There’s
a new volume to add to the first shelf of books on the craft of writing.
Benjamin Percy’s Thrill Me: Essays on Fiction is worthy to stand
alongside such classics as Stephen King’s On Writing and Ursula K. LeGuinn’s
Steering the Craft; books that not only offer invaluable advice, but ultimately
expand the mind, inspiring us to question our most deeply-entrenched
assumptions about literature—what it is, what it isn’t, what’s good, what’s bad—our
prejudices about process—what works, what doesn’t—all the
creative-writing-course clichés and stultifying conventional wisdom that narrows
our outlook and limits our potential even as it smothers the creative spark we
hope to nurture.
What’s
the difference between ‘literary’ and ‘genre’ fiction, and are the two
categories mutually exclusive? The worst
of genre fiction according to Percy “features formulaic plots, pedestrian
language, paper-thin characters, gender and ethnic stereotypes and a general
lack of diversity…” Literary fiction at its worst “features a pile of pretty
sentences that add up to nothing happening…” A fairly grim, if acutely accurate,
assessment; there seems precious little hope or redemption on either path, and
even less possibility of reconciliation. “But why not flip the equation?” Percy
asks. “Toss out the worst of genre and literary fiction—and merge the
best…” This is the extraordinary, some
might say counterintuitive, premise of Percy’s argument, what makes ‘Thrill Me’
not only unique but indispensable. “If I’m going to align with anyone,” Percy
declares, “it’s with … [those authors] who make an effort to be both a writer *and*
a storyteller, someone who puts their muscle into artful technique and
compulsive readability.”
And
Percy shows us precisely what he means, offering generous examples of exceptionally
well-written and excitingly-told stories
ranging across the literary/genre spectrum from Cormac McCarthy, Shirley
Jackson, and Tim O’Brien to Michael Chabon, Ursula K. LeGuinn, and George R.R.
Martin, not ignoring the rich vein of contemporary film and novelistic
television. In each chapter, these examples are used to illustrate solutions to
the problems every storyteller must face at one time or another; creating a
sense of urgency in a narrative, finding the language appropriate to stage an
effective set piece, dealing with issues arising from the portrayal of
violence, employing setting and detail to “make the extraordinary ordinary’,
designing suspense, knowing when to incorporate backstory (or not), the use of
artful repetition…and so, so much more.
As
in King’s On Writing, autobiography is employed as a vehicle for
insight, a framework for instruction, the writer’s personal experience
illuminating broader points about process in an engaging narrative that reads
like the best coming-of-age fiction. As
a boy, the author relates, “I had too much empathy; it was a superpower (as a
budding writer) and a disability (as a functional human being).” But Percy is
wise enough to eschew the one-size-fits-all approach to creativity, the
arrogant assumption that the experience of one individual somehow translates
into universal truth.
Nor
is Percy afraid to gore the sacred cows of contemporary fiction, fearless—and
trenchantly precise—in his criticisms of semi-canonized writers like Bret Easton
Ellis, Chuck Palahniuk and Michael Chabon, yet also lavish in his praise of
those same authors where praise is due.
Percy
draws strong parallels between music and writing, citing Aaron Copland’s
description of the listening experience (on the sensual, expressive, and purely
musical or cerebral levels) and showing how the same principles can apply to a
reader’s enjoyment of fiction. Like LeGuinn in Steering the Craft, Percy
explains how types of punctuation may be equated to musical rests of varying
lengths. He invites us to appreciate the rhythmic richness of language, the
visceral effects of well-chosen words, and the natural sense of momentum in a
well-crafted phrase: “Tone refers not only to voice, but to music, the
foot-tapping rhythm of the words. Dialogue is typically staccato [fast-paced,
marked] while narrative is typically legate [smoothly flowing at a more
leisurely pace]...”
Chock-a-block
with eye-opening insight and practical advice conveyed in a fresh,
down-to-earth style, Thrill Me is a must-read for all aspiring writers
of dramatic fiction and the next best thing to a refresher course for more
experienced authors. Enthusiastically recommended!
Another book for the bookshelf! Thank you TAS.
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