So when I write a story I want to make a certain kind of structure， and I know the feeling I want to get from being inside that structure. This is the hard part of the explanation， where I have to use a word like “feeling”， which is not very preciseprecise adj.精确的， 准确的 n.精确， because if I attempt to be more intellectually respectable I will have to be dishonest. “Feeling” will have to do.
There is no blueprint for the structure. It，s not a question of， “I，ll make this kind of house because if I do it right it will have this effect.” I，ve got to make， I，ve got to build up， a house， a story， to fit around the indescribableindescribable adj.难以形容的 “feeling” that is like the soul of the story， and which I must insist upon in dogged， embarrassed way， as being no more definabledefinable adj.可定义的 than that. And I don，t know where it comes from. It seems to be already there， and some unlikely clue， such as a shop window or a bit of conversation， makes me aware of it. Then I start accumulating the material and putting it together. Some of the material I may have lying around already， in memories and observations， and some I invent， and some I have to go diligentlydiligently adv.勤勉地， 坚持不懈地 looking for （factual details）， while some is dumped in my lap （anecdotes， bits of speech）. I see how this material might go together to make the shape I need， and I try it. I keep trying and seeing where I went wrong and trying again.
I suppose this is the place where I should talk about technical problems and how I solve them. The main reason I can，t is that I，m never sure I do solve anything. Even when I say that I see where I went wrong， I，m being misleading. I never figure out how I，m going to change things， I never say to myself， “That page is heavy going， that paragraph，s clumsyclumsy adj.笨拙的， I need some dialogue and shorter sentences.” I feel a part that，s wrong， like a soggy weight； then I pay attention to the story， as if it were really happening somewhere， not just in my head， and in its own way， not mine. As a result， the sentences may indeed get shorter， there may be more dialogue， and so on. But though I，ve tried to pay attention to the story， I may not have got it right； those shorter sentences may be an evasionevasion n.逃避， 借口， a mistake. Every final draft， every published story， is still only an attempt， an approach， to the story.
I did promise to talk using reality. “Why， if Jubilee isn，t Wingham， has it got Shuter Street in it？” People want to know. Why have I described somebody，s real ceramic elephant sitting on the mantelpiece？ I could say I get momentummomentum n.动力， 要素 from doing things like this. The fictional room， town， world， needs a bit of starter dough from the real world. It，s a device to help the writer - at least it helps me - but it arouses a certain baulked fury in the people who really do live on Shuter Street and the lady who owns the ceramic elephant. “Why do you put in something true and then go on and tell lies？” they say， and anybody who has been on receiving end of this kind of thing knows how they feel.
“I do it for the sake of my art and to make this structure which encloses the soul of my story， that I，ve been telling you about，” says the writer. “That is more important than anything.”
Not to everybody， it isn，t.
So I can see there might be a case， once you，ve written the story and got the momentum， for going back and changing the elephant to a camel （though there，s always a chance the lady might complain that you made a nasty camel out of a beautiful elephant）， and changing Shuter Street to Blank Street. But what about the big chunks of reality， without which your story can，t exist？ In the story Royal Beatings， I use a big chunk of reality： the story of the butcher， and of the young men who may have been egged on to “get” him. This is a story out of an old newspaper； it really happened in a town I know. There is no legal difficulty about using it because it has been printed in a newspaper， and besides， the people who figure in it are all long dead. But there is a difficulty about offending people in that town who feel that use of this story is a deliberatedeliberate adj.深思熟虑的， 故意的， 预有准备的 v.商讨 exposure， taunttaunt n.辱骂， 嘲弄 vt.嘲弄， 奚落 adj.［海］（桅杆）很高的 and insult. Other people who have no connection with the real happening would say， “Why write about anything so hideous？” And lest you think that such an objection could only be raised by simple folk who read nothing but harlequin Romances， let me tell you that one of the questions most frequently asked at universities is “Why do you write about things that are so depressing？” People can accept almost any amount of ugliness if it is contained in a familiar formula， as it is on television， but when they come closer to their own place， their own lives， they are much offended by a lack of editing.
