Shannon Dittemore is the author of the Angel Eyes trilogy. She has an overactive imagination and a passion for truth. Her lifelong journey to combine the two is responsible for a stint at Portland Bible College, performances with local theater companies, and a love of all things literary. When she isn’t writing, she spends her days with her husband, Matt, imagining things unseen and chasing their two children around their home in Northern California. To connect with Shan, check out her website, FB, Twitter, Instagram, or Pinterest.Note: This is a three part series. Click for parts two and three.
When I was in junior high and high school (read: when I was your age), I was on a creative arts team called DMV. The acronym stood for Dynamic Mighty Voices, which I’ve always found funny considering the ONE thing we did NOT do was sing. We did skits and dances; we did mime; but mostly, we were puppeteers. In fact, we were award-winning puppeteers.
Oh, yes. It’s a thing. There are gold medals around here somewhere.
And as circus-freaky as the whole thing sounds, those years were really the foundation for my storytelling experience. Among the many, many things I learned was this:
As a writer, we read craft book after craft book and we trip over the phrase “suspension of disbelief.” It sounds so big and fancy. It sounds complex, but I assure you, it’s the most natural thing in the world. In fact, it’s instinctual. The reader wants to set aside their preconceived notions. They want to believe.
When you go to the theatre, you do so with the expectation that you will be entertained. And we humans are simple folk. Nine times out of ten, we’re willing to set aside implausibility for the privilege of hearing a really good story.
Regardless of the medium, we choose to believe all sorts of things presented to us that simply aren’t true. We’re willing to believe that crime labs can return results lickity split, that our heroine’s makeup will be unaltered after a swim in the ocean, that Edward Cullen’s persistent five o’clock shadow is not a sign of aging, that a pair of glasses can hide Clark Kent’s real identity, that the only way Prince Charming could possibly identify his soulmate is by her shoe size.
None of these things are easy to swallow when we line them up and load our gun with skepticism. It’s easy to take shots at plot points when they’re taken out of context and crammed next to one another before the firing squad. But when the desire for a really good tale collides with compelling elements like voice and plot and world building, audiences are willing to let reality slide a bit. They are willing to suspend their disbelief.
That said, sometimes we, as storytellers, can get ahead of ourselves. While the suspension of disbelief is an expected response from a reader, we cannot afford to push this tendency to the breaking point. Like I said before, the reader WANTS to believe you. Over the next few Fridays, I’ll zero in on ways you can screw that up.
Let’s start with author intrusion.
Author intrusion is when the author projects him or herself into the story. Let’s be clear, you will bleed into every character you write (that’s okay), but–most of the time–you, the author, are not welcome in your fictional world. You cannot expect your reader to believe the characters you are writing about are real if you keep reminding them that someone, somewhere made up this story. The very existence of you, the author, is a distraction.
Back to the whole puppeteer thing. One of the things we were NOT ALLOWED to do when we were performing was wander around with a puppet on our arm. It was forbidden. And for good reason. How can I expect a six year old to believe that my fuzzy blue puppet has a life and world and legs (!) if I’m wandering around the auditorium before the show with his half body on my arm? I can’t, right? Even a six year old has limits. He wants to believe in that fuzzy blue puppet. He wants to watch the story unfold. He does not want to think of me every time that puppet pops its head above the curtain.
You know what a six year old will overlook? The rods that move the puppet’s arms. That’s a reasonable thing for his mind to ignore. But me, the puppeteer, blatantly disrespecting his desire to pretend the puppet is alive? That’s too much. That’s inexcusable.
In writing, there are obvious intrusions, like when the author addresses the reader directly. “Dear reader . . . ” or “I tell you this reader so that you will understand . . .” These types of sentences are very common in classical literature (CS Lewis, Charlotte Bronte, Jane Austen) but in modern fiction, they are generally frowned upon and considered intrusive.
A writer doesn’t have to be so obvious to be intrusive though. He can insert his own political views or biases in such a way that feels awkward in the tale. He can reveal things to the reader that the point of view character couldn’t possibly know. He can describe a setting he’s over-researched using words that would be unnatural to the narrator. These types of intrusions aren’t always noticed for what they are on first read, but often the reader will begin to disconnect from the story. They’ll start to doubt the reality they were once so willing to dive into. They’ll feel cheated their escapism and they’ll close the book.
What a sad way to lose a reader, jumping in where you don’t belong. These are just a few of the many, many ways for an author to tromp all over her own tale. Resist the urge. Be disciplined.
Now. I do have a minor confession. This is one of those rules that a skilled and very intentional writer can break to great success. I know, I know. I just told you not to intrude into your own stories, and I stand by that advice. That said, author intrusion (though controversial) can also be a tool in the author’s toolbox and there may come a time when you decide “to heck with the rules” and you give it a go.
But the honest to God truth is this, rules are best broken only after they’ve been mastered. Oftentimes young or inexperienced writers stumble into their own stories–intruding in the most unwelcome manner–and this, primarily, is what we need to avoid.
Next week we’ll continue on with this topic by discussing how the rules of your fictional world can help the reader let go of the rules of their current reality. That was a mouthful, wasn’t it? I promise to be more clear next week.
Tell me, what pulls you out of a story? Can you pinpoint the writing that caused you to stumble? Can you think of an example where author intrusion was used to great success?
*Totally unrelated, but if you’ve been wanting to read my books, now is a good time to give them a try.
Angel Eyes is on sale for $1.99!