Descriptive fiction displays the world as it is.

Transformational fiction re-mythologizes what might be.

I am going to give you a work of fiction. There will be a quiz at the end of the story to test your ability to apply the new information. Here is the story:<

“Once upon a time a polyglot threw up because a fence interrupted coitus believable or not indistinguishable in a blahblah-remaxim extrovert they can’t, see, chum?”

Okay. Now that you’ve heard the story, answer the following question:

The story is:

A. Descriptive
B. Transformational
C. All of the above
D. None of the above
E. Other: ______________________________________________

Please use a #2 pencil to fill in the grid. If you have no—

Oh, you do. Good. Please—

Okay, I’ll be quiet.

Hands? Yes?

No. E is not the right answer. “Other: Utter bullshit” is wrong.

Because it’s important to know that there are two types of fiction. In recognizing this, you will be able to categorize stories you read—and write—into Transformational or Descriptive camps.
Because then, when you finish your story, you can send it to a magazine that publishes that particular type of fiction.

Well, The New Yorker generally publishes Descriptive work, and The Indiana Review Transformational. Correct. If you want to make money doing what you’re doing, it’s better to bivouac in the Descriptive camp.

Because readers like a story with a conflict that is believably, though not predictably, resolved in the end through the actions of a protagonist who winds up either better or worse off than when the story began.

Well, Descriptive stories include sensory details, metaphors, contemporary allusions and recognizable name brands, all which add to the verisimilitude.

It means the act of depicting realism. The reader recognizes a similarity between his world and the fictive conflicts and emotions of the characters. The shock of waking up one morning and finding in your bed a giant cockroach instead of your body.

That’s right, Kafka.

It’s a matter of taste, and taste is not arguable. Neither style is better or worse than the other. You’re drawn to one as writer and reader. Those fortunate enough to have a Descriptive Muse will write novels like Grisham, Ludlum, and Michener and will buy an island in the South Pacific on which they’ll retire. The rest will teach until they’re hauled off by an embarrassed provost or offspring to an armed fortress strategically called Assisted Living.

Humor is backpacked into both camps, but in Descriptive fiction the jokes are usually funnier and easier to get. Transformational writers depend on the more subtle dramatic irony, the juxtaposition of untenable genres. This more intellectually-based humor requires the reader to be conversant with The Norton Anthology of Everything, unlike the Descriptive application of Dickensian hyperbole, pun, and malapropism.

No, I don’t have a favorite. Unless it’s creative nonfiction, but that’s another story—no pun intended. In creative nonfiction you write about the real world by making up a persona who “reports” the dialogue and actions of real people the author knows, or gets to know. Lots of writers make a good living by calling up an expert in the field of, say, microbiology, the CEO of a large corporation, or someone who still practices an anachronistic trade, like horseshoeing or mountain man-ing. They’re ethnologists of the prototypical and peculiar. Bestseller. Bank on it.

No, a writer shouldn’t think about the money when sitting down to compose. The Muse gets offended if her client asks, “How much will this bring in?” or “Can I place this somewhere bragging over 100,000 circulation?” or “Can I count on this to be Esquire material?”

Before the bell rings, let’s review the lesson. Transformational fiction…

Oh, hell.

Yes, go, go. Your stories are due Thursday. I need to see an example of one or the other, either Transformational or Descriptive. No hybrids, please. Readers—and editors—like clean distinctions.

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