writing in style: pattern languages and writing short fiction

Writing in StylePattern Languages and Writing Short Fiction

Alex Mitchell and Kevin McGee

This article explores the problem of how to help peo-

ple write stories in a particular style. To examine some

of the issues that arise when creating and using a tool

that describes the features of the style, and that also

informs writers how to produce works in that style, we

have investigated the adaptation of pattern languages

(Alexander, Ishikawa, and Silverstein 1977) for purpos-

es of writing short fi ction. As part of our investigation,

we created a simple pattern language for short sto-

ries in the style of American author Raymond Carv-

er, looking specifi cally at the stories in his collection

What We Talk about When We Talk about Love (1989).

Then we conducted studies involving people using this

language to write short fi ction, testing our hypothesis

that pattern languages can be productively brought to

bear on the study of writing practices and, in particu-

lar, the practice of writing stories in a specifi c style.

storyworlds volume 3 2011140

The term style can be defi ned in many ways. According to Geoffrey

Leech and Mick Short, style refers to “linguistic choice in general” (1981:

32) or, in a more restricted sense, to “those aspects of linguistic choice

which concern alternative ways of rendering the same subject matter”

(31). When we refer to style in this article, however, we have in mind a

broader use of the term: what Carver describes as a writer’s “unique and

exact way of looking at things . . . the writer’s particular and unmistak-

able signature on everything he writes” (1986: 22). Seymour Chatman

characterizes this signature as “the constellation of idiosyncratic prac-

tices that distinguish the work of artists, [which] an audience experi-

enced in an artist’s work can recognize” (2001: 26). Given that an au-

thor’s style may change across the course of his or her career, we focus

specifi cally on Carver’s style as seen in What We Talk about When We

Talk about Love.

The remainder of the article is structured as follows. We present

a brief overview of related research on writing stories in a particular

style, followed by an explanation of how we derived a pattern lan-

guage from Carver’s fi ctional designs. We then discuss the specifi cs

of our study, showing how our characterization of Carver’s style as a

pattern language facilitated our efforts to help writers to adopt that

style in their own writing. We conclude by suggesting areas for further

exploration.

Related Research on Writing in Style

There are numerous writing guides that outline procedures or protocols

for writing stories. For example, “fi ctional truth” and “signifi cant detail”

are proposed by Tom Bailey (2001) as concepts crucial to the writing of

short fi ction. The notion of the “hero’s journey,” originally proposed by

Joseph Campbell (1949/2008), is applied by Christopher Vogler (2007)

to the Hollywood fi lm. The “Dramatica” methodology for writing sto-

ries that are classifi ed as “grand argument stories” gives details as to how

to plan such a story (Phillips and Huntley 2004). A detailed breakdown

of how to write in a style appropriate for a variety of genres is given by

H. Thomas Milhorn (2006). There has also been much work on the use

Mitchell & McGee: Pattern Languages and Short Fiction 141

of imitation to help writers explore style (Loux 1987; Delbanco 2003; Geist 2004). Finally, in perhaps the most concrete set of guidelines, Je-rome Stern (1991) provides a collection of pattern-like “shapes” for au-thors to follow.

In this article, however, we propose a more systematic approach to the study of issues that arise when people are asked to write in a partic-ular style. Here we focus on the creation and use of “design patterns” for story writing. Design patterns were originally developed by Christopher Alexander and his colleagues for use in architecture (Alexander, Ishika-wa, and Silverstein 1977; Alexander 1979) but have since been adapted to various other design fi elds, such as interaction design (Borchers 2001; Tidwell 2005), game design (Björk, Lundgren, and Holopainen 2003), and software engineering (Gamma et al. 1995). Design patterns can be used to specify and create artifacts in a particular style. We have adapted patterns to the writing of short fi ction in order to study what their use can reveal about helping people write in a specifi c style—and what it

reveals about patterns as possible aids.

Design Patterns

Design patterns are both a way of capturing design knowledge and a

process for using that design knowledge. Each pattern describes a prob-

lem that repeatedly occurs within the lived environment. It then de-

scribes the core of the solution to that problem, while at the same time

allowing for a wide variety of possible ways of instantiating a solution

to the problem. The solution describes the “fi eld of physical and social

relationships which are required to solve the stated problem, in the stat-

ed context” (Alexander, Ishikawa, and Silverstein 1977: xi). This solution

takes the form of an instruction, something that you can do to solve the

problem at hand.

To identify a pattern, Alexander (1979) suggests that you start with

a place that “feels right.” First, you must identify a physical feature that

is worth abstracting. You also need to defi ne the purpose of the pattern.

The next step is to determine the fi eld of forces that the pattern brings

into balance. You can do this by looking at examples that seem to con-

tain the pattern, or by considering what happens if the pattern isn’t


present. Finally, you must determine the contexts where these forces ex-

ist and where the pattern of physical relationships that you have identi-

fi ed will bring these forces into balance. This context states where the

pattern makes sense, and where it does not make sense.

Patterns are not isolated entities but instead form part of a pattern

language. This pattern language is presented as a sequence, with each

pattern given a number representing its position in the linear sequence,

in order from largest to smallest. In addition, each pattern “completes”

a set of larger patterns and is “completed by” a set of smaller patterns.

The connections between a pattern and those that it completes, and

those that complete it form a second structure, a network, which is in-

tended to help someone who is using the pattern language to under-

stand the dependencies among the patterns.

When using a pattern language for a design task, the fi rst thing that

the designer needs to do is select a sublanguage that matches the re-

quirements of the design problem. This is done by looking through the

patterns, in sequence, and identifying the fi rst pattern that is both rele-

vant to the design problem and that the designer may actually infl uence

in some way. The designer then follows the “completed by” links from

the fi rst pattern to subsequent patterns, choosing to include those pat-

terns that appear to be relevant to the design problem.

After selecting a sublanguage, the designer can then start using the

language to design and build the environment. Alexander (1979) states

that patterns are to be considered one by one, in sequence, as deter-

mined during the selection of the sublanguage. He claims that the se-

quencing of the patterns from largest to smallest will ensure that as the

designer moves from pattern to pattern, there will not be any need to

go back and make extensive changes that confl ict with earlier decisions.

Despite the need to consider each pattern in its entirety, without skip-

ping ahead to later patterns, Alexander suggests that the designer needs

to consider the patterns that complete the current pattern. This allows

the designer to roughly envision how the pattern fi ts into the larger

context and how smaller patterns will eventually fi t within it. He also

stresses the need to work “on site”—in the case of a building, actually at

the location where the building will be constructed.


Methodology for Our Analysis

To investigate the use of patterns as a way of specifying how to write

short fi ction in a particular style, we carried out a three-step process:

develop the patterns, refi ne the patterns based on consultation with

readers, and observe the use of the patterns by writers.

To derive our pattern language, we compared six of Carver’s sto-

ries from the collection What We Talk about When We Talk about Love

(1989): “Popular Mechanics,” “Why Don’t You Dance?” “I Could See the

Smallest Things,” “Viewfi nder,” “Mr. Coffee and Mr. Fixit,” and “One

More Thing.” These stories where chosen due to their distinctive style

and their similar length. Having come up with a set of patterns based

on these stories, we wrote our own story, iteratively refi ning the story

and our patterns.

Following this step, we further refi ned the patterns by having thir-

teen participants come in and discuss our patterns in the context of

two Carver stories plus our story. Participants were all current or for-

mer students from the National University of Singapore. The partici-

pants were fi rst asked to read three short stories: two Carver stories and

the story written using the patterns as described above. They were then

shown the patterns and asked to give comments on them. They were

asked to rank which story they felt had the most evidence of the pat-

terns, and which had the least. Next they were asked to go through each

story and show the researcher where they saw the patterns. They were

also asked to describe how they would bring the story with the least evi-

dence of the patterns into closer alignment with the patterns. During

this fi nal part of the study the participants were encouraged to refl ect

on those patterns and make suggestions as to how to improve them. Af-

ter this study we revised the patterns, which we used for the next study.

Finally, we had eighteen participants, working in pairs, use the pat-

terns to write their own short stories. Initially the participants were

shown the patterns and asked to read them. Then they were asked to

discuss what they thought the patterns meant, and what they thought

they had to do to write a story instantiating each pattern. Next partici-

pants were asked to write a one-page short story using our pattern lan-


guage. They were given an hour to write their story and were reminded

of the time at the thirty-minute and forty-fi ve-minute marks. We em-

phasized that the story need not be polished but should be considered a

fi rst draft. Participants were given an initial scenario, “a couple is wait-

ing for a bus at a bus-stop.” Participants were asked to write their story

in Microsoft Word. Following Alexander’s (1979) process, they were

asked to consider each pattern, in order, and to indicate when they were

fi nished with that pattern and only then move on to the next pattern. A

checklist of the patterns was provided on-screen, and participants were

asked to check off the patterns as they completed them.

Rather than explicitly requesting that participants use a think-aloud

protocol, we relied on the discussion between the partners in each pair

of writers as a source of information about their intentions and use of

the patterns. In addition, the writers were occasionally probed as to

their intentions and how they were using the patterns. Audio-recorded

exchanges and on-screen actions were captured for later analysis. After

they fi nished writing the story, the participants were asked some follow-

up questions to further probe their use of the patterns. In particular,

they were asked whether they were clear on how to use the patterns,

whether the patterns were understandable, and how they would im-

prove the patterns. They were also asked to take us through their story

and show us how they had used the patterns.

A Pattern Language for “Carver” Short Stories

Following our analysis of the six Carver stories, use of the patterns in

our own story, and consultation with readers, we had the following set

of patterns:

1. Exaggerated Aspect of an Everyday Situation

A story needs to have a recognizable situation or setting. How-

ever, the situation or setting also needs to be able to catch the

reader’s attention and interest.

Therefore: use an everyday situation or setting for the story, but

exaggerate by overemphasizing, or giving characters an extreme

reaction to, some aspect of that situation.


2. Increasing Exaggeration

A story must have some element of confl ict, feeling of menace,

or sense of imminent danger, which will encourage the reader to

keep reading.

Therefore: further increase or emphasize the previously estab-

lished exaggeration to create a sense of confl ict and menace.

3. Actions That Speak For Themselves

The confl ict in the story should be clear to the reader. However,

explicitly stating this confl ict will make the story feel too simplistic.

Therefore: throughout the story, directly show characters’ ac-

tions, and the associated confl ict, without giving explicit details of

the underlying motivations or reasons for the actions and confl ict.

4. Confl ict About Something Else

Readers like to think that they understand what a story is about,

but also like to be given the impression that there is more to the

story than can be seen on the surface.

Therefore: show the main characters to be in confl ict over or ob-

sessed about something specifi c, other than what they are really in

confl ict or obsessed about. Indicate at some point that the confl ict

is about something other than what appears to be the case.

5. Confl ict Resolved But Not Explained

Readers want stories to come to an ending, and for the confl ict

to be resolved. However, they also want to be given some sense of

ambiguity and space for interpretation.

Therefore: suggest that the central confl ict in the story is re-

solved but do not comment too explicitly on the nature of or basis

for that confl ict.

The question of the order of the patterns became an issue during our

study. Participants tended to treat the patterns as if they followed the

sequence of the text. After working with the third group of writers, we

decided to emphasize a top-down rather than a sequential ordering in

the patterns. The patterns were revised such that the fi rst pattern sets

out the confl ict, the second defi nes the resolution, the third and fourth

detail the exaggeration, and the fi nal pattern states how actions should

be shown. The resulting patterns were as follows:


1. Layers of Interpersonal Confl ict

Readers like to think that they understand what a story is about,

but also like to be given the impression that there is more to the

story than can be seen on the surface.

Therefore: introduce two levels of interpersonal confl ict be-

tween the main characters: a surface confl ict which is made clear to

the reader, and a different, underlying confl ict which is not explic-

itly made clear to the reader.

2. Resolution, But Only On the Surface

Readers want stories to reach an ending, and for the confl ict to

be resolved. However, they also want to be given some sense of am-

biguity and space for interpretation.

Therefore: clearly resolve the surface confl ict at the end of the

story, but leave it unclear whether or how the underlying confl ict

has been resolved.

3. Exaggerated Aspect of an Everyday Situation

A story needs to have a recognizable situation or setting. How-

ever, the situation or setting also needs to be able to catch the

reader’s attention and interest, and begin to introduce the sense of

confl ict.

Therefore: use an everyday situation or setting for the story, but

exaggerate by overemphasizing, or giving characters an extreme

reaction to, some aspect of that situation.

4. Increasing Exaggeration

A story must have some element of confl ict, feeling of men-

ace, or sense of imminent danger, which will build towards the

conclusion.

Therefore: further increase or emphasize the previously

established exaggeration to build up the confl ict between the main

characters.

5. Actions That Speak For Themselves

The surface confl ict in the story should be clear to the reader.

However, explicitly stating the underlying confl ict will make the

story feel too simplistic, and remove any ambiguity.

Therefore: throughout the story, directly show characters’

actions, and the associated surface-level confl ict, without giving


explicit details of the underlying confl ict or the reasons for their

actions.

In the following discussion, the two sets of patterns just described

are referred to as the original and revised patterns, respectively.

Using Patterns to Write Stories

We now discuss the results of our study of writers using the pattern lan-guage, beginning with the ways in which the participants in our study used the patterns to write stories and then moving on to the implica-tions of these observations for attempts to design usable tools to help people write short fi ction in a specifi c style. The three main issues that we have identifi ed are confusion regarding the sequential use of pat-terns, writers expressing a preferred order for the patterns, and writers’ tendency to revise, later in the writing process, decisions based on ear-lier patterns.

One key observation is that writers expressed confusion regarding the notion of sequence in the use of the patterns, and how this sequence relates to the sequence of the text that they were writing.

Sequence is an important concept in patterns. Patterns are intended to be ordered in terms of scale, such that each pattern is “completed” by other patterns that are “smaller” than the patterns that they complete. This notion of scale encapsulates the “context” of a pattern. When a pattern language is created, the position of the pattern in the language, the boundaries between different patterns, and decisions about which patterns complete other patterns follow from and also reinforce judg-ments about contexts for a given pattern. Similarly, sensitivity to con-text allows designers to avoid using patterns that are in confl ict with, or contradicted by, patterns they use later to complete the task at hand.

When creating our patterns, we kept Alexander’s (1979) notion of scale in mind, and planned the patterns such that each pattern “com-pletes” the previous pattern in terms of the steps involved in planning the story. Participants in the study, however, frequently perceived the se-quence of the patterns as corresponding to the sequence in which the

patterns were to appear in the text. As participants went through the

patterns, they tended to work through the text of their story sequential-


ly. Whether or not they actually wrote the text of the story at the same

time that they were engaged in planning, they all mapped the patterns

to sequentially arranged fragments of the text.

As there seemed to be a tension between the way the patterns had

been designed and the way the writers perceived them, we decided to

rethink our sequencing of the patterns. Looking at the original pattern

language, which started with exaggeration, followed by an increase in

exaggeration, actions that speak for themselves, and then the confl ict

and its resolution, we felt that there may have been a “text sequence”

bias to the patterns. To remedy this potential problem, we reordered

the patterns to more explicitly follow a “top-down” approach. Sessions

from group 4 onward used the new pattern language.

Despite the change to the pattern language, participants still tend-

ed to assume that the patterns would appear in sequence in the text.

For example, writers in group 4, working with the revised patterns, as-

sumed that the fi rst block of text that they were writing needed to cor-

respond to the fi rst pattern. Given this assumption, they complained

that it was diffi cult to follow the order of patterns since the resolution

of the confl ict, represented by the second pattern, “Resolution, But Only

On The Surface,” seemed to come before the exaggeration. When asked

if they normally develop their ideas following the sequence of the text,

they said that they do not—they usually plan everything fi rst. Interest-

ingly, planning in a top-down manner is exactly how the revised pat-

terns were intended to be used. When told that “Layers Of Interpersonal

Confl ict” and “Resolution, But Only On the Surface” were intended to

represent the overall story, with the details to be fi lled in by “Exagger-

ated Aspect of an Everyday Situation” and “Increasing Exaggeration,”

the group tried to follow this approach. However, they claimed that

they felt the process was still very much tied to the sequence of the text.

When questioned further about this matter, the participants indicated

that the “checklist” we had asked them to use as they composed the pat-

terns made it feel as though they had to complete each pattern together

with a portion of text, as they moved linearly through the story.

Given these diffi culties, it is worth considering the various ways in

which narrative texts are “sequential.” There is a chronological sequence

of events within what Chatman (1978) calls the story. There is also the


sequence of presentation of events (not necessarily in chronological or-

der) as actually conveyed in the discourse. An author, in thinking about

a text, may be considering either or both of these sequences. In addi-

tion, while the actual act of writing the text is inherently sequential, an

overall text may not necessarily be written in sequence from start to fi n-

ish. The complex sequential nature of a narrative text is quite differ-

ent from a building, which is a spatial structure. As such, there is no

concept of “sequence” to the building itself. For Alexander’s (1979) pat-

terns as applied to architecture, it is fairly straightforward to consider

patterns in the order given. For a story, the author is easily confused

by the many different notions of “sequence” within a narrative work.

It isn’t clear from our observations in this study whether the problems

encountered by writers related to the sequence of the patterns can be

solved by simply modifying the instructions for the use of patterns such

that those instructions take into account the complexities of sequence

in a narrative work, or whether there is something inherently different

about narrative that makes the use of patterns problematic. In any case,

patterns have a structure that is sequential and top-down, and they can

also be used in a particular sequence; hence the challenge of bringing

patterns to bear on narrative, which is itself sequential in complex ways.

This as an important and problematic issue, one that warrants further

investigation.

In addition to the problems related to the notion of “sequence” with-

in the pattern language, some participants also stated that they had a

preferred or customary way of writing a story that did not match the

order set out in the patterns. In particular, participants who had expe-

rience writing stories were vocal about their “normal” way of writing.

When asked, both groups 2 and 3, who were working with the origi-

nal version of the pattern language, were insistent that “confl ict” need-

ed to be introduced in the fi rst pattern. In contrast, writers in group

6, who were working with the revised patterns where confl ict was the

fi rst pattern, mentioned that they felt “Exaggerated Aspect of an Every-

day Situation” should come fi rst. Interestingly, they said this preference

was based on their primary school lessons, in which they were taught

to write stories in the following order: setting, character, confl ict, ris-

ing tension, resolution. In group 6 the group members were not experi-


enced writers but were still able to articulate their own, preexisting no-

tion of the “correct” order for the patterns.

To explore whether patterns should enforce a specifi c order or se-

quence, writers in groups 7 and 9 were told to use the patterns in any

order they chose. In both cases participants spent some time discussing

which order to use. Participants in group 7 began with pattern 1, “Layers

of Interpersonal Confl ict.” However, they started adding pattern 3, “Ex-

aggerated Aspect of an Everyday Situation,” while still working on pat-

tern 1. When the investigator mentioned this, they immediately checked

off pattern 1 and moved on to pattern 3. Having moved on to pattern 3,

the participants seemed to be stuck for some time, unable to fi gure out

what to do. They continued to jump between patterns, often not really

completing a pattern before moving on. Similarly, writers in group 9

initially debated whether they should start with pattern 1 or pattern 3.

Eventually they started with pattern 3. However, once they started, they

became stuck, claiming that it wasn’t clear what they should exaggerate.

They mentioned that there was no confl ict, suggesting that they were

thinking ahead to pattern 1. In fact, they constantly seemed to be work-

ing on the solutions to other patterns and, as with group 7, tended to

jump around within the sequence of patterns.

In both cases where authors were allowed to choose the order in

which to use the patterns, the lack of a predetermined order for the pat-

terns seemed to cause problems for the authors. Patterns are intended

to be followed in order, to maintain context and to guard against de-

cisions that would later need to be revised due to the requirements of

subsequent patterns. For writers who did follow the order of our pat-

terns, the process seemed to work smoothly, despite their complaints.

In contrast, in the two sessions where we allowed the participants to

choose the order of the patterns, the participants had problems com-

pleting their stories. This suggests that the use of patterns in a given se-

quence is, as Alexander (1979) suggests, a crucial part of the process.

A third issue that arose was the tendency for participants to revise,

later in the writing process, their earlier implementations of patterns.

Writers generally followed the instructions given: to fi nish a pattern be-

fore moving on to the next pattern. However, there were times when

participants realized that they had not fully defi ned a solution to a pat-


tern, requiring them to go back to make revisions, either to their notes

or to the actual story text, when working on a later pattern.

The behavior that we observed in our study is consistent with de-

scriptions of the writing process as an iterative process of engagement

(generating text) and refl ection (analyzing, revising, and planning)

(Sharples 1999). For example, although participants in group 5 worked

through the patterns in the order required, they went back and refi ned

their ideas for earlier patterns when working on later patterns. Once

they began writing their story text, they went back and clarifi ed their so-

lution to “Layers of Interpersonal Confl ict.” When asked to explain their

behavior, participants stated that this change was necessary to strength-

en their use of the later pattern, “Resolution, But Only On the Surface.”

We had a similar experience when writing our own story. After the

initial planning stage, we moved back and forth between refl ection and

engagement. During the refl ection process we assessed whether the sto-

ry matched the patterns, and then we planned how to revise the text.

We then switched to engagement, generating and modifying the text. It

is interesting to note that, for Sharples, during the process of revision

writers access scripts representing knowledge about existing stories and

then compare the retrieved scripts with their current mental model of

the story. What we were doing during revision could be seen as analo-

gous to this, with patterns serving as scripts.

What we have described does not, at fi rst glance, seem to follow Al-

exander’s process of moving from one pattern to the next without back-

tracking. However, Alexander does discuss the possibility of modifying

a design when adding new patterns:

As you use the patterns, one after another, you will fi nd that you keep

needing to adjust your design to accommodate new patterns. It is

important that you do this in a loose and relaxed way, without getting

the design more fi xed than necessary, and without being afraid to make

changes. The design can change as it needs to, so long as you maintain

the essential relationships and characteristics which earlier patterns

have prescribed. (1979: 464–65)

What is key about Alexander’s approach is that changes to the develop-

ing design must not weaken or remove the relationships put in place


by earlier patterns. This approach matches both what we observed in

writers using patterns and Sharples’s (1999) description of the writing

process.

It may initially appear that the need to revise (and the advantages of

revising) would be more pronounced in the practice of writing fi ction

than in that of architectural design. A building, as a spatial structure,

gradually takes shape—foundations are laid, the skeleton of the frame

is put up, the walls are fi lled in, and the details and fi nishing touches are

added. A text is somewhat different. Although an outline can give the

writer a feeling for the overall structure of the text, the actual writing of

the text tends to proceed from start to end, at least during a given phase

of engagement in writing. At this point there is no clear foundation on

which the text is being built—the structure is emerging during com-

position. Once the rough text is in place, however, the process of revi-

sion is undertaken on a concrete structure—especially when the writer

is composing on a computer, as the text can literally be manipulated—

for example, by cutting and pasting—with more fl exibility than is the

case with a physical structure. This seems to suggest that revision and

repair are much more feasible in text creation than in the construction

of a building. However, the underlying conceptual structures in a story

(such as character relationships and causality) and less obvious struc-

tures (such as the development of theme) may be as diffi cult to alter as

the concrete foundations of a building, since any such alterations will

have repercussions throughout the text. These issues, too, warrant fur-

ther investigation.

Elements of Style That Are Not Patterns?

So far we have discussed the process of using the patterns. We have only

briefl y described the phase of our project that involved identifying the

patterns. There were some concepts that we wanted to include in our

patterns, but that we had trouble expressing clearly. In these situations

a common problem was that of specifying to a writer what he or she

should not do, as opposed to what he or she should do.

An example of this problem can be seen when we consider the ele-

ments of minimalism in Carver’s stories. Although Carver resisted the


minimalist label, the stories in What We Talk about When We Talk about

Love are characterized by a certain sparseness and a feeling that there

is much more going on than is mentioned in the text (Trussler 1994).

Carver himself compares his approach to that of Ernest Hemingway:

You’re probably familiar with [Hemingway’s] comment comparing a

literary work to an iceberg: nine-tenths of the iceberg is under water.

But as long as the writer knows what he’s leaving out, that’s okay. . . . I

left out unnecessary movements. I was interested in having stories work

invisibly. They would work without the author obtruding. . . . Insofar as

stories are concerned, you have to presuppose some kind of knowledge

on the part of the readers, that they’re going to fi ll in some of the gaps.

(qtd. in Gentry and Stull 1990: 17, 126, 228)

This approach is evident in the stories that we analyzed. We wanted to

capture this sense of “things that are left out, that are implied” (Carver

1986: 26) in our pattern language. Initially, we included the following

pattern:

3. Things Left Unsaid

Hint at, but don’t explicitly mention, the central confl ict or

motivation of the story, and the upcoming reappraisal which will occur

at the end of the story.

During the process of writing our story and refi ning the patterns, we

had trouble deciding where to place this pattern in the pattern language.

It wasn’t clear to us whether the pattern should come before or after the

pattern that describes the need for an ambiguous resolution to the con-

fl ict. The “Things Left Unsaid” serve to build up the feeling that there

is a deeper, unmentioned confl ict in the story. When the reader reaches

the end and wants to look back over the story to search for that deeper

confl ict and meaning, it is in these “Things Left Unsaid” that the deeper

confl ict and meaning will be found. So in terms of the sequence of the

text, these hints must by necessity come before the resolution. However,

in terms of the process of writing the story, we felt that the writer needs

to have a clear understanding of the nature of the confl ict before he or

she can embed these hints in the story. Thus, we changed the order to

place “Things Left Unsaid” at the end of the pattern language.


However, in our discussions with readers, the position of this pattern

at the end of the pattern language led to repeated comments that read-

ers expected there to be something “left unsaid” at the end of the sto-

ry, rather than throughout the story. Here again readers assumed that

the position of the pattern corresponded to the position within the text

where the pattern should appear. They also commented that the name

of the pattern suggested something absent from the story, making it

hard to see what a writer would actually do. Our current name for the

pattern was negative. In an attempt to correct this, we renamed the pat-

tern and moved it before the pattern referring to the resolution of the

confl ict. This gave us the fi nal form of this pattern, “Actions That Speak

For Themselves.”

These observations suggest that there may be several problems with

this pattern. We have already stated one of these problems: namely,

that of distinguishing between the sequencing of the patterns versus

the sequencing of the text created on the basis of the patterns. In the

fi rst three sessions of the study of writers using the patterns, the “Ac-

tions That Speak For Themselves” pattern was placed third, in the mid-

dle of the pattern language. When we revised the patterns to follow a

“top-down” approach, we moved the pattern to the end, as we felt it

would make most sense as a “low-level” design feature. In other words,

we viewed the pattern as similar to the “construction” scale in Alexan-

der, Ishikawa, and Silverstein’s patterns, which specifi es elements such

as “Paving With Cracks Between the Stones” for the fi nish on outdoor

elements of a building and “Warm Colors” for the fi nish of the interior

(1977: 247, 250). However, this position also proved problematic. For ex-

ample, writers in group 4 stressed that they felt “Actions That Speak For

Themselves” was something that was to be considered throughout, and

they were unable to see how to use it at the end of the sequence of pat-

terns. There didn’t seem to be any optimal position for this pattern in

the larger context of the pattern language as a whole. Another problem

stems from how the pattern is telling the writer what not to do: either

“don’t explicitly mention . . . the central confl ict or motivation of the

story” (in the original pattern), or “show . . . actions . . . without giving

explicit details of the underlying confl ict or reasons for their actions”


(in the revised version). Despite changing the name of the pattern from

something absent to something present, the pattern still retains its “neg-

ative” character.

Indeed, there were other ways in which the issue of how to tell a

writer what not to do surfaced. In several groups, although the partici-

pants followed the patterns closely, their stories had a distinctly “non-

Carveresque” feel. For example, group 1’s story contained hints of the

supernatural and verged on a horror story. Despite starting from an

“everyday situation,” they quickly added atmosphere and events, such as

dark clouds, a gathering storm, and strange shapes moving in the dark-

ness, which suggested a style very different from that of a Carver story.

When questioned about this divergence, the participants indicated that

they were “exaggerating” the everyday situation, as required by the pat-

terns. We wanted to tell authors not to exaggerate in this manner. Again,

we were confronted with a “negative” pattern, which we were not able to

clearly express in the pattern format.

This experience suggests that there is a difference between patterns

that point to concrete confi gurations within the text and patterns that

apply to “something else,” as represented by “Actions That Speak For

Themselves.” It is not clear how this to represent this design knowledge,

which is an element of the style of writing that corresponds to what the

writer does not do. It may be that this pattern could be carefully restruc-

tured to become positive rather than negative—that is, something to be

done versus something to be avoided. But it may also be that there are

some aspects of style that need to be expressed in some form other than

patterns. In particular, the need to consider aspects of style continuously

during the creative process presents a challenge to the pattern approach

and needs to be explored more fully.

Do the Stories Fit into the Intended Style?

Finally, it is important to consider whether the stories written by the

participants can be considered “Carver-like.” We now look at two of the

stories written by our participants and discuss whether they exhibit the

style described by our pattern language. We also suggest ways in which

the patterns can be used to alter these stories to bring them closer to a


Carver story, and how the pattern language was refi ned as a result of

this experience.

Group 2’s story, written using the original set of patterns, involves a

couple waiting for the bus outside a hospital. There is a tension between

the two characters, a tension that seems to be focused on their grow-

ing impatience at the fact that the bus has not arrived. In the fi nal lines

of the story, the man apologizes, an apology that initially seems to re-

fer to the tension over the late bus, and the woman says, “I don’t blame

you for it.” However, as the man apologizes, he looks at the woman’s

stomach, suggesting that there is another, deeper confl ict, related to the

woman having had some medical procedure, possibly an abortion, per-

haps at the man’s insistence. The story ends at that point.

The story feels generally Carver-like, with a sense of menace and

an unspoken, underlying confl ict. The ending, however, does not feel

quite right: neither of the confl icts have been resolved. Looking at our

patterns, it seems that “Confl ict Resolved, But Not Explained,” the fi -

nal pattern in the original pattern language, is not present. In the story

written by group 2 it appears that neither the surface nor the underly-

ing, central confl ict has been resolved.

The ending of group 2’s story can be compared with the ending of

Carver’s “Popular Mechanics.” In Carver’s story there is a resolution of

some sort at the end, but it is not clear whether that resolution dissi-

pates the central underlying confl ict. As the tension builds, and the

couple’s fi ght over the baby becomes more and more threatening, the

two characters each pull on the baby, and the story ends with the words

“In this manner, the issue was resolved.” Despite the fi nality of this line,

the exact manner of the resolution is left unstated. As can be seen from

this example, in Carver’s stories it is often the surface confl ict that is re-

solved, whereas the reader is left unsure as to how, or even whether, the

underlying confl ict has been resolved. What we are describing here is

not clearly stated in our pattern.

To deal with the dual problem of the story and the pattern, we fi rst

revised the pattern such that it assumed its fi nal form: “Resolution, But

Only On the Surface.” We then revised the story to satisfy the revised

pattern. To include this pattern in the story we added a fi nal event to

the story: the bus arrives. This resolves the surface confl ict, as the source


of the confl ict is removed. The underlying confl ict is possibly resolved

by the woman’s statement that she does not blame the man; however,

this resolution is left ambiguous, since the statement may refer to the

characters’ wait for the bus instead of their larger confl ict. As with the

ending to “Popular Mechanics,” it is left to the reader to interpret the

meaning of the ending.

A different problem can be seen in group 3’s story. This story, also

created with the original pattern language, involves a couple waiting for

a bus as a storm approaches. The woman suggests taking a taxi, but the

man, concerned about the cost, wants to wait for the bus. The woman

seems to be more concerned about whether her new shawl will get wet

than how much it will cost to take a taxi. There are two confl icts here:

about whether to take the bus and about money. The story ends with

the couple reaching their destination, a deserted beach, just as the storm

breaks.

While the story’s focus on interpersonal confl ict makes it somewhat

Carver-like, here again there seems to be a problem with the resolution.

In this case the problem is with the nature of the confl ict. The surface

confl ict seems to be a symptom of the underlying confl ict. But this ar-

rangement does not satisfy the pattern “Confl ict About Something

Else” in the manner that we had intended. To deal with this issue, we

renamed the pattern “Layers of Interpersonal Confl ict” and stressed the

need for a “different, underlying confl ict.” The story can follow this pat-

tern and be made more Carver-like by introducing an underlying con-

fl ict that involves something other than a confl ict over spending money.

For example, it may be that the man resents how the woman actually

has money of her own but does not use it for some reason, perhaps be-

cause she has to support her elderly parents. This would distinguish the

underlying confl ict (his resentment that she spends his money) more

clearly from the surface confl ict (her annoyance that he refuses to take

a taxi). To resolve the surface confl ict but leave the underlying confl ict’s

status ambiguous, the story could end with a bus and taxi arriving at

the same time. The man takes the bus, while the woman insists on tak-

ing the taxi, using the man’s credit card. There would also need to be

some hint of the underlying confl ict, such as a telephone call from the

woman’s parents, which would provide an opportunity for readers to


connect the parents’ situation to the tension between the couple, thus

hinting at the nature of the underlying confl ict.

Both of these examples suggest that our patterns, when compared

against a given story, can be used to alter the story such that it more

closely resembles our target style. Further, this process of analyzing and

refi ning the stories underscores our earlier observation about the na-

ture and signifi cance of revision. The fact that we were able to make

changes to the story without disrupting the relationships and structure

created by the earlier patterns suggests that patterns at once afford and

emerge from the iterative process of refl ection and engagement as de-

scribed by Mike Sharples. Furthermore, insofar as patterns can be used

as part of this revision process, patterns do seem to provide a form for

representing design knowledge, successfully capturing style-related in-

formation for short stories.

Conclusion

In this essay we discuss issues related to helping people to write stories

in a particular style through the use of pattern languages. One key ob-

servation is the way in which the doubly sequential and top-down na-

ture of patterns presents challenges when they are applied to narrative,

which is itself sequential in complex ways. In addition, we observed that

participants brought a “preferred order” of planning to the writing ses-

sion, which made it diffi cult for them to follow the order of the pat-

terns. The source of this problem was unclear: was it the order we speci-

fi ed, the way in which we specifi ed it, or something about the writers’

interpretation of our order vis-à-vis their preferred order? Interestingly,

when given the freedom to follow the patterns in their own order, par-

ticipants had diffi culty completing the writing task. This suggests that

the order in which the patterns are manifest within the pattern language

is very closely tied to the ability of the patterns to be used successfully.

Further exploration of these issues is required to determine how best

to balance the need to impose an order on the pattern language against

writers’ experience and expectations.

In addition, we found that in the process of writing their stories,

writers often went back to refi ne their earlier decisions. While this may


initially seem to violate the strict sequential application of patterns, these changes were usually refi nements and did not disrupt the existing structures within the story. This type of change is consistent with Alex-ander’s (1979) description of revision in the pattern process and high-lights the importance of the structure-preserving nature of patterns. We also found that when creating the pattern language, it was very diffi cult to express some elements of style in terms of patterns. This was particu-larly evident for features that involved telling the writer what not to do, as well as those needing to be considered continuously throughout the writing process.

In short, although our research has raised a number of questions, it also suggests that using patterns to help people to write in a particular style is a promising approach. That said, both the patterns and the pro-cess of using patterns may need to be adapted to the specifi c require-ments of creating a narrative structure, rather than a spatial or architec-tural structure. In our future work we hope to explore what aspects of style can and cannot be expressed in a pattern language and how writ-ers’ use of patterns for fi ction writing differs from the use of patterns for the design of other kinds of structures.

Note

This research is supported by the Singapore-MIT GAMBIT Game Lab research

grant “Tools for Telling: How Game Development Systems Shape Interactive

Storytelling.”

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