the following typically provides you an initial spark for a new story — 1) a compelling character, 2) a clever plot, or 3) an interesting concept? Lastly, have you ever been surprised by insights into your writing from someone unexpected? Please share your thoughts in the comments; I look forward to hearing them.
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About John J Kelley
John J Kelley crafts tales of individuals at a crossroads, exploring themes of growth, reconciliation and community. His debut novel, The Fallen Snow, about a young soldier’s homecoming at the close of WWI, received a Publishers Weekly starred review and earned an Honorable Mention nod at the 2012 Foreword Reviews Book-of-the-Year Awards. Born and raised in the Florida panhandle, John graduated from Virginia Tech and for a time served as a military officer. Today he lives with his partner in Washington, DC.
“The mystery of allurement.”
The unseen but still palpable force drawing us to a story. Perhaps, as you say, it’s the story’s spark. The energy of it’s inspiration.
Certainly what drew me to my WIP was a certain mystery, a question, which is why the girls we love when young must leave us. How are we to be at peace when part of us remains stirred up and incomplete?
I wonder, though, if Welty didn’t also mean allure in a more direct sense: the mystery of sexual attraction and the simple question: Will they? More and more I’m aware of romance as a hidden tension in stories. Even when it’s not the story’s point, we’re on some level aware of it, wondering about it, waiting for it.
It wasn’t a beta reader who alerted me, but my 12-year-old daughter who is both repelled and fascinated by kissing on screen. “He’s going to kiss her!” she’ll exclaim, then cover her eyes and look mortified.
Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty freeing the Beast from his curse with a kiss. Attraction survives in our story DNA from ancient times.
What do you think, John? Outstanding post. I have Welty’s On Writing on my shelf and will now revisit it.
John, I think you hit on a critical element that is “sensed” but rarely discussed in separating the “good” from the “great.” Part of the reason all of us read fiction is to gain insight – a new way to look at the world. My first experience was Flannery O’Conner’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find.” At first, I thought it was plain weird. But I later realized this was an essay on deep compassion, and moreover, HOW to get it. It actually helped me and I have used it for decades in places where compassion has been difficult. Thanks for writing.
Oh my goodness, I remember reading that story and finding it so strange … and yet thinking about it for days afterward. I think it resonated too because I was raised in the deep South, and felt she was saying something about me and the culture I knew (though I was just a child at the time). I’m fascinated by your returning to it on occasion to understand compassion.
Since I seem drawn to great Southern writers as of late, I will have to give it another read myself. Thank you for the tip.
Wow, I hadn’t considered that possibility. Then again, given my years of operating under a mistaken interpretation, my track record is rather spotty ;). I certainly agree that the mysteries of love, and particularly attraction, are draws. And it makes sense stories should not shy away from that aspect, as long as they are in service to the story and not distractions from it. They are likely central to your story.
I do know the particular quote I noted continues with, “As we understand the story better, it is likely that the mystery does not necessarily decrease; rather it simply grows more beautiful …” She then mused about the nature of beauty as it relates to writing short stories, which was the topic of the essay.
Her lessons on writing tend to be, at the risk of beating the drum, somewhat intriguing. She talks around subjects, almost inviting interpretations, as if she wants the reader to find the center themselves. And that might have been the point; apparently she was known as having a sly wit.
It’s been like Christmas morning discovering her talent, as embarrassingly I’d only read one or two of her short stories a long, long time ago. So far I’ve just scratched the surface of her essays, but have a book of her collected stories on order.
John, I love the Eudora Welty quote, and how true it is. I finished a book just last week that I can only describe as a series of events. I kept waiting for that hook, the allurement, but it never came. The characters and story idea were promising, but there was no senese of urgency, mystery, or answers to seek. I kept reading because I thought surely something would come of the thread of events. This experience and your timely post made me evalaute the element of mystery in my WIP. Thank you.
That happens, doesn’t it? And we strive mightily to ensure it doesn’t happen with our own writings. That’s why I think it’s vital we maintain a keen focus on what first draws us to our stories. It’s not only the readers who need questions. I know that I am only able to devote my energies to a work that taps into my own dilemmas. That doesn’t mean my writings are autobiographical. But it does mean I’m working through something as well, some disconnect I see in my life or in the world. I may know where the story is going, but I can still explore along the way.
And though I am not a comedy writer, I always imagine they too are tapping into disconnects, pointing out life’s ironies through another expression.
I am glad to hear the quote gave you some ideas, as it continues to do so for me. Write On!
John, your essay gives much food for thought. I didn’t know this quote by Welty and how it’s been misquoted. It reminded me immediately of Flannery and a gem of a book: Mystery and Manners. A must for writers. But in her short stories I discovered myself and mystery. The deeper you go, the more mysterious. I’ll now have to get a copy of Welty’s shorts as well. Thank you.
Good morning, Vijaya. Two votes for Flannery O’Conner now, so I’ll definitely be looking in that direction. Just read the description of Mystery and Manners, which sounds fascinating. Thank you!
Hey John, Insightful and thought-provoking essay. Do you read Pressfield’s Writing Wednesdays blog? He’s been serializing his new book on the artist’s journey. Your section on revisiting the spark reminds me of yesterday’s post.
In the post, Pressfield asserts that every artist has what he calls a “subject.” He says that the artist’s subject is not the topic. It’s not “what it’s about,” but “what it’s *really* about.” And he alludes to the fact that subject is delved not just in a single piece, but in an artist’s accumulating body of work.
He uses Springfield as an example: “[An artist’s subject] is thematic. The Boss’s theme, to which he returns over and over, is the worth of passion and the integrity of what we might call “the common man” (and woman).
His subject is red-white-and-blue, f**ked-over, f**ked-up, but still shining and worthy and unbreakable.”–S.P.
I feel like in my case you and he are right. And I’ve been pondering it ever since. You’ve certainly propelled and enhanced my thinking. Great conversation in the comments, too. Thanks much!
I took a moment to pop over and read yesterday’s post, and now plan to devour the entire series. (geez, it seems I’m getting the lion’s share of lessons today – thanks, team).
Seriously, though, I love the quote you included from Pressfield’s post — “It’s not ‘what it’s about,’ it’s what it’s really about.”
I had nearly an identical thought while writing the post, where I mentioned a writer straying from their prepared remarks. This question, without sounding too clever by half, is what I want to ask of writers I admire — What is the story about, for you?
I think it’s a question we need to ask all of our writer companions, often and with intention. It offers a most reassuring support, and a gentle nudge to stay on the path.
Hope your own writing is going well. I took a bit of a hiatus from social media these past few months, kind of a winter hibernation. But spring is upon us (or near), so I’ll likely be making more appearances going forward. In the meantime, be well, my friend.
Hi John, I remember reading One Writer’s Beginnings and I believe I still have the book. Each of us takes the reader by the hand and leads them into a story world. To get them involved we present only “some” of the story, making them eager to “learn more.” Characters the reader meets are strangers until they begin to tell more about themselves. Are they honest, are they holding back? There is mystery in everyone’s life–a story is a way to probe all those elements.
I love this description — “Characters the reader meets are strangers until they begin to tell more about themselves.”
That’s an excellent way of putting it. And, yes, characters can – and often do – deceive the reader. As with people in real life, they also deceive themselves and can only express what it is understood from their perspective. The art of writing is a way getting at those mysteries in life, both our own and those we witness.
“What I do in writing of any character is to try to enter into the mind, heart and skin of a human being who is not myself.” Eudora Welty
Absolutely. Love that description. I know I always have to be in the heads of my characters; otherwise, I’m just stuck staring at the page (or screen).
Not only fiction! My WIP is narrative nonfiction, heavily dependent on scrupulous research.
I have been worrying all along about how to keep a subject I know well from putting the reader to sleep (or keep the reader from glancing at the cover or spine and putting the book down, never to take it up again).
But this post has nailed a vague something that has been bugging me all along, which I can now define as “what mystifies me about these people and this situation?” because that vaguely formulated question has been clouding my thoughts; I just haven’t paid it enough attention. I believe I can use my personal exploration of that very question to find ways to mystify (and therefore allure) my readers.
Thanks, John-and thanks also for the mentions of Welty and O’Conner, both of whom I love and admire.
You are absolutely right! I was already struck by the fact that Welty’s advice was originally about the short story format, though I had long considered it as applicable to novels. But she is really talking about story generally, and even beyond that, about the ways writer and reader intrigue can intersect. Personally, I love encountering a scholarly article or book that manages to present information in a compelling manner that taps into the same emotions and motivations as fiction.
I don’t know how applicable it would be to your particular situation, but a few years ago I read “American Chestnut: The Life, Death and Rebirth of a Perfect Tree” by Susan Freinkel. Though not purely scientific – she included lots of anecdotal stories and musings about the role of the tree in local and national psyche – the author did impart a great deal of research into the origins of the plague which wiped the tree from the Eastern landscape and the progress of more recent efforts to restore it.
Your comment reminded me of it because, as I recall, Freinkel began by explaining her own interest in the story. Though living on the west coast, she had been drawn to the topic after encountering a mention of the American Chestnut blight while researching an article on a new blight, Sudden Oak Death, that had begun appearing in the California in the 1990s. For her, the spark to write about the chestnut blight was the shock at realizing a tree infused in the original mythology of our nation had simply vanished, and yet most people today knew nothing of it.
If you haven’t read her book, you might at least want to read the opening to see how she handles it. And good luck with your efforts!