When I take a piece of writing into a group session, I’m often surprised by the meaning my peers take from it. I may have had an idea in mind for what I wanted the piece to say - then Bam! - someone sees some aspect of the story which means something entirely different to them. Did I see, it? Nope, totally missed that one, but when it’s pointed out to me, it becomes as clear as day.
So who makes meaning, the artist or the reader, and whose interpretation is more important? The truth, I suppose, is that they are both valid opinions, and once an artist puts their work out into the world, it no longer belongs to only them. Readers, crit partners, editors, the artist’s least favourite aunt; everyone will have a perspective on the work.
When I start a new short story, I’m not really concerned about what it might mean when I finish it. I write by exploration, so while I may have an idea in my mind for what it means, the story, the actions and reactions of the characters, the narrative voice, are far more relevant to the task before me. Get those wrong and at best I’ll have a poorly executed tale, and at worst a jumble of rubbish.
Starting a novel is a little different. I often like to write up to three exploratory chapters to get a feel for the character and their world, then step back and do some degree of planning, at which point I will generally consider what I want the reader to get from the tale. A vague and nebulous idea is enough to help nudge the work in the direction I want it to go in, though the final version may not reflect the initial idea at all. This is because stories and characters by their very nature tend to be capricious, and so will acquire a life of their own early on in a project.
If there is a meaning to a piece, then, I think it must first and foremost arise out of, and belong to, the protagonist.
Looking at my short story Life On Pluto, it’s very much about unresolved grief, though I didn’t have the theme in mind when I started writing the opening sentences. It was more about capturing the voice and atmosphere of the piece at that point, and creating a very real sense of place to establish an emotional landscape for the story. Or it wasn’t, because what really happened was that I wrote the paragraph in a single burst, then sat back and said, ‘Yeah!’
In the story, Sharon works as a receptionist in a remote hotel (which she likens to a passenger liner). She lost her beloved fiance in a car accident nine months earlier. In the following passage, she muses about the possibility of his continued existence on another plane.
The mist falls, thick as cream, and I go outside to look. It drifts in silver strokes, painting itself onto the canvas of the valley, sketching tiny rainbows under the external lights. I imagine you can see it through my eyes, and I hope they have mountains and mist wherever you are, if you’re anywhere at all. I heard something on the radio yesterday about the discovery of ice volcanoes on Pluto, and how they might support primitive alien life. If that’s true then maybe you can be somewhere too, but maybe there’s nowhere other than here, no time other than this evening, and no one else in the whole world other than the passengers aboard my fog-bound and becalmed ship.
I actually did hear that radio report one day, and it lodged in my mind. Three months later, it found its way into this story, and became a very powerful symbol for Sharon. In the above passage, she uses it as a bridge to the hereafter, which brings her a little closer to the man she loved and lost. For me as the writer, it created meaning, but the meaning really belongs to Sharon and to the reader. Those who have lost someone they love will, I hope, connect with the story and with Sharon’s hope, and perhaps might draw some comfort from the tale.
Symbols are a great way to create meaning, and I use many of them in Life On Pluto, from mist to mountains, from alien life to candles. Was I intentional in their use? To be honest, no. I simply stepped into the scene and looked around, seeing Sharon’s world through her eyes and her interpretations. If we make our characters real enough, their worldview will always be colourerd by their emotions and experiences, so the meaning to be found in the symbols I used is entirely hers and not mine (though I do concur with my character in this case).
I’m just shooting the breeze here, and if I have any advice to offer, it’s to let your characters create meaning from their personal journey. Be compassionate with them, and let them guide you to those inner and outer symbols, be they objects or transformative events, that resonate deeply with them. They will make the meaning in your novel and story, and the work will ring true.
And, should a reader take an entirely different meaning from it, that’s cool too, because they will see your story through the lens of their worldview, and that’s just as valid as yours.
The writer sows the seed of meaning, gives it shape; but how grows and transforms is in the green fingers (or otherwise) of the reader. The writer invents; the reader interprets and reinvents. Something like that...