For those of you waiting for word on my health, I got a report today. I do have an iron deficiency, for which I’ll have to take a supplement. And they’re going to schedule some charming tests in the near future to find out if I have an ulcer, or what.
Mark Steyn, in an article for MacLean’s, takes a filet knife to the “commissar” of the Canadian Human Rights commission (who is prosecuting him for hate speech), pointing out in wonderful style that she knows no more about history than she knows about liberty.
More on how not to write, below the fold:
Another impression I came away with, in my forlorn struggle to read The Book That Shall Not Be Named in This Space, was that it required me to think about the author too much.
Imagine you went to a play (for those of you who’d never go to a play, imagine your daughter is in it, and you have no choice). And imagine that before the curtain opens, a pudgy, unshaved dweeb in a sweatshirt and pajama bottoms comes out on stage and starts addressing the audience.
“My name is Collie Shaxper,” he says, “and I’m the author of this play. And before it starts, I’d like to point out some things I think you ought to notice.”
And then he goes on to ramble for twenty minutes about the meaning of the play, and what plot points we should pay attention to, and how he doesn’t think the leading lady is very well cast.
Then, when he finally lets them open the curtain, he stays on stage. He interrupts the actors to say things like, “Notice the props on this table. This bottle of wine is going to be really important in the second act, so pay attention.” Or, “I want you to notice what Jane here is about to say. This is really important.”
It wouldn’t enhance your dramatic experience, would it?
Lots of writers try to do exactly that in stories. They won’t get offstage. They don’t trust their characters and their plotting and their language skills to convey what they want to convey. They feel it necessary to insert the equivalent of big red arrows that say, “Important Point! Please Pay Attention!”
That’s one of many reasons why, in general, spare writing is more effective than verbose writing. When the writing is spare, it’s easier to forget about it altogether, and to pay attention to the story.
In most cases, you want the reader to forget you (the writer) are even there.
There are exceptions, of course. A playwright could, in theory, include a character called “Author” in his play. This character would say and do things, like all the other characters, to further the narrative and the dramatic experience. In the same way, some authors can make themselves something like characters in their own books, assuming the role of an entertaining storyteller. When it works, it’s a fine thing.
And then, of course, there are stories where the narrator is one of the characters. That’s another example of the same sort of thing.
But it works because the writer knows what he’s doing, and is choosing the effects he wants. Not because he mistrusts his own prose, or thinks his reader is too stupid to get the point.
I know what you’re talking about in an author not getting off stage, but can you give any examples? Is it a like this: “Little did he know his wife was in the next room, listening through the wall”? Or “Harold wouldn’t realize the impact his words had on Jo until years later.”
Yes, those are examples, although it happens that right now I’m reading a very good novel which employs the “Had I but known…” device to excellent effect.
I was thinking more of authors just saying too much. The author of the book that sparked all this kept giving us more information (especially visual information) than we actually needed, and had a tendency to cap off his descriptions with summaries like, “She looked extremely sexy.” Well, yeah. You’ve just spent three paragraphs telling us about her lush figure and her sensuous lips and the dress that fits her like a second skin. I think I can be trusted to draw the inference that she looks sexy.
Or take the old Tom Swifty–“I shall never be intimidated,” Tom said, adamantly. Or, “I love you,” Tom said devotedly. (I once won runner-up in a newspaper contest by contributing, “I just ran over my father with the car,” Tom said, transparently.)
More often than a lot of people think, the dialogue can stand on its own, if it’s well-written.
Which works better (?):
“Mr. Bond, will you talk?” asked General Sarkovsky cruelly, his finger on the laser activation button.
“Never,” said Bond, defiantly.
Or:
“Mr. Bond, will you talk?” asked General Sarkovsky, his finger on the laser activation button.
“Never,” said Bond.
Mr. Walker,
Thanks for the update. Sorry if I came across as pushy or nosy. I’m used to bullying my patients about these things without compunction, and apparently I don’t mind doing the same thing to perfect strangers either. However I am glad you went to see a doctor and will now duly take my nose out of your business.
AA
Last year I read the biography of British author James Wight, “The Real James Herriot – A Memoir Of My Father” by Jim Wight. While a bit tedious with too many family details, I was fascinated by the efforts this country vet invested into becoming an author.
Here are a few tidbits I picked up.
1. He was an avid reader. If you want to write well, you need to immerse yourself in good writing from great storytellers.
2. He applied himself to study writing. He took every writing class he could whether from community ed or the local college and he filled his bookshelf with books on writing.
3. He wrote and wrote and wrote. His first attempt at writing a novel was a pathetic flop. So, he tried his hand at short stories and magazine articles. After failing to sell any short stories, he dusted off his novel and spent 18 months re-writing it, using what he’d learned writing short stories.
4. He accepted criticism. Some of the most painful comments led to the most productive changes in his style and approach to writing.
5. He persisted. After 20 years of talking about writing a book someday, it was over five years after he started writing before his first book hit the stores.
Alia: You did the right thing. I appreciate the concern.
Greybeard: That’s eminently good advice.
The reason this discussion reminded me of the James Herriot memoir was an example of the revisions between his first unpublished novel and the eventual published version. I just paged through the book to find the example, but to no avail. The cited account was transformed from a dry, technical description to a lively scene.
The original went something like, “Sigfried parked in the farmyard and asked me where his PM knife was.” The re-write changed this to “Gravel sprayed from the tyres as Sigfried jumped out of the car before it stopped swaying. He flung open the boot and rummaged through it, flinging equipment and medicines left and right. ‘Where is my Post-Mortem knife?’ He cried as he turned to the farmer’s wife. “Bring me a knife. A big one, about so long.” He held out his hands about a foot apart. ‘And make sure it’s sharp.’ He called out as she turned towards the house.”
Yes, that’s precisely the thing. He’s not telling us how excited Sigried is. He’s showing us. He’s opening a window for us to watch Sigfried, and to see for ourselves.
I need to correct myself. Alf Wight, not James Wight, was the author who wrote the All Creatures Great and Small books under the pseudonym of James Herriot.
I especially enjoyed his books when I re-read them back in the 90’s since at the time I was working for a man who was just as mercurial as Wight’s partner, Donald Sinclair – portrayed in the books as Sigfried Farnon.