N.B.

Let’s say you start out to write a story about an Evil Radical Republican, because it happens that you are a liberal and are sick of all this shit that’s been going on. Well, if you write with attention and open-mindedness (and these are, or can be, craft-based things . . .) then you will soon find there is no such thing as an Evil Radical Republican. There are people we may call that, or who may call themselves that, but once you leave the superficial plane, no — no such thing. Or, another way of saying this: Leaving your character as just that is going to make a very boring story. So you look deeper. And you find that this guy you thought was an ERR, is actually, you know, "Hal." Hal has hobbies. He used to have a stutter, maybe. He has amorous fantasies about a Swiss girl in braids who, as he imagines her, shyly plays with one braid while they walk down, inexplicably, Hal’s street in Des Moines. You find, in other words — as you must, that Hal is — crikey! — a manifestation of You. Where else could he come from? Which leads to another realization: You and Hal are not — cannot — be that different. He is not unimaginable. You could get to Hal from where you are. That, to me, is compassion in a nutshell.

— George Saunders, Interviewed by Roy Kesey at Maud Newton.

Comments

[R J Keefe]

Hmmm. Not sure that "compassion" would be my word for the process; "imagination" seems better. And it only works one way. Just because a writer can imagine Hal, that doesn't mean that Hal can return the favor, or would care to. And that would make a very big difference between any two people, real or fictional.

[Er...Hal]

R J -

Imagination is the mother of compassion, though presumably it can be put to other uses as well - political dirty tricks and masturbation spring to mind.

Of course compassion is one way. Luckily, it's fairly contagious.

Hopefully yours,

Hal