The cardinal joy in such writing stems from the feeling of freedom! That, above all. Here, in The Man Who Lived Underground, for the first time in my writing, I could burrow into places of American life where I’d never gone before, and link that life organically with my basic theme; and not only link it, but link it in a way that carried—to my mind and feelings—an unmistakable relationship. All of this leads me to speak of another element in writing which may or may not be derived or linked with this basic Negro form, jazz. From my earliest attempts at writing I discovered that I was striving to get to a certain point in my story; what I mean is this: I’d start out to tell a story, but I’d know when that story really started. The story would start at that point when my character was broken. What does broken mean? Well, in a good story, I think, there comes a point where the character is rendered fluid, where, through a combination of events, he is lifted to a point of tension where the author can do anything with him, where everything fits. It is like a fast train starting out and as it goes along it picks up speed to the extent that it begins to suck all the little loose matter lying along the railroad track into the air; it is that point in a story where the character, hard put upon from within or without, forgets his habits, his backgrounds, his censor, his conditioning and, feeling free, acts with a latitude which he could not and did not possess in the narrow context of daily life. I feel that something of the same thing happens in a jazz song; when the beat establishes itself sufficiently, all kinds of surprise rhythms can be introduced. In fact, you expect them as you hear the music or read the story. Of course, you do not know what is coming next. That uncertainty about what is coming next is the drama of the thing. . . .

This is as close as I can come to explaining this. Maybe I can approach it from another way, a way which might shed more light than the one I’ve just used? In the progression of a story or a novel there seems to come a point—in the beginning or in the middle or in the end—where the story seems to float, where any or many developments can take place with perfect acceptance on the part of the audience. A certain heat is generated, like the blow of an acetylene torch melting metals and fusing them together into one.

The best examples I can give—even if they are poor—are from my own work. The whole of 12 Million Black Voices takes for granted that the reader is with me. Having assumed that, I begin from the first word to improvise, selecting the materials that fit the basic beat of the work. In Native Son the breaking point came after Bigger committed his first murder; from that point on the story could have gone in any number of directions with ease. In “Big Boy Leaves Home” it occurs when the white woman accidentally stumbles upon the four naked, black boys in the swimming hole. In “Down By the Riverside” the flood forms the breaking point at the very outset. It opens in a fluid state with a hurried flashback over the recent past establishing the scene of danger and action. In “Long Black Song” the breaking point is in the beginning: the sexual restlessness of Sarah forms the pivot upon which the story can swing in any direction. In “Fire and Cloud” the breaking point comes near the end, when Reverend Taylor, after being beaten, is informed that his beating is but one of many. In “Bright and Morning Star” it comes when Aunt Sue realizes that she has unwittingly betrayed her comrades.