I’ve just returned home from the LA SCBWI conference with a head swarming with information about writing. What has stuck to the forefront of my thoughts are two talks by M.T. Anderson, author of such novels as Feed and the two Octavian Nothing novels, among others.
MT had a lot of interesting stuff to say, but what caught my attention the most was what he said about literature, and perhaps by extension, all art. In a nutshell, he posited that the purpose of literature is to help the reader see the familiar in a different way. (For those curious about reading more, this is a theory espoused by the Russian formalist school of literary criticism.) By estranging the reader (for example, through use of language or various literary devices), the author causes the reader to experience the world differently and restores a sense of the unknown to what was before a habitual reaction.
I know how easy it is for me to something for granted and stop seeing what’s right in front of me. It’s this sort of closed mind that makes it difficult to see from another person’s perspective, to fail to notice what’s going wrong (or right) in our everyday routines, relationships, and desires, to become cemented in attitudes, beliefs, or knowledge that might be inaccurate. In much the same way as spending time in a foreign culture can shock the system and dislodge rusty thought patterns, so can experiencing art, whether that be through literature, theater, visual art, music, etc.
Following this train of thought, literature can act to help us see the world afresh like children do. In general, children are a lot more flexible and adaptable than many adults, and they are constantly having brand new experiences. Assumptions are harder to make without a few decades of experience and collected data to draw upon. While reading a novel that’s using estrangement to wake us up, we can regain our childlike perspective on the world, both as a place full of wonder and weirdness and as a terrifying mystery in which many things remain unexplained or beyond our understanding. The curtain of adult security and certainty that gives us the illusion of being safe in a world of rational order is drawn aside to expose the truth: that life is always uncertain, whether you’re two years old or eighty, and that any object, person, or event has several layers of reality beyond the surface.
While this ability to see beyond the surface is certainly useful for artists of all types, I would argue that it is invaluable to anyone who wishes to fully appreciate the human experience. Art forces us to take notice and stop moving through our daily lives on automatic pilot. It reminds us of what it was like to be fourteen, or helps us imagine an entire collection of possible lives we might have led (or might still lead). It shows us the world through someone else’s eyes, someone inherently other because they are not us. Whether we look at a Dadaist painting that skews common objects and reminds us of universal themes such as the passing of time or read a novel in which language describes a commonplace object in terms we would never have applied, the jolt tickles our brains. Remember, it says, to really *look* instead of merely knowing. Remember to breathe in an experience instead of getting too caught in our own heads to notice. Remember to listen and delve deep. Live what it is like to be a child, when the world lies before you, scary and stunning and exquisite.
The Practical Free Spirit 
I hope it’s a good sign for me as a writer that I tend to see things from a different perspective than other people. When I was a kind I was always standing on my head and looking at what the house would be like if the floor was the ceiling and the ceiling was the floor. It felt kind of magical.
I think it’s a great sign as a writer! *Especially* for speculative fiction since the sense of wonder seems to be such an essential part of the genre.
I’m trying to imagine you as a kid doing handstands to see the world differently, and I have to say it’s adorable. I used to climb up my bookshelf to the high closet ledge in my room to see things differently.
Guh, now I /really/ wish I had been able to go with you! Next year!
I love looking at writing through the same prism as literature or art. Some very good advice here, Amy!
I think it’s always fascinating to think about the various goals/purposes we can achieve through writing. Makes me wish I’d had time to take more literature classes in college. 🙂
Both of his talks were really powerful. It is interesting how we walk through life in a dream of habit. Let us hope we awake!
I wonder if it’s even possible to completely free oneself from the mantle of habit (although hmm, what an excellent story seed). But I think it’s good to think about it so we’re not quite as unaware as we’d otherwise be.
Hear, hear for the waking up!
There are at least two edges to that sword, though. Literature isn’t just the world through someone else’s eyes, it’s the part of the world that someone else chooses to see while they’re writing. That depends on things like “what will sell” and/or “what I think is a dramatic story”.
I have a bone to pick with SF, about all of the Americans in space or Americans with pointy ears and bows. There’s an old saying that few authors can write aliens as different as the Japanese.
As I’ve tried my hand at hobbyist writing, however, I’ve come up against how hard it is to make more sophisticated things fit. Alien cultures and realistic conflict take a lot of space to describe. You can’t do it (well) unless you choose a dramatic form that benefits from ambiguity and has lots of characters who are supposed to be interesting but not clearly sympathetic or detestable.
To use an example, if you’re inspired by Greek mythology you can take advantage of a complicated setting. It gives more flesh to the super-powered soap opera, extra room for tragedy, farce, and loves that cannot speak their name.
If you’re inspired by Lord of the Rings or Star Wars, on the other hand, it’s a waste of space to give much cultural background where it won’t be allowed to affect the storyline or the reader’s sympathies.
Hm, that was long. But I think about this a lot, how hard it is to make anything “realistic” fit.
I find being realistic isn’t so much hampered by space constraints as by making sure all elements of the story are working.
OTOH, my friend says in an SF short story, you’ve got to have character, plot, and milieu/world building, and usually you end up having to short-change one of these three elements to get in under word count.
It is my personal goal to not do that, but it’s always a struggle.