11 July 2014
The Devil is in the Detail
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Flannery O’Connor once wrote that literature ‘does not thrive in an atmosphere where the devil is not recognized as existing both in himself and as a dramatic necessity for the writer.’ For her the devil ‘is a real spirit who must be made to name himself.’
O’Connor’s words came back to haunt me when I was three-quarters of my way through my novel, Henry First, and I faced a show-stopping dilemma. My main character, Henry, a professional chef, needed to prepare a meal that was unlike anything he’d cooked before. And I was stuck. The first chapter of my book had thrown the reader into the restaurant kitchen when the staff were working at full tilt, and I couldn’t very well repeat that scene. Well, I could repeat it, but I knew that that might be unsatisfactory to the reader. If anything I needed to show a very different experience in the kitchen. But how? That was the problem. As part of my research for the novel I’d been reading old recipe books, and it was only when I honestly couldn’t find a way of moving the story forward that it occurred to me that the common element among all of the books was the stock. Stock. Basic, simple stock. And in that moment I had the chapter’s opening sentences: Stock is where it all begins. The chef’s primordial soup. Thankful for this realisation, I was now able to follow Henry as he prepared his stock, and it felt like I was watching him clean and cut the vegetables, sauté bones in a frying pan, and begin boiling water in a large pot. When it came time for him begin cooking his awful stock I again found myself stumped about how best to progress. I kept trying to describe how awful the stock was . . . but that didn’t work. It was dead on the page. I kept on at this scene, writing and rewriting, and each time I felt no closer to achieving the feeling that I wanted to conjure up in the reader’s mind. And then I remembered the Flannery O’Connor quote. I had to acknowledge the devil. Evil wasn’t in what Henry was cooking, I realised, but rather the evil was in him. It was all around him. Surrounding him. But I still couldn’t write the scene. A few days later I came across a political cartoon in the Guardian newspaper by Steve Bell showing the character of Death with his black robe and scythe standing with his hand on Tony Blair’s shoulder. And suddenly what I had been trying to achieve fell into place. I would represent Henry’s inner turmoil and anguish by introducing Death standing just behind him . . . out of sight . . . but there. Here’s how that began: Behind him the large pan had begun spluttering and popping. (The frying bones should really be turned.) The vegetables waited patiently – they were as excited as he was. |
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As Henry reached for the knife it was as if a cold hand had just settled on his shoulder.
And in that moment it felt like I was in the story again; enjoying myself. The icy hand on his shoulder that was driving Henry to commit the sin just as it was enabling me to write the scene. He cooked; evil watched; I wrote:
As he worked he felt a dark and heavy presence looming over him, monitoring his progress. He dared not look up for fear of seeing . . . what? A tattered cloak covering an unseen head? A hollow shroud which exhaled rotting flesh?
The devil had arrived, and with it, freedom. It had named itself in my story. And in that moment Henry’s actions were suddenly, horribly, alive. It is only through his actions that he could achieve a measure of freedom or salvation.
Many years later I returned to O’Connor’s non-fiction and I was amazed to discover that she’d gone on to write that the devil can be an ‘unwilling instrument of grace,’ and as I read these words I realised that Death had not been compelling Henry to act – to make the wrong decision – but rather it was helping liberate him. And at the same time it liberated me to write the story.
I would recommend to anyone struggling to write a scene that they should read Flannery O’Connor on writing, and never be afraid to introduce darkness and evil in their story to see where it might take them.
You can buy Henry First for Kindle at Amazon UK.
And in that moment it felt like I was in the story again; enjoying myself. The icy hand on his shoulder that was driving Henry to commit the sin just as it was enabling me to write the scene. He cooked; evil watched; I wrote:
As he worked he felt a dark and heavy presence looming over him, monitoring his progress. He dared not look up for fear of seeing . . . what? A tattered cloak covering an unseen head? A hollow shroud which exhaled rotting flesh?
The devil had arrived, and with it, freedom. It had named itself in my story. And in that moment Henry’s actions were suddenly, horribly, alive. It is only through his actions that he could achieve a measure of freedom or salvation.
Many years later I returned to O’Connor’s non-fiction and I was amazed to discover that she’d gone on to write that the devil can be an ‘unwilling instrument of grace,’ and as I read these words I realised that Death had not been compelling Henry to act – to make the wrong decision – but rather it was helping liberate him. And at the same time it liberated me to write the story.
I would recommend to anyone struggling to write a scene that they should read Flannery O’Connor on writing, and never be afraid to introduce darkness and evil in their story to see where it might take them.
You can buy Henry First for Kindle at Amazon UK.
Article written by...
Basil Lawrence is a full-time writer living in London. He has a degree in English literature, and an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and cites Nabokov, Bellow, and Roth among his influences. He is the winner of an Amstel Award.
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