I was pondering the kinds of of stories that I think of as Magical Realism, and I noticed something I think is worth bringing up. I’m not sure it’s a hard-and-fast rule, but then again the whole MR sub-genre is more than a bit hazy.
It seems to me that these sorts of stories are, at some level, “self-aware” of themselves as stories.
By that, I mean to say that there seems to be a common stylistic element in these sorts of stories – the style of a story being told to an audience.
I’m not sure if I can put it more concretely than that – I haven’t personally encountered a literary term that describes what I’m talking about – but there seems (to me) to be a readily-detected tone in these stories of “This is a story I am about to tell you.”
Or perhaps “Once upon a time…”
In some cases, it’s subtle, as with At the Mouth of the River of Bees. In other cases, as with (for instance) Big Fish, the storyteller is front and center and you’re made aware of that structure and style.
And yes, every story is a story told to an audience, strictly speaking – what I’m talking about is the sense that these particular stories are framed (either subtly or obviously) as a Told Thing: a shared object… and (just as important) at some level, they seems to know it.
I think, perhaps, it hearkens back to MR’s pre-war antecedents: fairy tales. Their origins (even if you’re talking only about the south/central american origins) grow, more directly than most, from spoken tales.
Am I making any kind of sense, or it this just early-morning ramble?
This isn’t going to matter unless you are a bit of a lit nerd.
I’m participating in a “Directed Reading” for the rest of the year, focusing on Magical Realism. (The air quotes are in there because the ‘reading list’ includes stuff like Pan’s Labyrinth and Big Fish, with which I otherwise have no problem.) The goal of the DR is basically to sort out what the term even means in modern literature – there’s some historical examination – looking at where the term originated and why, but mostly the goal is to work out for ourselves what the hell this creature even is.
I think everyone participating will come up with an answer. I very much doubt we’ll all agree. Magical Realism is a bit of mess. From a literary criticism point of view, it’s functionally useless – it isn’t a real thing when looked at with any academic level of rigor. It’s just a term that gets thrown around a lot, applied to many things it shouldn’t, some that it should, and is often dismissed out of hand by those who see only the sloppiness with which the label is usually applied.
So, the first assignment: list four ‘core’ elements that (first) make a story Magical Realism and (second) not anything else. This is my list.
Magical elements. This almost goes without saying, given the term “magical realism”, but it needs specific mention as a prerequisite: magical or fantastical elements appear in an otherwise objective, realistic story. If this isn’t happening there’s no point in looking at the latter criteria.
The magical is mundane. When magical elements are introduced, the story proceeds as if nothing extraordinary took place.
Antinomy is accepted by the characters in the story. Contrast this with standard contemporary fantasy, where magical elements are remarked upon or explained at length and usually in detail. In fantasy, the presence of the magical or supernatural is something that draws special attention; in magical realism, the natural and supernatural are equally ‘valid’ elements the story, neither one more (or less) deserving of attention.
Authorial reticence. This is a central element, for me – especially when it comes to setting magical realism apart from standard fantasy. In short, the narrator does not provide explanation for the magical elements in the story. Explaining the supernatural world reduces or destroys its magical nature. You would no more stop to explain why one of the characters floats three inches above the ground than you would stop and explain why a character’s car starts up when they turn the key in the ignition.
This list is my starting position. I fully expect it will change – in fact, I’ve rewritten or revised the thing four times while writing this post, moving bits from #2 to #3 and from #3 to #4, and I’m still not happy with it. I strongly suspect that points 2, 3, and 4 are describing different parts of the same elephant (introduced via point 1). A shorter list might read:
Magical elements in an otherwise objective, realistic story.
Antinomy within the story is accepted by the characters/narrator; both ‘sides’ are seen as equally valid, important, (un)remarkable.
Explaining the supernatural elements reduces or destroys the power they bring to a story told in this style.
I like this list quite a bit more than the longer one, but the instructions say four points (for now), so what can you do.
322 – Understatement
When you can’t write, write about how you can’t write. This stuff’s easy! Something else that’s easy is to like the Twogag facebook page. I mean, there’s literally a button for it.
I’m excited about this! I’ve got another book review up at themittani.com. This one’s on Old Man’s War, which I went years without reading despite (or maybe because of) the great reviews. It took meeting John at a mutual book signing to get me to take the plunge.
One of those cool oil painting covers that has nothing to do with the story.
But that’s not why I’m excited about sharing it. Every time I write a review, I get a pile of great book suggestions from readers, and I’m looking forward to more. Greedy? Maybe. Don’t care. :)
Them: Hey. Me: Yo. Them: I would REALLY like it if you weighed in on the thing in the forum. Me: The what-now? Them: On the forum. Someone linked an op-ed piece and it turned into a “big five bash” by people who would dance a jig if they got picked up. Your perspective might help.
As a frequent victim of what I now call Rule 386, I was wary. There’s not much use (and a great deal of time lost) in my getting embroiled in some internet debate on the goods and bads of the publishing world.
Still, it was a request from a friend, so in I went.
Luckily, the discussion wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, but I did spot a number of the familiar themes.
So many gatekeepers are wearing “the next Hunger Games” glasses.
That phrase really worked better a few years ago when it was Harry Potter glasses.
Because he wore glasses. Nevermind.
The Enormous Five aren’t just looking for the next best-seller. They decide — before seeing it — what the next best-seller will look like, meaning a narrower and narrower idea of what they they’ll publish. Standard megastar bestseller mindset.
It’s not enough to call them the Big Five, anymore, I guess. They don’t seem monolithic and inhuman enough?
Reversion of rights to the author is a joke in most contracts now.
I’ve actually got a funny/awesome story to tell about that, but I’m going to save it for next week.
Writers should just publish their own work and let people decide.
Which, though the original poster might not have intended it, implies quite strongly the editors and agents within publishing houses or literary agencies are not people.
Really, I think that’s what a lot of those quotes are saying, and that puts me in mind of one final quote:
Mechanistic dehumanization occurs when features of human nature (cognitive flexibility, warmth, agency) are denied to the subject. Targets of mechanistic dehumanization are seen as cold, rigid, lacking agency, and likened to machines or objects. Mechanistic dehumanization is usually employed on an interpersonal basis (e.g. when a person is seen as a means to another’s end).
That’s what I want to talk about.
As a writer, I’m in an unusual situation, and I have been for quite a long time. I’m blessed to know quite a few people (there’s that word again) in traditional publishing — published writers, editors, and of course agents. I have some experience with what it’s like to be on the “creator” side of things, and at the same time I get a fly-on-the wall view of what it’s like for those ‘in the industry’ — I’ve even written about it. Sharing my life with Kate has given me the ability to speak frankly and (often) sanely with my own agent and editor.
Now, I have my own problems with traditional publishing. They are well-documented.
But I don’t have a problem with the people in publishing. I disagree with those who imply that agents and editors are just looking for the next Lemony Hunger Potter, because I’ve seen those editors and agents fight for books they believe in.
Like mine, for one easy example. Hidden Things, for all that it may be beloved by tens of dozens of people, walked a long road to publication. My agent worked with me through a complete edit before we signed a contract, and my HarperCollins editor did the same (again, before we had a contract). That’s significant.
You know what ‘before we had a contract’ means, really?
It means ‘before there was even the slightest chance they would get paid for their time.’
All that work was to get the book to the point where it would pass muster with the other parts of the agency and/or publishing house.
Some might wonder why they do that, but I live with an agent, so I’ve already figured out the answer.
Love.
Once upon a time, Kate worked in New York; part of the second largest literary agency in the city (so large and well-recognized that — to this day — they still don’t bother with a web site). She worked her way up, sacrificing so that she could live and work at the heart of publishing.
She for damn sure wasn’t doing it for the money — Manhattan isn’t cheap, and working past six every day, hauling twenty pounds of manuscripts home every weekend (to read on her own time), and pulling down ‘specialist’ wages left her about enough for a rich assortment of ramen noodle flavors.
That went on for over a decade.
Five years ago, this very day, Kate and I got married. Our anniversary is, very nearly, also the anniversary of her own agency. In those five years Kate has (at my conservative estimate) read approximately three hundred twenty thousand pages of queries, partials, and manuscripts. That’s three full-length young adult novels a week for half a decade, and doesn’t include reading work from her signed authors, dealing with contracts, handling perpetually late payments, and all the rest.
She shows no sign of slowing down.
Further, as much as I love my wife (and count myself so very, very lucky), I know this: my agent does the same thing. My editor does the same thing. Your agent and editor (even the one you haven’t found yet) does the same thing.
There is only one reason someone would do that, and it’s not to find the next the next commercial hit.
It is, simply, love of a good story, to a degree that would shame most of us.
I hate the phrase “gate keeper” applied to agents and editors. It turns these people — these very human, motivated, story-loving people — into some kind of minor boss you have to fight to get to the next level of a video game.
They aren’t.
They are, in fact, the allies you recruit to ensure victory. Anyone with any sense should count themselves lucky to have them.
Agent, Author, Editor. (You didn’t seriously think I’d finish this post without a gaming screenshot, did you?)
Yes, agents must be particular about what work they represent. Sturgeon’s Law applies.
Yes, editors must be particular about what work they will take on, and must justify that work to marketing, payroll, et cetera, ad nauseum.
Yes, these people (again, people) must judge, and sometimes the judgement doesn’t go your way, and that sucks.
But the Umpires are Human.
Today, remember that. If you have the means or the desire, say thanks. Do it for me.
Take some of your own writing and rewrite it in a different POV.
Those of you who’ve read Hidden Things, pull it out and read page four.
Done?
Right. Here we go:
Mikey took the phone from me with his bad hand – the one that looked wrong. “She sounds… nice.”
I snorted, because it was funny. Ridiculous. My eyelids sagged. So tired. “Sure.”
He fidgeted, the way he used to, tugging at his clothes as if they were stuck to him. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”
“For now.” I tried to meet his eyes, but his face… The whole house, really: right and wrong. I remembered playing here, the two of us, sun fuzzies floating in the light through the window, the room so warm you’d get sleepy. No sun, now. The wind pushed at the walls, tested the windows, sent little rattling things over the roof or down through the walls — that at least hadn’t changed. “Long enough to get this straightened out.”
“You mean fix it.” His face was ugly. Ready to cry on one side, one step short of a screaming fit on the other. Ugly.
“I suppose.” I made myself stand straight — forced the slouch out of my shoulders and rolled my neck. “I made a promise, didn’t I?”
“And you always keep your promises.”
Had he always been so angry with me?
I turned away from the face. Stared out the window. “I try.”
“You try.” The thing’s voice was bitter. “Not when you won’t even look-”
“Shut…” I bit down on my own anger; on what it tried to make me say. “Just… shut up. I’m going to try. We will.” I looked back, forced myself to see him — really see him — but couldn’t hold it. “Maybe we can’t.” I turned away. The window was safer: easier to look at him in the reflection. “If we can’t, I’ll head home and try to figure something else out.”
“Head home?” I saw his window ghost hunch. Contract. “You are home, Josh.” His reflection faded. I heard the rasp of a dragging step behind me — his bad foot. “I thought you knew that.” The skittering in the walls changed – there was snickering now, and scraping, building up, like cicadas in the summer, but harder, harsher. Worse than I ever remembered.
Like him.
My heart squeezed in my chest. I turned, trying to find my brother in the dark of the room.
“Mikey?”
Thirteen seconds later, I was dead.
Ooh. File this under “I almost wish I’d done it like that in the first place.”
The mental image you have of artistic genius as flowing from an individual wellspring of inspiration is false, or at least incomplete. Something I knew about vaguely but hadn’t thought much about until recently […] was how artists in different creative mediums – writers, painters, sculptors, photographers – mixed socially and activated each other creatively in the art scene in Paris in the 20’s and 30’s. And then I went way down the rabbit hole reading about it. Paul Eluard, Man Ray, Picasso, Hemingway, Anaïs Nin, Henry Miller, and on and on. Eluard writes poems to his second wife Nusch, and Man Ray photographs her and they publish a book that’s the result of the three of them activating the artistry in each other.
[…] in the social media age [this is] actually painfully hard to find. It shouldn’t be. You can find it across creative mediums, not just with artists in your chosen creative medium. And artists are starving for it.
There isn’t a point he makes that I can’t see some real value in, and I urge you to check it out.
