evidentiary:alchemy

I love jury interviews following an intense and hard-fought trial.  Without a doubt, they make the best writing workshops in the world.  For what else do the prosecution and defense do but compete to write the best, most convincing story?   (Except with immediate, real, tangible, urgent stakes.  Not that writing lacks stakes, but court really has them.)

Just look at the Michael Jackson jurors, and the statements they made, post-verdict:

• A few jurors believe Jackson may have molested children in the past, but there was just not enough evidence in this case, which is all they were supposed to judge.  "We had our suspicions, but we couldn't judge on that because it wasn't what we were there to do," said juror Eleanor Cook, according to the Associated Press.
• Some, like Raymond Hultman, made a distinction between total "innocence" and being found "not guilty."   (Yes, there is a distinction.  I can think of many trials where I would have voted not guilty, even though I did not find the defendent innocent.  It all comes down to reasonable doubt, the evidence presented, and a strong defense.)
• Many jurors took offense at the mother.  She snapped her fingers at the jury.  She allowed her child to sleep with a 42-year-old man she did not even know.   Her disheveled appearance came off as pure theater - an attempt to look "pitiful" as Cook put it (again quoted in the Associated Press.)
• The fact that the accuser and his mother visited an attorney & psychologist before reporting the molestation to the police tainted their credibility - especially given their history of lawsuits, perjury, welfare fraud, and celebrity gold-digging.

So what evidence actually worked for the prosecution?  A very short list:  the videotaped interview between the accuser and police; and the testimony from two other boys.  But the testimony from other boys was not supposed to be considered for guilt - only for a pattern of behavior.  And the videotaped interview did not seem credible in its full context.

Think about this in terms of revision.  How might the story change if the characters used different gestures?  If the mother was consistent about hair and makeup, so she did not seem to elicit pity?  How might it change if certain witnesses were cut alltogether?  Or if the accusers had not done certain things? (Although only in fiction can we alter events like that ... )

On the other hand, reasonable doubt mixed with reasonable suspicion is exactly the kind of effect I like to achieve in my writing.   I often aim for precisely that verdict: not guilty, but not innocent.   Why would I want this, as opposed to a strong, clear verdict in either direction?   Because characters and stories are complex. 

Now.  This is not to say that I never draw moral, legal, or ethical lines in the sand.   Some might be surprised at my starkly conservative stances on some issues, or at my strong feelings about ethics in writing (based on some hard lessons over the years.)   Especially when people are at risk of being harmed. 

When I say I want unclear verdicts for my writing, I really just mean that I want my readers to feel challenged.  I want them to question and think.  To be surprised at how tough it is to figure out the truth - to be surprised at themselves.   

This is also what I meant when I said - years ago, when I laid out my theories on writing as a forensic science and art - that it is my duty to both meet the burden of proof and turn around and destroy the whole case.  I am prosecution and defense.  I wrestle with myself.  My writing is adversarial.  It fights with itself. 

So you finished an essay or story, but you didn't get the verdict you wanted:  your readers did not understand your intentions, or they took away something entirely different than you envisioned. For whatever reason, the piece failed.   (Or at least, it seems to have failed.  Sometimes, unexpected reactions are wonderful, delicious surprises.)

Why not file an appeal?  Think back on the writing process: look for reversible error.  What evidence should have been excluded/included?  What decisions were unfair? 

Grant yourself a new trial - a second chance at the process.  A chance to do justice to your idea.

Obviously this is not a precise metaphor.  In reality, a legal appeal would seek to reverse the jury's decision or win a new trial.  Lawyers would take the case to a higher court.   

In writing, you can never really reverse how readers feel or react.  And of course, there are no set rules to follow - no established process - for writing, as there are for criminal trials.  No higher court, either. 

But think about how you could adapt the idea to writing.  Would the appeal be on your behalf? Or a character in the story?  The story itself?  How would you plea the case?  Would you look to precedent established by other writers or writing teachers?  What part of the process was most weak?  What part was unfair? 

I will be writing an appeal for one of my rough works and posting it here in the future.