On Abstraction

A writers' essay on Abstraction in writing, using poetry as a focal point. Discusses the problems of an abstract image and the benefits of rooting your writing in concrete. How do you connect with an audience, and why do they need you to?

This piece primarily focuses on poetry simply because I have more experience in this genre. The concepts discussed are by no means exclusive. I believe they can be applied to any form of creative writing, including prose (fictional or factual) and script. So please, even if you aren't interested in poetry, read on.

I have been offering critiques of amateur poetry for about six years now. I couldn't tell you how many people I have tried to help, but my best guess is that it is well and truly into four figures.

After all of those poems, though, I have an axe to grind. A lot of the time, I find myself repeating the same things: 'Overly sentimental', 'Cliché', 'Forced Rhyme/Meter', 'Too many abstractions'. Most people, even when they are very early in their writing careers, have a grip on the first two. Usually, they just need a gentle prod. The third is easy enough to explain. The final one, however, often confuses people. It is for this reason that I have chosen to unpack the problem of abstractions.

The Symptoms

I think it's important to mention that if I say that there are too many abstractions in your work, I do not mean that your work was too weird for me. I am not comparing you to Marinetti, Magritte, or Escher.

An abstraction is an image which, in contrast to a concrete image, is based on an idea that cannot be sensed. That is, it cannot be seen, touched, tasted, smelt or heard. The classic example is when someone mentions a specific emotion in their work (ie. 'I am afraid of you'). This is an image which, not only breaks the only cardinal rule of writing ('Show. Don't tell.'), but it is also rooted purely in abstraction. The action of the sentence is completely imperceptible.

A further example follows:

I can't be bothered facing your realities
When all they grant me is your pain
I've enough of my own and
I'll never ask you again.
But can I control you for a little while?
Can I own your creation
And be the sole benefactor of your deceit?
I'm already half-way there.

Okay. It isn't great, but there are no real clichés, it doesn't try to force an unnatural rhyme or meter, it's not really overly sentimental (just overwrought, and that's definitely not a crime. Some over-wrought poets are worshipped!). The main problem is that it doesn't actually make us feel anything. We understand the words, but have no way to convert them into feelings.

The problem is that it is constantly stuck in abstract images. Every image is immeasurable by the human senses. Save vague, entirely personal, associations that we may make about the words used, there isn’t much for the audience to work with.

The Prognosis

The main problem with abstractions is that, when an audience reads one, they tend to scan straight past. It may seem a little silly that the most economical way to draw on a concept (that is, to name it) is summarily ignored in many cases. But it does make sense.

The easiest form of abstraction to focus on is emotion. So let us look at 'love':

'I love my cat.'
'I love my mother.'
'I love my bed.'
'I love this book.'
'We made love.'

The thing about abstractions is that they don’t actually mean much. Imagine if 'love' had only one very distinct definition. We could potentially get in an awful lot of trouble for loving our cats, mothers, and books, in the same way that we make love. The statement, 'I love you, but I'm not in love with you', would seem even more absurd than it already does.

Abstractions are flexible, that's why they seem useful. But, in order to really understand what anyone is saying when they use the word 'love', they have to give us context. That way, we see more information and get a clearer picture of how an object is loved. Without it, the abstraction means nothing.

Is it any wonder, then, that we are naturally predisposed to gloss over an abstraction, and read the words around it instead? That is why you should be careful using abstractions, especially in poetry, because in order to be understood you need to follow this process of rooting your abstractions to the ground with context.

To look at it from another angle, when an audience comes to your work, they are essentially looking for a way to escape into someone else's life. The thing is, they really don’t want to know what your narrator is experiencing. They want to feel it.

In our own heads, everything that passes us is sensory information that we gather, process, and analyse. This sensory information is the foundation of all that is human life. When someone pushes us, the first thing we notice is the sensation. We feel a force moving us. We fall and feel pain. We look up and see a person standing at the origin of the force.

Abstractions come afterwards. They facilitate learning, but do not directly effect us feeling our way through life. With that in mind, we move on.

The Cure

If I were to describe the pushing scenario to someone, normally, I would say any variation of, 'Tony pushed me, and I am angry with him.' This gives the audience a little bit of detail, but it's still not much to work with.

But keeping in mind your job as a writer to make an audience feel, it is better to describe an exchange using mainly sensation. Sometimes, by doing this, you can drop the abstraction entirely. Why belabour the obvious when your audience already understands? For example:

This morning, when I was walking back from the shops, someone pushed me over. With my arms weighed down by bags of groceries, I moved too slowly to break my fall. As I landed, I heard a loud crack, as my front teeth had hit the concrete with the full force of my body behind them.
Anyway, I turned around and who do I see? Tony, the six-foot-nine, jock arsehole I was happiest to see the back of when I graduated. He was laughing.
'What's the matter, Weed?' We graduated ten years ago. It was great to see that he'd grown as a person.
'What's the matter, Weed? Did you hurt your tooth you little faggot shit? Maybe your boyfriend can kiss it better. Aww … Are you gonna cry?'
He kicked me …

The audience has concrete detail. If the narrator now said 'I really hate Tony', it would be pointless. By this stage, most of the audience have (justifiably) started to hate him themselves, and unless your narrator's response to being physically abused is unique (ie. love), there is no need to say it at all. It all comes down to trust. Will your audience make the same judgements as your narrator? If not, you need to revise. In most cases, if you give enough specifics, they will.

Poets can cheat. A lot of the time, you don't even need that much detail:

In her dreams,
I'd swear she was running marathons,
or an action hero in hot pursuit.
I'd watch every kick until morning
then I'd hear what caused them.

This paints a very definite picture, but you can cull even more words in some instances:

We were tigress and prey.

Again, a very definite picture is painted. We see the nature of a relationship in five words. And it is much more evocative than any abstract alternative.

T.S. Eliot called this technique an 'objective correlative', but it could also be a short and simple allegory. It all depends on what you want to discuss.

According to Eliot, an objective correlative is a concrete situation, object, or event that is used to represent and generate a specific emotion. The last three examples were all objective correlatives. Eliot proposed that this was the only effective way to generate emotion in art.

Allegory has been used all the way back to Ancient Greece. A modern example of an allegory is George Orwell’s, Animal Farm. On the surface, this story discusses the life of some very clever farm animals, but Orwell uses this concrete situation to discuss the abstract notion of Communism. Allegory's purpose is much less likely to be discussing or evoking specific emotions and more likely to be discussing notions that are based in the theoretical.

I hope I at least provided you with something to think about. In return, I ask that you email me (tim@hypercritical.net) with any questions or problems you've had. I really would like to know what you thought. I hope to refine the article and make it more effective.