Question: Can one break the established rules for fiction writing and still write a winning story?

Answer: Perhaps.

It’s almost guaranteed that every time I make a statement such as the following in a workshop…”Point of view should be consistent throughout a story and consistent throughout a chapter in a novel.”…someone will raise a hand and say…”But so-and-so (substitute the name of a famous and rich writer here) mixes point of view.”

And perhaps it’s true. Perhaps so-and-so does. So-and-so may be in such command of the craft, that she or he can do anything and make it work. There’s also the explanation that a particular so-and-so may be a weak writer whose work will only last as long as the paper it’s printed on.

In any case, if the prime directive of fiction is to ‘disappear’, then anything that causes a reader to leap from one character’s head into another and back again, to notice that what started out in the third person has suddenly shifted into the first, to realize that all the characters in a story talk in the same ‘voice’, to be unable to visualize the world the story creates because there are no sensory clues, no information about the feel of the fabric on a chair or the color of the wine in the glass, or to notice that a particular character’s introspection is presented in present tense but his dialogue is in past tense … any of these inaccuracies is going to degrade the total effect of the fiction. Perhaps disasterously.

It’s like continuity in film.

Some of us may not even notice that Renee Zellweger has picked up a magazine in one clip and then a split second later, from a different camera angle, is empty-handed. But many of us will. And for just a moment, those of us who notice will think not about the life on the screen, but about that. Suddenly, we’ll remember that we’re watching a movie, that there’s a camera between us and Renee, we’ll think about the fact that someone has goofed, and, even though it may be for only a moment, our fragile decision to believe that what we’re watching is an actual world instead of a make-believe entertainment will fracture.

A good director, one who cares about her or his product, who knows that there are many things outside a director’s control, will not tolerate sloppiness in those things that can be controlled. One such slip might be an embarrassment. Several such slips would be a catastrophe.

Like a good director on film, a good writer will try to create a seamless world on the page, knowing that sloppiness in the craft can have the effect of degrading a reader’s suspension of disbelief, and that enough such ‘interruptions’ can lead at best to a vague dissatisfaction, and at worst to a total loss of trust and interest.

Now, having said all that, I will acknowledge that, yes, some authors, some very good authors, can get away with and even benefit from breaking the rules. Tillie Olsen, for instance, in her extraordinary story, Tell Me A Riddle, has little or no setting, multiple points of view, and yet the story soars. But Tell Me A Riddle is under control, a tightly constructed story by an author whose craft is impeccable despite an atypical approach.

I have a standard response to workshop citations of authors who write outside the rules of fiction. So if you’ve sat in one of my workshops, you can skip this paragraph. It has to do with tennis. I like to watch it, and I’ve seen top players – Bjorn Borg, Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Andy Roddick – hit some magnificently outlandish shots. My favorite is the back-to-the-net and between-the-legs shot. Especially when it works. “But it’s not the shot,” I tell my workshop people, “that you’re going to learn in your first tennis lesson or even in the first year of your lessons.” No, you’re going to learn how to hit the ball properly – side to the net, weight on the leading foot, with a proper grip, hit, and follow-through. And after you’ve hit the ball properly at least three million times, after hitting it properly has become so automatic that you don’t have to think about it anymore, then and only then might you be able to hit the ball with your weight going the wrong way, with an awkward grip, and perhaps even with your back toward the net and between your legs.

Now back to writing. In my workshops, we work on consistent point of view, tense, person. We work on setting, exposition, introspection. On creating a world that’s so authentic on the page, the page will disappear and a life will rise into existence in its place.

“Once you can do that,” I tell my workshop, “once you can do it all the right way and not even have to think about it, then you can carry off just about anything.”