Writing is like performing magic in a way --
Writing utilizes misdirection -- sometimes a misinterpretation of facts, or an unreliable witness, or an ambiguity can draw the reader's mind away from an early conclusion.
Sometimes the omission of one sentence can conceal the plot twist from the reader. Agatha Christie does this well in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, where the narrator leaves out important actions he has performed.
A hint should not be too obvious, too direct, too revealing. In effect, they're like the baffling prophecy in Oedipus Rex, where we can't see how Oedipus is going to kill his father and wed his mother until it unfolds.
At the same time, the misdirection can't be an outright falsehood, unless that falsehood is in the hands of an unreliable narrator or witness. The writer cannot lie; the characters can lie, or misinterpret, or make mistakes.
I was reminded of this yesterday when editing Whose Hearts are Mountains, because my developmental editor noted that I made something too obvious to readers who would have read my other work. How to make it less obvious? At one place, keeping silent. At another, misdirecting. Making things less obvious at another.
I feel like a magician when I can do this, knowing that words are as concrete or wispy as I need them to be.
Originally posted November 9, 2019
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