The Goldilocks Principle…
You’ve probably heard me speak of it. Like that famous intruder into the three bears’ lives, this principle describes “getting it just right.” In writing, it means looking for balance in your prose. Zen is looking for a metaphysical balance, but many things in our lives need balance. In particular, even if readers don’t actually look for it, they’ll sense that something’s amiss if it’s not there.
Of course, that perception of unbalance in a novel is subjective for both reader and writer. One reader, upon finishing my very first book, Full Medical (now in its second edition as an ebook), told me I handle dialogue very well. That might have spurred me on to write more dialogue than anything else, but I believe in the Goldilocks Principle—a balanced approach to writing fiction is very important to me.
There are many things going on in a novel—plot, characterization, action, romance, dialogue, and narrative (description of settings, flashbacks and back story, and world-building) are some of the important elements. Although mysteries and thrillers are closely related, the balance needed between these elements is different for each one. Mysteries need more attention to plot and characterization. Thrillers tend to have less characterization and more plot and action. Sci-fi might require a lot of world-building. Some authors get so caught up in one element that they lose sight of others. If the plot or story gets lost, for example, it’s a disaster.
In previous posts, I’ve often written about what NOT to do when writing a novel—see “The Eightfold Way,” for example. But one overriding principle will get you through most of the trouble spots, the Goldilocks Principle. That’s not easy to follow, though. When do you have too much or not enough dialogue or characterization, for example? There are two basic ways to learn how to satisfy the Goldilocks Principle.
The first is through critique groups, either online or in a writing program. That way has never thrilled me because it assumes the critiquing person knows what they’re doing. There’s a good chance that they don’t, and you’ll be led astray, especially if the critic says something like, “You’re so good at characterization—put more of that in your prose.” Unfortunately, this might even be an MFA professor. Professors of creative writing courses are like any other professors—too many times, they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.
Before you get huffy (especially if you’re an MFA professor), let me tell a story about a professor in a different context. I once had a professor, an experimental physicist, who was going through a proof of the Uncertainty Principle. Many have heard of that. It’s often expressed as you can’t know a particle’s position and momentum (mass times velocity) both with infinite precision. (Idiots try to extrapolate that to outside of physics, even in social sciences.) It also applies to time and energy because of Einstein’s special relativity. (Another idea of physics extrapolated by idiots—I roll my eyes when some boob says, “Einstein said everything is relative, you know.”) So this prof states that stationary states, ones that have a precise energy (think energy levels of an atom) can’t exist because you’d need an infinite time to prepare them.
I lost all respect for this professor, of course. And I’ve seen many other professors who really don’t know what they’re talking about, one reason I think tenure at the university level isn’t recommended. (I’ve had all kinds of jobs and never had a tenure and didn’t want it either. Figured that if I couldn’t perform my job, I should be fired. The correct action for that clerk in Kentucky?) If such jerks have a guaranteed job, how do you get rid of them? This is a teaching problem. A college or university professor might do excellent research in some tiny little corner of this discipline, but a good teacher needs to have a broad perspective of that discipline, and beyond, considering the cross-disciplinary nature of much R&D work today.
At the writing level, we might have a prof who teaches characterization and viewpoint a la Card’s famous book on the subject. S/he’s going to emphasize that a fortiori, and neglect the other stuff, a direct contradiction of the Goldilocks Principle. That’s OK, if there are other courses where you can learn the other elements of good writing. But, if you’re lucky, your critique group or MFA program might actually teach you how to manage the Goldilocks Principle. I’d wager many have no idea what it is. (I’d wager they don’t know Sturgeon’s Law, either, another important principle.)
The best way to learn the Goldilocks Principle, though, is through reading. That sounds a bit passive, and it is if you don’t know what to look for. This method is based on the fact that everyone’s, reader’s or writer’s, perceived correctness of application of the Goldilocks Principle, is subjective. By reading many books in your genre, you can look for what you like and don’t like in general, and how the Goldilocks Principle is applied, in particular. You can hone your own balancing skills that way.
Do you like Carla Neggers’ mysteries? They’re pleasant mysteries, more like cozies, and a bit bland for me because they don’t treat any earthshaking themes, but Goldilocks is her friend. Do you like Larry Niven’s sci-fi? Except for the Man-Kzin War stories, I find his slavish dedication to world-building boring, starting with the Ring World stories, and especially in the recent Bowl of Heaven, written with Greg Benford. Goldilocks is NOT Niven’s friend.
A reader commented that my More than Human: The Mensa Contagion reminded her of Weir’s The Martian, so I used that in the book blurbs (along with Andromeda Strain and Rendezvous with Rama). But then I decided to read it to make sure. Turned out that I’m rereading it. It was so boringly bad I’d put it out of my mind. Yeah, there are parts in More than Human that could remind a reader of The Martian. But my book doesn’t have that slavish adherence to boring details. Weir’s book is a DIY manual for surviving on Mars in the same way that Moby Dick is a manual for turning whale blubber into lamp oil. There is a plot, but I lose sight of it in the boring detail. Goldilocks is NOT Weir’s friend.
But those opinions are all subjective. By reading extensively (I’ve been a speed reader since high school), I’ve been able to home in on how to make Goldilocks work for me. Your solution as a writer might be different, but you must search for it. If you’re a reader, you might like Niven’s solution better than mine. In sci-fi sagas, I struggle to keep world-building under control. In other books, I struggle to make sure there’s enough back story and characterization. This all fights with that other mantra, minimalist writing, of course, or “too much of anything is bad.”
I have this idea that too much characterization inhibits the reader. S/he can’t create a personal image of a character because I’ve already provided too much, leaving no room for the reader’s own creativity. I like the reader to participate in the story. Goldilocks says create balance between those writing elements; minimalist writing says put a cap on how much you use each element so the reader can participate in your creation.
I’m curious about how many readers of this blog are writers and have seen this spelled out this way in critique groups or MFA sessions. I lurk around a lot and have never seen it. Maybe I’m reinventing the wheel, but these ideas are important to me. I’ve struggled with them for ten years now, at least for my published works. Write a comment and tell me what you think.
In elibris libertas….
