GUEST ESSAY CONTRIBUTION
Let’s get geometric for a minute. Consider your physical existence. If you only had length and width you’d be like a character in Edwin Abbott’s satirical novella Flatland. You’d be limited to experiencing only what was ahead of or behind you, or to the sides. You would not be able to see what was above or below. In a two-dimensional world, the third dimension would appear only as a shadow. Nothing would have any depth. Not much of an existence.
Now think about painting in Europe prior to the 14th century. If you know something about art in the Middle Ages you know that most paintings were rendered in two dimensions. Artists did not understand perspective. (This was also true in other world cultures at that time, with some variations based on cultural expression.) The size of people in paintings was based on their perceived importance. For example, a bishop would be made larger than a peasant, even if the bishop was further in the distance. That may have made sense in those days, but paintings from that era look curiously surreal to us today. Without getting too deeply into the history, the development of perspective allowed artists to create images that were realistic. By adding depth to paintings they went beyond simple representations of religious ideals and created realistic meaning.
All this is to get you to understand why the depth of your characters and narrative is necessary when you write creatively. A story without subtext exists in Flatland. It lacks reality. It has little ability to engage or intrigue readers because it does not provide those recognizable details that exist just below the surface of human existence. Motivation. Desire. Personal history. These are things that we rarely talk about in real life, and yet these are among the factors that drive us to act the way we do. Two-dimensional stories focus on external details—what things look like, what actions were taken. When they do try to introduce character motivation and desire, they typically just tell us what those things are through a didactic narrator. That’s why so many stories by beginning writers feature long detours into backstory. But that’s not realistic either. We don’t go through life focusing on external details alone. We are constantly analyzing and evaluating what we see, and assessing the meaning behind the facade, especially when it comes to other people. What does that salesperson really mean when she says the pants look great on me? Is she sincere, or is she just trying to make a commission?
When your story offers only two-dimensional details it makes it difficult to convey your theme or meaning. So for your readers to access the meaning you have to provide some of that third dimension.
But how do we get those details in if we’re not allowed to just say them? That’s where subtext is invaluable in making the difference between a story and a good story. Subtext is the ability to describe action and employ dialogue so that it provides clues to what is behind the facade of how people present themselves.
One of the keys to writing effective subtext is to add a specific type of detail. James Wood calls it “telling detail.” Charles Baxter calls it “hyperdetailing” of “the unspoken soul-matter.” These concepts elaborate on the idea of description in a story. They are not concerned with describing the exterior properties of people or objects, they are verbal pathways that lead to the interiority of those things; in other words, their values and meanings.
Baxter uses one of Robert Frost’s poems, “Home Burial,” to illustrate this. Here’s the opening stanza:
He saw her from the bottom of the stairs
Before she saw him. She was starting down,
Looking back over her shoulder at some fear.
She took a doubtful step and then undid it
To raise herself and look again. He spoke
Advancing toward her: ‘What is it you see
From up there always—for I want to know.’
She turned and sank upon her skirts at that,
And her face changed from terrified to dull.
He said to gain time: ‘What is it you see,’
Mounting until she cowered under him.
‘I will find out now—you must tell me, dear.’
She, in her place, refused him any help
With the least stiffening of her neck and silence.
She let him look, sure that he wouldn’t see,
Blind creature; and awhile he didn’t see.
But at last he murmured, ‘Oh,’ and again, ‘Oh.’
Even if you didn’t know the title you should understand the essence of what is happening in this scene. Frost didn’t have to explain what it was about. These are simply two people living through a profound moment. Note the hyperdetailing in the descriptions: “She was starting down / Looking back over her shoulder at some fear. / She took a doubtful step and then undid it / To raise herself and look again.” “She turned and sank upon her skirts.” “He said to gain time:” Each of these descriptions is an exterior sign that points to an interior motivation. In this case they signal some unspoken issue that has come between the man and the woman, some unspoken soul-matter. This makes readers curious to know exactly what that issue is. And wanting to know character motivation is one of the things that makes readers read.
What emerging writers must understand is the effectiveness of subtext, even if readers don’t realize they are reading it. In fact it’s how it works on the subconscious that makes it so powerful. It’s like subliminal advertising.
One bit of advice is to slow down. In light of our technological advancements in the last couple of decades it really is true that we are all moving faster through life. The paradox of technology is that we are able to do more ourselves, and because of that technology forces us to do more ourselves. But that doesn’t apply the same way when it comes to creativity. For those of us who are not gifted with writing genius we must learn to slow down, turn off the e-mail app, ignore social media, take time to think and focus. And when it comes to those descriptions, learn to stop and ask if what you have written conveys the true image of what you intend, and if it offers a connection to the interiority of the characters. This, of course, takes time to learn. Writing in subtext is a skill that can take years to master because you must be able to imagine both the exterior and interior of your characters simultaneously. It may help to practice thinking in subtext as you go through your daily life. Try to imagine what other people are thinking. If you watch a show or a movie, think consciously about how the writers inserted subtext to get the audience to feel the characters’ motivations.
You’ll notice that subtext is dependent on context. The subtext of a character’s actions and dialogue is directly related to both character motivation and desire, and to the situation in which the characters find themselves. Look again at Frost’s opening stanza. The poet chose an excellent location and situation in which to begin the scene. There is subtext even in that. The incident would not have happened in another place, because another place would not offer the same view of what turns out to be the family burial plot, where they have buried their child. In a sense, the place is a character, and that “character’s” input is one of the keys to establishing the tension of the scene.
And like many other aspects of fiction subtext works best when there is character interaction. Nothing brings out the interiority of people like having to deal with other people. When interacting with other people we tend to present ourselves the way we would like to be seen. We say things we think others would want to hear. But no matter how hard we try we almost always give subtle clues to what we are really thinking. Your characters should be exactly the same way.
When subtext is used well, it creates a story that no longer seems to be a story. That’s when readers forget they are reading someone else’s writing. The act of reading becomes an experience into which the reader is able to immerse. All those subtextual details then begin to gather in the reader’s subconscious, building upon each other, increasing the narrative tension of the story until the climax and resolution, when the theme and meaning of the work is fully realized, and has the power to make readers understand they have experienced something profound.
Joe Ponepinto is a Seattle-area writer and editor. He is the author of four novels, a story collection, and a book of essays. He was the co-founder of Orca, A Literary Journal, and Tahoma Literary Review, and now blogs on the Substack Beyond Craft, which is dedicated to exploring the challenges of writing and publishing, and demystifying the practices of the publishing industry.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 