WRITERS AND PROMISES
What do promises have to do with writing?
Everything. Writers constantly deal with two kinds of promises:
The ones we make to our readers, and the ones we make to ourselves.
Both take practice and determination. As different as the meaning of promise is in each case, the rewards for understanding will enhance what you write and your inner comfort with yourself.
Promises to the Reader of Nonfiction
A common weakness in many well-written essays, memoirs, or stories based on personal experience is a missing or unclear promise. I'm talking about the deal a writer makes with the reader:
"For your investment of time and emotional involvement in reading my essay, I promise to make a difference in you. I'll give you a truth, a memorable experience, or a keen observation about human nature."
If these statements remind you of themes, you're on track. Theme and promise are close cousins, but promise gets at the heart of the writing. Themes often sound intellectual and may even be stated as a cliche, such as: The greatest suffering gives rise to the greatest gifts. Or, actions speak louder than words. Or, you sow what you reap.
In contrast, promises seek to move the reader emotionally to experience life differently for having read a particular work. It's worth the mental effort to know what promise your story offers, even in one word. Healing? Self-respect? Courage? Once you find your promise it will make a huge difference in the power of your prose.
Here is the lead from Hawk Flies Above (Picador USA, 1996), a memoir written by Oregon's Lisa Dale Norton. How would you describe her book's promise?
By lying close in to the land, skin to sand, bone to wind, I believed I could merge with the grasses, with the hills. I believed I could become whole again. I did not know this on a conscious level. Some benevolent force guided me back to the Sandhills in the summer of 1984, some essential part of me that knew what I needed better than the logical part of my mind.
While an essay or memoir's promise must underlie every paragraph, page, and chapter, by restatement or allusion, Lisa Norton offers enough clues in her lead to make an initial guess of her promise. If her narrator is seeking to "become whole again," I see the promise as healing. On a more subtle level, considering all of the references to setting, I would say this memoir promises to demonstrate the healing power of place, especially of the roots from which one becomes disconnected. A thematic statement based on the same lead might be, "Connecting with nature can heal one's deepest wounds."
Promises to the Reader of Fiction
If you think you're off the promise hook if you write fiction, think again. A fast-paced plot or a fascinating story will only get you so many points. Craft your fiction with a story promise in mind and you'll win the giant teddy bear every time. Writers who begin short stories or novels without knowing their story's promise resemble Californians wandering aimlessly in the dark after a power failure. I recommend the craft book, A Story is a Promise, (Blue Heron Publishing, 2000), written by Bill Johnson, who is like a one-person power baron for all the light he's shining on story promise.
Since fiction involves a protagonist, every piece of fiction should explore a deeper issue of human need operating in the character's life. If we do our job as writers, our readers identify with our protagonists and live their fictional lives vicariously. Why? Because readers share the same issues of human need as the protagonists. Maybe one story explores the need for healing, another the passion for freedom, yet another the longing to leave a legacy. When the protagonist succeeds, the reader shares the satisfaction and relief of a need finally met.
In my opinion, the best fiction sets the promise in the lead, whether that lead is expressed in the first line, paragraph, or page (occasionally as late as chapter's end). But remember, that only gets your story started. You must carry a promise through to the last word of your piece. When the promise is present in the first line, serving as a narrative hook, I relax, knowing I am in competent hands. I will not stumble in the dark, hoping and wishing the writer would light a candle to show me the way.
Take a guess at the promise in this lead in Jane Hamilton's A Map of the World: "I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error, or else an unfortunate accident."
In one word, I think the first line promises a novel about redemption. One of my students asked me how we can know that Jane Hamilton's novel is about redemption instead of a trip to hell. The plot is about a trip to hell, but the promise refers to the yearning held by the protagonist who believes she fell from grace. Promise is different than plot. While I think redemption, or making amends is the emotional and spiritual answer to "falling from grace," you might come up with a different promise such as forgiveness or humility. Obviously, our guesses are limited by focusing on one line. However, readers begin their search for a story's promise, whether they are conscious of it or not, with the first line of a story, and it must be consistently reaffirmed and supported, by characterization and plot, until the very end.
Whether you are crafting short stories or novels, decide what your protagonist yearns for in an emotional or spiritual sense, a universal need that will be satisfied by story's end. Let your plot carry the protagonist through the events that will fulfill that yearning, and you'll keep your promise with your readers.
Promises to Yourself
Fulfilling your promise to your readers is an aspect of craft that you can, and must, learn. But what about promises to yourself? With few exceptions, most writers meet their contractual deadlines or the schedules for reading in their critique groups. A psychologist in one of my groups tells me that one reason we keep these promises may be because of the structure set up by the group, the acceptance of an environment that includes reading three times, for instance, every ten weeks.
For many writers, it seems harder to keep promises to themselves, especially regarding marketing. A commitment to marketing requires that you learn about the publishing industry, determine the best markets for your writing, and send out your material until it is accepted. If you determine that it needs more revision, your promise to market means that you will revise and then send it out once again.
One of my friends designated every Monday as "Marketing Monday." Each Monday, she made sure to do at least one task related to publishing her book: She researched agents and publishers, or considered notes of rejection, or revamped her synopsis, or packaged new queries or manuscripts in response to agents' requests for them. She stayed true to her promise to herself, and it paid off. After sixty rejections on one novel, she found representation from a literary agent. My psychologist friend said this example demonstrates scheduling as a successful strategy.
Few of us intentionally break promises, whether to others or to ourselves, so what's going on? It might be as easy as building structures (like joining a critique group) or scheduling time in your date book--for writing or marketing. As you know, each of us is a profound mystery and learning more about homosapien may also provide insights into our behavior. Neuropsychiatrists tell us that genetics, reinforced by social and familial conditioning, predispose each of us to be risk-seekers or risk-avoiders.
For instance, I may commit to writing or marketing in good faith, but begin to feel overwhelmed. When I'm overwhelmed, I get distracted and then must deal with the resulting crisis and chaos. I'm a recovering risk-taker. Some writers, by contrast, under-commit, perhaps out of fear--of rejection, looking bad, or any number of things. The old aphorism, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," becomes "Nothing ventured, nothing lost." These writers might as well wear a tattoo on their foreheads that reads: "Not." They are probably risk-avoiders.
If you think you are a risk-seeker and yet fail to keep your promises to yourself, you may need to pull back, trading the speed of the hare for the speed of the tortoise. Enjoy a little peace and calm. Set conservative goals. Achieve those, then select the next goal, not the next baker's dozen.
If you see yourself as a risk-avoider, you'll need to move into the No Comfort Zone, yet keep a monitor on your anxiety. Recognize the fears that raise their ugly heads at every step of writing or marketing, and "do it anyway." As your confidence grows, and it will, you'll find yourself capable, if not eager, to write or market more aggressively. Pretty soon, it won't even hurt any more.
Because making and keeping promises to ourselves is a topic that can and has filled volumes of study in human behavior, you might enjoy a new and helpful book written by Dennis Palumbo, a screenwriter and novelist turned psychotherapist of the same. Writing from the Inside Out: Transforming Psychological Blocks to Release the Writer Within is warm, easy to read, yet insightful. I've been reading one of his two- or three-page chapters each night before bed.
Keep your promises to your reader and you'll earn their loyalty. Keep your promises to yourself and you'll enjoy an unparalleled sense of self- satisfaction. I promise.
©2000 Elizabeth Lyon