What are Animals up to in Fiction?

Animals don’t read. People do. Why, then, do authors include critters in their fiction? First off, most readers like animals. But what literary purpose do animal serve?

Diogenes from Ripper’s Ring, created using perchance.org

I’ve blogged before about the pets owned by authors. But authors write about animals as well, and my topic today is about how animals make stories better.

The Talking Kind

From ancient times to the present, authors have penned tales about talking animals. Though they make endearing characters, I’ll gloss over them in my post today. For the most part, talking animals merely substitute for human characters. Speech serves only to make these animal characters more relatable and places the story in the realm of fantasy.

An author may, however, write about normal, non-magical animals that have been given the power of speech. Science fiction author David Brin exemplified this in his Uplift Universe series, where humans biologically manipulated some Earth animals and designed in the ability to speak.

In any case, according to editor Mary Kole, stories with talking animals aren’t trending. She suggests including a talking animal only if your story won’t work any other way.

Purposes

Why include regular, non-talking animals in fiction? In a valuable post on the subject, editor Moriah Richard listed three reasons: tool, weapon, and companion. Richard noted these purposes overlap and do not constitute all possible uses. I’ll explore the ones Richard listed and add some of my own.

Tool

For any attribute humans possess, (except speech, higher level thought, and manual dexterity), you can name an animal that surpasses us. Access to narrow places, burrowing, seeing, flying, hearing, smelling, speed, strength, and swimming—certain animals have us beat. Often, in stories, we read of a human using a trained animal as some sort of tool. For hearing and smelling, writers often choose dogs. Easy to train and readily available, dogs are also well known to readers, so require little description. For transportation, horses seem ideally suited, though other animals can suffice.

Weapon

I suspect this use occurs less frequently in fiction than the tool use. A weapon is a kind of tool, though, so you can regard this as a subset of the previous use. For attacking other people, dogs again represent a good choice, due to their trainability, their speed, and their teeth.

A writer may use all types of other animals as weapons in a story, including bears, bees, hawks, lions, sharks, and dozens of others. However, these belong in the difficult-to-train category, and might just turn on the person who releases them.

Companion

Perhaps the most often used purpose of animals in fiction, companionship provides the author several opportunities. When a character enjoys a companionable relationship with an animal, it endears the character to the reader. It also portrays, by inference, the kind and caring nature of the character.

Examples include the film Hachi: A Dog’s Tale and the book Marley & Me: Life and Love with the World’s Worst Dog, by John Grogan. A stranger example might be Life of Pi by Yann Martel, featuring a tiger as companion.

Antagonist

I’ll add this purpose to Moriah Richard’s list, though the traditional role of antagonist doesn’t fit most animals. Animals do not often oppose a human through hatred or malevolence. They act according to their natures, but humans may hate them for that, so it’s more about the human’s feelings than those of the animal. In stories with animal ‘antagonists,’ often the real antagonist is another human or a psychological struggle inside the human protagonist.

Examples include Moby-Dick by Herman Melville and Jaws by Peter Benchley.

Symbol

This blogpost at MasterClass.com explains the use of animals as symbols in literature. As metaphor, the animal represents something else, often some quality of humanity, without stating the comparison in an overt way.

The albatross in the poem “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Coleridge symbolizes good luck. The bird in the poem “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe symbolizes the persistence of grief. The owl Hedwig in the Harry Potter series by J.K. Rowling symbolizes Harry’s innocence, which he loses when the owl dies.

Conscience

An animal may also serve as a sort of unwitting conscience for a human character. The character who talks to a pet may arrive at a solution to a problem without any reaction from the pet, and nevertheless credit the animal with providing valuable assistance.

My Own Animal Characters

Mutant from “The Cats of Nerio-3” created using perchance.org

I’ve rarely included normal animals in my stories. Not sure why. Mutated cats serve as ‘antagonists’ in “The Cats of Nerio-3,” a story appearing within In a Cat’s Eye. A basset hound named Diogenes assists a detecting in locating an invisible murderer in Ripper’s Ring. In that story, the dog serves as tool, companion, and conscience.

Whatever you do, don’t write a shaggy dog story—then you’d be barking up the wrong tree. Okay, I guess it’s off to the doghouse for—

Poseidon’s Scribe

The Inner Drives of Fictional Characters

You should know the motivation of each fictional character you create. What do they desire? What inner need compels them to act the way they do? I’ve blogged about motivation before, and I’ll build on that today.

Motivation versus Goals

Every major character may pursue a goal, too, but that differs from motivation. A goal is the outcome a character seeks, and motivation is why the character wants it.  

Maslow’s Hierarchy

In my earlier post, I mentioned Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs. The pyramid shape suggests a character must meet lower-level needs before pursuing higher levels. If an antagonist or other circumstance deprives a character of a lower-level need, the character will revert down to that need and pursue it.

Russell’s Theory

The British philosopher Bertrand Russell discussed motivations (calling them desires) in his 1950 speech accepting the Nobel Prize in Literature. He focused on the motivations of political leaders, because these, he thought, influenced human history the most. If you include a political leader in your fiction, Russell’s thoughts may interest you.

The philosopher named four major desires of political leaders—acquisitiveness, rivalry, vanity, and love of power. Put another way:

  • acquisitiveness = I want your stuff
  • rivalry = I want to surpass you
  • vanity = I want you to worship me
  • love of power = I want to control you

As Maslow did, Russell put his list of desires in a specific order, but in a more negative way. Perhaps an inverted pyramid makes more sense, for he ordered his group by strength. He rated acquisitiveness the weakest and love of power the strongest.

Moreover, he considered these needs insatiable. Like a snowball rolling downhill, the more you feed any of those needs, the bigger they get. No satisfied contentment awaits at the end.

Combining the Theories

Despite the differing approaches, I see parallels between Maslow’s positive list and Russell’s negative one. Acquisitiveness connects to Psychological and Safety needs—both concern material things and feeling secure. Rivalry connects to Belonging and Esteem—both concern relating with others. Vanity also connects to Esteem as well—both concern how the character is seen by others. Love of Power connects to both Esteem and Self-Actualization—both concern the achievement of full potential through creativity.

It’s Complicated

Perhaps, in trying to categorize and group motivations, both Maslow and Russell oversimplified matters. Humans exhibit a wide array of motivations, not just the ones listed by those two thinkers. Your fictional characters may act out of any motivation you choose, from an infinite list.

As you create characters, you may find Maslow’s pyramid and Russell’s list useful as a starting point. Feel free to add nuance and variation when determining what drives your characters.

Whatever my own motivation, concluding this blogpost is the immediate goal of—

Poseidon’s Scribe

Is it Really About Who You Know?

In the fiction writing business, how much depends on what you know and how much on who you know? (Yes, English teachers, I know that should be ‘whom.’ Sorry.)

In a recent post, poet Damiana Andonova discussed the importance of establishing and maintaining a network of useful contacts to help your writing career. That caused me to wonder about the what-you-know/who-you-know dichotomy as it applies to fiction writing. The age-old conundrum exists for people in all fields, of course, but I’ll limit my discussion to authors.

Generated at www.perchance.org

The who-you-know method conjures the image of hitching your wagon to a star. Poet Ralph Waldo Emerson coined that phrase, though he meant something different from aligning yourself with an up-and-comer so you can rise. I’m referring to that modern interpretation.  

Who You Know

Advocates of this school believe in the power of networking. Where’s the value in writing amazing prose if the right editors never see it? You can learn so much by connecting with other writers, editors, and agents. Not only learn, but—let’s face it—editors and agents would rather not take a chance on a fresh unknown, and would prefer to work with someone they know and can depend on. The sooner you become that someone, the sooner your writing career will succeed.

Those who hold this view contend that all famous writers, every one of them, established and maintained a strong relationship with one or more editors, agents, and publishers. How could a writer become famous without that?

What You Know

Adherents of this school believe everything starts with what you know. Unless you write well first, you’ll never form the network at all. No agent or editor will champion a writer who crafts low-quality prose, and they won’t stick with a skilled, one-book writer after the pitcher of creative juice runs dry.

Hone the craft, they say. Put your effort into churning out product. If you write it, they will come. Yes, famous writers can point to a network, but they didn’t become famous without a lot of readers, and readers want good writing.

Taken to Extremes

You may stretch both views too far. A who-you-know writer may schmooze and flatter while dashing off mediocre drivel. A what-you-know writer may scribble in the basement by candlelight, generating wondrous masterpieces that crumble to dust, unread. Neither extreme appeals to me.

The Elusive Balance

A compromise seems the wise course. But where’s the balancing point? To be specific, what percentage of time should a writer devote to writing versus networking?

On a line segment with ‘who you know’ at one end and ‘what you know’ at the other, the optimum point between them will present a problem no matter where it lies. In general, extrovert writers enjoy networking and introverts hate it.

As with many other areas of life, success requires leaving your comfort zone and enduring the distasteful but necessary tasks.

Worse, I suspect the optimal balance point varies from writer to writer, and even shifts over time. In other words, you have to find your own optimum, and wherever it is, you won’t like it. Even if you learn to accept it, it will move somewhere else on the line to a place you won’t like.

Don’t Get Me Wrong

I mean no disrespect toward Damiana Andonova and am not criticizing the points she made in her blogpost. I’m delighted she found success. She attributes a good part of that to networking, and no doubt she’s right. I suspect she writes marvelous poetry, though, and therefore what she knew played a role as well.

My Own Balance

Though I scribble in the basement by candlelight, I must acknowledge the people in my own network. The employees at Gypsy Shadow Publishing and Pole to Pole Publishing as well as several editors at other publishers have been of enormous help to me. I’m grateful to them all.

Each of those stars has towed the wagon of—

Poseidon’s Scribe