Everyone’s a critic
When I was writing Great Purpose, I decided to include a short prologue that established one of the principal questions in the book: are events in ordinary life influenced by God, or are they simply due to random chance and coincidence? It’s a theme that runs throughout the narrative in the entire book, and if you look carefully enough, you can interpret the events in the plot from either perspective. Most readers assume the same point of view as the main characters, and believe in the divine manifesting in our world, but a discerning reader will see clues that the events in the book could also be interpreted from a non-religious and psychological perspective, as well, if they so choose (which leads to a second theme: faith is always a choice).
I wrote the prologue — a short section of fewer than 500 words — in a completely different style from the rest of the book, on purpose. I made it more poetic, and grander in scope. I also based it on science — I think it’s fascinating that mutations on our planet originate from radiation generated from stellar events millions of miles away. It’s hard not to see God working on such a cosmic scale. As a result, the tone of the prologue is very different from the more immediate, practical narrative and dialogue in the remainder of the novel. That cosmic tone is revisited several times at key points of the story, to remind the reader of what may be working in the background, but the bulk of the plot is told conventionally.
Writing coaches advise never to do this — it confuses the reader and sets a tone that may turn off the audience one is trying to reach. Most readers scan the first few paragraphs of a book and decide quickly if it is something they may find of interest. As a result, a “good” novel always starts with a sharp hook that snags the reader’s attention immediately. I did not do this, deliberately, and I didn’t care. I knew what kind of novel I wanted to write, and I decided that a more patient reader would be able to make the tonal shift from the prologue to the first chapter without getting lost.
But boy, oh boy, the feedback I received from my early readers of initial drafts of Great Purpose was certainly mixed: some loved the prologue and wanted more in the book in that style, others hated it and wanted me to rewrite it completely or drop it altogether, and a few were utterly confused. In the end, I made a few minor edits for clarity and kept it in, critics be damned. And I learned some interesting things about early readers in the process.
Most avid readers have an idea of the “perfect writer” and the “perfect story” in their heads. Some love Stephen King, others love Yann Martel (Life of Pi), others think Ernest Hemingway is the ultimate author — everyone has their particular fascination with a specific writer’s style. (Personally, I’ve always admired John Le Carré’s very English use of language, the intricate plotting of Tom Clancy’s early works, the world-building descriptive prose of JRR Tolkien, and the crazed imaginations of Robert Heinlein and Philip K. Dick, but those are just some of my favorites.) This is fine, but the problem is, everyone conducts a critical review of a story through that lens, which may or may not apply to that particular story.
I had one early reader tell me to re-do the prologue in the style of Hemingway. For fun, I took a stab at it, and distilled it down to about a dozen words: “A star exploded. A ray mutated a child. He grew big.” Efficient? Yes, indeed. Interesting? Also, yes, in its own way. But doing this turns everything into black and white, and the intended tone vanishes. I also found it hysterically funny, and terrible advice. I ignored it.
Another early reader told me the prologue was some of the best writing he’s read in years and I should do the entire book in that style. That was flattering, and I did decide to insert additional call-backs to the prologue in various spots in the book, as a result (thanks for the idea, Michael), but if I had done the entire book in that style it would have read like a Salman Rushdie novel, and that was definitely not where I wanted to go.
Another reader simply could not understand the poetic language describing cosmic events (e.g., a supernova generating a gamma ray), and simply skipped the prologue altogether. “Once I got into Chapter 1, I loved it. But that Prologue made no sense — you should drop it.” I ignored this, too, knowing that I was deliberately turning away from readers who didn’t have the knowledge or patience to read and interpret that first page of the book. A commercial editor would tell me the same thing — the prologue fails to draw the reader in and hook them, so drop it.
Maybe they are right, and I should have deleted it. I seriously considered it. But in the end, I decided to keep it in. I couldn’t think of another way to pose the essential questions that run through the rest of the story, which I wanted to pose at the very start:
Was this the finger of God, reaching across eternity to touch a solitary life? Or merely the blind arrow of chance, a cosmic accident in a universe of infinite possibilities?
These are the questions that form the backbone of the entire novel. I could have filleted them out, and left them unsaid. But then the question of faith as a choice would have much less weight at the end of the story.
Feedback is good, and I appreciate my early readers very much. They helped make Great Purpose a better story. But everyone’s criticism comes from their own perspective and experience, and a good author must weigh that criticism against the goals and objectives they have in mind. Did I do the right thing? I think I did, though I am sure others would disagree. Everyone’s a critic — and that’s okay with me.
