The Inner and Outer Book

I'm involved in a couple of critique groups, composed of writers whose work I admire and with whom I've been working with for years. We are writing completely disparate books from each other, which I think is good. Sometimes you can become so immersed in a genre that you assume things you shouldn't. And the one thing I always say when I've read something that doesn't feel complete to me or isn't compelling me to inhale the next paragraph is, "More, I want more."

What I mean by that is the play between the inner and outer book. The outer book is, nominally, the plot, the setting, the cast of characters, the general, all-purpose construct of a book. What I mean about the "inner" book is that emotion, plot, drama, sorrow, joy, history, and all around emotional temperature of a book between the dialogue, world-building, and plot points. IMO, books that rely on too much world-building satisfy a certain cadre of readers, but for those of us who are character-driven readers, it starts to fall flat when we are bombarded with visuals and not a whole lot else. Same with plot-driven narratives, where the characters start to become paper dolls to be moved around a series of events.

For me, the most satisfying read is one that uses plot to flesh out character and character to flesh out the plot. It's a marriage of sorts, and with most books this works nicely. But a richer book, a book that you keep and not recycle is a book with an "inner" life.

There are as many different ways to "deepen" a narrative than there are blades of grass. Frankly, it's the difference between a standard romance novel and Jane Austen. Both consider women getting married. And that is about the only comparison you can make between a beach read and one of the greatest word smiths of literature ever born. Or to be more personal about this, the difference between one of my mysteries and, say, Raymond Chandler. Yes, I do consider Chandler to be literature.

None of us are Jane Austen or Raymond Chandler. So where to we go from here? We try to be them, that's what we do. That's when you strive to create an inner life to your book. What distinguishes you from any other writer is how you manage the inner book. This where the "you" in writer comes in. I have heard it said there are no new plots in this world, and I believe that is true. Shakespeare apparently hogged them all to himself. But to say that there are no new writers is complete nonsense.

Let's delve into this with a little example.

Mary said, "Bob, I've got to tell the police what happened."

Bob replied, "If you do that, the serial killer will carve you open with a knife cutter and hang your innards from a meat hook like he did everyone else. Don't say anything, Mary. I'm so worried about you."

Her brother. Such a kind man. He'd been her protector for years, shielding her from her mother's criticism as best he could, acting like an older brother even though he was  four years younger. 

She clamped her legs together tightly to make sure that Bob didn't see the steak knife hidden in her lap.

When he stood up, she wasn't sure what he was going to do, Would he keep trying to convince her? Did he know she knew? She waited.

Wow, there is plenty of drama in this little snippet, possibly enough to stand on its own. But what if we add some "inner-ness" to this scene. And you could certainly say that the above is nothing more than a first draft. Fair enough, but isn't that the point of a second, third, and possibly fourth draft. You have the bones, now search for that "inner" searchlight that illuminates everything around it and beyond. You're looking for words that hint at another story lurking around the first story.

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Mary said, "Bob, I've got to tell the police what happened."

She'd been so afraid all her life that this bold statement shocked her a little. Like it wasn't actually coming from her mouth, but from someone braver, from a confident woman who'd own any room she'd walked into without any effort. Someone who'd never had any problem meeting people's gazes or confronting bullies; someone who wasn't deathly afraid of spiders, heights, dentists, flying, bees, and thunder (but not the lightning, odd that). But this was bigger than she was, and maybe that was the point. She stuck out her chin in a defiant gesture willing Bob to contradict her.

Which he did. As she knew he would.

First, he smiled. It wasn't condescending, comforting more than anything else, and he put a warm hand on her shoulder, as if to add to a physical gesture to the smile meant to comfort. He'd been her protector for years, shielding her from the worst of her mother's criticism as best he could, acting like an older brother even though he was four years younger. He'd spent their entire lives trying to protect her, her ever-willing spider killer, holding her hand when they flew on planes, waiting for her at the dentist so that he could drive her home because he knew she'd be too emotionally shattered by the drilling to drive herself home safely. He didn't even kill the spiders she asked him to get rid of. He'd search for a glass and a notepad to slide under the glass and then free the frantic spider outside somewhere, even watching it scurry away to make sure that it was still alive. Such a kind man.

Bob replied, "If you do that, the serial killer will carve you open with a knife cutter and hang your innards from a meat hook like he did everyone else. Don't say anything, Mary. I'm so worried about you."

She winced at that visual reminder of all those other women who'd been tortured and terrified for hours and days on end. True victims.The cool of the metal against her thighs was so foreign to the usual softness of her skin. Still, she clamped her legs together tightly to make sure that Bob didn't see the steak knife hidden in her lap, the folds of her skirt bunched around the blade.

When he stood up, she wasn't sure what he was going to do, Would he keep trying to convince her to stay silent? Did he know she knew? She waited and moved her hand closer to the knife handle.