On Using Interiority to Ask Complicated Questions in Fiction
"Confusion is the truth," as Dennis Cooper says
One of the most common questions from students and writing clients is, “How do I explore/interrogate [insert complicated theme/idea/concept] without over-explaining or having all the answers?” And while this may seem quite obvious, my answer is usually the same: use interiority to ask complicated and sometimes unanswerable or contradictory questions.
When reading both published and unpublished work, I’m always surprised at the lack of complex questions asked in interiority. Often, I find that people think interiority has to have all the answers (I felt x, I thought x, I knew x) but that’s not true, and in fact, I think it would make for a boring story or book if it did.
Many writers stop well before this opportunity for psychological depth and complication. As Rebecca Makkai said in a recent substack post about interiority: “Ever since 1993 when a well-meaning uncle heard, at Thanksgiving dinner, that this person wanted to be a writer and said “Well, I’ll give you a little advice, then: Show, don’t tell,” the poor writer has assumed that all emotion must be conveyed on the sly.”
She goes on to discuss deeper levels of interiority that include commentary and interpretation; internal monologue reacting to events; memory or association or tangent; self-reflection on psychology or emotion; and the subconscious. The levels of self-reflection and subconscious are the two that I want to talk about here.
Both of these levels of interiorty are perfect for asking questions that not only put the process of thinking and feeling on the page (think Garth Greenwell or James Baldwin), but also:
Add psychological complication
Utilize cognitive dissonance
Create compelling confusion
Are loyal to the complexities of human experience
Can aid in exploring and interrogating nuanced or difficult themes
Can add a level of self-awareness or irony, depending on your goals
When speaking about confusion, I love to refer to this quote by Dennis Cooper, poet and novelist, author of The Sluts and the George Miles Cycle of semi-autobiographical novels:
“Language is a total compromise. You can’t be honest, you can’t completely say what you feel, because as soon as you talk you have to use language, which inherently censors emotion…I’ve always thought that confusion is the truth. But writing cannot be confused. It can be confused on the inside, and most of the writing that I like is really confused on the inside, but the language has to be organized and seductive and beautiful in some kind of weird fucked up way.”
(source: Poetry Magazine)
“I’ve always thought that confusion is truth.” I love the shit out of that.
Now for some examples. I’m currently obsessed with the song, “Rodeo Clown,” by Dijon so I thought I might use this wonderful, painful song as a starting off point for interiority. It’s about a person who has been stood up again by their love interest, a bull rider at a rodeo. As a song, it’s brilliant and impassioned and doesn’t need the interiority that a story or novel might, so Dijon, if you ever see this, I’m not knocking your songwriting skills. What it does have is some direct-address questions. Now let’s see what it looks like to add some interiority questions.
Original:
“Well I can’t lie, I couldn’t wait. But it’s half-past eight and you’re late again. Well, I got those high heels on, and lace and I spent two or three hours beatin’ my face. So why? Could you explain? Well I can’t lie, I’m fed up. I don’t like being stood up. And hey, hey what are you ashamed of? So what are you so afraid of? ‘Cause you’re missing out on good, good lovin. You’re missing out, you’re missing out.”
New version (I’ve bolded my additions):
“Well I can’t lie, I couldn’t wait. But it’s half-past eight and you’re late again. Am I really surprised or am I just playing the part? Is there something about the performance that I find appealing? Predictable? Either way, I got those high heels on, and lace and I spent two or three hours beatin’ my face. So why? Could you explain? Will I like your explanation, if you manage to give me one? Or is there something about the mystery that keeps me coming back? Well I can’t lie, I’m fed up. I don’t like being stood up. Or do I? God, what if I do? What if I get off on it? And hey, hey what are you ashamed of? So what are you so afraid of? ‘Cause you’re missing out on good, good lovin. But what if you aren’t missing out? What if that’s just what I tell myself? Who am I, anyway, to think that I’m so special, that I could be the very goodness you are looking for? Where is the line between confident and arrogant? And does it matter? You’re missing out, you’re missing out.”
Obviously, my new version would completely ruin the song, but within the context of a story or novel, it’s created some layers of confusion through the questioning not only of oneself, but of one’s intentions, desires, and behavior—the questions reveal a self-aware confusion. Now, I have maybe gone a little overboard for the sake of this example. It would be exhausting to read a book with thousands of questions posed in interiority and like anything else, there’s a balance to it.
Original:
“You ride those rank bulls and get first place. Eight seconds is all it takes. You got those silver spurs on and chaps ‘round your waist. Calloused hands, and dirt on your face. So why? Could you explain? ‘Cause I can’t lie, I’m fed up. Why you always standin’ me up? And hey, hey I still wear the t-shirt that you gave me. So what are you so ashamed of? Rodeo could kill ya. I just wanna kiss ya. But you won’t let me near ya. But I’m here all the same. You’re missing out on good, good lovin. At the rodeo, I put my face on and smile. And you ride good. Crowd go wild, claps for you. I clap too, I’m your biggest fan. Clap for you. I’m your biggest fan. At the rodeo, I put my face on and smile and I get scared watching you. And the crowd gets wild, run to you. I run to you, I run to you, I run to you. I love you, I love you.”
New version (I’ve bolded my additions):
“You ride those rank bulls and get first place. Eight seconds is all it takes. Am I impressed? Turned on? Terrified? Some combination of the three? Hell, can I even tell what I feel anymore? You got those silver spurs on and chaps ‘round your waist. Calloused hands, and dirt on your face. Was I always this way? Into manly men? Men who view life as man vs. animal? So why? Could you explain? ‘Cause I can’t lie, I’m fed up. Why you always standin’ me up? And hey, hey I still wear the t-shirt that you gave me. What is its scent, exactly? Is it your musk and fear that I find so intoxicating? What happens when your smell finally fades? What does it say about me that I can’t wait for that day to one day come? So what are you so ashamed of? Rodeo could kill ya. Shit, is that part of the seduction? The risk? I wonder, do I love you only because you are more mortal than me? I just wanna kiss ya. But you won’t let me near ya. But I’m here all the same. You’re missing out on good, good lovin. At the rodeo, I put my face on and smile. And you ride good. Crowd go wild, claps for you. I clap too, I’m your biggest fan. Clap for you. I’m your biggest fan. And what does the biggest fan do? Engage in great acts of devotion? What will you do if I join you in the arena? What, then, baby? At the rodeo, I put my face on and smile and I get scared watching you. And the crowd gets wild, run to you. I run to you, I run to you, I run to you. I love you, I love you. Why do I love you? What do I expect to find under the bull’s angry hooves?”
My examples are from the perspective of a somewhat self-aware narrator who is able to challenge themself but naturally, that’s not always the case. And questions can still serve you well even if your narrator is victimizing or clueless or intoxicated. We as people always have questions for ourselves, whether these questions challenge, validate, trample, or unearth us.
Find a scene from your WIP and try to inject it with some questions within interiority. Have some fun with it. See what you learn about your character(s).