Novelsmithing – A New Approach to Novel Writing

Posted on November 19, 2010 by David Sheppard

If you have used Novelsmithing to write your novel, please consider providing a review at one or more of the following online bookstores:

Amazon

GoodReads

Barnes & Nobel 

Thanks!

[The entire book is available on this blog for free, or you can purchase the paperback on Amazon for $9.99 or the Kindle digital version for $4.99. It is also available for $4.99 on Apple's iPad and Smashwords. Of course, with Amazon's Kindle app, Novelsmithing can also be read on the iPhone and iPod Touch. I also used the Novelsmithing approach when writing The Mysteries, A Novel of Ancient Eleusis. Within the first two volumes, I've documented my research sources as well as the plot structure. Novelsmithing can also be used for narrative nonfiction, e.g., my Oedipus on a Pale Horse.]

Novelsmithing approaches novel writing from a different perspective than any other book on the market, and the approach is also different from that presented in any class in creative writing, unless of course the instructor is using Novelsmithing as the text. Novelsmithing isn’t meant to teach you how to put together sentences and paragraphs. Novelsmithing is about the craft of putting a novel together, and it provides guidance for formulating story structure, planning chapters, and laying out the entire novel. It’s not about creative writing; it is about novelsmithing. It’s not about obscure literary concepts. It’s about the specifics of putting a novel together.

However, this is not an artificial, cookie-cutter method for stamping out novels. It is based on the nature of storytelling. By their very nature, plot, character, and meaning are all interrelated and inseparable, and that relationship, the novel’s divine trinity, is defined by the central conflict. All this is conceptualized within the Premise of a novel, and all good novels have a Premise.

So what is this Premise? The Premise exists in its most basic state as the central conflict and can be stated as three words. In equation form:

X vs Y

For example, consider the basic Premise of Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings:

Good versus Evil

This is the Cosmic premise at the heart of the novel, but it can also be restated at the character level:

Hobbit overcomes Evil Immortal

Or more specifically:

Frodo overcomes Sauron

Restated at the thematic level:

Innocence overcomes Evil

Notice that the first word defines the protagonist, the third word the antagonist, and the second word defines the nature of the conflict, including the ending of the novel. The Premise is then the theme of the entire work.

This structure defined by the Premise not only constitutes the backbone of the novel, it defines the nature of all storytelling, and even though it seems trite, it is the most profound of all statements about the nature of storytelling. If you can’t define your Premise, you don’t know what your story is about, and it doesn’t actually matter if it is a novel, a short story, or a screenplay. Premise lies at the heart of all storytelling, and conflict lies at the heart of the Premise. All this, including how to identify and position conflict Plot Points, is explained in Chapter 2: Plotting. And since character is so intimately connected to conflict, the Premise also goes a long way to defining character. This relationship is covered in Chapter 3: Character.

But the interesting thing is that you don’t start with a Premise. You start with an idea for a novel, your idea, and discover the Premise contained within it, as explained in Chapter 1: The Big Idea. The idea for a novel is its art, and the Premise and implementation of it is the craft that shapes your idea, identifies all its constituents and assists the novelsmith in producing a fully developed and focused novel.

This is what Novelsmithing is all about.

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Author’s Note: Origins

Posted on June 5, 2010 by David Sheppard

Author’s Note: Origins

I have always been a student of the creative process. During my early years in college, I was introduced to the work of Dostoevsky. I read of all his novels, short stories and a couple of biographies. From this man and his bizarre work, I became interested in writing and made my own first attempts at poetry and fiction.

Also during these initial college years, I was introduced to and fell in love with Greek tragedy. Sophocles had a major impact on me. From the story of Oedipus, I found my way to Freud and the “Oedipus Complex.” I read Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams.

It wasn’t until I turned thirty that I actually began work on a novel, and I was still as interested in the creative process as I was in the actual writing. There might be a certain amount of truth in the statement that I started writing to learn about the creative process. I instinctively realized that it spoke to something basic about the human condition. But I aborted my first novel after a hundred pages or so because I didn’t know where it was going. I ran out of story. I was puzzled about my failure, and wondered why the story didn’t reveal itself to me as I imagined it would.

Several years after this failed attempt, I started and finished another novel, but I knew it was rather rambling and not properly plotted. I attended some workshops on plotting and came away even more confused. I started reading books on screen writing and drama because they seemed to know more about the structure of storytelling. I came across the concept of the Premise, and the plotting process I would later use myself started to take shape.

During this time, I read the comments of other authors concerning the nature of the writing experience. The interviews in The Paris Review were my primary source. A little later in life, I went through five years of psychotherapy; and following this trying but illuminating experience, one of the most important events of my life occurred. My company laid me off. Instead of trying to find work immediately, I decided to spend my time reading about ancient Greece, and planned an extended trip about the Greek mainland and islands. Prior to leaving, I read everything I could get my hands on concerning the archaeology and mythology of ancient Greece. At the same time, I planned to use my newly developed plotting methods while writing an extended narrative of my journey through Greece.

I spent ten weeks traveling Greece alone. When I returned, I edited and expanded my travel narrative into the work I’ve had on the Internet for the last eight years and I recently published in paperback. It’s titled Oedipus on a Pale horse and is now available on Amazon.

Afterward, I continued my research into the religion and myths of ancient Greece. My primary resources were the writings of university professors, classicists published by university presses. Early in this period, I came into contact with the writings of Karl Kerényi and Carl Jung. I had always known of Jung’s work because of his association with Freud, but I had never explored his writings to any extent. I had viewed him, naive as I was, as Freud’s junior partner. Surprisingly enough, I had never heard of Kerényi. These two would become my newfound heroes. This research was really exciting because I realized that I was uncovering the psychology of writing.

Freud had always been highly interesting, but Jung’s theory of the human psyche interested me even more. I’d had many experiences during my life that had gone unexplained, even through the five years of therapy. Jung came as a revelation. His explanation of the connection between human events and mythology was simply mind-blowing. Karl Kerényi was a professor of classics and the history of religion. He wrote a series of books in association with Carl Jung on the archetypes from Greek mythology that served the ancients as patterns for human existence. Through the writings of these two, I delved deeper into this crossover field of psychology and mythology, and ran onto the archetypal psychologists James Hillman and Murray Stein. It was as if I’d found the Rosetta Stone for my own psychology, as well as a guide into the internal creative process of writing.

Then in the fall of 1999, I was approached by the head of the Continuing Education Department at New Mexico State University at Carlsbad to teach a couple of courses. She’d heard that I was a writer and interested in mythology. “Something on novel writing and Greek mythology,” she said, “would be of interesting to our older students.”

I was already primed. Since most of the students, who would be taking these courses, were college educated, some even retired teachers, I could treat the material as if I were teaching graduate school. My years of research could be put to good use. The course on Greek mythology, I taught primarily from the writings of Homer, Hesiod, Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. For the novel writing course, I pulled from everything I’d read through the years concerning storytelling: novelists, playwrights, screenwriters, and narrative non-fiction writers. I injected good doses of Jungian and archetypal psychology.

While developing the material for the two courses, I continued to be amazed at how connected the two subjects are, that novel writing, all storytelling really, is an outgrowth of the same psychological processes that had, through the millennia, created myth. Jungian psychology goes a long ways toward explaining the techniques used by novelists, playwrights, and screenwriters. All my research into these different disciplines came together as a sort of critical mass, which resulted in an explosion of ideas concerning the craft of novel writing that I describe here.

My methodology is not the traditional approach used in creative writing. I will not tell you how to combine the words to make effective sentences and paragraphs or to describe a scene. That is taught in many wonderful textbooks and classes in schools throughout the world. But what you will not find in these classes is how to actually put a novel together. This deficiency I hope to correct with Novelsmithing.

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Chapter 1 The Big Idea

Posted on May 20, 2010 by David Sheppard

CHAPTER 1: The Big Idea

Seems as though everyone has a big idea that they believe will make a great novel. Some of them may be right, but generally ideas that come to a novice constitute only a tiny part of the entire concept that constitutes an idea for a novel. When I lived in Boulder, Colorado, I had a physicist friend who had a Ph.D. come to me with an idea. He imagined, he said, that a man found a suitcase with a million dollars inside in airport bathroom stall. The man would be obsessed with the money and what to do with it. But the physicist couldn’t write the story beyond the first fifty pages. “There are too many possibilities,” he said. “How do I know what this guy will do with the money?” Actually, my friend had an idea for an interesting situation, but he didn’t have a full-blown idea for a novel.

It takes a multitude of ingredients to formulate a full novel concept. The ingredients involve not only situations, but also characters, conflicts, settings, and above all theme. In my friend’s situation, his character could have taken the suitcase along with the money to the police, walked away, and it would have had no impact on his life at all. But his character could also have taken it home and come into conflict with the owner, possibly a drug dealer. He could also have immediately purchased an airline ticket, flown to a foreign country and disappeared into the countryside. The possibilities are endless, and the final choice of what to do with the money will say something crucial about character and theme. So how do you formulate a story that has all the elements orchestrated so that it constitutes a fine piece of literature?

Janet Burroway, in her book Writing Fiction (probably the best book ever written on the subject) says that:

The organic unity of a work of literature cannot be taught–or, if it can, I have not discovered a way to teach it. I can suggest from time to time that concrete image is not separate from character, which is revealed in dialogue and point of view, which may be illuminated by simile, which may reveal theme, which is contained in plot as water is contained in an apple. But I cannot tell you how to achieve this…5

The process I have developed does precisely this.

The many books on novel writing are little more than a hodgepodge of ideas about the subject, but what we will do here gets down to revealing the secrets of where it comes from and how to put it all together. What you will need first is a description of the underlying structure that makes all novels work, the DNA of a novel, so to speak.

So, where do you begin? How do you determine the structure of your story beforehand? How are the infinity of elements related? All of these questions, I will answer shortly, but first, we must get some preliminaries out of the way.

THE NOVEL: What is it?

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the novel as:

A fictitious prose narrative or tale of considerable length (now usually one long enough to fill one or more volumes), in which characters and actions representative of the real life of past or present times are portrayed in a plot of more or less complexity.

I would also include the real life of future times in this definition, so as to cover science fiction. I would argue that the word “fictitious” may not always apply, because many historical novels are more historically accurate than are some history texts. Milan Kundera, the great Czech novelist, has had it said about his novels that they are “a meditation on existence,”6 which really leaves the subject wide open.

A novel does not present real life, but it does bear a relationship to it. Some say it is an “illusion of life.” Or it can be approached even more casually, as in Henry James’ statement that “A novel is of its very nature an ‘ado,’ an ado about something, and the larger the form it takes the greater of course the ado.”7 I would define the novel as: an extended dramatic narration concerning a particular subject or event.  I put forth these definitions to illustrate how ambiguous and flexible the novel art form is. And although I’ll give you specific instructions here on how to discover and structure your story, please realize that what you create may be something no one has ever seen before, and have an original structure.

NOVEL TYPE

Novels come in many forms, and the technique described here can be used to create any of them. They may be science fiction, mystery, romance, western, true crime, thriller, historical. Your novel can be mainstream or literary fiction, a children’s story or young adult. Literary fiction is more character based than mainstream, which is plot based. Know where your novel will fit among the multitude. Who is your audience? You must be writing for someone. Who is it? An author, first and foremost, should read. All these things, the author should know and do before he starts writing. Part of learning the craft is to know how others practice it and what they produce as a final product.

Some writers have broken down the techniques available to the novelist as equal parts “method and madness,” and this concept will be useful to us. The way an author constructs his novel, the craft, is the “method.” Where all the raw material comes from, the original idea, characters and events, narrative style, etc., is the “madness.” We will study craft first. We’ll say a little about where the idea for a novel, the initial impulse, comes from. But this will be fairly basic stuff, and I’ll leave the rest until later, when we’ll do what we can about studying the “madness.”

THE CENTRAL IDEA

The idea for the novel can come from anywhere. Sometimes the idea will come from some traditional story, an action drawn from life, or a personal fantasy. It can come from personal experience, or be completely imaginary, as was my friend’s fantasy about the man finding a suitcase. It can be built around a single character, as in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, or an event, as in Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for Red October. It should be something you know about or are willing to learn about through extensive research. One of the best places to find an idea is in your own personal fantasies, especially those involving conflict. Dreams, particularly recurring dreams, are an excellence source. Some experts will advise you to write the type of novel you enjoy reading, but my opinion is that reading and writing are radically different activities. Write what you want to write.

Some writers borrow from other authors. Shakespeare rarely had an original storyline. Many times, he borrowed from Plutarch’s Lives. (Plutarch was a Greek who wrote in the 2nd century AD.) A Midsummer Night’s Dream came from Theseus, and Coriolaneus came from Plutarch’s biography of the ancient Greek hero. Jane Smiley took the storyline for A Thousand Acres from Shakespeare’s King Lear and won a Pulitzer. Cinderella has been disguised and retold countless times. Gothic novels are of that nature. Jane Eyre, Rebecca, the movie Working Girl are all Cinderella stories.

Other sources might include a personal event, family history, or something that happened to a friend. The TV series “Law and Order” frequently uses a story “ripped from a newspaper headline.” But the most original material will come from personal experience. If you are on the outlook for an idea, it can come from anywhere. Consider the origin of Henry James’ novel, The Spoils of Poynton, which I’ve included as Attachment I. The idea came to him suddenly during an even meal and was provoked by an innocent comment by a woman sitting next to him.

HIGH CONCEPT

If a blacksmith took an expensive piece of metal into his furnace, worked the bellows till he was blue in the face and the metal glowing white hot, and then beat on it with his hammer and tongs until it had a unique shape, you’d expect that shape to be something useful or a least something an observer could identify. But if everyone who saw it said, “What is it?” the blacksmith would be pressed into the embarrassing task of explaining what he had created. The same is true for the novelsmith. He would be well advised to create a novel with subject matter that a potential reader can identify with a minimum of scrutiny. It should immediately “resonate” with the reader.

People in publishing today (and particularly in Hollywood) are looking for works that are “high concept.” By this they mean that the main subject or essence of the work can be clearly exposed in a few words. Think of ways to express your idea so that it is immediately understandable. The statement will most likely expose the central conflict and say something about the storyline. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment might be identified as, “A young man’s attempt to come to terms with himself after committing murder.” If you can’t summarize your story in one sentence, you probably don’t know what your own novel is about. We’ll cover how to do this in detail in the next chapter.

Writing a novel is always accomplished in the dark and is very much a process of discovery. Never mind that you have your computer screen brightness on maximum, the place your material comes from is dark and foreboding. Plus, you really don’t know the story until you’ve written it. Yet, you can’t structure it properly until you know the story. Because of this Catch 22, you must write it and rewrite it several times. To begin with, you must have the germ of an idea. Trying to apply a story structure to it will help it develop. If the idea is the art, the structure is the craft.

ART THROUGH CRAFT

The idea for a novel is like a wild horse. You have to harness it to get it under control and discipline it. Your novel will develop as you write, but you will always feel as though you are riding your horse in the dark with a little lantern to show the way. That’s why you need to work within a structure that can throw that much-needed light on the subject matter and reveal where it’s leading you. In the following pages, I will present a method for developing your idea. It will result in a first draft, so that a full novel can be written from it. Don’t be deluded into believing that this is the only way to write a novel. This method, however, will help you understand the energy inherent in any novel, and how it may be harnessed. You can then go out on your own to find unusual ways to structure your novel.

The idea, particularly if it comes from true-life experience, must undergo a transformation before it becomes a novel. Because storytelling is such a part of our lives, we think of it as a representation of life itself, but a novel has certain characteristics that take it out of the real world. In fact, the existence of any story is outside real life. As shown in Figure 1, a transformation process takes place during the creation of the novel.

The Transformation Process

The Transformation Process

This transformation is the craft of novel writing. Much of it will be identical to the ordinary storytelling we do everyday when someone asks, “How did it go at the office?” But further realize that the process is not simply a description of real-life events. A transformation takes place when we take “real-life” into the world of the novel, and that transformation occurs through craft. As an example, conversation is transformed into “dialogue” to sound “normal” within a novel. Dialogue is an abbreviated or edited version of normal conversation. Everything is magnified and has a storyline connection; therefore, the author has to develop a new set of proportions to judge the impact of his words on the reader.

“But,” you may say, “I don’t want to be a craftsman. I want to be an artist.” Craft is the method, the discipline, of dealing with all artistic endeavors. The artist, the author, must learn his craft to get his ideas into the fictional world. Art, for some reason, doesn’t want to be criticized or reviewed, perhaps because it is so ego-related. On the other hand, craftsmanship by its very nature implies an apprenticeship, a period of trial and failure, and a certain level of skill before becoming a master craftsman. Viewing novel writing, novelsmithing, as a craft takes the pressure off your initial efforts, and opens them up to critique. Plus, it means that, to learn to write, you must write, write, write until you get it right.

I use the metaphor of a blacksmith for the novelist because a blacksmith is the consummate craftsman. He gets as down and dirty as any and more than most. Plus his tools, anvil and hammer, tongs, bellows, are coarse, heavy tools, and his actions, the swing of the hammer, the whoosh of the bellows, ring throughout the countryside. This is in opposition to the actions of the novelsmith, who sits quietly at his computer, only the faint click of the keys audible above his own breathing. By viewing novel writing as smithing, we can exaggerate the novelsmiths actions to better see their complexity and gauge their importance, and to help us keep our focus on the craft.

The blacksmith is not the only metaphor that we’ll use to uncover the craft of novel writing. We’ll use other analogies as appropriate. Some may criticize the metaphor mixing, but we’ll play it loose and shoot from the hip when necessary.

*

That concludes the introductory remarks. To follow the discussion from here on, you should have an idea for the novel you wish to write. You will be developing that idea into a rough draft. But the central most important fact you should retain from this introduction is that the real world and the fictional world are radically different, and that you can only get your story into the fictional world through narrative craft.

EXERCISES

(a) Before proceeding to the next chapter, write down your own concept, your idea, for your novel. (b) List two or three of the major characters. This will help define the core of your idea, so that it it can be further fleshed out in the next chapter.

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How to Make a Great Pitch

Posted on April 27, 2010 by David Sheppard

Last year, Joseph Finder, author of several thrillers set in a government environment, provided an interesting tutorial titled “What’s a Hook? The Art of the Pitch.” He relates the hook to a fishing hook, and then he says:

“A fishing hook needs bait and a fisherman, though, and a writing hook needs a story. An unusual situation, however intriguing, is not a story. “A family digs a swimming pool in the backyard, and finds a buried time capsule” is a great premise for a novel – but what happens next? “A family’s discovery of a time capsule buried in their backyard makes them the targets of government agents from every country in the world” – that’s a story hook, because now we know that the time capsule sets a chain of events in motion.”

But what Joseph Finder didn’t tell you is why adding the government agents makes this a “hook.” Of course, if you’ve read my chapter in Novelsmithing called “Plotting,” you already know the answer. It’s because the author has just locked the central conflict. A family finding a time capsule is just an event with a protagonist. No story. World governments after the family because of the time capsule provides an antagonist and locks the central conflict. We have a story because conflict has a time history. Conflict has to be locked, escalated, reversed, come to term with, and resolved. Story is the time-history of conflict.

Plus, understanding the nature of conflict adds theme. The family could just simply turn over the time capsule, and we still have no story. The governments could see the time capsule, realize that it’s worthless to them, and we still have no story. But if the family doesn’t want to give up the time capsule, and the governments wish to pursue the matter, we have continuing conflict, and the reasons for the family resisting and the governments pursuing the family, together with the nature of the time capsule, provide the theme. Theme is the philosophy behind the conflict. If you don’t realize this, you may have conflict and your novel plotted, but it may still not have meaning. Theme provides the story with meaning, and if you don’t understand what your story means, the reader will find it to be intellectually and philosophically bankrupt.

Describing story as “what happens next” isn’t the complete picture. If what-happens-next doesn’t follow the central conflict from locking to resolving, it doesn’t constitute a complete story.

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Final Thoughts

Posted on April 26, 2010 by David Sheppard

(The following is an excerpt from my book Novelsmithing.)

Writing a novel will probably be the most complex and intellectually challenging project you’ll ever undertake. Proper preparation and attention to craft is crucial to seeing the project through to a successful conclusion. That has been the sole purpose of this narrative. Academics have struggled for generations trying to teach the subject, and to my way of thinking, not done very well because they teach novel writing as a part of creative writing rather than as a separate, more advanced, subject. You have to include the entire subject if you want to teach the basics of novelsmithing.

I would just like to repeat my words of caution. What you have learned from these pages should not be taken as dogma. Locking into a process like this can stifle your creativity. Many great novels would be difficult to analyze in these terms. What this approach should provide is a structure through which you can unlock many of the forces at work in literature. But trust to the dictates of the story you are telling.

You might stop by www.novelsmithing.com, and its associated blog, from time to time to see what’s up. I plan to maintain the website into the foreseeable future.

Good luck.

(This concludes the serialization of Novelsmithing. I will continue to post here on the nature of novel writing, novelsmithing.)

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End Notes

Posted on April 24, 2010 by David Sheppard

1 Forbes, R. J., Studies in Ancient Technology, Vol. VIII, Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1971, page 78.

2 Furley, William D., Studies in the Use of Fire in Ancient Greek Religion, Salem: Ayer Company, Publishers, Inc., 1988, page i.

3 Homer, The Iliad, tr. by Martin Hammond, New York: Penguin Books, 1987, page 321.

4 As a fine example, see, von Bothmer, Dietrich, The Amasis Painter and His World, Vase-Painting in Sixth-Century B.C. Athens, New York: Thames and Hudson ltd., and Malibu: The J. Paul Getty Museum, 1985, page 44-55.

5 Burroway, Janet, Writing Fiction, A Guide to Narrative Craft, New York: Longman, 2000, page 312.

6 Kundera, Milan, The Art of the Novel, New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 1988, page 35.

7 James, Henry, The Art of the Novel, New York: Charles Schribner’s Sons, 1934 (1907), page 48.

8 Wellek, René, and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1956, page 206.

9 Aristotle, The Complete Works of Aristotle, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984, page 2322.

10 For a somewhat different take on Premise, see The Art of Dramatic Writing, Its Basis in the Creative Interpretation of Human Motives, Chapter I, by Lajos Egri, New York: Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1960.

11 James, Henry, The Art of the Novel, New York: Charles Schribner’s Sons, 1934, page 15.

12 For a somewhat different approach to story structure, see Screenplay, The Foundations of Screenwriting, by Syd Field, New York: Dell Publishing, 1984.

13 For further information, see The Elements of Screenwriting, A Guide for Film and Television Writing, By Irwin R. Blacker, New York: Collier Books, 1986.

14 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, The Great Gatsby, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1925, page 121.

15 Colebrook, Claire, Irony, New York: Routledge, 2004, page 27.

16 Moore, T. Sturge, Art and Life, London: Methuen, 1910, page 232.

17 Mantel, Hilary, Beyond Black, New York: Henry Holt and Company LLC, 2004, pages 3-4.

18 Homer, The Iliad, tr. by Robert Fitzgerald, Franklin Center: The Franklin Library, 1952, page 47.

19 Euripides, Euripides: Bacchae, Iphigenia at Aulis, Rhesus, ed. and tr. by David Kovacs, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, LCL, 2002, page 201.

20 Eliot, George, Adam Bede, New York: Charles Schribner’s Sons, 1917, page 1.

21 Melville, Herman, Moby Dick or, the Whale, New York: Dell Publishing Co., Inc., 1959, page 27.

22 However, Dostoevsky did not burn everything and start from scratch, as he said and many have reported. For a detailed account of his search for a narrative scheme, see Frank, Joseph, Doestoevsky, The Miraculous Years, 1865-1871, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995, Chapter 6, especially page 93.

23 McInerney, Jay, Bright Lights, Big City. New York: Vintage Books, 1984, page 1.

24 Whiteley, Opal, The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow, The Rediscovered Diary of Opal Whiteley, presented by Benjamin Hoff, New York: Ticknor & fields, 1986, page 81.

25 Homer, The Odyssey, tr. by Robert Fitzgerald, Franklin Center: The Franklin Library, 1978, page 3.

26 Hansen, Ron, Mariette in Ecstasy, New York: Edward Burlingame Books, 1991, page 29.

27 Pirsig, Robert, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, An Inquiry into Values. New York: Bantam Books, 1974, page 3.

28 Dickens, Charles, A Tale of Two Cities, New York: Vintage Books, 1990, page 7.

29 Walker, Alice, The Color Purple, New York: Pocket Books, 1982, page 1.

30 Liddell & Scott, An Intermediate Greek-English Lexicon, pg 230.

31 Hesiod,Works and Days, lines 45-60.

32 Kerenyi, C., The Gods of the Greeks, New York: Thames and Hudson, 1951, page 207.

33 Colebrook, Claire, Irony, London: Routledge, 2004, page 135.

34 Ibid, page 23.

35 Ibid, page 20.

36 Ibid, page 27.

37 Ibid, page 180.

38 Hemingway, Ernest, For Whom the Bell Tolls, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1940, page 173.

39 Ibid, page 22.

40 Bradbury, Ray, The Martian Chronicles, New York: Bantam Books, 1958, page 80.

41 de Santillana, Giorgio, The Origins of Scientific thought, From Anaximander to Proclus, 600 B.C. to A.D 500, New York: Mentor Books, 1961, page 8.

42 Ibid.

43 Jung, C. G., Memories, Dreams, Reflections, New York: Vintage Books, 1989, page 318.

44 Wellek, René, and Austin Warren, Theory of Literature, New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc., 1956, page 207.

45 Hansen, Ron, Mariette in Ecstasy, New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 1991, page 179.

46 Steinbeck, John, The Grapes of Wrath, New York: Penguin Group, 1939, pages 580-1.

47 Hemingway, Ernest, A Farewell to Arms, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1929, page 3.

48 Ibid, page 7.

49 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, The Great Gatsby, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1925, pages 3-4.

50 Ibid, page 30.

51 Lee, Chang-Rae, Native Speaker, New York: Riverhead Books, 1995, page 101.

52 Ibid, page 346.

53 Persig, Robert M., Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, An Inquiry into Values, New York: Bantam Books, 1974, page 95.

54 Flaubert, Gustave, Madame Bovary, tr. by Alan Russell, New York: Penguin Group, 1950, page 81.

55 Scheid, John, and Jesper Svenbro, The Craft of Zeus: Myths of Weaving and Fabric, tr. by Carol Volk, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001.

56 These examples are from Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, Springfield: G. & C. Merriam Company, 1979.

57 Bolen, Jean Shinoda, M.D., Gods in Everyman, A New Psychology of Men’s Lives and Loves, New York: Harper & Row, 1989, page 223.

58 Theophrastus: Characters, Herodas: Mimes, Sophron and Other Mime Fragments, tr. and ed. by Jeffrey Rusten and I. C. Cunningham, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, LCL, 2002, pages 73 and 97.

59 Salter, James, Light Years, San Francisco: North Point Press, 1982, page 8.

60 Schroedinger, Erwin, What is Life? With Mind and Matter and Autobiographical Sketches, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992, page 122.

61 Lilly, John C., The Center of the Cyclone: Looking into Inner Space, Oakland: Ronin Publishing, Inc., 1972. Entire book.

62 Jung, Carl, Collected Works, Volume 4, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961, paragraph 728.

63 Ibid, paragraph 405.

64 Stein, Murray, Jung’s Map of the Soul, Peru: Open Court, 1998, page 131.

65 Ibid, page 132-3.

66 Jung, C. G. and C. Kerenyi, Essays on a Science of Mythology, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1959, page 173.

67 Stein, Murray, Jung’s Map of the Soul, Peru: Open Court, 1998, page 131.

68 Hillman, James, Archetypal Psychology, A Brief Account, Dallas: Spring Publications, 1983, page 1.

69 Ibid, page 3.

70 From Thornton Wilder’s Introduction (1955) to: Sophocles’, Oedipus The King, translated by Francis Storr, Norwalk: The Easton Press, 1980, page 16.

71 Kerenyi, C., The Gods of the Greeks, New York: Thames and Hudson, 1951, page 170.

72 Jung, C. G., The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966, pages 73.

73 Ibid, pages 81-2

74 Burroway, Janet, Writing Fiction, A Guide to Narrative Craft, New York: Longman, 2000, pages 3-8.

75 From Facing the Gods, ed. by James Hillman, Dallas: Spring Publications Inc., 1980, page 83.

76 Jung, C. G., The Spirit in Man, Art, and Literature, tr. by R. F. C. Hull, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1966, page 104.

77 Dillard, Annie, The Writing Life, New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, 1989, page 16.

78 Surmelian, Leon, Techniques of Fiction Writing, Measure and Madness, Garden City: Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1969, page 1.

79 Joyce, James, Ulysses, New York: Random House, Inc., 1986, page 608.

80 Ibid, 643-4.

81 Hemingway, Ernest, For Whom the Bell Tolls, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1940, page 3.

82 Deleted.

83 Delany, Samuel R., Dhalgren, New York: Bantam Books, 1975, page 1.

84 Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, Springfield: G. & C. Merriam Company, 1979.

85 Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary, Chicago: Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1965.

86 Webster’s, 1979.

87 Funk & Wagnalls, 1965.

88 Rilke, Rainer Maria, Letters to a Young Poet, tr. by M. D. Herter Norton, New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1934, page 29.

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