Trust Your Reader
by Wulf Moon
My father loved horses, but he loved good deals even more. When someone had a horse with issues, he'd buy the horse on the cheap, and then tell me to train it and make it rideable.
I was a scrawny teenager then. I had to pit my 135 pounds soaking wet against an easily spooked beast weighing a thousand pounds or more. These horses would go wild at any loud sound, or if you lifted your hand too fast, or if a horsefly bit them. There was a black Morgan gelding I had lunged and worked with for a week that I thought I had figured out. So, I took him out on a ride with friends feeling pretty proud of myself.
When we turned back home I discovered his real issue and why Dad had gotten him so cheap. Barn sour. Worst I'd ever seen. Most horses like the comfort of the barn, but some go crazy to get back to it. This one galloped flat out like he was at the Kentucky Derby, and no matter how much I shouted whoa or pulled those reins, he wouldn't let up. I finally cranked the right rein around the saddle horn and had his head winched in so far his neck was bent to where I could stare him in the eye, and he in mine. He still galloped flat out as if he could see the path ahead.
I couldn't stop him. I figured it might be better for both of us if I gave him his head so he could at least see where he was going--there were several fences we needed to navigate around. Thankfully, I made it back alive and in the saddle with only a bruised leg where he slammed into a fence post as he turned into the barn. Some of those turns were at such high speeds they should have thrown me, but I never let go.
That horse was Charlie. I gave him a new name that day. From then on, he was Charlie Horse, the most dangerous horse I've ever ridden and trained. He wasn't as big as Dad's Quarter Horse, but he had a fire in him and couldn't stand to be in second place when we raced with friends--I just had to be sure that race always pointed away from the direction of the barn.
Dad gave him to me and forbid anyone else from riding Charlie Horse. You could only ride him if you understood his triggers, and you could only know those triggers if you had ridden him and had a deep understanding of his issues. He could have injured or killed someone else.
Why share a bit of my horse history with you? Because there's a couple of Super Secrets here you should know.
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Trust Your Reader
Ever had someone puff up their chest and explain something to you that you already knew? It usually starts with a preamble: "Well, actually, it's not like that, it's like this." Perhaps they talked down to you because they believed you weren’t quite as knowledgeable as they were on the subject. Worse, as they continued their lecture, it may have become obvious they believed you knew nothing on the subject. As it continued, you might have bristled--the tone of the conversation made you feel like they were calling you ignorant.
If a woman knows cars and a car salesman tries to pull the wool over her eyes, she’s likely to tell him off. If a mother gets lectured about childbirth by a single man because the guy read a book on it, she’s probably going to give him a piece of her mind. No one enjoys being told how things work by someone that has never experienced what we have experienced. Nor do we like being talked down to. We might put up with false assumptions for a little bit, but if the lecture continues on, we’re likely going to speak up and set matters straight.
Women call this mansplaining, or a funnier term, correctile dysfunction. The practice is patronizing, even condescending. When women do something similar to men, men call it womansplaining or femsplaining. In either case, one party is saying to the other party that they have superior knowledge of a subject, and that the one of the opposite sex that they're explaining it to has inferior knowledge. They presume they know more, and presumptuousness is not a becoming look. Especially if you have a PhD in childbirth by right of bringing seven children into this world, and the single man does not.
Writers can unknowingly do the same thing. They may assume their readers know nothing of the subject they are writing about, and so they go into great detail writersplaining to their readers. (I do believe I just coined a new word.) Perhaps they are writing a diver story, and although they've never been on a dive, they've just done all the research, and they're going to work all that information into their novel for your benefit.
This often drops in the form of infodumps (or worse, What About Bobs) because the writer believes you don't know this information and they need to fill you in. Perhaps you do need the information, perhaps you don't, but nobody likes to be lectured as if they're an ignoramus. Worse, the writer could be giving all these textbook details to someone like me, a diver that received his PADI certification on the island of Cozumel, that's been on shark dives in the Bahamas, cavern dives in the Yucatan, wreck dives in the British Virgin Islands, and spearfishing with buddies miles off the California and Oregon coast. The more the writer drops in their textbook knowledge, the more likely I'll recognize they've never been diving in their life. It won't take long for me to get annoyed by the writersplaining, because I'm going to feel talked down to. Why?
Because the writer failed to recognize that they'll have readers that know more about their subject than they do.
I opened with a snippet of my horse history, and here's the reason. If you're writing a Western or a weird Western or an epic fantasy with knights on horses or a Montana romance with lots of riding and you've never been on a horse, I'm going to spot you as a greenhorn from a mile off. Can't be helped. Riders know other riders, just as sure as they can recognize someone trying to get up in the saddle for the first time. No amount of book research will be able to hide inexperience. There are telltales that will give you away. Sorry.
This will always be the case. There's always a bigger fish. There's always someone that knows more than we do. We should assume this, even if we do have expert knowledge on a subject. Likewise, there will be readers that have little to no knowledge on that subject, and they will need some information from the writer to understand important plot points. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. What's a writer to do?
You could just write what you know. Some writers advise that, and while you’ll have all those nifty inside details that prove you have authentic knowledge, you’ll also be limited as to what you can write. There’s a big world out there--none of us can experience it all. And there are historical events we’ve never lived through, and future events and cultures and scientific advancements that we can imagine but that haven’t yet occurred. At the time of this writing, no one has been to Mars. That didn’t stop Edgar Rice Burroughs and Ray Bradbury and Andy Weir from writing stories about people living on it.
But how do we keep it real?
Solid research from reliable sources is a great start. Many experts share their knowledge in books and articles, and we can absorb much by doing a deep dive on a subject--the trick will be in remembering most of that research is for our benefit, not the reader. It doesn’t go on the page.
But there is a problem with book knowledge and trying to work from other people’s expertise and experience instead of our own. It’s never going to ring as authentic as actually having experienced the thing ourselves. Reading about sailboats is quite different from actually sailing one in a storm. Reading about horses and horseback riding is quite different from getting on one yourself. And reading a dive manual to write about a cavern dive is quite different from doing one in the Yucatan and watching your buddy vanish like they turned on a cloaking device as they entered the halocline.
Solution? Get out more and experience life. Soak up all those fascinating real-life details that can make our stories come to life. If we’re going to write tall ship stories, perhaps we could go to some ship festivals, book a day trip on one, or even take sailing lessons. If we’re going to set a story in the San Juan Islands, how about visiting them and getting a feel for island life? Writing a Western set in the time period of, oh, I don’t know, maybe 1883? We can’t go back in time, but how about visiting a museum in the area we’re writing about, or taking some riding lessons so we don’t sound so green?
“But, Moon,” someone might say, “I live in New York City and don’t have the time nor the money to travel to Montana. And how can I take riding lessons--I’ve never even seen a stable in Manhattan.” Fair point. So just wing it. Maybe no one will notice. Or … you could phone a friend. You may not be a horseback rider, but maybe you have a friend that is. They could look over the horsey parts in your book and tell you if they sound authentic, and how to fix them if they don't.
Don't have a friend that has real-life experience on the subject you need? How about joining an Internet group that has experts on the subject and ask them for help? People like talking about themselves and what they do, and if you tell them you're writing a story, screenplay, or book on their subject of expertise? Many are happy to oblige.
Years ago, I emailed a surgeon in the UK, told him I was writing a story for Star Trek, and would he be so kind as to verify that I had used the proper terminology when detailing a critical blow to the spine? He wrote back and confirmed I was correct, gave me technical reasons as to why (which I didn’t use but I appreciated his expertise), and he invited me to contact him with any future medical questions I had. That story, "Seventh Heaven," was a winner in Paramount's Star Trek: Strange New Worlds II anthology contest. A borg love story. What could be sweeter? And I had the comfort of knowing my anatomical statement wouldn't cause a kerfuffle with any doctors who read my story.
But here's a simpler way to keep from annoying readers. Don't pretend to be an expert on something you are not. Instead, trust your reader. Even if a reader may have zero knowledge about a subject, they are smart. They can put two and two together. They know how to connect the dots. In addition to a wealth of life experience, they are widely read. They're readers! They'll appreciate it if you show them respect and don't talk down to them by lecturing them via the page on all that research you just did. It's likely they don't need it.
And if they do? Keep it brief. Trust your reader.
You can also bypass an area where you lack knowledge by getting out of that area as fast as you can so you don’t expose yourself. Don’t know horses? They mounted up and headed for the village works nicely. Dropping in all that whinnying and snorting and nickering on the ride can expose you, and if you’re already in your nickers, you can get caught with your pants down. Don’t know sailing? Make your adventurers landlubbers, and when the captain says a sail is footloose, make them dance like Kevin Bacon.
But seriously, folks, the point is, keep it brief. Lack of experience is hard to catch if we don’t dally in areas we know little to nothing about.
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The Story Doesn't Happen on the Page
Where does the story occur? When I was a newer writer, I believed the story occurred on the page. I felt I had to describe people and objects and scenes in detail for readers to see my imaginative world. It was my vision, after all. I wanted them to see exactly what was in my head, because the vision in my head was beautiful.
And then someone shared one of their own Secrets, a concept I had never considered before. This was decades ago, and I believe science fiction writer Algis Budrys was the instructor who shared it with me. It was one of those light bulb moments; it transformed how I wrote stories. I should assume you know this Secret after what I've just written in this chapter. But what if you don't? Then I need to share this, because it was a monumental thought for me, and it may become a monumental concept for you.
The story does not occur on the page.
It happens in the reader's head.
"What?" someone will say. "I have this visionary concept that I took great pains to carefully transcribe onto the page. I'm seeking a wise publisher to see its lofty merit so they can pay me good money for those pages, and you're trying to tell me my story is not on the page?"
That's exactly what I'm saying. Here, let me show you:
Clown riding around a circus stage.
When you read the word clown, what came to mind? Take a moment and draw a picture of what a clown looks like in your mind, riding around on a stage. Got it? Great.
As I wrote that phrase, I saw a clown with a red rubber ball nose, an obnoxious red wig, white-faced with an exaggerated red face-paint smile, a white ruffled collar, a white jump suit with pink polka dots, enormous black hobo shoes, and he’s riding a giant tricycle with a brass bicycle horn that goes oogah, oogah whenever he squeezes it. He's still squeezing it. Oogah, oogah, oogah. It's getting quite annoying. Someone turn off that clown!
But what picture came to your mind when you read the word clown? Your clown might have had a sad face, even a scary face. He might have been she, and she had a bowler hat on instead of the wild wig. She could have been riding a little scooter around the main stage, a monkey in a policeman's suit chasing her with a billy club. I don't know, it's your clown that got in trouble with the monkey police. You bail her out.
Well, there it is. My experiences bring up what I think a clown riding around on a stage looks like, your experiences bring up what you think a clown riding around on a stage looks like. The code word clown, written down on the page, won't bring up the same clown that's in my head for yours. Your clown will be different. That's because you draw from your own memories and experiences to visualize what that word means. I can't put my brain into yours. All I can do is use my coding on the page to ignite a vision in your mind from your own personal experience that I hope will be close enough.
But what if clown doesn't make you envision my happy clown? What if you see an evil clown, perhaps like the one on the It movie posters. Brrrr. This is a happy story; I don't want you to envision an evil clown! I'll have to do better, give you more definitive coding.
Happy smiling clown.
Much better. Now you see--wait! Your clown is riding a minibike, my clown is riding a giant tricycle. This won't do--that bicycle horn is critical in the climax of my story! I'll have to make my coding more specific.
Happy smiling clown riding a giant tricycle around a circus stage, honking his bicycle horn.
There! Now you know the clown of my story is happy, he's riding a giant tricycle, he's in a circus, he's honking a horn, and the pronoun his means that he is male. You've now gotten enough description--what I call coding--to have my code on the page run like a program, generating the proper images in your mind.
But wait! My clown has an outlandish red wig on, your clown is wearing a bowler hat. And my bicycle horn is brass, and I see you've made yours shiny chrome! We don't have the same vision, even after I made my coding more specific. Why aren't you seeing the phrase the way I've written it down on the page?
Because words have meaning, but we supply the images from our own life experiences that we tag those words to in order to define them. No matter how much detail I add to my clown on the tricycle, my clown is going to look different than your clown. The scene is happening in your head, not on the page. I can force the issue, adding detail after detail so YOU SEE MY EXACT CLOWN, but the more I do that, the slower the scene gets, and the more annoyed you're going to be.
Because I'm not trusting you, my dear reader.
My job as a writer is to give you just enough coding on the page to activate an approximation of what I'd like you to envision. No more, no less. You're going to fill in the blanks, and truthfully, that's part of the fun. If I can ignite your mind to bring up your own wondrous imagery while still guiding you down the path of my tale without losing you, we both win. I don't have to tell you to get rid of that bowler hat, or to put some pink polka dots on your clown. It's not critical to my plot. I'm going to trust that you can draw up your own good version of a clown for the sake of my story. But he does need to be male for this story, and he does need that horn.
I'll let you color in the rest.
Trust your reader. Remember that the story happens in their head, not on the page. Don't force them to see your exact vision, because it won't be exact, no matter how much information you give them. Give readers enough information to get the gist of the picture, the essential elements, and move on. They'll fill in the rest.
Try to get real-life experience, but if you can’t, do your research. Get those important details in the coding on the page without dropping Wikipedia infodumps. No writersplaining. Respect your readers’ good judgment, and they'll respect yours.
The story happens in their heads, and they’ve got good ones.
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