The Dance of Form and Content in Your Writing
How they work together
Form is how you choose to tell your story. It is a box of sorts.
Content is the guts, the what of your story. What is inside the box.
These two can work together symbiotically. They can push at and “grow” each other. You can start a story with one of the two, and it will lead to the other, and a wonder-filled whole. I’ll share some examples and, at the close, some questions to prompt your own work and possibilities.
Deciding on Form while working with Content
Some time ago, I was working on a piece of short fiction in which certain words began to recur. Normally, a writer avoids repetition. (Especially if you’ve survived the MFA workshop where others delight in circling repeated words.)
I listened to those words, and left them in place, let them gestate in a back corner of my mind. And what came out — eventually — was a thought of the sestina, a poetic form in which half a dozen words are repeated in a pattern running through multiple stanzas. It has the effect of echoing and building, seeing ideas anew from different vantage points.
Borrow
I knew that the story at hand was not a poem. But the repeating words pulled at me to borrow the form, and create a sort of sestina-prose. The content — the story — was a meditation on a woman mid-life, betrayal, and seeking a new path. When humans go through tough times, there’s a tendency to revisit scenes and words, even as we seek our way up and out of those times. I wanted the story to reflect that. I wanted it to be experiential for the reader — isn’t that the goal? Altogether, the contemplative nature of the content led me to the form. The short story was broken into pieces that worked because I listened to my impulse toward the form.
Keep open
I wrote the memoir of caregiving my spouse through ALS, starting with over six hundred pages of journal. And I knew that no one needed to see any of those words. They were raw and ugly and not helpful. My challenge, in setting out to put something together that would be useful to others, was to feel my way through the content, and keep open.
Pay attention to patterns
As I was wrestling with the terminal nature of ALS — the content — I needed to find a balance in the form I chose. The choice of what tense to choose was part of this. I wanted past tense for the reassurance inherent in it; the subconscious take-away for the reader reading past tense is that somebody actually made it through and lived to tell. I needed that. But there was something so awful about constantly working in past — it really did feel “past” as I worked, and it rubbed up against the sadness of the caregiving experience. I paid attention to this, and began to write pieces in whatever tense they presented, and began to see a pattern in the present tense bits: for the most part, they focused on the tougher moments in the memoir-story.
And impulses
Suddenly an entire tedious chapter (yes, it was) became one brief bit of free verse, present tense, and — oddly — right margin aligned. Why right margin? I’ll admit, I did it on impulse, then thought about it. (Follow your impulses when creating. Scrutinize. Don’t cut until you know why you are making that choice.)
Our lives were so turned around. I felt my back was to a wall or corner, and all felt to be seismically shifting. It felt right to move the words to the far side of the page.
copyright © 2020 by Alison Acheson. From Dance Me to the End: Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS. Reprinted with permission of TouchWood Editions
White space
What also worked with this was the inclusion of white space — the sort of white space that does not exist in prose. The memoir needed that space; it was thinking (or mental pause) space for the reader. I was writing the book I’d wanted to read through those months.
Throughout the prose of the book there are such free pieces. The content dictated the form. Readers have shared how the brevity of the sections work for them, to balance the heaviness of the subject. When you find the “rightness” of the form for your content, something clicks. Give it time, open your mind, pay attention to what enters your thoughts. Especially the thoughts that irk you; nothing can be overlooked.
“Content” as starting place
Current projects
Take a look at your current writing projects, in particular, any one on which you are “stuck.” (Yes, I’m putting that in quotation marks, because it is temporary.)
What are you trying to say?
Write notes on it. Try to articulate what you are trying to say. (Yes, there are two “try-s” in that sentence!) Consider how a reader might absorb your story. Think of multiple ways.
What WERE you trying to say?
What drew you to this story in the first place? Pay attention to this initial impulse. Consider it throughout your work; it is a touchstone. (You are paying attention to all your answers and notes here, right? What thoughts are generated by this process?)
Theme
Consider your theme/s. What stands out? Has it changed since starting the project? Again, what was your initial impulse? Return to it and note.
“Form” as starting place
Starting from scratch
You might not even have a starting place — that is, you have not begun to work on your project. You have neither content nor form.
Curiosity
Let your mind go! What forms of writing pique your curiosity? What forms have you wanted to work in, but have not, for any reason? (You’ve never had a certain type of story/content that you think would work for that form, or you question your skill-set and knowledge for the form.)
Research
If the latter, do a bit of research. Consider what I did with the sestina; you can adapt. You might want to take a look at Ian Williams’ novel and Giller Prize winner, Reproduction, as an example of a novel which explores multiple forms. As he moves from one form to another, the nature of the content shifts, as does the way the reader absorbs.
And play
As an example, let’s use the idea of writing a young adult novel consisting of texts or old-school letters. What are the consequences of these two options? In what situation, and who would choose letters over texts? These questions can guide you to plot and character. Who chooses texts over letters? And letters over texts? Hand-written letters? or typed? What if one character prefers one, and the other character, the other? Answer such questions, and your story will begin to come to life.
When thinking “form,” don’t stop at literary forms. Think metaphor. Think tangible objects. Imagine the content of a story told in the “form” of a rosary. Bead by bead telling. What would be a story told as an escalator — a moving stairway? (Up or down? What is the moment it “disappears” into the floor — that part that terrified me as a child — what is that moment?) Think of the “form” of a hike to a summit. The “form” of a favorite sport. Let your mind go… then connect content/story with that form/structure.
Our world is changing
Narrative and narratives are changing. Or re-emerging. Or emerging in new and renew-ed forms. In spite of frequent urging to step outside the box, it is a challenge to carry things without a box; try carrying a bucket of water without the bucket. We still need “form” to carry our content. And content to shape and fill our forms.