Time, Space, and Fiction

Novelists tend to view time and space in terms of themselves or their characters, i.e. “I never have enough time to write—and I’m never inspired except in coffee shops,” or “My novel moves my protagonist from childhood to seniordom, and no two scenes occur in the same place.”

All perfectly legit. But these observations circumvent a crucial question: how do readers experience time and space in your novel?

Space

Every novel has two kinds of space. The obvious one of course, is the physical one what we call sense of place. Without that, your characters exist in the ether.

But the one more often neglected is described by Stacey D’Erasmo in The Art of Intimacy:

What’s in that critical space beween in fiction? Of what is it composed? What makes it “work” or not? One way into this delicate matter might be to look not so much at individual characters and their motivations or the outcomes of their yearnings and relationships, or even at their interactions per se, but at exactly what is in that space between them, the linkage.

This is where, if you leave room, your readers experience your novel’s world and characters directly. Sure, if you omit all comments, your readers might miss something. Isn’t that preferable to bludgeoning with clarity?  Yes. So, how do you provide that gift?

• Plant clues.
• Use imagery and metaphor.
• Avoid cliché. (Familiar expectations fill space, leaving readers outside.)
• Omit whatever the reader already knows.
• Trust your reader. Trust yourself.

 Time

You’re the ruler of every physical law in your novel. This gives you the power to make time slow down for drama and speed up for backdrop.

• Clarify time’s progress.

A reader wondering about sequence doesn’t constitute pleasurable ambiguity; it’s merely confusion.

• Make time emphasize.

In Joan Silber’s The Art of Time in Fiction: As Long as It Takes, she notes that “Slowed time is—or should be— a way of pointing to what’s important.”

• Start where your story begins.

In other words, is the material with which you open the story an arrow pointing toward the unified effect?” ― Julie Checkoway, Creating Fiction

Tip: Make your novel’s world one where time and space never frustrate, only offer endless pleasure.

Riding the Range

How broad is your novel’s scope?  Many delightful novels never introduce social context. But the novels that haunt us usually capture individuals within their environment.

Consider the narrow scope of these characters interacting during a water aerobics class.

Not wanting a collision, Ella said, “Um, you’re drifting into my lane.”

The woman scowled. “Why does that matter?”

“Well, it matters if you kick me,” Ella answered. Hmm. No “whoops” or better yet, “I’m sorry.” What’s with this person?

“It’s Valentine’s Day. Lighten up.”

 “But you’re not my valentine,” Ella pointed out.

After a long pause, the woman extended her hand. “My name is Ann.  I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Yeah, pleased to meet you, too.”

This conversation offers some intrigue, but without any range, because there’s no context beyond a pool. What happens if you add a detail that establishes a power imbalance? Is one of them a person of color, or a lesbian? Maybe one of these women is an attorney, the other a waitress. Does one of them have a disability?

If the two women differ, how does this affect the response to who says what? What shifts if this aerobics class is in Oregon or Mississippi, in a fancy health club or a Y, on one side of the tracks or the other?

Questions that reveal how society shapes individuals reveal social norms and biases. This invites readers to question their own expectations, assumptions, and biases. Ask readers to consider why someone’s losing, and—everyone wins.

Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Lowland illustrates how background creates characters in the worlds of Calcutta, Rhode Island, and California. Beyond that, her novel explores how the attempted Naxalite revolution continued changing lives long after the Mao posters faded. Even in Lahiri’s capable hands, politics occasionally overrides plot and poetry. But that’s a worthwhile risk. Characters that represent the great forces that stymie or compel us aren’t just more credible. They’re more meaningful and memorable.

Tip: Take risks. Show us not just who your characters are, but what made them that way.

That’s the “real” stuff that novels are made of.