Tracks in the Snow: Mystery, Meaning, and Metaphor

Last weekend we woke to unidentifiable footprints out the front door. After omitting the usual suspects (Cat? Dog? Raccoon? Fox?) we were at a loss. Still are. Still perplexed. And slightly perplexed is mightily entertaining. It triggers the imagination, invites you to solve a puzzle, and keeps you alert and engaged. Will there be a different, better hint?

Tip: The great secrets of fiction leave you wondering, long after the clues melt away.

In this sense, every novel is a mystery novel—whether or not you include corpses or detectives. Your readers try to guess what’s ahead, what this detail signifies, and how the protagonist earns the ending. If you’re doing your job right, they continue guessing. Until the end. That’s where the surprise materializes. Not a total one, of course. The best endings leave readers scratching their heads over all those clever clues—not one of them misleading—that cause the ending. But never obviously. That’s where ambiguity comes in.

Milan Kundera observed that “The greater the ambiguity, the greater the pleasure.” To approach an almost-imitation of life, fiction can’t be too clear. After all, in reality, when is any choice or belief or outcome ever crystalline? For example, is the borderline between life and death always a given?

That’s why Joyce Carol Oates said that novelists toy with “The ideal art, the noblest of art: working with the complexities of life, refusing to simplify, to ‘overcome’ doubt.”  If you already know all the answers, are you sure that fiction is what you want to write? 

Like Oates, Scott Turow, famed for legal thrillers, believes that “The purpose of narrative is to present us with complexity and ambiguity.” What motivates folks to keep reading if you spell everything out?

Readers want footprints—visible, but not unequivocally identifiable. One of the best ways to get there? Metaphor.

Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse relies heavily on the central metaphor of its title. But what exactly does it mean? The unattainable? The illuminating? The permanent in the face of mortality? Art? Love? All of the above?

The fun is guessing, just as it’s fun to speculate why Jonathan Franzen called his book “Purity,” why Shauna Singh Baldwin chose the title “What the Body Remembers,” or the precise meaning of the bloom at the center of Jean Hanff Korelitz’s The White Rose.

Guessing keeps people turning pages. Or pondering pawprints. Those melted before we could figure them out. And that’s okay, because “Neurosis is the inability to tolerate ambiguity,” Sigmund Freud claimed. And ambiguity is the privilege of drawing your own conclusions.

We can continue daydreaming about what marvelous creature strolled across our yard in the dark of night. Ambiguity lets things linger in memory. Fiction holds that same power. If you let it.

What’s in That Bag?

I picture my friend’s kids eyeing their holiday presents on the coffee table. “Whaddy’d I get? Whaddy’d I get?” I think of another friend bringing a surprise dessert secreted in a fancy bag, and although I’m supposedly more sophisticated, my question’s exactly the same. What enticing surprise awaits me?

Novels, of course, operate on the same principle. An opening that gorgeously packages the promise of surprise presents a present. You can’t be sure what wonder hides under the foil and ribbons, but, man it’s gonna be good.

Tip: Don’t ruin the surprise!

Of course not, you protest. I want my readers entranced, suspicious, empathetic—all the great stuff that comes from a set up that stays secret until that exquisite paper is slashed, revealing contents even more exciting than what veils them. Then why give away too much? And, alas, it’s so easy to do.

Here’s how to ruin the surprise:

·         Set up so carefully that there’s no possibility of wondering or guessing.

·         Set up so obscurely that there’s no possibility of wondering or guessing.

·         Divulge the right clues, just at the wrong moments.

·         Divulge useless clues, though at exactly the right moments.

·         Explain everything.

·         Explain nothing.

So how do you wrap with as much wham as the secrets it masks?

ü  Set up adroitly. Careful packaging foreshadows fun, and that’s what the packaging’s for. Tease us about the joy of eventual disclosure.

ü  Play with disguise. What if it looks as if you could expose the contents one way, and yet—maybe there’s a more original solution? Maybe no one ever used before? There’s more than one way to wrap a gift.

ü  Disperse clues cleverly. Who wants to guess how to remove the paper or ribbon. We want to shred that covering ourselves! We don’t want to break fingernails, though,—or minds, or hearts, wrestling until quitting suddenly seems more attractive.

ü  Remember what you’re wrapping—and for whom. If you put holiday paper on a birthday present, someone will complain (as well they should). If the tape shows or the edges bulge, it kind of says, “I don’t love wrapping (writing) or you,” or, at best, “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Don’t ruin the mystery. Don’t ruin the gift!

That’s what a novel is. But its true value arrives with its climax. Until then, hide shrewdly, so the reveal feels as thrilling as receiving a present from someone who wants the lucky recipient to enjoy every moment—from snazzy bag to even better surprise within.

Flowers and Focus

Madison’s Garden Expo houses hundreds of people, from horticulturists hungry for spring to bemused guys seeking valentine gifts. Attractions range from copper-covered gingko leaf earrings to gigantic black and orange diesel tractors. It’s easy to get lost in the possibilities, especially if it’s your first time in this world.

Even if you’re writing a sequel, it’s still your reader’s first time with these characters at this moment. Because it’s new, they can easily get lost, and it’s your job to help. Maybe they’d like a map?

But unless you’re creating a historical or fantastical world, wandering feels more fun than reading a map. Wouldn’t some sort of guide be more helpful? So you can make your way through this new world?

No matter what point of view you choose, your narrator is a guide. A charming and illuminating one. Your narrator supplies running commentary on the landscape, whether it’s a garden show, space station, or bath in Pompeii just before everything erupts.

·         Don’t let your narrator reveal too much. Good guides let folks discover things on their own.

·         Do have your narrator foreshadow what’s significant.

You can also guide readers through choice and arrangement of details. While this can be trickier, it can be even more satisfying, especially for those who prefer to read more actively than passively.

·         Don’t expect readers to connect all the dots on their own. To visualize your map, they need hints that are neither obvious nor obscure.

·         Do provide clues that feel organic. Accomplishing this in your first draft is quite difficult. Much easier to set up what you’ll need after you’ve written “the end.”

Either way, provide focus rather than expecting readers to navigate without assistance. That separates fiction from reality. Good novels encourage exploration without confusion or overstimulation. Using the details, narrator, or both, supply a map for the world of your novel.

Tip: Provide just enough guidance so readers don’t get lost.