On Exposition

Exposition: the act of expounding, setting forth, or explaining.

        Exposition is an essential story element--the part that explains character backstories, social context, and so on.  When well-crafted, exposition can heighten a story's drama.  Unfortunately, exposition is notoriously difficult to craft well.  Consequently, poor exposition is sadly commonplace even in otherwise-fascinating novels, and it has become one of those areas in a story, like long descriptions, that readers tend to skim through rather than devour along with the action- and conversation-oriented parts of the prose.

       The art of effective exposition lies in putting the right amount of information in the right place.  It must flow naturally with the rest of the story, neither dragging down the pace nor leaving out vital detail.  No single formula works for all instances of exposition; a writer may let fall such pearls of information amidst the current action or during dialog with a "foil" character (such as Sherlock's Watson), or the writer may choose to let readers intuit the backstory from what happens in the "present."  The challenge of this lies in finding the right place for this tidbit or that, and accurately deciding whether a detail is truly vital or just personally interesting.  

       Too often, exposition induces eye-rolling for stating the obvious--or for stating what's necessary in an improbable manner, as in an unrealistic conversation or through a ridiculous plot device.  Other times, exposition interrupts the prose in a startling or chronologically confusing manner, bores the reader with unnecessary length, or incites impatience for hinting at some past event that it never fully explains (What happened to Zuko's mother!?).  Exposition in first-person narratives is particularly hard to weave seamlessly into the action; the characters know their own backstory and thus aren't likely to think about it in their minds, and they aren't likely to share their more private, formative details in conversation.  Some writers remedy this by narrating the exposition as if the story were the main character's memoir--the character then having the benefit of hindsight and a reason for elucidating the readers--rather than as if the story showed the character's thoughts and actions of the moment.  Aside from bona-fide epistolary novels, this seems to me an imperfect solution, but it's one we've become accustomed to in literature to the extent that we may not stop to realize it's actually illogical.

       For all my head-knowledge about effecting excellent (or execrable) exposition, I still find it difficult to apply; it feels a bit like I'd imagine juggling cake batter would feel--messy and unwieldy.  I cringe when I realize I've manhandled it, yet my attempts toward improvement seem only to reshape the mess rather than to firm up the dough.  (Please excuse the sudden metaphor if you feel it needs excusing; odd though they are, metaphors often express best the inexpressible.)

      As a writer of a rather complex world with rather a comprehensive history and highly-developed character backstories, I often (such as now) find myself with more information than I can reasonably and effectively expose, leaving me with the arduous task of cutting many interesting thoughts from my pages.  Betwixt instances of that painful task, I must, section by section, wrestle to break the necessary exposition into small chunks and spread it appropriately.  And then I redistribute and cut some more and reword and reorganize all while plagued with indecision and the looming sense that it is still all so utterly dull.  I'd hoped this post would help me articulate my thoughts on the matter and thereby gain insight for my current project that has me struggling with several paragraphs of unobliging exposition that simply won't fit where I want them to.  Instead of easing the exposition into a natural place, like setting a kitten back in its bed where it can curl up like the stereotypical, idyllic image in a picture book, I feel as though I'm trying to cram a great, writhing tomcat into that same kitten-sized bed.  So far, the cat is winning.  At the moment, he and I are staring at each other, our sides heaving as we pant for breath.  Perhaps it's time to make a bigger bed or try again with a smaller, better-tempered cat.

On Oneness with Christ

Well!  It's been nearly a month since I last deigned to write a contemplation.  I hope my readers will forgive me. 

Oswald Chambers, whose devotions I read daily, often urges us Christians to surrender our self-awareness in favor of Christ-awareness, to yield up our “right to ourselves” so we might fully yield ourselves to Christ, and to maintain “oneness" with Christ through every moment of the day.  Though I’ve often heard sermons and lessons on obedience and devotion to God, either I haven’t truly understood what that entailed before this year, or Chambers takes it to more radical level than I’ve heard before. 

It’s convicting. 

And daunting.

As with many things, the call to “oneness” is simple in concept but difficult in execution.  We so often want to keep some part of ourselves to ourselves and say, "This is who I am” or “This is what I enjoy; I can't or won't give this up," or even "I don't have to give up everything to belong to Christ," regardless of a still small voice telling us otherwise.  When we go to examine ourselves, the World’s values skew our own, and while our fallen nature makes subtle self-justifications for maintaining our lifestyles and hobbies and thoughts, a harshly self-condemning part of us may wince with guilt at every slight action it—rightly or wrongly—deems sinful.  Thus, reflecting with these opposing desires can muddy any godly conviction, making it hard to tell the difference between our own desires and those of the Holy Spirit.  (Or is it really muddied?  Perhaps we are asking "what should I do?" when we already know the answer and don't want to take action.)

Back to Chambers.

I've felt attracted to and convicted by many phrases on this subject in Chambers' work, but I currently wish to share a certain line from today's devotional: "The statement we so often hear, 'Make a decision for Jesus Christ,' places the emphasis on something our Lord never trusted. He never asks us to decide for Him, but to yield to Him—something very different."  I stopped upon reading this to visualize this distinction.  Rather than reaching out a hand to accept the gift of salvation—to grab and be done with it—Chambers is saying that the life of a Christian is more like opening our arms to let the waiting Christ in—to enjoy a permanent closeness.

From this vision, my mind wandered (as it so often does, unfortunately, but this time it at least wandered along a companion track), refining a scenario in which I envisioned a person explaining this concept, perhaps during a Children’s Moment lesson.  The speaker would bring in a huge, full, and ideally smelly garbage bag and, while holding onto it, ask for a hug.  Naturally, while holding the bag, the speaker couldn’t properly hug back.  Upon the conclusion of the demonstration, he could then explain that when we value and hold on to icky things as if they are of more value than Jesus—things like anger, pride, hobbies, money, or porn (that last would naturally not be in a Children’s Message)—not only can we not properly embrace Jesus, but Jesus wouldn't be too pleased about embracing someone who's holding an icky trash bag.  He’d hug us if we asked, but he’d ask us to give him that smelly bag to throw away—first because it stinks, and second so we can return the embrace.  Extending the metaphor, Jesus would be more pleased if we held onto people instead of trash; Jesus wouldn’t mind hugging the other people in addition to ourselves.  Still, while we must love all people, he cautions us, "Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me" (Matt 10.37 ESV); we mustn't hold onto people so tightly that we cannot embrace Jesus.  (Note—my original image was of holding a colossal teddy bear, which could still work, as some things we hold onto are legitimate and sweet—they're just too big and bulky to allow us to embrace Jesus.

Now, how do we know when we're holding onto garbage versus when it's properly resting in its bin nearby (or holding onto the bear versus when it's on its shelf)?  How do we know if a thing in our life is trash or a bear?  How do we know when it's okay for the trash to be in a nearby bin and when we need to kick it completely out of the house?  That matter is something for each person to contemplate, continually and prayerfully. . . . yet too much inward examination can make us lose touch with the Lord, returning our Christ-awareness to self-awareness.  Better yet, perhaps, to take the plunge, abandon oneself to Christ and not look back.  But then, how does one fill one's free time around work and duty?  "Trust Christ to direct your steps at each moment," is all I can suppose.