The Art of Fiction

The Art of Fiction by John Gardner

From the outset, I approached John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction with trepidation, as I would any other sort of work that claims to speak with authority on an issue as abstract as the nature of fiction-writing. After undergoing, myself, a course on the creative writing of poetry, I must admit that I hold a very low opinion of that most sordid breed of instruction manuals, the literary “How-To” book. However, I am an aspiring writer myself, with a love for fiction and the earnest desire to spearhead a movement toward a greater inclusion of creative writing into the English curriculum of whatever high school has the misfortune of hiring me. Therefore, I felt a sense of duty, an odd obligation even, to give this little book a chance, for John Gardner’s name is synonymous with a reputation of respectability, and is one that deserves admiration. For, even as I have so heartily condemned books on the teaching of creative writing, I myself can only hope to achieve what John Gardner did within his lifetime: authorship, professorship, and renown, all of which hinged on that precarious framework of the teaching and instruction of creative writing. I found this book to be somewhat ubiquitous; now uplifting, now condemning. Gardner says, in his preface, that the “would-be writer using this book can become a successful writer if he wants to” (ix), but later concedes that the book may, in fact, show the would-be writer “why he was not sent into the world to be a writer” (ix). Such ambiguities do abound. For example, in speaking on the matter of rules one must follow so that one might achieve that dreamed of masterpiece, Gardner claims, “Trustworthy aesthetic universals do exist, but they exist at such a high level of abstraction as to offer almost no guidance to the writer” (3). He then goes on, paradoxically, in an attempt to outline such aesthetic laws, devoting a whole chapter to the subject. On such notions, I tend to prescribe to the theory of Kurt Vonnegut, a great author who, himself, taught creative writing at Iowa (the best creative writing school in the country, according to “U.S. News and World Reports,” and many other reputable sources) and Harvard. In his latest work, Bagombo Snuff Box, Vonnegut lays out eight rules of writing, what he terms “Creative Writing 101,” and then immediately goes on to say that most wonderful authors break practically every one of his rules, for “great writers tend to do that” (12). What Vonnegut understands, and what I hope the reader of this critique will understand, is that there are no rules, set in stone, guiding and dictating the way in which the fiction that we read has been written. To ascribe a set of laws to writing is dangerous, and I believe that Gardner does, on some levels, understand this, so I would like to think that the voice one hears in reading The Art of Fiction is that of one stuck with the impossible task of representing fiction-writing as a teachable and learnable task, and not just that of a haughty individual who believes he has all of the magical answers. This, however, is indeed how the work, at times, reads, with Gardner introducing his work as “the most helpful book of its kind” (xi). However, in reviewing the book, I have attempted to overlook such egotism and judge the work on the basis of the effectiveness that I feel it would have in the classroom and in helping young writers with the basics of writing.

To begin, the subtitle of the work, Notes on Craft for Young Writers, is misleading. I believe that this work, having been placed into the hands of a “young writer,” would, in fact, overwhelm and discourage the child. At the commencement, Gardner condemns the majority of fiction, pledging that his book, and what is proclaimed within its pages, is for “the elite; that is, for serious literary artists” (x). What child or adolescent could proceed with such a debilitating declaration? If anything, this is a book for the hopeful adult writer, or for the creative writing workshop facilitator, who could utilize the ideas discovered herein without mentioning such discouraging statements to the children. The book does an incredible job in outlining the specifics of writing, using half of reader’s time to examine the theories of fiction, and the other half to address notes on the actual construction of such fiction. However, such methodology would undoubtedly work best in the hands of a capable teacher, one who could lead a classroom of amateur writers without crushing the spirits of the thirty anticipation-ridden souls during the set fifty-minute time period.

Gardner is bold, in Part I of his book, outlining the nature, as he understands it to be, of fiction. I think one would be hard-pressed to find an individual who, in the course of reading The Art of Fiction, would not be in some way offended by the rebuffing of so many great authors and literary traditions that Gardner presents. I was personally taken aback when Gardner referred to John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath as a “failure” (10). Very quickly, one is forced to wonder whether they can trust Gardner’s literary presumptions; and, this negative effect leads to the suspicion that his advice on writing may be radical and extremely unpredictable as well. However, Gardner, on the whole, does not disappoint. His writing is clear, his thoughts structured, and many of his points well made.

Before reaching the specifics of what one may do to enhance one’s own creative writing, or providing input regarding the guidance of another’s fiction writing, Gardner tackles the general elements that are essential in any well-written fiction. In chapter two, “Basic Skills, Genre, and Fiction as Dream,” Gardner, in one exhaustive breath, proclaims, “Don’t try to write without the basic skills of composition; don’t try to write “what you know,” choose a genre; create a kind of dream in the reader’s mind, and avoid like the plague all that might briefly distract from that dream—a notion wherein a multitude of rules are implied” (33). Here, Gardner does touch on some great points. For all the rules that fiction can break and still maintain a successful semblance, a beginning writer without even the basest of grammatical abilities who simply tries to write about his life, his dog, or his family, is doomed to failure, in most cases. Gardner harps on a mastery of the fundamentals, like “grammar and syntax, punctuation, diction, sentence variety, paragraph structure, and so forth” (17), and, I believe, with good reason. While it remains debatable as to whether or not the creative side of fiction can prosper from writing regulations, good clean style, attained through a careful study of the basics, can only result in the improvement of one’s work. As a teacher, one must remember Gardner’s advice, and not expect dazzling short stories, or even poetry, from his or her students if they are unaware of the function of various punctuation marks, or of the ways in which one avoids subject-verb disagreement.

One of the strongest points Gardner makes is this: “in order to achieve mastery, [the student writer] must read wisely and deeply and must write not just carefully but continually, thoughtfully assessing and reassessing what he writes, because practice…is the heart of the matter” (9). Despite its seeming simplicity, this statement of the obvious, that good writing requires extensive reading and a background of practice-writing to achieve greatness, is one of the notions that took be aback, for the sheer truth that resounds within it. A teacher cannot expect of his students, nor of himself, that one should be able to sit down and write beautifully of a topic if they have had little experience with creative writing beforehand. Gardner makes clear that sharing the same personal experience as the character is not necessary in attempting to write a story (15), (one shouldn’t invest thousands in a trip to Paris to write a story about the city in this age of technology and bountiful resources), but practice-writing within the confines of a particular genre, and having an understanding of how previous authors have approached the subject matter, are essential prerequisites to good fiction writing.

Now, this may lead one toward the argument that reading other author’s works before one writes will only result in imitation. Gardner disputes this point, and actually supports the beginning writer’s need to imitate someone’s style, until the writer can come into his own and find his voice (142-4). The Aeneid, for example, one of western literature’s greatest works, does little more than imitate Homer’s epic style, yet still we praise Virgil’s artistry. The idea that one learns to write by reading is definitely one that Gardner would defend. Gardner calls for vivid detail in writing (26), heavy metaphor and symbolic association (67-8), and the need for fiction, ultimately, to seek out truth (63,79), and all of this is seldom stumbled upon, he claims, by the uneducated (12-15). These are learned devices that result from practice and attention being given to examples of effective writing.

I like the amount of importance that Gardner places on characterization within the story, that “the writer must enable us to see and feel vividly what his characters see and feel; that is, enable us to experience as directly and intensely as possible, though vicariously, what his characters experience” (44). I fall in disagreement with those who would seek to sell out their characters, who see the character as the means to an end—that end being the transmission of a theme or message. While the subject of theme is integral, and in all literature takes precedence as the purpose of a work, Gardner would agree with me in the belief that characters should not be contrived around a theme. Gardner says, “Theme…is not imposed on the story but evoked from within it” (177). Theme is imperative, but is developed “intuitively” (177) as the writer writes, while the character, Gardner understands, must come first.

With the second, and shorter, part of the The Art of Fiction, Gardner dispenses with his theories and beliefs about literature and plunges straight into the subject of the tasks that may be undertaken to improve student writing. Some of these I found agreeable while others I wouldn’t take up if I were Maxwell Perkins, (the authoritative editor who guided Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and a host of others.)

Gardner does all teachers a great service in pointing out problems that young writers, or students, often have with basic writing skills. “The most obvious forms of clumsiness, really failures in the basic skills,” he says, “include such mistakes as inappropriate or excessive use of the passive voice, inappropriate use of introductory phrases containing infinite verbs, shifts in diction level or the regular use of distracting diction, lack of sentence variety, lack of sentence focus, faulty rhythm, accidental rhythm, needless explanation, and careless shifts in psychic distance” (99). Gardner then goes through the grueling task of explaining each of these nine problems, giving examples of them in writing, and suggesting the best methods one may use in banishing these “common errors” (97) from one’s writing. As a teacher, this information will be invaluable, for it is many the time that a friend will ask me to edit or look over some piece of writing, and I am unable to give the appropriate advice, though I know the writing “sounds wrong.” I then must think to myself, “what kind of a teacher am I going to make?” Gardner carefully provides the reader of his book with all of the information needed to put his or her finger on a passage in literature and say, “this is why this just doesn’t work, and this is how it could be improved.” In teaching, it will be necessary that I look to a list like this in order to see what difficulties my students are experiencing in the art of fiction-writing, and to maintain an understanding of the areas in which I could assist in boosting a student’s ability. With this knowledge, the aspiring teacher could plausibly help the hopeful student writer to achieve the desired effect, being able to point out which errors the student has committed instead of simply deducting points from a final grade, or making useless comments like “this doesn’t work here.” Jamie Poissant, Berry College