You are divided into several pieces; components of your overall being are often so different as to seem to come from separate beings. I knew an actor, for example, who had been horribly abused as a child. He had so repressed all expression of anger that he bottled all his annoyances and petty grievances up throughout the year and had one, almost-perfectly annual explosion at his underlings in the winter months. At all other times he was subdued, polite, and too careful of sharing how he felt.
That Actor Would Have Been Served By An Integration Of His Anger
It is not healthy to live apart from yourself, or to so compartmentalize your soul that you become some breed of Dr. Jekyll, who explodes ere long into a momentary Mr. Hyde.
When you write, and you have already begun to exist in a state of semi-permanent absence from your whole self, the work reflects your lack of unification.
You See This An Awful Lot With Sex
I’m about to make a sweeping overgeneralization, so if you’re easily offended, look away now. Many, if not all, people who exclusively write explicit sexual passages without making a living at it (amateur pornographers, if you will), have compartmentalized their natural sexual self from the rest of their souls, and they use the written word as a way to sooth and erase the barrier between their current and idealized selves. I am in no way speaking of romance, light sex, or professional erotica authors, which all require sufficient depersonalization of the self to preclude this division of self.
Victor, Sometimes I Think You’re Just Making Stuff Up!
Another area where this lack of unification is apt to appear is in the author’s inability to know his (or her) end goal. What I mean by this is, what does a happy ending look like? I do not mean the achievement of some end objective; no, I mean, the very happiest, best ending that could possibly be for each of the characters. Many, many authors shy away from the possibility of happiness because they, themselves, don’t know yet what they want, or what the evaluators are for their moral good, and so they unwittingly write a similar avoidance and ignorance into their novel, which is unfortunate because it creates a fog of unsureness in the mind of the reader.
Everyone, at bottom, must be good or bad.
Good Or Bad, Best Or Worst
When a human reads a story, he (or she) is looking for a personal derivative; he (or she) wants meaning. Am I like the good guy or the bad guy? Why? And what is a happy ending? And, in reference to that ending, how am I doing currently in my life right now?
People really do ask themselves these types of questions while they are reading. They may not always be aware that they are doing it, but they most certainly are judging and comparing themselves, their friends and acquaintances, and their living standards to what is portrayed in the book at all times.
We Want To Know How We’re Doing; Are We Winning?
Are we bad? Or are we good? How do we know? How can we find out for sure? We look at stories to give us context, and we apply the context within tales to our own circumstances, to find out where we measure on the scale of evil through transcendent good.
Great literature, the kind of stuff teachers throw at your face in schools, is the material that commentates openly and consistently on the measuring stick throughout the story.
So-called “escape” literature, better known as genre fiction, does not make overt value judgements, but the best samples of this style contains a wholistic moral universe, and vividly accurate examples of human nature in a range from corrupt to pure, good to bad, selfish to genuinely altruistic.
So What Does This Mean For Me, Victor Poole?
Well, I began by explaining that many people, perhaps even you, are currently living in a state of internal compartmentalization, and, by extension, your fiction suffers from a lack of intellectual cohesion.
Selfish people, for example, write characters badly, because they relate to other humans so awkwardly themselves that their dialogue and descriptions of the beings in their stories are halting, aggressive, and completely bare of nuance. Folks who don’t listen in real life listen even worse when they are the God of the narrative, and this creates ugly prose, and harsh characterizations and scenes.
For one more example, writers who do not exercise thoroughly in real life write terrible action sequences. Having very little muscle themselves, they have no real conception of the weight, binding nature, or fluidity of significant musculature, and this is reflected in the way they write physical action of any kind.
I could go on, for there are myriad samples of poor integration, and corresponding openings between delivery and intent in the resultant fiction, but for now we will look at an example of how such a lack of integration might appear in the flesh (or the pixel, as ’twere), and then I will impart to you a basic integration visualization.
Be Cautious Of Any Person Seeking To Integrate You; Humans Steal
Yes, I include myself in this group. Anyone who reaches into your energy management is getting something from you; be very wary, and excessively aware of what they are doing while they’re in your spirit, and of what they leave behind. Beware, or risk losing things, and becoming captive to forces you probably don’t understand.
I suppose I should cackle evilly right now, and tap my fingers together in the manner of a villain. But, to work.
Bad Writing (Analytical Thinking Absent):
Solace has never wanted so badly to run away, but her legs are pinned under a shelf, and she can’t move her lower half enough to get out. Her mind races. She wrestles the furniture, but it is lodged under one of the stones from the roof.
She hears another person crying out; she didn’t hear enough to know who it was. She grunts, and pulls harder. A tall shadow moves through heavy dust that is flying through the crushed room.
“Are you fine?” a man’s voice asked. Solace shivers; she does not know this person.
“No,” she gasps.
Good Writing (Integrated Thinking):
With a crash, the sky fell into the house, carrying with it half the roof and most of a tree from above the eaves. Her mother and father were crushed under a great stone, but Solace dove left, and she was merely pinned beneath an oak shelf, unharmed aside from bruises. She couldn’t move, and after she battered helplessly with a shard of rock at the shelf, she resigned herself to a lingering death.
She could hear a cry echoing sadly through the house; it was grandmother, she thought. Solace opened her mouth to call back, but the dust caught in her throat, and she choked and coughed, and when she got her breath back she found that her windpipe seemed to have closed up for good. She could not make a sound.
What Can You Do In Terms Of Integration?
As promised, the integration visualization: Imagine that inside of you is a sharp line of blue-black (like the color of a healthy black horse). Now picture the ground below you, and pretend for a moment that it is a sea of white light. You know, like the lava game you most likely played as a child, and the floor was burning orange? Except this time the floor will be bright white, and it will be water, not lava.
Noe imagine your whole body, starting at your feet, and then your ankles, sinking gradually into the sea of white beneath you. Let yourself fall slowly into the white water. As the water touches up against the blue-black line, see it burn up and disappear. The line can be anywhere; it might run up your middle, splitting you in half, or it may form a vigorous jig-jag maze. Your subconscious mind is tremendous at pinning down problems you aren’t fully aware of yet; whatever you picture the line doing in your body is exactly right.
Now, relax down into the water, imagining the shining, lapping fluid rising past your knees, and your hips, and up your back. Watch the blue-black line, wherever it may be, scrub entirely away in the touch of the white water. Let your shoulders and your arms go down into the water, and then your neck. Feel your jaw lap into the white ocean, and then your cheeks. Your eyes next, and your forehead. Finally, listen to the feelings in your body as your last bit of skull sinks down into the brilliant white water.
The blue-black line is now gone. Stand up out of the water, and draw a new black line all the way around the edge of your body. You know, as if you were a body being chalked around by the police at a crime scene. Just go ahead and trace your own black line all around the verge of your being. This is an outline that separates you from the world around you; your body longs for division of some kind, and if you give yourself this outside-inside line of separation, you can avoid reforming the original fragmentation of your inner self.
You’re reading a blog about writing by Victor Poole. I’m working on an exciting new cover for the Ajalia books, and I made an embarrassing mistake yesterday. My cat is asleep at this very minute; she’s adorable.