On Speculative Fiction, Part 4: How to Exposit Naturally

Throughout time, storytellers have had a great desire for exposition; and they have attempted to solve the problem in manifold ways.

In fact, if you were to trace how different authors in different periods of time dealt with the problem of exposition—a gross, and frankly unnatural process—you would be left with a fairly accurate overview of the history of literature. If you doubt this, I would suggest you compare how Homer introduces Achilles in The Iliad with how Cormac McCarthy introduces the father in The Road. 

So, while it would be quite bold—and possibly avant garde—to begin your next novel thusly, “Sing, O Muse, of the anxiety of Waldo, the computer programmer, son of Frank…” etc., I’m not quite sure it would fly. 

So, while it would be quite bold—and possibly avant garde— to begin your next novel thusly, “Sing, O Muse, of the anxiety of Waldo, the computer programmer, son of Frank…” etc., I’m not quite sure it would fly. 

It wouldn't, in fact. These days, a character’s character—or their “backstory”—should be unveiled to the reader unobtrusively. Indeed, revealing character is not simply about filling in masses of backstory. Most of a character’s “biography” is best left behind in the notes or outlines an author makes as they build their story. In other words, exposition should not interfere with the story as it is told; it must be done naturally.

This is the trouble. “Natural” opportunities for exposition come along rarely in the telling of a good story, just as they come along rarely in a person’s life. Just a moment’s reflection is enough to tell you that this is true. Ask yourself: how often, on any given day, do you tell other people your life story? 

For almost everyone, the answer is: very rarely.

But, of course, a character's backstory, or their personal history, is not the only kind of exposition there is. As I’ve written about in the previous articles in this series, in the case of speculative fiction—of which science-fiction and fantasy are the two most important subcategories—it is incumbent upon the author to explain the circumstances of the world they have created. 

“Natural” opportunities for exposition come along rarely in the telling of a good story, just as they come along rarely in a person’s life. Just a moment’s reflection is enough to tell you that this is true. Ask yourself: how often, on any given day, do you tell other people your life story? 

But again, for most people, it would be extremely unusual to do this; it would be downright anti-social. 

Think about it. How often do you find yourself explaining to others the mechanics of the laws of physics on Earth? Or the political history of whatever country you live in, which has brought you and your peers to this particular moment in time? Or why humans love their dogs or cats (who could be said to be a kind of “sidekick”)?

Once again, the answer is: very rarely. 

But these are the precisely sorts of questions that we demand of authors of speculative fiction answer. So, how does the author of speculative fiction answer these questions? Well, theoretically, it’s quite simple. 

Authors must strive to disclose these explanations—this exposition—as naturally they would come up in a regular lived experience; in others words, as opposed to including them in a “speech,” a philosophical treatise, or a kind of Socratic dialectic. 

Authors of science-fiction and fantasy must be very mindful to avoid such “speechmaking.” First off, by putting all of the expository information in a single place, you run the risk of having your readers over-look important aspects of the world, which they must know, in order to understand the story. 

But more importantly, these sort of speeches come off as unrealistic. As mentioned, very few people speak in speeches or in dialectics; it would come off as slow, flat and dense, at the very least, excessively earnest. 

This problem often occurs near the beginning of the book, since I believe authors feel like they have to explain the context of the story, and this is rather easy to do in dialogue. But yet, readers see right through this kind of exposition. It just doesn’t sound natural. 

Consider this dialogue in the early pages in a novel about the mafia.

“I don’t ask questions that I already know the answer to. It makes me look stupid and I don’t like looking stupid. Especially not in front of my father. You think I’m a tough guy? Try telling Old Mal something he don’t wanna hear. I ain’t done it in years and I don’t plan to anytime soon.” Paulie sat back down at the table. “I already told you he’d say no. So, now if I ask him and tell you he said no, you wouldn’t really believe me that I asked him, would you?”

“Ah, I don’t know, Paulie.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’d prefer you just asked him. You’re his family, you’ll get the point across better.”

“Family?” said Paulie, his eyebrows raised. “My uncle was family too. Haven’t seen him around for a while, have we?” Jimmy stared at his feet uncomfortably.

“Alright Jimmy, look. I got an idea. You do a job for us, and you can stop making payments.”

Jimmy’s face screwed up. “You want me to do a job for the mob? What could I possibly do that you couldn’t do yourselves?”

Find other ways to convey context. Better than dialogue, I would have context come while Jimmy is thinking about some topic that’s on his mind. But don’t give context so forthrightly; rather, have it appear as a kind of by-product of Jimmy’s other thoughts. You should assume that there reader is more sophisticated than you currently do.

As an aside, while obviously Jimmy isn’t a mobster, this part made me think: Do mobsters call the mob, “the mob”? It reminded me of that scene in one of the first episodes of The Sopranos where Meadow Soprano asks her father Tony if he’s in the mafia. To which he replies, “there is no mafia.”

In your own life, take some time and really listen to people speak. As a kind of writing exercise, listen and write down some actual conversations you have with people. Or perhaps, go out to a local cafe (or wherever) and listen in on other people’s conversations, and than write it down. I think this might help. (In any event, it might be sort of fun!)

In your own life, take some time and really listen to people speak. As a kind of writing exercise, listen and write down some actual conversations you have with people. Or perhaps, go out to a local cafe (or wherever) and listen in on other people’s conversations, and than write it down. I think this might help. (In any event, it might be sort of fun!)

This lack of realism is likely to turn a reader off. In cases such as these, characters cease to be “human”; instead, they become mouthpieces of their authors, conduits through which their ideas are put forward. Indeed, like a human being, a character has emotions; they feel fear, anger, pity, and everything else.

Now, plenty of brilliant science-fiction contains such “speechmaking," but this is of the classic, or classical variety. Think of almost anything H.G. Wells wrote, or even a dialogue of Plato (many of which are kinds of “proto” science fiction and fantasy… Again, if you doubt this, I would consider re-reading Aristophanes’ speech on the creation of love in The Symposium). But, these days, you can’t get away with that; the genre is far too developed. 

Much better to add this information naturally. Expanding aspects of a character’s character and world is the way to get there. So, write fewer “speeches.” And make your dialogue snappier in general.