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Many writers plough through a first draft of their fiction in a heat of creative energy.  There may be a focusing theme, often a central protagonist, or perhaps a group of central characters,  and a framing of the place, or setting, of a story.

Pencil Sketch on Drawing Paper

Color Wash of Sketch on Drawing Paper

Lately, I've been re-reading Alex Powers' art book, "Painting People in Watercolor--a design approach," a favorite of mine, and thought about how similar in approach the design of a good story might be to the design of a good painting. Both furnish aesthetic experiences for a reader/viewer, and it might not be too surprising if they both shared some conceptual elements.

After covering a lot of design ground, Powers sums up four essential elements in his most successful paintings: 1) less subject; 2) bigger shapes; 3) darker values; and 4) faster painting (for livelier paint quality). If I can translate this to writing, some fiction presents numerous characters, place settings, and motifs or plots, an overall busyness, which can make reading more of a mental challenge than an aesthetic experience. The 'bigger shapes' criteria is related to fiction, because our right-brain attention may be challenged to discover focal points that can illuminate a story, when all the settings seem to demand equal attention. The darker values proposition is related to many artists' tendencies to paint their shapes in a narrow, unexciting range of light to middle value hues (colors), whereas the more adventureous, and aesthetically pleasing paintings will include a vivid use of glowing darks. Finally, the faster painting admonition can remind writers that perhaps the originality and energy of a story may be drained by a constant 'noodling,' and 'toning-down,' of any risky material.

I decided to select some classic short fiction piece and work backwards to visualize how a writer's vision might show some affinity with Powers' design principles. Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants," a strong, aesthetic reading experience, seemed to surface as a candidate immediately. So here goes. The opening paragraph of the story seemed to contain all the design shapes needed for the story:

The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station
was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building
and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American
and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would
come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.



Hemingway offers all of the important shapes for a painting in his opening paragraph. The initial sketch includes the two main characters, the long, white hills with no shade or trees, and an abstraction of the railroad track leading away, toward Madrid. The river is suggested by another shape. The sketch might also have shown the couple sitting in shade outside the bar, waiting for their train, but it might introduce too much subject matter--too busy. Small shapes, like table and chairs, might weaken the composition, as in 2).













Some of the initial value range is established here, using warm hues to suggest the heat. The reflected white glare of the hilltops in sunlight suggest the white elephants fancied by the girl, Jig.

Aesthetically, the painting seems to be holding together well thus far. This is a digital painting, using Corel X watercolor tools, and is a lot more forgiving of mistakes than traditional watercolor painting. The eye moves through the painting from the lower right, over the 'paper-doll' silhouettes of the figures--our focal point--and leaves over the hills at the top.














Some of the values are further darkened, and the small format for the blogging images suggested that might be enough. A little decoration in the form of painting splatter is added, whimsically representing the scatter of dialog between Jig and her partner as they contemplate whether Jig will go through with an abortion.

The man is confident an abortion will be safe, reasonable, and allow them to continue a happy relationship. Jig wants to believe him, but seems ruefully uncertain, right up until the train arrives.

I think most of the major aesthetic shapes of the story are captured in the painting, but the complete aesthetic experience afforded by the intellectual impacts of the couple's dialog can only be experienced by reading and pondering Hemingway's story.

Nonetheless, I think a writer could benefit by visualizing his story as a composition of major shapes, shaded in a range of values that achieve some harmonious balance of importance, and containing language poised to achieve the promise of his vision's selected focal point.

The concept of negative space might be as useful to writing as it is to art. I was thinking about this while trying to make a watercolor painting come alive. It involves some of the same challenges as making a scene in fiction writing come alive.

In a certain style of painting a nude figure in watercolor, we might start with a pencil drawing on a white sheet of paper, paint a light value color wash over the entire paper, following with a flesh color wash that covers and extends out from the nude drawing. Before these washes are fully dry, another light value wash might be brushed over the figure and surrounding areas. All of the hues and values are now established, but it’s a hodgepodge of color without any real focus. Perhaps like a scene in the beginning of a story, where several characters, objects, or activities may be vying equally on the page for the reader's attention.

Let's return to the painting. To "pop" the figure forward, I can apply a medium value (darker) color to the "negative space" outside the nude figure. The lighter, flesh-colored figure begins to emerge and draws the viewer's attention. But perhaps the effect is too strong, and the figure now seems too remote from the background. So, I wash over part of the figure with the same, medium value color. The lighter, flesh tone of the figure can still be seen through the darker wash, but that covered part of the figure is now partly subsumed into the background. My painting has become more integrated, but I'm concerned that I've lost some needed focus where I've washed over the figure. I go back in and apply a still darker value to the negative space outside selected parts of the subsumed figure. That's better; more of the figure emerges. The figure has become the main focus of the painting, and the related flow of washes surrounding the figure adds to the viewing experience.

To explore this idea, here's the opening to a story:

Geronimo and Corky, shirtless and wearing sweatbands, edge toward the red brick wall, pounding a handball against it as they advance.

Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa

Greg, a slender, dark-haired boy sits on the sidewalk with his back against the wall and watches the game. He's wearing a frame without any lenses, and a burnt cork mustache. He turns and looks as a city bus hisses to a stop at the corner curb. Luke gets off the bus, gripping a backpack over one shoulder, and walks over to stand and watch the game.

Okay, we've got some initial light color washes over the complete scene; a couple of areas of interest, perhaps, but nothing too compelling. Let's pop a main character forward by brushing some dark washes in the negative space around him. Luke is our man.

Corky hits the ball to the sweet spot in the corner, and it rolls back across the sidewalk, unplayable. Point and game—Corky throws up his arms and lets out a whoop. Geronimo pulls off his sweatband, curses, then squats beside Greg and flings an arm around his shoulder. He holds the struggling Greg in an arm lock, kisses him on the forehead, and looks up at Luke.

"He's mine; go get one of your own," Geronimo says, smiling. "I hear they got loads of these little darlings up at that school of yours?"

"Yeah, ease up on him; Greg's a little strange, but not that strange," Luke says. "He grew up with Corky and me and you don't think about that, but you should."

Well, that darkens the surrounding negative space, but I don't want Luke to pop too glaringly out of his background. I'll brush some of the darker wash from the negative space over part of Luke, and make him relate more to the background.

"Maybe you're not one of us anymore," Geronimo says. "Maybe you've gotten too good for us?"

"Nah," Corky says, sweeping up a gray tee-shirt from the sidewalk to mop sweat from his face and torso. "As long as the cops are still looking for who did the kid in the Grover Heights rumble, we've all got to stick together. Luke is in it as much as any of us. We're each other's alibi."

Well, that's enough of an exercise for now. Luke is shown as part of the darker background, but pops forward to a point of greater interest as character qualities of education and sensitivity are suggested.

Two art forms, writing and painting, and each may have similar scene management techniques.

T. C. Boyle has another of his vintage short stories in a recent New Yorker, entitled "Sin Dolor." It's a story of a young boy who was born with some sort of genetic mutation that causes him to feel no pain. The doctor who examines him for numerous burns and lacerations when he is a child at first suspects child abuse by the parents, though he's at a loss as to why the boy feels no pain. The doctor becomes interested in doing long-term medical observations and since the boy is from a poor family he is able to have the boy spend a great deal of time at his own house, eating, teaching the boy, and generally taking a paternal interest in him. However, after a long period of this, the father appears at the house one day, removes the boy, and leaves the village with him. After a long period the boy and his father return to the village and the doctor comes upon the spectacle of the boy performing on stage, putting red hot blades to his flesh, and piercing his cheeks, while the father is taking up donations. The father has made a sideshow of him to earn money. The doctor manages to speak with him, but the boy is resigned to his fate of earning money to support his family. He dies shortly after.

This is the sort of wrenching story I'd come across in the past from Boyle. Language, style, drama is always superb, but there seems always a hard psychological and visceral toll on me. I remember another of Boyle's stories that stayed with me a long time. A young couple in a new home in southern California, where the high crime rate is of concern, engages a home security firm. They provide the couple with a sign for their lawn warning that intruders will face armed response. This enrages one of the crazies who lives in the area (Boyle has already convincingly portrayed this crazy being interviewed by a woman real estate agent), and he invades the home of the young couple firing a gun and demanding an armed response. He locates the cowering couple and kills them.

I marvel at the power and craft of such writing but I get a sense of hopelessness from the theme and denouement. So, Boyle intrigues me and I couldn't help but go straight to an interview by Diana Bishop with Boyle in my latest Writer's Chronicle. In some selective excerpts, Boyle says he's "fascinated with these other guys to see how they've ruined their lives. Maybe writing about them provides a cautionary tale for me." He says "the theme of man as animal often plays a part" in his stories. "I don't want my readers to do anything. I'm not imposing anything on them. They come to me because they like to communicate…I am simply an artist. I'm disturbed by things, amused by things, love things, am horrified by things. I want to constantly address this mystery of the world and so that's why I'm creating art. If it communicates to people then I'm very gratified." All this fits my take on his stories.

Boyle is currently interested in identity theft—his recent novel, "Talk Talk," takes up this theme. "What is identity, who are you, how do you find out?" I'm not sure I'm ready to tackle a Boyle novel—the short stories affect my mood for long enough periods—but perhaps.

What about his drive, and process? "(F)or me the thrill of producing fiction, of pursuing and discovering something ineffable, is enough…because it's such a rush for me to explore something and see where it will go." As you might also infer from this, Boyle is someone who doesn't write to an outline. Bishop asks, "When you start to write a short story or novel do you know the ending or do you like the exploration?" Boyle says, "I know nothing at all. Nothing. The first line comes and I start…I begin by seeing something and then its translated into a voice talking to me and then I follow it and see where it will go." Bishop asks him how he revises? "Constantly, as I go along." Revisions after the first draft is completed? "It is, with minor exceptions, exactly as it evolved on the keyboard," and apparently doesn't need much more before going to the agent.

I like this one too. Bishop asks, "While you may begin writing short stories or novels with a question, you many not end up with the answer? "No." Also, when Bishop asks can art save the world, so to speak? "Well, the world is unsavable to begin with. Art illuminates you. It makes you feel that somebody else is feeling the same thing that you are so you're not alone. But it doesn't have a political agenda; it can't. Because an agenda destroys the aesthetic impulse of the discovery and the exploration of what you're doing. You're doing it because you have no answer. That's why you do it."

I admire a lot about Boyle.

This episode of Just One More Book! is part of our showcase coverage of the International Reading Association’s 52nd annual conference.

Mark speaks with Alvina Ling and Peter Brown about the process of writing and editing Peter’s book Flight of the Dodo.

Participate in the conversation by leaving a comment on this interview, or send an email to [email protected].