May 23, 2022
How to Create Patterns in Literature
Can you imagine a narrative without patterns? A novel where each scene, chapter, or other division is more or less independent from the rest? Well, I wish I could say “me neither”, but I’m afraid I’ve seen such awful novels. Which is precisely why I know they should be avoided at all costs. To create patterns in literature is to create cohesion and symbolic depth, all while favoring non-linear narratives.
Briefly, patterns in literature are creative repetitions that produce meaning precisely as a result of their repetition. We’ll examine this in more detail, with examples, but the key takeaway is this: Patterns in literature are about adding affective impact to your narrative.
So let’s take an in-depth but accessible look at how to create patterns. I’ll first explain what patterns are and what effect they create, then I’ll offer you a practical guide.
What Patterns in Literature Are
First of all, a disclaimer: I dislike the heading. Though I’d argue I’ve earned the right to refer to myself as a literature specialist, I certainly don’t have the prerogative of defining terms in some objective manner. When I refer to what patterns in literature “are”, the phrase “as I see it” should always accompany the statement. I omit it for simplicity’s sake.
With this out of the way, patterns in literature are a kind of repetition. However, there’s a crucial element here. As I mentioned in the introduction, this repetition has to be creative and meaningful, and this meaning must be precisely a result of the repetition.
For example, a narrative with a repetitive vocabulary (e.g. constantly using the word “Nonetheless”) wouldn’t count as a pattern. It would be neither creative, nor meaningful – though take a look at “Patterns of Language”, below, for an important exception.
Here’s an example of a repetition that would be creative but not meaningful: A fantasy fiction novel, set in a context reminiscent of the Middle Ages, using modern-day slang – say, a knight telling his servants “Howdy” every morning. It’s certainly creative, but meaningless – unless it were somehow justified by the plot (say, time-travel was involved). Still, I’d consider it forced.
Instead, let’s take a look at some more elaborate examples that fulfill the three major elements creative repetitions in literature must display. I’ll list them once again for convenience:
- Patterns in literature must be creative.
- They must also be meaningful.
- This meaning must be a result of the repetition itself.
This last point in particular is subtle, so let’s see all this in more detail.
Patterns of Characters
We’ll start with characters, because patterns in literature often materialize through characters. It’s the well-known motif of the double.
Think of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in the eponymous novel, Lucy and Mina in Dracula, or indeed… Mulder and Scully in the X-Files. You have two characters that somehow echo each other – either because they are similar or because they are different; this is important to notice. As a result of this echo, the reader pays attention to certain things that assign meaning to the narrative that, otherwise, would be either absent or harder to discern.
If we took Dracula as an example, Lucy is often portrayed as wild, careless, a bit too free for a “proper” Victorian woman, whereas Mina as the epitome of chastity, purity, and ladylike manner. Of course the novel’s outcome – Coppola’s adaptation more explicitly – forces us to question such dichotomies. And we do so precisely because of the two women’s echoing behavior and thought processes.
Therefore, we see that all three requirements are fulfilled: the repetition is creative, it creates meaning, and it’s precisely because of the repetition that there is meaning.
Patterns of Plot
Literary patterns can also develop as a result of the plot itself. This might even be more likely to occur, or perhaps it’s easier to discern.
The typical setup includes a secondary plot that somehow mirrors the primary one, perhaps offering a twist of the theme. The repetition forces the reader to consider something that would otherwise pass unnoticed.
There are plenty of examples of this expression, so I leave it as a little exercise to you to recall a couple. Doing so, remember the key requirements: i) The repetition must be creative and meaningful, and ii) the meaning must be a result of the repetition.
Patterns of Language
Instead, let’s take a look at something a little less usual. It’s also a bit ironic, because it’s likely the easiest to see – at least in terms of spotting the repetition; meaning might be a more complicated aspect of it.
In patterns based on language, the aspect of meaning is effectively outsourced to the reader. Though of course readers always participate in the creation of meaning, here this becomes very lopsided. Readers have to literally create meaning for something that, though obviously meaningful (because of how easy it is to spot), it resists a clear explanation of this meaning.
This is tricky and subtle, but it’s also very powerful. Well worth noticing.
Remember what we said earlier, about repetitions of vocabulary? For example, beginning every other sentence with “Nonetheless” is repetitive but not creatively so.
Though how about if these repetitions were made in a way that actually did have meaning?
A masterful example is Bae Suah’s Untold Night and Day which, according to the description, is a story of “doubles, shadows, and parallel worlds”. Though some of that is a result of what we’d call repetitions of plot and characters, many of the affective reasons must be sought in language.
When Patterns Are Literature
The novel is replete with descriptions that are memorable enough to notice when they echo – a face described as full of smallpox scars, skinny calves, a letter signaling a separation, and a ton of other details (with some delightful metatextual echoes, referring to novels that repeat themselves) create a narrative that is like an echo chamber of one’s imagination. It’s, quite literally, dream-like.
These repetitions are creative – for reasons that evade definitions and even description; quite simply, one has to read the novel to properly appreciate them. They are also meaningful – relying on the general context of the novel, as a story of “doubles, shadows, and parallel words”. And it’s precisely their repetition that renders them so (otherwise, there’s absolutely nothing special about them).
In a way, patterns are the story.
For another example of patterns in literature using language – and now I’m again blowing my own trumpet – I could also refer to the beginning chapter of The Perfect Gray. Feel free to read it on Amazon’s free preview – or email me for a free, no-strings-attached digital copy – and notice the repetitions. What do they mean for Hecate, the protagonist?
Creating Patterns in Literature: a Practical Guide
In more practical terms, what can you do to ensure your narrative displays patterns? Or perhaps, first of all, we should ask: Is there a reason why a novel should not have any patterns?
I must admit, I find it difficult to imagine that a novel would have few or no patterns. The nature of our experiences is such that patterns are what we rely on for meaning. You’d have to try – really hard – to create a novel without patterns. And it’d be something very experimental.
And so, it’s more a question of, How do we create intelligent patterns in literature?
A Brief Checklist
As always, this will depend on a variety of things – from genre to your authorial style and the peculiarities of your particular plot. But the list below could be a good start:
- Identify the concepts of your narrative. Everything in your story revolves around them, and patterns are no exception.
- What kind of repetitions would be suitable for your work? Characters? Plot? Language? To an extent the answer is “all of the above”, but certain kinds of works favor certain patterns more. Gothic and psychological thriller novels will likely favor characters and plot, whereas literary fiction and experimental fiction will favor language.
- Remember the requirements: Repetitions should be creative, meaningful, and meaningful because of the repetition. The good news is, these usually go together. If you manage to be creative and come up with a genuinely interesting repetition, chances are, it will also be meaningful as a result of its mere existence. Perhaps it’s a character looking at a mirror and having certain discussions with themselves. Perhaps it’s a mundane object becoming defamiliarized in different ways. Or maybe it’s a certain peculiar word or phrase.
Literature is More than the Sum of Its Parts
In the end, we have to remember something powerful about art and literature: It’s more than a sum of its parts. It is quite literally about things that aren’t in the story – think about that for a moment.
As a writer, you create a set of dynamics that forces the reader to re-member (as in, re-imagine; re-create) an experience that might or might not be unique to them – solely as a result of reading your work. This is powerful stuff.
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“Can you imagine a narrative without patterns? A novel where each scene, chapter, or other division is more or less independent from the rest? Well, I wish I could say “me neither”, but I’m afraid I’ve seen such awful novels.”
I’ve quoted this because I have a problem with the novel I am working on now. It does have independent chapters (20 at the moment) that are all subplots in different towns, each one is a story that highlights a philosophical and ethical principle. Each of them are very important and shows different aspects of social interdependence. They are related on a very basic premise on which the novel is built. However, at this point I am struggling with the overall ‘arc’ of the novel, something that the reader can follow toward some end that (s)he can root for, anticipate, dread of happening. Without this arc, the book, at least for me, would not be enjoyable, I would most probably stop reading it. If I wanted to read a collection of essays, I wouldn’t pick up a novel for that purpose.
Now, I don’t know how this question fits into the theory of “pattern” this blog is talking about, but the quoted sentence resonated with me as something that might be in common.
Sometimes the connection is very subtle, predicated on an abstract concept. The first book coming to mind is Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino (link to my review of it), which isn’t a collection of short stories, yet its patterns demonstrate a certain opaqueness that is hard to penetrate.
Ultimately, it boils down to two things: Is the author (you, in this case) happy with the result and, if not, what is it that’s missing.
Part of the fun of writing is to build those patterns in – more than the average reader will notice – so different readers will perceive different subsets of the details – and still get the pattern.
I have a long list of sub-themes, and use different methods to bring them in. Some readers dislike prologues and won’t read them; they’ll miss a couple of connections there. Similarly with the chapter epigraphs – skip them if that’s how you read, but you’ll also miss almost an entire layer of the story – the outside reaction of the world, good and bad, and often inaccurately describing our main story. But read them, and you’ll be amused at how and why the press get things wrong, and feel like an insider.
Patterns of work, marriage, child-rearing, relationships with adult children – all examined from several different perspectives. How living through something informs future choices. Consequences that can’t be evaded. I especially like long connection threads, which you don’t fully understand until most of the pieces are presented. And then, pow.
Regarding noticing the patterns, I often follow the “high risk, high reward” approach: I like to include patterns that will most likely pass unnoticed but, when noticed by a well-above-average reader, they will feel particularly rewarding. It’s all speculative of course – it’s rare to hear back from people on such details – but still fun to imagine.
Which is one of the reasons I’m SO fond of my beta reader – almost none of those get by her. Very satisfying to know that a small select cohort ‘get’ me. Because I put them in for me, of course.
As a pantster, I discover the patterns I’ve included in the story after the fact, rather than before. There are, however, some patterns I do create at a conscious level, and they are all about the musicality of the prose. And no, I don’t mean purple prose. 😀 I mean the kind of prose that slips effortlessly off the tongue when read out loud. Sometimes that’s the difference between ‘out loud’ and ‘aloud’.
Breathing and reading are not the same, but the rhythm of a sentence or paragraph does translate from the auditory to the visual. Ultimately though, I prefer the Reader not to notice what I’ve done until maybe the end. Until then I want them to live in the world I’ve created. 🙂
Much of writing is subconscious, it’s quite a serendipitous discovery to find such patterns post-facto!
Agree! I have to admit though, that I did create one very small pattern after the fact. I didn’t publish the Innerscape trilogy until all three books were written, so I was able to go back and insert ‘the scent of lemon’ in a couple of places. Nothing earth shattering, but I felt it rounded out one of the characters.
If I ever come to finish and translate Look at the Sky, you’ll see a novel that seems to have no pattern until very late. The chapters are self-contained fragments of people’s days, translating to a patchwork, more than a novel. But a patchwork is woven together, just like a novel can be fit within front and back covers, and claimed to be one thing, despite its many identities (just like how we are forced to be named after one name on our ID, despite being “six thousand” — quoting Woolf’s Orlando).
Yeah, as I replied to Francis above, sometimes patterns can be very subtle. That doesn’t mean they’re not there. By the way, I must insist that you read Bae Suah’s Untold Night and Day, mentioned in the post. I have a feeling you’ll really like it.
Oh, I’ve got it as soon as I read it in the text. I find patterning in novels some of the most interesting aspects to study, and one of the most innovative ways of teaching creative writing. Rhythm is the defining trait of reading, and rhythms are patterns of movement, dialectical patterns of speed, of time itself. Characters are themselves rhythmic, and “rhythmying”, establishing rhythms, both in their direct speech, and in their appearances and disappearances, but also in their descriptions, in their effect on other characters, on other parts of the story structure. Words break off, and in their breaking off, they break the structure off.
100% agree! To discover patterns is to discover meaning – nay, creating it.