To write something original, it helps to think like a computer.
The best writers turn their stories into algorithms.
TRAINING INSPIRATION (part four)
INSPIRATION CAN COME FROM A MODEL, or a prophet. By “model” I don’t mean the kind of anorexic waif who haunts fashion runways—a different form of inspiration—but the kind of model that a computer would use to predict the future.
This kind of model sets up a set of circumstances and then lets them interact to see what happens next. Meteorologists feed in lots of data on weather patterns, sea ice, and the like to predict the future of the Earth’s climate, for example. And the rest of us just might use model thinking to predict—or even inspire—our personal futures.
I asked AI to show me inspiration through modeling, and it came up with this.
More modestly, I used model thinking to write my novel, taking a character based originally on me (and, later on, me as a girl) to see what would happen to him (eventually, her). Writing fiction really is a form of modeling. You describe a set of characters and put them in a particular situation; in AI parlance, you “train” your story. Then you determine the likeliest course of action for each character. You’re building a model.
This time, I wouldn’t have an exigence—a problem or need or a desire to persuade. I wouldn’t attempt to write a bestseller. The story would entertain just me, and possibly my wife. In other words, in my own clueless way, I would morph from being a professional craftsman—someone who made money writing for particular audiences—to an amateur artist. To put it grandly, I could create art pour l’art, a work done for the pleasure of doing it.
But. If I ended up with something to say, something that might benefit people somehow, then I’d definitely publish my story. In thinking about my motives—art pour l’art and something to tell people—I wondered how art might differ from prophecy. Might they be the same thing? My favorite living writer, George Saunders, says that fiction “causes an incremental change in the state of a mind.” Doesn’t prophecy do that? Frank Herbert of Dune fame says something close to Saunders, only of prophecy: “The best prophets lead you up to the curtain and let you peer through for yourself.” Neither quotation says anything about art or prophecy warning or predicting. They offer insight and change the state of minds.
How would the angel Gabriel act if he came in the form of a raven?
In writing the novel, I put my character, the girl Jonah, in the situation of being a prophet. I gave her this direction in the form of a message from the angel Gabriel. Angel comes from the Hebrew, meaning “messenger,” which made me think of Hermes, the Greek messenger god, who was something of a scamp. This in turn brought to mind the raven—a trickster god who appears frequently in Native American myths.
So Gabriel naturally reveals himself to Jonah in the form of a raven. This is simply a combinational form of inspiration:
Gabriel + “angel” + Hermes + raven = messenger from high in the form of a raven who speaks a somewhat archaic English.
I wondered how such an angelic creature would recount the original Jonah story from the Scripture. So, I wrote it the way Gabriel the raven would most likely tell it.
The Jonah Story (from The Prophet Joan)
“You were telling me the Bible story.”
The bird had been spreading its wings. It folded them. “Assyria was a powerful empire, an invincible enemy, and its capital, that great city, was so immense that it took three days to walk across. A terrifying gauntlet for a Jew. And so, Jonah went AWOL (flutter). Under the misimpression that our jurisdiction was limited to Israel, he caught a ship bound for the hinterlands.”
“Great message,” I said.
“Ah, so you tweak it.”
“I mean, nice religion that has a god no one can escape.”
“No, no, no! Well, yes.” The bird’s head bobbed and weaved. “Do you see? Jonah crossed boundaries. The artist, the hero, and the prophet: they all cross boundaries to breathe in the rarified air of inspiration. But inspiration is not enough. The prophet must also…”
“Expire.”
“Witness. Represent. You must realize the inspiration: this is your bounden prophetic duty.”
Bounden duty. I liked the phrase and thought it would be good to use it on Mary. It is my bounden duty to eat salad.
“And so, to drive home the point”—the bird fluttered this—“the Higher Order raised a gale. Bit of theater. The sailors were beside themselves. Each prayed to his own god, but the storm continued. Then the crew remembered the suspicious passenger who had boarded at the last minute without a reservation. They found him—this part is terribly funny—sound asleep in his bunk!” The bird croaked once or twice. “Finally managing to rouse him, they ask if his god has meteorological ambitions. Jonah owns up” (flutter); “though a habitual liar, he was in essence a truthful man.
“With great reluctance, being a soft-hearted crew, they toss him into the maelstrom. There he is swallowed by Leviathan. This enormous fish represents Purgatory, the process that separates Soul and Self—the message from the messenger, you might say. Special Effects outdid itself, making the fish snort fire and breathe smoke from its nostrils, all with a doleful expression. Honestly, how anyone could mistake this seagoing dragon for a whale escapes me.
“The waves instantly die down. Why? Because the very act of taking the leap, becoming a prophet, has changed the current of events. Now, after schlepping Jonah (flutter) for three days—the man desperately praising God to the heavens with the most outrageous flattery—Leviathan vomits him onto shore. A self-purging Purgatory, don’t you see?” The Raven made a gurgling noise. “Resigned to his task, Jonah walks straight to Nineveh, that great city. I do wish this next part, a most amusing scene, had not been edited out. The guards stop him at the gate. Jonah nervously recites his lines, the guards keep telling him to speak up, and within minutes he has them in tears. His oratory was given a celestial boost, needless to say. And let me assure you that your own words will be similarly enhanced.
“Jonah, astonished, walks through the gate, and at the nearest corner gives the same little speech. More weeping, more gnashing of teeth. He is beginning to enjoy himself. Next, he walks into a barber shop; converts the usual sitters, onlookers, kibitzers, hangers-around; and continues to do the same thing next door. An Assyrian army platoon comes to investigate, and soon Jonah has a loyal escort.” The raven dodged a spark. “Made him a bit cocky, I’m afraid. He took to converting attractive young women, I won’t tell you what that man did for sleeping arrangements. But, you see, what he had feared the most—leaving the familiar, reaching into the Beyond and learning its unfathomable truths—these tasks he had already achieved, despite himself. Long before he ever entered the gates of Nineveh, that great city, he had changed the waves.”
I think, maelstrom. In Gabriel’s story and in Melville’s: Jonah and Ishmael, sucked down and spat out undigested.
“Finally,” the bird said, “he arrives at the king’s palace. The king is ready for him, being a skilled politician and having his fingers on the pulse of public opinion.” (Flutter) “He was a direct descendent of Nimrod, the architect of Babel, by the way; different funny story. The king lays out a red carpet and Jonah marches up, with the accompaniment of the royal string band. The king duly moans, rends his garment et cetera, and issues a royal decree: Everyone, humans and cattle, must wear sackcloth—burlap—for forty days. All were thoroughly chafed by the end of that period, though the cattle didn’t seem to mind. Sackcloth on livestock, can you imagine? Visitors—they were excused from the edict—laughed themselves sick.
“However,” he said. “The message worked. The Assyrians, the entire world, changed direction. The Jews survived. Yet Jonah himself was unhappy; he had hoped we would blow the city to bits.” (Explosive flutter) “He was not satisfied with the splendid reward I arranged for him—a lovely bower, the envy of his neighbors, which greatly increased his property value. Jonah had the best shade for leagues around, and he sat under it, drinking wine and eating figs like a king. Still, he kvetched about the existence of Nineveh and his god’s (my) “dovish” foreign policy. I tolerated him for several days and then finally appointed a worm—a more obedient prophet—of the anecic, or leaf-eating, variety. It chewed to its little heart’s content until the plant withered and Jonah’s bower became an unsightly skeleton. He brought the worm upon himself. Just desserts and all that.”
I raised my head. “What was the message?”
“Beg pardon?”
“What did Jonah tell the Assyrians?”
The bird shook its head. “That, too, was edited out.”
So much for the angel Gabriel. I also modeled the girl Jonah. What would school be like for a 13-year-old prophet? Presumably, she wouldn’t be terribly popular. (Few prophets are.) So of course she’s picked on by the popular girls, as well as one particular girl who wants to be popular. Gabriel has told Jonah that one of her messages is to spread the idea of forgiveness. Being a 13-year-old, Jonah finds a way to turn forgiveness into a form of revenge. Being fond of acronyms, as much of her generation is, Jonah chooses lunchtime in the school cafeteria to hatch a plot she calls VXF—Vengeance by Forgiveness. (Warning: the passage has a curse word in it.)
Vengeance by Forgiveness (from The Prophet Joan)
I ate a tasteless apple and drank my milk and we took our trays up to the dishes window. Just as we walked up, Jenna came too. I had not planned to pull off the VXF while we both had our hands full, but an opportunity is an opportunity. “Hey, Jenna,” I said. Emily Watkins and the other girls were there, along with two of the most popular boys. Jenna turned, looking scared. Her shoulders hunched forward.
“You the witch’s boyfriend now?” Emily gave Philip her fake-sweet smile. “Does it give you like warlock powers?”
“More like vampire powers,” Jenna said, though she was still looking scared.
I looked back at Philip. He had his phone out, holding it down at his waist, all casual, but the screen was facing Jenna. Perfect. My throat was a little dry, but the show must go on. I said, “I just have something to say to you, Jenna.”
“Get away from me!” She turned like I was going to steal her tray. “You’re nasty!” One of the other girls giggled, but I was zeroing in on Jenna.
“Jenna!” I shouted, and she turned back to face me. She later told people it was like I had used mind control or something. “I forgive you!” This came out sounding more angry than I meant.
Everything stopped. I doubt that the whole big room went quiet, but it seemed like that. Jenna looked like she was going to cry. “What?”
Now I spoke more quietly. “What you did was really mean, and it hurt my feelings.” Out of the corner of my eye I could see Philip. He now had the phone up to his face, filming. Nobody paid him attention. “But Jenna,” I said, now talking fast, “you’re going through a really hard time and you just want to fit in with the popular girls and I feel such empathy toward you and…I forgive you.”
Her face turned white, like fish belly, Moby-Dick rolling in Snow White. Her eyes got even piggier. I have seen angry people, but nobody as angry as Jenna Briggs. Even the “other girls looked afraid. “Fuck you!” she yelled. “Fuck you, you murderer. Get away from me!”
And I threw my tray at her.
Did you like those passages? It would be nice if you did, but I didn’t write them for you to like them. I wrote them as a form of exploration, prompted by my curiosity about prophesy—and my selfish desire to have fun and maybe impress my wife with the notion that I’m a novelist of sorts.
If you’re new to writing, or have never been paid for your writing, then congratulations! You’ve never suffered from my habit of worrying about audiences and markets. You can do art for art’s sake. And then, just maybe, sell it someday.
EXERCISE: Write the first sentence to a story; invent something of your own, or use the first line of an existing short story, novel, or magazine feature. Now invent a new character, or simply put someone you know—or even yourself—in the scene. What would the character do? How would that change the story? And how would the character respond in turn to the change?
In the next post, I show ways the inspiration can come from refinement: the improvement or distillation of an existing idea.
