|
Hi, Paula,
Now That's Writing
This issue's "Now That's Writing" highlights one of the most skillful first-page hooks I've seen. In The Algebraist, Iain M. Banks grabs us from the very first sentence:
I have a story to tell you. It has many beginnings, and perhaps one ending. Perhaps not. Beginnings and endings are contingent things anyway; inventions, devices. Where does any story really begin? There is always context, always an encompassingly greater epic, always something before the described events, unless we are to start every story with 'BANG! Expand! Sssss…', then itemise the whole subsequent history of the universe before settling down, at last, to the particular tale in question. Similarly, no ending is final, unless it is the end of all things…
Nevertheless, I have a story to tell you. My own direct part in it was vanishingly small and I have not thought even to introduce myself with anything as presumptuous as a proper name. Nevertheless, I was there, at the very beginning of one of those beginnings.
The words "I have a story to tell you" function like a salesman's call to action, urging us to "Listen now while supplies last!"
But not only is a tale imminent; it's to be told by a narrator who, in one sentence, has already demonstrated a strong personality. He initiates his relationship with us with a gift: a story. And chances are it will be a good one because as a first-person narrator ("I"), he's going to take responsibility for the story in a way no third-person narrator can.
Rather than jumping right into the tale, he waxes philosophic, demonstrating both cleverness and a love of play. He says, "I have a story to tell you, but please understand that I've made choices in its construction, and those choices may or may not be the best ones. After all, there's a whole universe of choices, and none can do justice to any tale, for each excludes the alternatives."
He's teasing us. We know each story represents the author's/narrator's choices. We grant the existence of context, of time's incessant march, of story conventions. "Just get on with it," we want to say to this strip-tease artist who delays gratification.
This formidable narrator is also trying to get us to lower our expectations. By informing us that he may or may not have made the proper choices, he's making sure we don't judge him too harshly. After all, he did the best he could under the circumstances.
The game of "Poor me" continues in the next paragraph with "My own direct part in it was vanishingly small and I have not thought even to introduce myself with anything as presumptuous as a proper name." Our guy is irony personified. By droning on about what an insignificant little gnat he is, he keeps the spotlight on himself, becoming anything but. We are not to trust this falsely modest tale teller, but we want to hear him anyway because he's clever and entertaining and "was there, at the very beginning."
This is showing, not telling, at its best. In two paragraphs we've learned an awful lot about this narrator, even though nowhere has he said, "I'm smart, educated, manipulative, egotistical, and far more important than you are." Like Charles Dickens' Uriah Heep, he affects the opposite, but we see through him.
Now that's writing!
--Paula B.
Visit us on the Web at writingshow.com
Contact us at paula@writingshow.com
| in this issue |
 |
|
|
| Writing Dialogue, Part 4: Compression |
|
|
In the last three installments of our Writing Dialogue series, we examined the importance of tension and character agenda in dialogue and considered how to interweave dialogue with narrative.
This time, we get advice on writing tight, snappy speech from Tom Chiarella in Writing Dialogue: How to create memorable voices and fictional conversations that crackle with wit, tension and nuance.
Who could ever be as witty or interesting as characters in fiction, plays, and films? Maybe comedian Robin Williams, who can ad lib like nobody's business, but probably not you or I. That's because real humans rarely compress their speech the way fictional characters do. We emit a lot of junk verbiage that fills silences, helps us bond with each other, distracts us from the unpleasant, and keeps us from feeling alone.
In fiction, characters' lives must constantly forge ahead, and readers and viewers must be kept engaged. That means dialogue must be compressed down to essentials. You can pare down effectively more easily than you might think if you practice what Chiarella preaches.
Here are three of his tips for avoiding bloated dialogue:
- Figure out what each character wants, then convey it in as few words as possible.
-
- Avoid exposition. In real life, people already know all about themselves. When they talk to each other, they don't need to explain what's obvious to them. ("I'm not the kind of person who suffers fools gladly;" "Your father is intruding into our lives;" etc.) If readers and viewers need that background, give it to them some other way.
-
- Infuse speech with rhythm. Let characters interrupt, echo, change the subject, complete each others' sentences. Chiarella reminds us that rhythm conveys tension, which of course is what drives fiction.
Let's look at some examples of Chiarella's principles in action in author Chuck McKenzie's humorous work.
In his short story "Retail Therapy," McKenzie conveys the characters' clashing personalities and agendas in very few words:
"Got any hanging lights?" The customer's
tone suggested complete disinterest in
however Quentin might respond.
Quentin blinked, then made a show of
looking around at the dozens of lights
hanging from the ceiling. "Pendant lights?
Yes, we certainly do."
The customer glanced upwards. "Hmm." He
reached up and touched the white frosted
shade of the nearest pendant, leaving a
perfect greasy thumb-print on the glass.
This clerk and customer are instantly at odds. The customer refuses to see the obvious. He asks for "hanging lights," which are right in front of his nose. Annoyed, the clerk corrects the customer's language: they are pendant lights, not "hanging" ones. The customer refuses to be put down; in fact, he'll insult the clerk right back with "Hmm." He's not at all impressed, and he isn't going to acknowledge either the clerk's superior knowledge or his authority.
Remove the narrative, and the message is still clear:
"Got any hanging lights?"
"Pendant lights? Yes, we certainly do."
"Hmm."
In just a few words, McKenzie conveys stubbornness, hostility, condescension, and frustration, and we know we're headed for a showdown.
In the short story "Daily Grind," McKenzie offers two characters who work together, know each other well, and speak in shorthand, yet we get all the context:
Bip! Bip!
"There's Vorn — gotta go!" Pausing only to
peck his mate goodbye, Sloom rushed out the
door and jumped into Vorn's skitter.
"Morning." He buckled himself in as the
skitter quacked into nilspace. "Good weekend?"
"Yeah, not bad," said Vorn. "Yours?"
"Yeah, good. So, where are we today?"
"Earth. Schedule's in the glove box."
Sloom pulled a face.
"What?"
Sloom shrugged. "It's just — y'know,
Earth. Dreary little hole. Makes me
wonder what I'm doing in this job."
Even without the description in this sci-fi passage, we can tell what the relationships among the characters are, what the setting is, a little about their jobs, and how they feel about their daily routine. From the matter-of-fact "There's Vorn — gotta go!" we see that Sloom's relationship with his mate seems to be stable and longstanding (the peck on the cheek reinforces that assumption). The chatty banter about weekends demonstrates familiarity and affability between Sloom and Vorn. Sloom's reaction to the day's agenda ("What?") indicates disappointment; his elaboration confirms it ("It's just — y'know, Earth. Dreary little hole. Makes me wonder what I'm doing in this job.")
Had McKenzie filled his dialogue with exposition, we might have heard about how Vorn and Sloom were longtime partners ("Seeing that you and I have been working together for the last ten years"); how Sloom and his mate had a stable relationship ("She's always there for you, isn't she?"); and how Sloom was bored with his work ("I hate my job, Vorn."). Instead, we get (his line followed by my comment in quotes):
"There's Vorn — gotta go! Morning. Good
weekend?" (Relationship with mate; it's Monday)
"Yeah, not bad," said Vorn. "Yours?"
(Familiarity and affability between co-workers)
"Yeah, good. So, where are we today?"
"Earth. Schedule's in the glove box." (Their
work involves interstellar travel, which they
consider routine.)
"What?" (Sloom doesn't like the assignment.)
"It's just — y'know, Earth.
Dreary
little hole. Makes me wonder what I'm doing
in this job." (Sloom doesn't like his work.)
In the short story "Catflap," McKenzie spices up this exchange with the rhythms that flow from interruption and echoing:
"… There was an old Vork standing by
the gates, begging for foodscraps, and
holding this big grub—"
The Consul made an abrupt gesture to the
guards, who paused, claws inches from
Fletch's shoulders. "Grub?"
"Yeah, a big white grub. Fat, lots of little
white legs, big toothless mouth, big brown
eyes… lots of 'em…"
The Consul waved the guards away, and
regarded Fletch carefully. "And?"
"And it was looking at me with those big
eyes, and making this purring sound—
'roop-roop'— like that, and I just
had to stroke it! And when I did,
the thing rolled its eyes and nuzzled up
against my hand —" Fletch resumed his seat,
smiling dreamily, "—awww, it was so
cute! He shrugged. "Then the old
Vork hissed something at me and jerked the
grub away. But it was definitely a cat
analogue. And if it could make a jaded old
bastard like me go all ga-ga… "
Note especially:
The word "grub" is said once, then echoed twice. The Consul, who speaks but two words in this exchange, interrupts Fletch twice (actually more than that, but I've omitted the other times). McKenzie selects onomatopoeic words like "purring," "roop-roop," "hissed," and "ga-ga," which add complexity to the rhythms.
How do you bring this kind of economy to your work? Figure out what the scene is supposed to demonstrate and how it moves the story forward. Write a draft, but don't worry if it turns out bloated. Then go back and edit. Think about how you might convey your characters' agendas by heightening the tension, adding rhythm, tightening the language, and finding alternate ways of conveying setting and back story. If the scene doesn't move the story forward, cut it.
|
| The Most Frequently Discarded Books in UK Hotel Rooms |
|
|
According to Travelodge in Britain, the top 10 most discarded books in hotel rooms are:
- The Blair Years by former Downing Street communications chief Alastair Campbell
- Don't You Know Who I Am? by Piers Morgan
- A Whole New World by Jordan
- Wicked by Jilly Cooper
- Dr. Who Creatures and Demons by Justin Richard
- The Diana Chronicles by magazine editor and personal friend of the late princess Tina Brown
- I Can Make You Thin by Paul McKenna
- Humble Pie by chef Gordon Ramsay
- The Story Of A Man And His Mouth by Chris Moyles
- Harry Potter And The Deathly Hallows by JK Rowling.
|
| Capitalization, Part 5: Historical Periods |
|
|
Most historical periods are not capitalized unless they are proper nouns or include adjectives that are normally capitalized.
For example, don't capitalize the centuries or the decades:
- seventeenth century
- the nineteen hundreds
- the sixties
Don't capitalize eras unless they include adjectives that are normally capitalized:
- antiquity
- the romantic period
- the baroque era
-
but
- the Victorian age (because "Victorian" comes from the name "Victoria").
Some periods are capitalized by tradition:
- Dark Ages
- Renaissance
- Roaring Twenties.
(In this case, there's no rule to go by; you'll just have to look up these terms, some of which appear in the Chicago Manual of Style.)
Names bestowed by archaeologists are capitalized:
- Iron Age
- Neolithic period.
This is a tricky one, but if you can remember not to capitalize centuries and decades, you'll be ahead of most people.
These rules come from The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th Edition.
|
| Our 2008 First-Chapter-of-a-Novel Contest |
|
|
Bigger prizes this year, and more of them!
First Prize
- $1000
- An interview on The Writing Show
- Chapter posted on The Writing Show Web site.
Second Prize
- $400
- Chapter posted on The Writing Show Web site.
Third Prize
- $300
- Chapter posted on The Writing Show Web site.
Fourth Prize
- $200
- Chapter posted on The Writing Show Web site.
Fifth Prize
- $100
- Chapter posted on The Writing Show Web site.
Plus, for 10 lucky winners, chosen at random:
Early deadline: May 20, 2008.
Late deadline: June 20, 2008.
First- through fifth-prize winners will be announced on October 1, 2008.
Ten critique winners will be announced on June 23, 2008. Critiques will be awarded by September 1, 2008.
Entry fee
$25 if received online (or postmarked, if by snail mail) by our early deadline of May 20, 2008.
$32 if received online (or postmarked, if by snail mail) between May 21 and June 20, 2008.
Full details here.
|
| Writing Show News |
|
|
Upcoming shows:
May 18, 2008. "A Spiritual Approach to Writing," with Catherine Ann Jones, author of The Way of Story.
May 25, 2008. "Short Story Endings," with Melissa Palladino and Randall Douglas Brown.
June 1, 2008. "Writing Short," with business and technology reporter Michelle Vranizan Rafter and friends from LinkedIn.
June 8, 2008. "Writing to Inspire," with Dr. Paul Bernstein, author of Courage to Heal.
We'll also be featuring screenwriting commentary from Blake Snyder, more "Getting Published" reality shows, and our new writing makeover series with editor Ann Paden.
Have a question or topic you'd like covered on the show or in the newsletter? Want to write for us or be a guest host? See mistakes in my writing? Let me know.
--Paula B.
|
| Trivia Question: Allegories (last issue); Sherlock Holmes (this issue) |
|
|
In our last issue we asked:
Name two allegorical narratives.
Here are some correct answers:
The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spenser
The Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan
Animal Farm by George Orwell
L'Île des pingouins (Penguin Island) by Anatole France
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy
Aesop's Fables
Hard Times by Charles Dickens
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
The Good Doctor by Damon Galgut
The Stand by Stephen King
The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie
Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse
Emile by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
White Lotus by John Hersey
This month's trivia question: Which Sherlock Holmes character is named after a mountain in the English Lake District?
Answer next issue.
|
|
|
Horror writer David Schembri created our new logo!
|
|
|
|
Remember: you don't have to have an iPod to listen to podcasts!
Find out how to listen |
|
