Ambiguity is a powerful tool in the world of writing.
You might’ve seen a medium that has used it before. Perhaps you’ve read a novel that has left you on an unclear note. Maybe you’ve gotten frustrated over a movie’s sudden, turnaround of an ending, where it sounds almost nonsensical, until you think about it for a while. The same can be said for poetry, where a second read is always a must.
With writing, ambiguity is a pivotal skill to have in curating critical thinking. In our previous article “Show vs. Tell”, we discussed the uses of Showing lacks intended clarity in a story, and how it gives audiences a space to think. Ambiguity does a similar effect. Instead of making the author’s plot points straightforward, it does the opposite. The audience is left to create their own interpretations, and what the story means to them.
In that article, however, I didn’t detail how useful this technique can be.
There are plenty of stories that use ambiguity to their advantage. We can find it in Toni Morrison’s Recitatif, a short story that states their main characters’ races as Black and White, but never confirm who is whom; or Theodore Roethke’s “My Papa’s Waltz”, harboring lines that veer from heartwarming to concerning regarding a father’s parental care. The most famous, ambiguous ending can be found in Inception as well, where the audience is left wondering ‘Was he still dreaming?’
What these have in common is the lack of a clear answer. As writers, we remain in control when we write narratives, but in ambiguity, all of that changes. There isn’t an author to speak their truth or give exact guidance on how the audience should think. There’s a question placed onto our laps on how we, the audience, interpret and create our answers, and that is a powerful, yet vulnerable role for a writer to give.
We are given the responsibility to dissect what messages underlie a story. This lack of clarity can speak more to a reader than what the narrative leads one to believe; in fact, it asks us to reflect on our personhood as we navigate these inquiries.
These stories want to ask questions about whether we see situations from different perspectives. Fair or unjust. Realistic or holy. Optimistic or cynical. These authors want to create discussion, and our answers usually reflect the experiences, philosophies, and knowledge we’ve collected over the years.
Take, for example, Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. It’s considered a controversial book, which is surprising due to it being a children’s book. Yet, reading the story, we find readers and critics asking questions about what the author’s intentions were in creating the relationship between the titular characters: the boy, and the Giving Tree.
For context, the story revolves around giving and receiving. We see this tree give parts of herself to this boy over the decades, where eventually she becomes a stump, and he grows into an old man. It’s a simple premise, yet the internet has curated so much conversation over this work, that one can find theories on the characters’ relationship being a dynamic of familyhood, or toxicity and selfishness. There’s no author to give a clear indication of who’s correct, either.
A lot of these theories come from personal conceptions of what is fair to them. The groups who talk about familyhood have remarked on the highs and lows that come with being a loving parent, where the love given from one's child isn't an obligation. For the theorists discussing toxicity, they see the words of The Giving Tree as literal. To them, the story harbors a sadness in seeing the Tree give and give, rather than fuel its needs, and there's an anger and melancholy that resonates within these readers. Some even created their own parodies, such as The Taking Tree: A Selfish Parody to highlight this argument.
It doesn't matter which side of the argument the audience partakes in, what matters is how the story encourages free thought.
The book’s ambiguity asks these personal questions:
Who do you believe is selfish in this situation?
Is there conditional or unconditional love between the boy and the tree?
Can you see your relationships within the boy and the tree?
What emotions are evoked from reading each page?
Another example of ambiguity creating these personalized questions can be found in Life of Pi by Yann Martel.
During the retelling of the protagonist’s spiritual journey, we find that Pi was confronted by Japanese officials over his disappearance. In the first story, the audience is told that he survived after his ship was destroyed, becoming a sea castaway with only a tiger to accompany him. When the officials refute this side of the retelling, Pi brings a new rendition. He gives them a story about how his life in the ocean is an allegory for real human beings—ones who cannibalized and killed each other for survival.
When he asks the officials which story they believe in, it becomes now an ambiguity on whether Pi is a reliable narrator. Do you believe him or not?
The story of the journey has clues on what occurred to him, but there comes a pivotal meshing in the writing style that veers into magical realism, where reality and fantasy are interwoven rather than separate. The audience doesn’t know how the ship sank. The audience doesn’t know which parts of the story are true.
Any interpretation goes, and what the audience believes begins to create discussion on what is the most valid answer. For Life of Pi, what critics find is that the themes the novel curates pertain to themes of religion, spirituality, reality, and storytelling.
By doing this, the book’s ambiguity asks you these questions:
Do you take the leap of faith in seeing his story as truth?
Would you prefer a more realistic scenario?
Are the spiritual aspects of the story valid to you?
What interpretation of this story feels more satisfying to read?
This ambiguity becomes a reflection on the audience. The readers are placing their experiences into the backdrop of these stories; the author may have written this narrative, but the messages within them are now being interpreted in different directions, and suddenly, aren't the author's authority anymore. This isn't a mistake in the technique, but a way to strengthen the nuanced themes that a story wants to tell. No matter who views it, no one will see these questions in a similar light.
Ambiguous storytelling asks your readers what the piece means to them. The author may write words with intention. There can be messages written that are obvious. Yet, in these moments, one’s writing becomes a platform for the audience to think about how they would understand the journey, and how these themes connect with their ideologies. This can be one of the most satisfying aspects of stories.
As writers, we usually find ourselves placed in scenarios where we make heavy decisions on how we want the audience to understand our works, and the idea of releasing those reins can be terrifying. Despite this, allowing others to find significance within these stories can create glimpses into their personal lives—who they are, where they’ve been, and where they’ll go. Within ambiguity, comes humanity.
In a 1975 interview with Publisher’s Weekly, Shel Silverstein answers a question regarding his books and their meanings behind them, saying:
“I would hope that people, no matter what age, would find something to identify with in my books, pick one up and experience a personal sense of discovery.”
We can find this ambiguity as a telling point towards how complex these stories can become. There doesn’t have to be a set morality. There doesn’t have to be set answers to what we want. What is left can be a sandbox of questions, all for children, teens, adults, and the elderly to ponder over.
And yet, can you trust me when I say this?
In the end, the words I say are mine and not yours. I’m telling you how to feel about these stories, and selecting which questions I feel are better. As you read, I’m dictating the conversation with every word, compared to creating the sandbox I say there is.
Perhaps I’ve never spoken the truth, but only a fraction of it.
Can you trust that I haven't lied?
I LOVE IT!