Tatiana, that’s an interesting take on those elements of the novel. I suppose another way to look at those characters might be that they themselves didn’t yet recognize their own full reality as complex beings and children of God. Another way might be that the protagonist liked them all well enough, but the antagonist had what it took to challenge what protagonist thought she knew and provoke new levels of consciousness in her. Probably, there are as many ways to imagine the nature of fictional characters’ relationships to one another as there are readers.

“A wise friend once taught me that the reason evil exists out in the world is only so we’ll learn to recognize it, that we may then do battle with it in the one place we can really fight it, within our own hearts.”

Nice thought. The inverse might work well, too: We can only recognize some kinds of evil out in the world after we have done battle with it in the one place we are most responsible for it–our own hearts.

C. L., I’m not sure what you’re getting at.

I have had the sort of thing that happened in that scene happen to me many times in life and in other pieces of writing, enough to recognize what was happening once the juices started flowing. While I don’t engage in overt analysis while in the throes of such creative outbursts, I have already indulged in considerable analysis before these surprises occur. I think I can say that, often, previous analysis has led me straight to these moments of change and heightened consciousness.

Bottom line: I understand very well what happened to me in writing this scene, even though it surprised me. I am experienced enough with this process to trust it. I understood how I had changed when I emerged from the experience, and I was grateful for it. I actively court these moments and have found the narrative process fertile ground for cultivating their emergence.

“Then I came up with a bunch of perfectly reasonable analysis to explain the themes of the piece. But the interesting thing is that in this one short story the analysis came after — as with your cave scene — I didn’t start with a theme and then write the story to illustrate it.”

No, you can’t deliberately set out to write such scenes, except in the way that when one sets out on an adventure one expects exciting things to happen, though nobody can predict for sure what those things might be. I’m still not sure, though, that I’m catching your point, which is …?

Perhaps the cave scene was the start of a greater awakening for our protagonist, in which she rethought her understanding of more than just the antagonist (with whom she’s clearly engaging as an equal at the end, probably very unwisely), but possibly of all the other people she has dismissed as inconsiderable in her life, because they lacked some gift she had been given, such as maturity or intelligence.

I think Levi Peterson’s advice to you turned out very well. The cave scene as it played out was one of the most powerful parts of the book, for me. (That and the character of the dog, which was so well done.) A wise friend once taught me that the reason evil exists out in the world is only so we’ll learn to recognize it, that we may then do battle with it in the one place we can really fight it, within our own hearts.

What’s striking in your post, though, is your description of how at one point the story took over and developed a life of its own.

All of your explanation about wanting to create a story that doesn’t “locate evil ‘out there, not me’” is perfectly reasonable and makes sense. However, I get the strong impression that this is analysis that you the author have done after having written the story, in order to try to understand why you wrote what you did.

These sorts of scenes (which I will call “involuntary stories”) are absolutely fascinating. There’s something very similar over on Chris Bigelow’s blog here where he does a bunch of self-analysis to try to figure out why he portrayed Mormon sexuality the way he did in his novel.

I’ve had a similar experience (with one short story in particular) where I felt like the story just took over. And then after it was written, I said to myself “Uh-oh, people are going to object XYZ to in this story — why did I even write it that way?” Then I came up with a bunch of perfectly reasonable analysis to explain the themes of the piece. But the interesting thing is that in this one short story the analysis came after — as with your cave scene — I didn’t start with a theme and then write the story to illustrate it.

“Receive
Embrace
Honor
Release”

Last night at writer’s group we talked a little about how trying to control a reader’s understanding of our writing leads to unfortunate contortions in the writing (I didn’t use that word, “contortions,” though). In my own experience, I’ve struggled to learn to “release” my text to readers and trust that they’ll make something meaningful of it.

“When a subject and object look at one another, which is which?”

Gee, thought you’d never ask. When a subject and object look at one another, there is no subject and object, there’s only relation, the scope of which extends beyond either creature’s ability to fully grasp it.

When a subject and object look at one another, which is which?

Always delighted to see you swing ’round.

BTW, last summer, I caught a big green frog. I inspected it and let it go. I hope that wasn’t you. If so, please accept my apologies for the intrusion.

Cynicism is something to be feared. It’s the dark side of sentimentality. Sentimentality is also to be feared. I don’t want to get started on sentimentality, so I’ll stick to cynicism. Cynicism is among the lowest grades of irony, but there are many higher grades of irony that you might find valuable for taking your next personal and artistic step. If you haven’t looked at my posts on irony, you might try them, see if they offer you anything. Here’s part one: http://www.motleyvision.org/?p=222

Here’s part two: http://www.motleyvision.org/?p=240

If anything strikes you about these posts, I’d be happy to chat with you, on or off the blog.

Good stuff.