Powers and Jacobs on history and fiction

Over the weekend on his new Substack, Tim Powers explained how he comes up with the plots of his historical fantasy novels by scrutinizing works of history and biography for the odd and inexplicable, moments the historians can’t account for with the evidence they have to work with:

A number of people who knew Lord Byron saw him on a street in London in 1811, while at that precise time Byron was delirious with a fever in Turkey. Biographers simply note the fact, leaving any possible explanation up in the air.

Why was Byron in two places at once?

Other examples abound: Edison’s dying breath in a bottle, Arthur Conan Doyle’s endorsement of obviously fake photos of fairies, a cockamamie experiment by Galileo to determine the speed of light. Powers takes these moments and, saving the appearances, makes the inexplicable explicable with magic.

This week at his blog, Alan Jacobs wrote about Irish novelist Thomas Flanagan’s loose trilogy about Ireland’s wars for independence (as well as Flanagan’s friendship with the great Seamus Heaney). In describing a moment in which a man’s memory of a friend is altered by previously unknown history—part of the cycle of “ever-ramifying and ever-elusive historical truth”—Jacobs notes that

For some, of course, the appeal of history is to unearth secrets, however carefully hidden—perhaps not to know everything, but to know more and more, even at the cost of digging up old bones (metaphorically and sometimes literally). And for still others, the appeal of fiction is to imagine all that the historian will never discover. This is perhaps why Flanagan wrote novels.

Both Powers and Jacobs are getting at the way fiction can press beyond the limits of responsible historiography into mystery—literal mysteries in the case of Powers, the everyday mysteries of life in Flanagan. These are things fiction can get at truthfully where history can only speculate. The result—speaking as someone with a foot in both camps, historian and novelist—if done well and responsibly, can reconcile irreconcilable facts and capture the what-it-was-likeness of the past. It can feel more real than reality.

Per Chesterton in The Everlasting Man, writing of the experience of ordinary people in past ages:

So long as we neglect this subjective side of history, which may more simply be called the inside of history, there will always be a certain limitation on that science which can be better transcended by art. So long as the historian cannot do that, fiction will be truer than fact. There will be more reality in a novel; yes, even in a historical novel.

Yes, I’ve quoted that passage here before (here and here and alluded to here), but it’s been a few years and, as much as I struggle not to repeat myself, I ought to be able to include an occasional invocation of one of my intellectual lodestars as a treat.

Both posts above are good. Check them out.

Tim Powers on chronocentrism and conformism

For the last week I’ve been reading Tim Powers’s 1987 pirate fantasy On Stranger Tides, a book that everyone seems to agree Pirates of the Caribbean couldn’t have come into existence without—even before Disney optioned the title for the fourth one—and that got me watching Powers interviews on YouTube again.

In this interview with a channel called Through a Glass Darkly, host Sean Patrick Hazlett asks, as a wrap-up, “What advice would you give to new writers?” Powers responds with a list of “the old, traditional advice, which is solid-rock true,” and that I have to add is still good advice for people who’ve been writing for years or decades. Here’s the first part of his answer in bullet-list form:

• “Read very widely, read outside of your field, read outside of your time, don’t restrict yourself simply to stuff published since 2000 or 1980 or whatever. You don’t want to be chronocentric.

• “Have as wide a base as you can, chronologically and [in] subject matter. Read mysteries, read plays, read poetry, non-fiction, et cetera.

• “Write a lot. Set yourself a schedule and keep to it. Even if it’s only a thousand words a month, stick to it. Use guilt and fear as motivators. Tell yourself you’re worth nothing if you don’t get the writing done.

• “Get it in front of editors, send it out. Don’t get trapped in a revision whirlpool. A story doesn’t exist until an editor has looked at it. It’s like Schrödinger’s cat.”

He follows this up with an elaboration on his first point of advice:

“Don’t be a conformist. Don’t bend your writing to fit what you see as trends, even if they seem to be mandatory trends. They’re not.”

— Tim Powers

Okay, all that’s true. Then I would say—goes back to chronocentrism—don’t be a conformist. Don’t try to clock what’s selling now, because even if you could correctly gauge that and then write a story, it’s very likely not to be what’s selling now by the time your story comes out. Don’t be a conformist. Don’t bend your writing to fit what you see as trends, even if they seem to be mandatory trends. They’re not. If you say, “Oh this is what they’re buying now. This is what you have to do now in order to get published. There’s some boxes you have to check.” No. Be different. Be a nonconformist. Because if you go along that conformist road, even if it gets published your work is just going to be one more of that generic type, and what’s the value in that? So I would say, ignore trends.

Hear hear.

Powers has said versions of this before—here’s a blog post I wrote last October based on a similar interview conversation—but it’s stated more firmly and in more detail here.

I especially like Powers’s framing of the problem in terms of “chronocentrism.” As I recently told one of my classes, the most neglected form of diversity in our diversity-obsessed age is chronological diversity. Powers is steeped in CS Lewis and loves his non-fiction, so he’s probably got Lewis’s concept of “chronological snobbery” and passages like this from “On the Reading of Old Books” at the back of his mind:

Every age has its own outlook. It is especially good at seeing certain truths and specially liable to make certain mistakes. We all, therefore, need the books that will correct the characteristic mistakes of our own period. And that means the old books. . . . None of us can fully escape this blindness, but we shall certainly increase it, and weaken our guard against it, if we read only modern books. Where they are true they will give us truths which we half knew already. Where they are false they will aggravate the error with which we are already dangerously ill. The only palliative is to keep the clean sea breeze of the centuries blowing through our minds, and this can be done only by reading old books.

For a similar concept, see Alan Jacobs’s “temporal bandwith.”