Notes on Writing Weird Fiction (by H.P. Lovecraft)

Notes on Writing Weird Fiction
by H.P. Lovecraft
written in 1933, published in the June 1937 issue of Amateur Correspondent

My reason for writing stories is to give myself the satisfaction of
visualising more clearly and detailedly and stably the vague, elusive,
fragmentary impressions of wonder, beauty, and adventurous expectancy
which are conveyed to me by certain sights (scenic, architectural,
atmospheric, etc.), ideas, occurrences, and images encountered in art
and literature. I choose weird stories because they suit my inclination
best—one of my strongest and most persistent wishes being to achieve,
momentarily, the illusion of some strange suspension or violation of
the galling limitations of time, space, and natural law which forever
imprison us and frustrate our curiosity about the infinite cosmic
spaces beyond the radius of our sight and analysis. These stories
frequently emphasise the element of horror because fear is our deepest
and strongest emotion, and the one which best lends itself to the
creation of Nature-defying illusions. Horror and the unknown or the
strange are always closely connected, so that it is hard to create a
convincing picture of shattered natural law or cosmic alienage or
“outsideness” without laying stress on the emotion of fear. The reason
why time plays a great part in so many of my tales is that this
element looms up in my mind as the most profoundly dramatic and grimly
terrible thing in the universe. Conflict with time seems to me the most potent and fruitful theme in all human expression.
      While my chosen form of story-writing is obviously a special and
perhaps a narrow one, it is none the less a persistent and permanent
type of expression, as old as literature itself. There will always be a
certain small percentage of persons who feel a burning curiosity about
unknown outer space, and a burning desire to escape from the
prison-house of the known and the real into those enchanted lands of
incredible adventure and infinite possibilities which dreams open up to
us, and which things like deep woods, fantastic urban towers, and
flaming sunsets momentarily suggest. These persons include great
authors as well as insignificant amateurs like myself—Dunsany, Poe,
Arthur Machen, M. R. James, Algernon Blackwood, and Walter de la Mare
being typical masters in this field.
      As to how I write a story—there is no one way. Each one of my
tales has a different history. Once or twice I have literally written
out a dream; but usually I start with a mood or idea or image which I
wish to express, and revolve it in my mind until I can think of a good
way of embodying it in some chain of dramatic occurrences capable of
being recorded in concrete terms. I tend to run through a mental list
of the basic conditions or situations best adapted to such a mood or
idea or image, and then begin to speculate on logical and naturally
motivated explanations of the given mood or idea or image in terms of
the basic condition or situation chosen.
      The actual process of writing is of course as varied as the
choice of theme and initial conception; but if the history of all my
tales were analysed, it is just possible that the following set of
rules might be deduced from the average procedure:

1. Prepare a synopsis or scenario of events in the order of their absolute occurrence—not
   the order of their narration. Describe with enough fulness to cover all
   vital points and motivate all incidents planned. Details, comments, and
   estimates of consequences are sometimes desirable in this temporary
   framework.
2. Prepare a second synopsis or scenario of events—this one in order of narration
   (not actual occurrence), with ample fulness and detail, and with notes
   as to changing perspective, stresses, and climax. Change the original
   synopsis to fit if such a change will increase the dramatic force or
   general effectiveness of the story. Interpolate or delete incidents at
   will—never being bound by the original conception even if the ultimate
   result be a tale wholly different from that first planned. Let
   additions and alterations be made whenever suggested by anything in the
   for mulating process.
3. Write out the story—rapidly, fluently, and not too critically—following the second
   or narrative-order synopsis. Change incidents and plot whenever the
   developing process seems to suggest such change, never being bound by
   any previous design. If the development suddenly reveals new
   opportunities for dramatic effect or vivid story telling, add whatever
   is thought advantageous—going back and reconciling the early parts to
   the new plan. Insert and delete whole sections if necessary or
   desirable, trying different beginnings and endings until the best
   arrangement is found. But be sure that all references throughout the
   story are thoroughly reconciled with the final design. Remove all
   possible superfluities—words, sentences, paragraphs, or whole episodes
   or elements—observing the usual precautions about the reconciling of
   all references.
4. Revise the entire text, paying attention to vocabulary, syntax,
   rhythm of prose, proportioning of parts, niceties of tone, grace and
   convincingness of transitions (scene to scene, slow and detailed action
   to rapid and sketchy time-covering action and vice versa… etc., etc.,
   etc.), effectiveness of beginning, ending, climaxes, etc., dramatic
   suspense and interest, plausibility and atmosphere, and various other
   elements.
5. Prepare a neatly typed copy—not hesitating to add final revisory touches where they seem in order.

The first of these stages is often purely a mental one—a set of
conditions and happenings being worked out in my head, and never set
down until I am ready to prepare a detailed synopsis of events in order
of narration. Then, too, I sometimes begin even the actual writing
before I know how I shall develop the idea—this beginning forming a
problem to be motivated and exploited.
      There are, I think, four distinct types of weird story; one expressing a mood or feeling, another expressing a pictorial conception, a third expressing a general situation, condition, legend or intellectual conception, and a fourth explaining a definite tableau or specific dramatic situation or climax. In another way, weird tales may be grouped into two rough categories—those in which the marvel or horror concerns some condition or phenomenon, and those in which it concerns some action of persons in connexion with a bizarre condition or phenomenon.
      Each weird story—to speak more particularly of the horror
type—seems to involve five definite elements: (a) some basic,
underlying horror or abnormality—condition, entity, etc.—, (b) the
general effects or bearings of the horror, (c) the mode of
manifestation—object embodying the horror and phenomena observed—, (d)
the types of fear-reaction pertaining to the horror, and (e) the
specific effects of the horror in relation to the given set of
conditions.
      In writing a weird story I always try very carefully to achieve
the right mood and atmosphere, and place the emphasis where it belongs.
One cannot, except in immature pulp charlatan-fiction, present an
account of impossible, improbable, or inconceivable phenomena as a
commonplace narrative of objective acts and conventional emotions.
Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to over
come, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a
careful realism in every phase of the story except
that touching on the one given marvel. This marvel must be treated very
impressively and deliberately—with a careful emotional “build-up”—else
it will seem flat and unconvincing. Being the principal thing in the
story, its mere existence should overshadow the characters and events.
But the characters and events must be consistent and natural except
where they touch the single marvel. In relation to the central wonder,
the characters should shew the same overwhelming emotion which similar
characters would shew toward such a wonder in real life. Never have a
wonder taken for granted. Even when the characters are supposed to be
accustomed to the wonder I try to weave an air of awe and
impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel. A casual
style ruins any serious fantasy.
      Atmosphere, not action, is the great desideratum of weird fiction. Indeed, all that a wonder story can ever be is a vivid picture of a certain type of human mood. The moment it tries to be anything else it becomes cheap, puerile, and unconvincing. Prime emphasis should be given to subtle
suggestion—imperceptible hints and touches of selective associative
detail which express shadings of moods and build up a vague illusion of
the strange reality of the unreal. Avoid bald catalogues of incredible
happenings which can have no substance or meaning apart from a
sustaining cloud of colour and symbolism.
      These are the rules or standards which I have
followed—consciously or unconsciously—ever since I first attempted the
serious writing of fantasy. That my results are successful may well be
disputed—but I feel at least sure that, had I ignored the
considerations mentioned in the last few paragraphs, they would have
been much worse than they are.

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The Allowable Rhyme (by H.P. Lovecraft)

The Allowable Rhyme
by H.P. Lovecraft
published in 1915

Sed ubi plira nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis. —Horace

The poetical tendency of the present and of the preceding century has been divided in a manner singularly curious. One loud and conspicuous faction of bards, giving way to the corrupt influences of a decaying general culture, seems to have abandoned all the properties of versification and reason in its mad scramble after sensational novelty;whilst the other and quieter school constituting a more logical evolution from the poesy of the Georgian period, demands an accuracy of rhyme and metre unknown even to the polished artists of the age of Pope.

The rational contemporary disciple of the Nine, justly ignoring the dissonant shrieks of the radicals, is therefore confronted with a grave choice of technique. May he retain the liberties of imperfect or “allowable” rhyming which were enjoyed by his ancestors, or must he conform to the new ideals of perfection evolved during the past century? The writer of this article is frankly anarchaist in verse. He has not scrupled to rhyme “toss’d” with “coast”,”come” with “Rome”, or “home” with “gloom” in his very latest published efforts, thereby proclaiming his maintenance of the old-fashioned pets as models; but sound modern criticism, proceeding from Mr. Rheinhart Kleiner and from other sources which must needs command respect, has impelled him there to rehearse the question for public benefit, and particularly to present his own side, attempting to justify his adherence to the style of two centuries ago.

The earliest English attempts at rhyming probably included words whose agreement is so slight that it deserves the name of mere”assonance” rather than that of actual rhyme. Thus in the original ballad of “Chevy-Chase,” we encounter “King” and “within” supposedly rhymed, whilst in the similar “Battle of Otterbourne” we behold “long” rhymed with “down,” “ground” with “Agurstonne,” and”name” with “again”. In the ballad of “Sir Patrick Spense,” “morn” and”storm,” and “deep” and “feet” are rhymed. But the infelicities were obviously the result not of artistic negligence, but of plebeian ignorance, since the old ballads were undoubtedly the careless products of a peasant minstrelsy. In Chaucer,a poet of the Court, the allowable rhyme is but infrequently discovered, hence we may assume that the original ideal in English verse was the perfect rhyming sound.

Spenser uses allowable rhymes, giving in one of his characteristic stanzas the three distinct sounds of “Lord”, “ador’d”, and “word,” all supposed to rhyme; but of his pronunciation we know little, and may justly guess that to the ears of his contemporaries the sounds were not conspicuously different. Ben Johnson‘s employment of imperfect rhyming was much like Spenser’s; moderate, and partially to be excused on account of a chaotic pronunciation. The better poets of the Restoration were also sparing of allowable rhymes; Cowley, Waller, Marvell, and many others being quite regular in this respect.

It was therefore upon a world unprepared that Samuel Butler burst forth with his immortal “Hudibras,”whose comical familiarity of diction is in grotesqueness surpassed only by its clever licentiousness of rhyming. Butler’s well-known double rhymes are of necessity forced and inexact, and in ordinary single rhymes he seems to have had no more regard for precision. “Vow’d” and “would,” “talisman” and “slain,” “restores” and “devours” are a few specimens selected at random.

Close after Butler came Jon Oldham,a satirist whose force and brilliance gained him universal praise, and whose enormous crudity both in rhyme and in metre was forgiven amidst the splendor of his attacks. Oldham was almost absolutely ungoverned by the demands of the ear, and perpetrated such atrocious rhymes as”heads” and “besides,” “devise” and “this,” “again” and “sin,” “tool” and “foul,” “end” and “design’d,” and even “prays” and “cause.”

The glorious Dryden,refiner and purifier of English verse, did less for rhyme than he did for metre. Though nowhere attaining the extravagances of his friend Oldham, he lent the sanction of his great authority to rhymes which Dr. Johnson admits are “open to objection.” But one vast difference betwixt Dryden and his loose predecessors must be observed. Dryden had so far improved metrical cadence, that the final syllables of heroic couplets stood out in especial eminence, displaying and emphasizing every possible similarity of sound; that is, lending to sounds in the first place approximately similar, the added similarity caused by the new prominence of their perfectly corresponding positions in their respective lines.

It were needless to dwell upon the rhetorical polish of the age immediately succeeding Dryden’s. So far as English versification is concerned, Pope was the world, and all the world was Pope. Dryden had founded a new school of verse, but the development and ultimate perfections of this art remained for the sickly lad who before the age of twelve begged to be taken to Will’s Coffee-House,that he might obtain a personal view of the aged Dryden, his idol and model. Delicately attuned to the subtlest harmonies of poetical construction, Alexander Pope brought English prosody to its zenith, and still stands alone on the heights. Yet he, exquisite master of verse that he was, frowned not upon imperfect rhymes, provided they were set in faultless metre. Though most of his allowable rhymes are merely variations in the breadth and nature of vowel sounds, he in one instance departs far enough from rigid perfection to rhyme the words”vice” and “destroys.” Yet who can take offence? The unvarying ebb and flow of the refined metrical impulse conceals and condones all else.

Every argument by which English blank verse or Spanish assonant verse is sustaine
d, may with greater force be applied to the allowable rhyme. Metre is the real essential of poetical technique, and when two sounds of substantial resemblance are so placed that one follows theother in a certain measured relation, the normal ear cannot without cavilling find fault with a slight want of identity in the respective dominant vowels. The rhyming of a long vowel with a short one is common in all the Georgian poets, and when well recited cannot but be overlooked amidst the general flow of the verse; as, for instance, the following from Pope:

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

Of like nature is the rhyming of actually different vowels whose sounds are, when pronounced in animated oration, by no means dissimilar. Out of verse, such words as “join” and “line” are quite unlike, but Pope well rhymes them when he writes:

While expletives their feeble aid do join,
and ten low words oft creep in one dull line.

It is the final consonantal sound in rhyming which can never vary.This, above all else, gives the desired similarity. Syllables which agree in vowels but not in the final consonants are not rhymes at all,but simply assonants. Yet such is the inconsistent carelessness of the average modern writer, that he often uses mere assonants to a greater extent than his fathers ever employed actually allowable rhymes. The writer, in his critical duties, has more than once been forced to point out the attempted rhyming of such words as “fame” and “lane,” “task”and “glass,” or “feels” and “yields” and in view of these impossible combinations he cannot blame himself very seriously for rhyming “art”and “shot” in the March Conservative; for this pair of words have at least identical consonants at the end.

That allowable rhymes have real advantages of a positive sort is an opinion by no means lightly to be denied. The monotony of a long heroic poem may often be pleasantly relieved by judicious interruptions in the perfect successions of rhymes, just as the metre may sometimes be adorned with occasional triplets and Alexandrines.Another advantage is the greater latitude allowed for the expression of thought. How numerous are the writers who, from restriction to perfect rhyming, are frequently compelled to abandon a neat epigram, or brilliant antithesis, which allowable rhyme would easily permit, or else to introduce a dull expletive merely to supply a desired rhyme!

But a return to historical considerations shows us only too clearly the logical trend of taste, and the reason Mr. Kleiner’s demand for absolute perfection is no idle cry. In Oliver Goldsmith there arose one who, though retaining the familiar classical diction of Pope, yet advanced further still toward what he deemed ideal polish by virtually abandoning the allowable rhyme. In unvaried exactitude run the couplets of “The Traveler” and of “The Deserted Village,” and none can deny to them a certain urbanity which pleases the critical ear.With but little less precision are molded the simple rhymes of Cowper,whilst the pompous Erasmus Darwin likewise shows more attention to identity of sound than do the Queen Anne Bards. Gifford’s translations of Juvenal and Persius show to an almost equal degree the tendency of the age, and Campbell, Crabbe, Wordsworth, Byron, Keats, and Thomas Moore are all inclined to refrain from the liberties practiced by those of former times. To deny the importance of such a widespread change of technique is fruitless, for its existence argues for its naturalness.The best critics of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries demand perfect rhyming, and no aspirant for fame can afford to depart from a standard so universal. It is evidently the true goal of the English, as well as of the French bard; the goal from which we are but temporarily deflected during the preceding age.

But exceptions should and must be made in the case of a few who have somehow absorbed the atmosphere of other days, and who long in their hearts for the stately sound of the old classic cadences. Well may their predilection for imperfect rhyming be discouraged to a limited extent, but to chain them wholly to modern rules would be barbarous.Every limited mind demands a certain freedom of expression, and the man who cannot express himself satisfactorily without the stimulation derived from the spirited mode of two centuries ago should certainly be permitted to follow without undue restraint a practice so harmless, so free from essential error, and so sanctioned by precedent, as that of employing in his poetical compositions the smooth and inoffensive allowable rhyme.

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