“I believe there are two ways of writing novels. One is mine, making a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into life and not caring a damn.” – P. G. Wodehouse
When I was a teenager, I read a fascinating novel. It stuck in my mind. But later, when I tried to find it to read again, I was out of luck. The book had gone out of print.
For many years, I tried in vain to find a copy. At every book fair or bookstore I visited, I would ask for it (or look for it). It was one of the first things I asked owners of various circulating libraries I’ve joined over the years. But always the answer was the same: “It’s out of print”.
Well, it’s almost 25 years later, but I haven’t given up hoping to find it. So, I recently posted a query on a book website – and was directed to Amazon.com which had listings of used copies.
I visited Amazon – and was thrilled to see FOUR copies listed. Eagerly, I clicked on the first link… but was disappointed to see that the owner did not ship to India (even though the listing mentioned “International shipping available”).
That disappointment intensified to despair as the next two listings showed the same message. With little expectation of seeing anything different, I checked the last link.
Lo and behold, this owner DID ship to my address! Quickly, I paid the $16 plus shipping… and today, the book arrived in the mail.
It’s Kramer Versus Kramer.
Yes, the same story on which the smash hit movie starring my 2 favorite Hollywood stars, Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep, was based. (By the way, I’ve never watched the film, because I wanted to cherish the memories based on my reading the book only!)
As I began re-reading it after a break of over two decades, I still felt the magic. THIS IS GREAT FICTION. And now, I understand better the reason WHY I’ve wanted to read this book again – and searched for it high and low for such a long time!
And analyzing this urge more critically, I’ve realized that it’s because the author, Avery Corman, has one skill that every writer of GREAT fiction has in abundance.
It’s the same talent that anyone who has read other great works of fiction will have experienced.
If you made it through 600+ pages of Margaret Mitchell’s only novel “Gone With The Wind”, you’ll have lived the highs and lows with Scarlett O’Hara, and felt the emotions that surged through Rhett Butler.
Harold Robbins always captivated me with his writing for that same reason – not for the explicit, stark portrayal of sex in his novels, but the even more harrowing forays he so carelessly made into the psyche of his characters.
When I first shared my plans to write fiction, my friend Becky Blanton (from Triiibes.com) said:
“People write best when they’re flat out open, vulnerable and authentic. We all want to be that way, but our subconscious mind prefers we not be. It’s not safe. We’ve learned to woo and charm the gatekeeper long enough to sneak parts of ourselves past his lock on our essence… Writing, deep writing, wrings us out – it is emotionally exhausting. We wrestle with the gatekeeper and steal the sweetness he guards so diligently.”
And I remember thinking to myself: “No way am I going to do THAT!”
Yes, I was scared to.
I know the fiction novel I started work on can become a good one. Even a best-seller, because I studied the technical side of writing fiction before starting – and have enough confidence in my skills at stringing words together to make a powerful story.
And I chose the kind of story that can be written that way – at arm’s length. But then, that’s why it won’t ever be GREAT fiction. The kind that touches readers so deeply that, even twenty-five years later, they’ll go to extra-ordinary lengths to try and get a copy to read again.
That comes from writing with one rare gift…
Deep EMPATHY.
Now, I’m a doctor. And in the line of my work, I too need empathy. I have it. But not in the way a great fiction writer does.
You see, a novelist needs to get inside the heads of ALL characters in the story – whereas I only need to empathize with my patients and their families. Where I go deep and narrow, the novelist must go wide, even if shallower.
The nature of my work involves dealing with families having children with birth defects. This makes me deeply empathic to the unique circumstances faced by the parents of kids with life-threatening illness.
In a broader way, this empathy extends to parents of any sick child, or a child with special needs. In an even wider sense, it may embrace all parents. But it ends there.
I don’t, for instance, empathize at the same level of intensity with, say, a homeless person, or a divorcee, or someone who has been ditched by a lover, or can’t find one.
A great fiction novelist does.
Here’s a short excerpt from the early scenes in Kramer versus Kramer – and if you’re a parent, a father, or maybe even if you aren’t, you’ll identify with Ted Kramer, the protagonist who is thinking about his child to be born shortly:
“He was scared. He was scared Joanna would die. He was scared the baby would die. He was scared Joanna and the baby both would die. He was scared that they would be alright, but later he would die. He was scared about being able to afford the baby. He was scared about holding the baby, scared about dropping the baby. He was scared of the baby being born blind, retarded, crippled, with one arm, or one leg, with missing fingers, splotched skin. He was scared that he would be found wanting, scared he would not be a good father. He told Joanna none of this.”
Wow! Is the author a mind-reader? Isn’t that EXACTLY the same conversation that went on inside YOUR head as you awaited your child?
Sure, it is. Except that you and I blocked it out from our memories once our child was born. It was a weak moment. One we don’t want to recall. We bury it deep in our sub-conscious. And carry on, pretending it never happened.
But when we read this passage, out it pops – and at once embarrasses, and comforts us… that we’re not the only ones who felt that way.
That comes from the deep empathy a great writer has. With each one of his readers. With all of humanity. Just like fluid, which flows into different shaped containers, taking on their form, smoothly adapting itself to the changing contours, yet retaining its inherent uniqueness and character.
