The Fluffy test: why Harry, Ron, and Hermione going after the Philosopher's Stone is relevant to your writing
My audio recording of this article.
Come along as I shamelessly invoke the most famous trio in fantasy history to show why knowledge and motive are essential considerations when breaking rules in writing (and most other things).
On their first night at Hogwarts, Harry, Ron and Hermione are warned: 'the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death.'*
Unfortunately, they accidentally end up there one night while trying to hide from the castle's caretaker. Waiting for them is a giant, snarling three-headed dog, and they barely make it back out with all of their original limbs. Such an experience would be enough to convince them not to knowingly defy Dumbledore again, right? Right?
Wrong, it turns out. Later on, the trio realise that they have to reach the Philosopher's Stone before the bad guy does. And that means getting through the trapdoor that Fluffy the many-headed pooch is guarding, at great risk of them all being mangled. In order to save the Wizarding World, they have to break Dumbledore's rules again – and McGonagall's explicit orders – this time in full knowledge of why the rules are in place and what's at stake if they fail. Of course, they go on to soothe Fluffy, then play a cracking game of chess, solve a potion riddle, 'love' Quirrell to death(?), and, ultimately, save the day.
But Jack, what in the name of Merlin's most baggy Y-fronts does this mean for my writing?
Fair question. Here are the lessons I take from the trio's choices in the final act, which I am combining to create 'the Fluffy test' in deference to the latter's three heads:
Full knowledge of the situation. When they go back to the third floor again, Harry, Ron and Hermione know exactly what the rules are and why they exist: don't get close to Fluffy because you will probably die, and painfully. This knowledge makes their choice to break the rules an informed decision, rather than one taken lightly or through ignorance, like when they went there by accident earlier in the book. If you're deciding to break conventions when writing, it's best to make sure that you understand what it is you're breaking and why it exists in the first place. Before you turn your emails into a semi-delirious stream of consciousness, perhaps consider whether you share the same grasp on the English language that James Joyce did when he wrote Ulysses.
Appropriate strategy. The natural follow-up to obtaining base knowledge is to apply it to your strategy; in the book, the gang do their research on Fluffy and find a way to calm him down by playing Harry's wooden flute. If you've decided, like Cormac McCarthy, to abandon quotation marks for dialogue altogether, have you considered how to make up for them? Is your sentence structure clear enough to make it obvious who is speaking, and when? Are you comfortable with the fact it may occasionally cause confusion or ambiguity? Try to consider the fallout of your literary rebellion ahead of time, especially if it's for reasons of style. Most rules and conventions have a solid basis for being in place and therefore require forethought to be skirted effectively.
Proper purpose. Harry, Ron and Hermione aren't rebels without a cause. They go back to the third-floor corrider for a second time for the sake of the Wizarding World, not because they fancy a tussle with Fluffy. If you decide the reason for breaking a literary rule is worth the risk, go for it, but in most cases it's not worth doing so just to 'stand out' – it's a lot easier to do that for the wrong reasons than it is for the right. Some writers, for example, never use capital letters. When done effectively, it gives a casual, everyday tone to the piece and can be endearing in the way it mirrors conversation. But in the wrong hands, it almost certainly will be jarring for readers, and if not handled delicately will draw attention to itself and thus away from the content of your writing. So once you're aware of the risk, you need to judge whether the particular juice in question is worth the squeeze. When in doubt, it's best to err on the side of caution so that your writing is as clear and easy to digest as possible.
While there is no test, Harry Potter-themed or otherwise, that can make up for questionable taste and style, these few deliberate hurdles can stop you bungling headfirst into writing that forsakes clarity in the name of surface originality. If you apply the Fluffy test each time you are considering a rogue literary tactic, you will at least have given the decision proper thought. By all means go to the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor, but go armed with your wits, your wooden flute, and a purpose that might make it worth meeting a most painful (literary) death.
*Dumbledore does not mince words; neither should we.
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