Credibility is about concreteness. We believe this is happening because the specificity of the details indicates that this is really happening, that only experiencing this situation would lead to such vivid observations.
Read this blog entry about "what it's like being poor" by s/f writer John Scalzi, and I bet it's clear that this is someone who has been poor. We believe this because the details are so precise.
But also imagine that you're writing about a kid who is growing up poor. Notice how many of these precise details could be used to infuse a scene (like the kid getting ready for school) with immediacy (she's getting ready, and her mom is making toast for her, and a roach walks across the bread, and both of them pretend not to notice because they can't afford to throw the bread out).
This is an aspect of voice, I think--the precision of detail. The desire to get so real, to make the fictional scene come alive, that's voice. It's not just the word choice, it's the recognition of the importance of getting the reality in there.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Setting by Example: Murray
Continuing our discussion of setting....
I thought it might make sense to look at an example of an author incorporating setting details at the moment they become relevant, and not before. I'm reading "Skippy Dies" by Paul Murray. (Very slowly -- for reasons unrelated to the book's merit, I keep having to interrupt the reading process for other things. Hate it when that happens.) This book was recently nominated for an NBCC, and it's generated quite a lot of online buzz.
In one scene, the history teacher Howard is waylaid by the assistant principal, referred to in the text as "the Automator." They're walking through the school at a very fast pace as the Automator shares some of his thoughts about the nature of history and science teaching. This goes on for about a page and a half until the Automator stops abruptly and we have this:
"Howard, take a look around you. What do you see?"
Dazedly, Howard does as he is told. They are standing in Our Lady's Hall. There is the Virgin with the starry halo; there are the rugby photographs, the noticeboards, the fluorescent lights. Try as he might, he can perceive nothing out of the ordinary, and at last is forced to answer feebly, "Our Lady's Hall?"
(p.86-7 of the hardback edition, in case you want to examine it more closely. I urge you to do so. This is very strong writing, worth studying.)
Though this passage comes in the middle of a scene, and though they've been talking and moving consistently up until now, we didn't know where they were other than the vague understanding that they were somewhere on the school grounds. Until this passage, the only setting detail we're given is that they started within view of the exit and are moving away from it. Until this moment, everything is action and dialogue without reference to the specifics of the setting.
There are two reasons it works. First, Howard is concentrating on the conversation, so he might not be noticing the environment. Viewpoint influences which setting details can be included because the pov character is the lens through which we view everything. If he doesn't see it, we don't see it. Second, because of the lack of setting detail leading up to this moment, we have more contrast between the fast walk and fast conversation and then the abrupt stop and scan of the hall. Howard is dazed by the change, so much so that he doesn't know what he's supposed to see. The text reflects this.
But even without that contrast for effect, the setting details wouldn't be relevant until this moment. We don't care about photos and notices until they matter to the action and interaction, and that doesn't happen until the Automator asks his question.
The conversation unfolds a bit between them, discussing the hall's history without getting into concrete detail. Then we get this question about the hall from the Automator:
"Does it say, Ireland's top secondary school for boys?"
Howard takes another look at the hall. The blue-and-white tiles are scuffed and dull, the grubby walls pocked and crumbling, the window-sashes rotted and knotted with generations of cobwebs. On a winter's day, it could double for a Victorian orphanage. "Well..." he begins, then realizes the Automator has turned on his heel and is power-walking back the way they came.
And then they're back to the fast walk and fast talk that started the scene. Notice the use of three details in that second sentence: tiles, walls, sashes. Three is a magic number! But again, this closer inspection becomes important to the story at the moment that it's requested and not before then. Howard doesn't think about the condition of the building until after the talk about the year in which the hall was built. Only then does the age of the hall impress itself on him in those particular details.
The end result of the scene is the reader's certainty that the Automator manipulates everything, right down to what people notice in the world around them. It's a very controlled and well-written use of setting, and it's a great example of a scene that only incorporates setting details when they become relevant.
Theresa
I thought it might make sense to look at an example of an author incorporating setting details at the moment they become relevant, and not before. I'm reading "Skippy Dies" by Paul Murray. (Very slowly -- for reasons unrelated to the book's merit, I keep having to interrupt the reading process for other things. Hate it when that happens.) This book was recently nominated for an NBCC, and it's generated quite a lot of online buzz.
In one scene, the history teacher Howard is waylaid by the assistant principal, referred to in the text as "the Automator." They're walking through the school at a very fast pace as the Automator shares some of his thoughts about the nature of history and science teaching. This goes on for about a page and a half until the Automator stops abruptly and we have this:
"Howard, take a look around you. What do you see?"
Dazedly, Howard does as he is told. They are standing in Our Lady's Hall. There is the Virgin with the starry halo; there are the rugby photographs, the noticeboards, the fluorescent lights. Try as he might, he can perceive nothing out of the ordinary, and at last is forced to answer feebly, "Our Lady's Hall?"
(p.86-7 of the hardback edition, in case you want to examine it more closely. I urge you to do so. This is very strong writing, worth studying.)
Though this passage comes in the middle of a scene, and though they've been talking and moving consistently up until now, we didn't know where they were other than the vague understanding that they were somewhere on the school grounds. Until this passage, the only setting detail we're given is that they started within view of the exit and are moving away from it. Until this moment, everything is action and dialogue without reference to the specifics of the setting.
There are two reasons it works. First, Howard is concentrating on the conversation, so he might not be noticing the environment. Viewpoint influences which setting details can be included because the pov character is the lens through which we view everything. If he doesn't see it, we don't see it. Second, because of the lack of setting detail leading up to this moment, we have more contrast between the fast walk and fast conversation and then the abrupt stop and scan of the hall. Howard is dazed by the change, so much so that he doesn't know what he's supposed to see. The text reflects this.
But even without that contrast for effect, the setting details wouldn't be relevant until this moment. We don't care about photos and notices until they matter to the action and interaction, and that doesn't happen until the Automator asks his question.
The conversation unfolds a bit between them, discussing the hall's history without getting into concrete detail. Then we get this question about the hall from the Automator:
"Does it say, Ireland's top secondary school for boys?"
Howard takes another look at the hall. The blue-and-white tiles are scuffed and dull, the grubby walls pocked and crumbling, the window-sashes rotted and knotted with generations of cobwebs. On a winter's day, it could double for a Victorian orphanage. "Well..." he begins, then realizes the Automator has turned on his heel and is power-walking back the way they came.
And then they're back to the fast walk and fast talk that started the scene. Notice the use of three details in that second sentence: tiles, walls, sashes. Three is a magic number! But again, this closer inspection becomes important to the story at the moment that it's requested and not before then. Howard doesn't think about the condition of the building until after the talk about the year in which the hall was built. Only then does the age of the hall impress itself on him in those particular details.
The end result of the scene is the reader's certainty that the Automator manipulates everything, right down to what people notice in the world around them. It's a very controlled and well-written use of setting, and it's a great example of a scene that only incorporates setting details when they become relevant.
Theresa
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Immediate, not retrospect
I was writing a scene where a married couple were having one of those married conversations, about what to get his daughter for a wedding gift. The husband says they have to buy a gift. And I had the wife think that the daughter and her groom would probably prefer money. But she doesn't say that because (she thinks in her head) the last time she suggested that (giving a gift of money to a wedding couple), the husband (who is older and richer) scoffed at her, saying that it's tasteless to give money as a wedding gift.
And the wife thinks that she'll never understand the upper classes, all these rules, all this "taste" stuff.
See the problem? There's a conversation taking place NOW. In the scene. And yet the most interesting part of it, the exchange that reveals the class conflict between them, took place sometime before, about some other wedding. The conflict is in retrospect, not right here right now.
It's sort of scary how often I do that, slide into a retrospective of something that ought to be happening now. Easy to fix here, however!
Husband says they need to shop for a wedding gift (maybe specify something "tasteful" like crystal).
Wife says NOW, "Why not just give them the money and let them decide how to spend it?"
Husband NOW says, "We can't give my daughter a check for her wedding! That's -- that's tasteless."
And since it's happening NOW, the wife can maybe draw this out a bit more, demand what he means by tasteless, that when her sister got married, the groom's parents gave them enough for a down payment on a house, and no one thought that was tasteless.
And he can say, kind of coldly, well, of course, for your family, that was probably considered the height of good taste. But the rule is, money is not a good gift for a wedding. Something that indicates a long life together, family, tradition, that is in good taste. Like crystal.
And she can think about how she will never understand all these rules of the upper classes, that seem to be so at odds with real life.
But NOW she could give in, to keep the peace, and to prevent her husband thinking too much of her lower-class origins. The catalyst for her giving in would have just happened this way, not weeks ago.
And can I make the giving in more concrete? Maybe by her gathering up her purse and saying, "Let's go then to that crystal shop on Pike St." That would be a concrete representation of her capitulation.
Anyway, something to watch out for-- make the retrospective immediate if possible. Then again, this might be a problem only for me!
Alicia
And the wife thinks that she'll never understand the upper classes, all these rules, all this "taste" stuff.
See the problem? There's a conversation taking place NOW. In the scene. And yet the most interesting part of it, the exchange that reveals the class conflict between them, took place sometime before, about some other wedding. The conflict is in retrospect, not right here right now.
It's sort of scary how often I do that, slide into a retrospective of something that ought to be happening now. Easy to fix here, however!
Husband says they need to shop for a wedding gift (maybe specify something "tasteful" like crystal).
Wife says NOW, "Why not just give them the money and let them decide how to spend it?"
Husband NOW says, "We can't give my daughter a check for her wedding! That's -- that's tasteless."
And since it's happening NOW, the wife can maybe draw this out a bit more, demand what he means by tasteless, that when her sister got married, the groom's parents gave them enough for a down payment on a house, and no one thought that was tasteless.
And he can say, kind of coldly, well, of course, for your family, that was probably considered the height of good taste. But the rule is, money is not a good gift for a wedding. Something that indicates a long life together, family, tradition, that is in good taste. Like crystal.
And she can think about how she will never understand all these rules of the upper classes, that seem to be so at odds with real life.
But NOW she could give in, to keep the peace, and to prevent her husband thinking too much of her lower-class origins. The catalyst for her giving in would have just happened this way, not weeks ago.
And can I make the giving in more concrete? Maybe by her gathering up her purse and saying, "Let's go then to that crystal shop on Pike St." That would be a concrete representation of her capitulation.
Anyway, something to watch out for-- make the retrospective immediate if possible. Then again, this might be a problem only for me!
Alicia
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Setting by Example: Brown
Continuing our discussion of setting--
Last time, we looked at a paragraph from Ishiguro's Booker winner, "The Remains of the Day." This time, for contrast, I thought we'd look at a sample from a commercial novel. Here's a paragraph from Dan Brown's bestseller, "The Lost Symbol."
For Robert Langdon, the Capitol Rotunda--like St. Peter's Basilica--always had a way of taking him by surprise. Intellectually, he knew the room was so large that the Statue of Liberty could stand comfortably inside it, but somehow the Rotunda always felt larger and more hallowed than he had anticipated, as if there were spirits in the air. Tonight, however, there was only chaos.
(Unrelated note: Why does Robert Langdon always refer to himself by first and last name in his own pov? This happens over and over throughout the text. I can't decide if we're meant to conclude something from that.)
The first thing I noticed about this paragraph is the use of three landmarks together. Rotunda, St. Peter's, Statue of Liberty. It's that rule of three again, but this time, instead of using it to create a spatial orientation (as in Ishiguro's paragraph), it is used to create magnitude and tone. These are more than landmarks. These are symbolic buildings, monumental in both size and emotional context.
Using symbolic references like this can have the side effect of making the text feel abstract. Brown counteracts this by relying on emotion signifiers --surprise, comfort, anticipation -- to try to bring it all back to a particular context. Does this technique work? Why or why not? Do any other words in the parapraph enhance or detract from the sense of abstraction? (These are real questions meant to prompt discussion in the comments. I have my own opinion, but it's a subjective response and I want to see what everyone else thinks.)
Regardless of the overall effect of the set-up, that final sentence is meant to act like a punch, reversing everything that's been set up so far in the paragraph. Hallowed monements, sanctified spaces, national symbols, ghosts in the air -- but not today. Today it's chaos. This is a good technique to keep in mind -- setting up a tone, and then jerking it away. The contrast can create tension just like the Ishiguro paragraph with the past/present cabinet/bookcase.
Theresa
Last time, we looked at a paragraph from Ishiguro's Booker winner, "The Remains of the Day." This time, for contrast, I thought we'd look at a sample from a commercial novel. Here's a paragraph from Dan Brown's bestseller, "The Lost Symbol."
For Robert Langdon, the Capitol Rotunda--like St. Peter's Basilica--always had a way of taking him by surprise. Intellectually, he knew the room was so large that the Statue of Liberty could stand comfortably inside it, but somehow the Rotunda always felt larger and more hallowed than he had anticipated, as if there were spirits in the air. Tonight, however, there was only chaos.
(Unrelated note: Why does Robert Langdon always refer to himself by first and last name in his own pov? This happens over and over throughout the text. I can't decide if we're meant to conclude something from that.)
The first thing I noticed about this paragraph is the use of three landmarks together. Rotunda, St. Peter's, Statue of Liberty. It's that rule of three again, but this time, instead of using it to create a spatial orientation (as in Ishiguro's paragraph), it is used to create magnitude and tone. These are more than landmarks. These are symbolic buildings, monumental in both size and emotional context.
Using symbolic references like this can have the side effect of making the text feel abstract. Brown counteracts this by relying on emotion signifiers --surprise, comfort, anticipation -- to try to bring it all back to a particular context. Does this technique work? Why or why not? Do any other words in the parapraph enhance or detract from the sense of abstraction? (These are real questions meant to prompt discussion in the comments. I have my own opinion, but it's a subjective response and I want to see what everyone else thinks.)
Regardless of the overall effect of the set-up, that final sentence is meant to act like a punch, reversing everything that's been set up so far in the paragraph. Hallowed monements, sanctified spaces, national symbols, ghosts in the air -- but not today. Today it's chaos. This is a good technique to keep in mind -- setting up a tone, and then jerking it away. The contrast can create tension just like the Ishiguro paragraph with the past/present cabinet/bookcase.
Theresa
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Never forget
Something I'm noticing in submissions and contest entries is the turning point that doesn't turn anything-- the big event (usually around the middle of the story) which has no plot effect and the characters never contemplate.
Hmm. How does it happen? Well, first if you write out of sequence (as I do often), you need to carefully place big events when you assemble the narrative. I might have dreamed up (when I write this way, it's often subconsciously inspired) some big moment where the main character realizes her beloved mentor has betrayed her. And I write it up, make it dramatic and heartwrenching. And then I write other scenes that come to me in blinding flashes. Then I have to think about what goes where, right? And presumably write connecting scenes between the big scenes. (Kids, don't try this at home.)
The problem is figuring out what goes where... and why (what leads up to it and causes it), and what effect the event is going to have in the next scenes. But in some of these stories I've seen lately, that doesn't happen. The event is there, fully dramatized, powerful, but then... it's like it didn't happen. But you know, if she discovered her mentor betrayed her, there'd be an effect. She'd be less likely to trust, more wary, angry maybe. She'd think about what happened. Something would happen and she'd automatically think of asking her mentor for advice, but then stop-- oh, right. He betrayed me.
When there's no effect, the narrative propulsion sputters to a halt (you mean, there's no consequence to events?) and the author's credibility is damaged (maybe she forgot?). I think this happens sometimes because we have a purpose for the scene (this is meant to isolate her so she can trust only the villain, maybe), or even sort of a meta-purpose ("I want the reader to know something about the mentor that will be important in the sequel") or a desire to expound a theme ("Never put your trust in men").
But scenes, especially important scenes, should have two primary purposes: To advance the plot, and to develop the character. Whatever other reasons a scene might have, the reader expects it to advance the plot and develop the character. If the character has no reaction to the event, no change, then no matter how many other purposes get fulfilled, it's a failed scene. And this becomes even more glaring when it's a turning point scene, with a dramatic or emotional event that really ought to have great effect.
I can just imagine all of us shaking our heads and saying confidently, "I never do that." But it's so common that maybe we do and just don't notice. I know the way I write (often out of sequence) creates a real hazard here. Sometimes when a scene is inserted into an existing sequence, we might not recognize all the ways it changes the story and character, or the slight or great modification it might make in the theme or message, or the ways it might affect the interaction or feeling between characters. The reader, reading in sequence, will be trying to make sense of this, and we might have to --yes, once again-- read as a reader to notice the disconnect and how to fix it.
Has anyone faced this issue and dealt with it somehow?
Alicia
Hmm. How does it happen? Well, first if you write out of sequence (as I do often), you need to carefully place big events when you assemble the narrative. I might have dreamed up (when I write this way, it's often subconsciously inspired) some big moment where the main character realizes her beloved mentor has betrayed her. And I write it up, make it dramatic and heartwrenching. And then I write other scenes that come to me in blinding flashes. Then I have to think about what goes where, right? And presumably write connecting scenes between the big scenes. (Kids, don't try this at home.)
The problem is figuring out what goes where... and why (what leads up to it and causes it), and what effect the event is going to have in the next scenes. But in some of these stories I've seen lately, that doesn't happen. The event is there, fully dramatized, powerful, but then... it's like it didn't happen. But you know, if she discovered her mentor betrayed her, there'd be an effect. She'd be less likely to trust, more wary, angry maybe. She'd think about what happened. Something would happen and she'd automatically think of asking her mentor for advice, but then stop-- oh, right. He betrayed me.
When there's no effect, the narrative propulsion sputters to a halt (you mean, there's no consequence to events?) and the author's credibility is damaged (maybe she forgot?). I think this happens sometimes because we have a purpose for the scene (this is meant to isolate her so she can trust only the villain, maybe), or even sort of a meta-purpose ("I want the reader to know something about the mentor that will be important in the sequel") or a desire to expound a theme ("Never put your trust in men").
But scenes, especially important scenes, should have two primary purposes: To advance the plot, and to develop the character. Whatever other reasons a scene might have, the reader expects it to advance the plot and develop the character. If the character has no reaction to the event, no change, then no matter how many other purposes get fulfilled, it's a failed scene. And this becomes even more glaring when it's a turning point scene, with a dramatic or emotional event that really ought to have great effect.
I can just imagine all of us shaking our heads and saying confidently, "I never do that." But it's so common that maybe we do and just don't notice. I know the way I write (often out of sequence) creates a real hazard here. Sometimes when a scene is inserted into an existing sequence, we might not recognize all the ways it changes the story and character, or the slight or great modification it might make in the theme or message, or the ways it might affect the interaction or feeling between characters. The reader, reading in sequence, will be trying to make sense of this, and we might have to --yes, once again-- read as a reader to notice the disconnect and how to fix it.
Has anyone faced this issue and dealt with it somehow?
Alicia
Monday, January 24, 2011
Setting by Example: Ishiguro
The other day at Romance University, I posted a few tips on how to incorporate setting details. I thought we might continue the discussion here by looking at a few examples of good portrayals of setting details. If you haven't already read that post, you might want to take a look at it so you have the context for this discussion.
So let's take a look at a sample from "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro. This book is told from the point of view of a butler in one of England's great houses during the world war period. It is, in great part, the butler's attempt to understand his relationship to and character of Lord Darlington, the previous owner of the house. Here's the sample paragraph:
The study doors are those that face one as one comes down the great staircase. There is outside the study today a glass cabinet displaying various of Mr Farraday's ornaments, but throughout Lord Darlington's days, there stood at that spot a bookshelf containing many volumes of encyclopedia, including a complete set of the Britannica. It was a ploy of Lord Darlington's to stand at this shelf studying the spines of the encyclopedias as I came down the staircase, and sometimes, to increase the effect of an accidental meeting, he would actually pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed as I completed my descent. Then, as I passed him, he would say: 'Oh, Stevens, there was something I meant to say to you.' And with that, he would wander back into his study, to all appearances still thoroughly engrossed in the volume held open in his hands. It was invariably embarrassment at what he was about to impart which made Lord Darlington adopt such an approach, and even once the study door was closed behind us, he would often stand by the window and make a show of consulting the encyclopedia throughout our conversation.
Nice paragraph, isn't it? Its primary focus is on a detail of the habitual interaction between Lord Darlington and his butler, and setting details are used to enhance the butler's interpretation of that interaction. Let's break it down.
We start with two sentences of unmixed description of setting details:
The study doors are those that face one as one comes down the great staircase. There is outside the study today a glass cabinet displaying various of Mr Farraday's ornaments, but throughout Lord Darlington's days, there stood at that spot a bookshelf containing many volumes of encyclopedia, including a complete set of the Britannica.
These are slow, deliberate sentences, which is in keeping with the butler's voice and character. The first sentence gives us two setting details in relation to each other -- exactly what we mean when we talk about orientation. This kind of orientation is a powerful tool to bring the reader into the physical space of the book world. It's not just a list of details -- a staircase, a room, doors -- but an explanation of how these pieces relate to one another. This is an effective and concise way to present setting information.
Next, we have a sentence that describes how one setting detail has changed: now a curio cabinet, formerly a bookcase with encyclopedias. Change is the essence of drama, and incorporating change at this small-scale, sentence level is a good technique for creating tension in what otherwise might be a flat bit of description. This contrast between past and present is heightened by including both descriptive details in the same sentence. As an exercise, try breaking apart this sentence to separate past and present. Also try eliminating the curio cabinet. Do you see how that strips some of the impact out of these ideas?
Note also the use of three details to paint the scene: stairs, door, bookcase. Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while have heard both Alicia and I discuss the "rule of three." Not so much a rule, really, as this tendency for good writing to contain sets of three like items. Here, we have three setting details to paint a scene, and it works.
The next sentence describes habitual actions of the butler and Lord Darlington, but it accomplishes this in a way that echoes the orientation in the first sentence:
It was a ploy of Lord Darlington's to stand at this shelf studying the spines of the encyclopedias as I came down the staircase, and sometimes, to increase the effect of an accidental meeting, he would actually pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed as I completed my descent.
Because we already know the orientation of these setting details, we can easily picture the butler staring directly at his employer as he walks down the stairs. How much less effective would this sentence be if that spatial relationship had not already been established? Notice how the orientation details are continued in small ways throughout the balance of the paragraph:
my descent. Then, as I passed him,
back into his study
the study door was closed behind us
by the window
Because the space was established at the outset, the action can unfold against this backdrop without further pause to describe the environment. New details, such as the window, can be incorporated in the context of action without pausing that action for more detailed description.
Notice also the way the book carries through the paragraph:
the spines of the encyclopedias
pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed
volume held open in his hands
consulting the encyclopedia
What started off as a setting detail becomes a prop, and then evolves into a symbol of the awkwardness of the interaction between the two men. In this way, the setting is drawn into the action and acquires extra meaning.
All in all, an excellent use of setting.
Theresa
So let's take a look at a sample from "The Remains of the Day" by Kazuo Ishiguro. This book is told from the point of view of a butler in one of England's great houses during the world war period. It is, in great part, the butler's attempt to understand his relationship to and character of Lord Darlington, the previous owner of the house. Here's the sample paragraph:
The study doors are those that face one as one comes down the great staircase. There is outside the study today a glass cabinet displaying various of Mr Farraday's ornaments, but throughout Lord Darlington's days, there stood at that spot a bookshelf containing many volumes of encyclopedia, including a complete set of the Britannica. It was a ploy of Lord Darlington's to stand at this shelf studying the spines of the encyclopedias as I came down the staircase, and sometimes, to increase the effect of an accidental meeting, he would actually pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed as I completed my descent. Then, as I passed him, he would say: 'Oh, Stevens, there was something I meant to say to you.' And with that, he would wander back into his study, to all appearances still thoroughly engrossed in the volume held open in his hands. It was invariably embarrassment at what he was about to impart which made Lord Darlington adopt such an approach, and even once the study door was closed behind us, he would often stand by the window and make a show of consulting the encyclopedia throughout our conversation.
Nice paragraph, isn't it? Its primary focus is on a detail of the habitual interaction between Lord Darlington and his butler, and setting details are used to enhance the butler's interpretation of that interaction. Let's break it down.
We start with two sentences of unmixed description of setting details:
The study doors are those that face one as one comes down the great staircase. There is outside the study today a glass cabinet displaying various of Mr Farraday's ornaments, but throughout Lord Darlington's days, there stood at that spot a bookshelf containing many volumes of encyclopedia, including a complete set of the Britannica.
These are slow, deliberate sentences, which is in keeping with the butler's voice and character. The first sentence gives us two setting details in relation to each other -- exactly what we mean when we talk about orientation. This kind of orientation is a powerful tool to bring the reader into the physical space of the book world. It's not just a list of details -- a staircase, a room, doors -- but an explanation of how these pieces relate to one another. This is an effective and concise way to present setting information.
Next, we have a sentence that describes how one setting detail has changed: now a curio cabinet, formerly a bookcase with encyclopedias. Change is the essence of drama, and incorporating change at this small-scale, sentence level is a good technique for creating tension in what otherwise might be a flat bit of description. This contrast between past and present is heightened by including both descriptive details in the same sentence. As an exercise, try breaking apart this sentence to separate past and present. Also try eliminating the curio cabinet. Do you see how that strips some of the impact out of these ideas?
Note also the use of three details to paint the scene: stairs, door, bookcase. Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while have heard both Alicia and I discuss the "rule of three." Not so much a rule, really, as this tendency for good writing to contain sets of three like items. Here, we have three setting details to paint a scene, and it works.
The next sentence describes habitual actions of the butler and Lord Darlington, but it accomplishes this in a way that echoes the orientation in the first sentence:
It was a ploy of Lord Darlington's to stand at this shelf studying the spines of the encyclopedias as I came down the staircase, and sometimes, to increase the effect of an accidental meeting, he would actually pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed as I completed my descent.
Because we already know the orientation of these setting details, we can easily picture the butler staring directly at his employer as he walks down the stairs. How much less effective would this sentence be if that spatial relationship had not already been established? Notice how the orientation details are continued in small ways throughout the balance of the paragraph:
my descent. Then, as I passed him,
back into his study
the study door was closed behind us
by the window
Because the space was established at the outset, the action can unfold against this backdrop without further pause to describe the environment. New details, such as the window, can be incorporated in the context of action without pausing that action for more detailed description.
Notice also the way the book carries through the paragraph:
the spines of the encyclopedias
pull out a volume and pretend to be engrossed
volume held open in his hands
consulting the encyclopedia
What started off as a setting detail becomes a prop, and then evolves into a symbol of the awkwardness of the interaction between the two men. In this way, the setting is drawn into the action and acquires extra meaning.
All in all, an excellent use of setting.
Theresa
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Signal words
I was taking pitches this weekend, and one pitcher was summing up her story: "(Title) is dark and uplifting."
That gave me pause. The two adjectives there didn't seem similar enough to be joined by "and". I suggested that she put the word "both" in there, as that would signal that she understood the two terms are somewhat contradictory and wanted that conflict. That is, by emphasizing the "bothness," she would be signalling that she recognized and wanted the contradiction. (That is, not that she's so clueless she thought they were the same thing.
These little words are useful as they help draw attention to aspects that you might want to subtly emphasize. I was recently reading a submission where the hero and the heroine met in chapter two in kind of mysterious circumstances (and kissed), so in my head it wasn't entirely clear that they knew who each other was. Then they became betrothed (long story), and I kept asking, "Do they know that they met and kissed in chapter two?" For example, there was one scene where she's wondering if he is going to "press his affections" on her now that they're engaged, and she asks him outright, and he says, "When I kiss you, you'll have the answer to that" (or something like that). "When I kiss you?" But they've already kissed. Doesn't he remember?
Really, I asked this often enough that I think I became irritating. :) Finally the author said, "What is it I'm not doing that you think I should do?"
And I realized that if she just added "again"-- "When I kiss you again," that would be enough to signal that yes, he did remember kissing her in chapter two, that he didn't think the kissee back then was someone else entirely, and that he knew she also knew, that the kiss was part of both of their mental databases.
(Really, this is needed-- authors rather frequently forget what they've done earlier in the book. I've done it myself. When you do multiple drafts, you might think you cut out that she went to work the morning of the funeral, but in fact, you left that in there. So the reader reading that might think that you just forgot, right? And so when that verdict of "forgetting" could be applied to something you deliberately have in there, best to make it subtly clear with a signal word if you can. "No, I didn't forget. This will all make sense if you keep reading." Anyone have examples of this sort of thing I can use? :)
Twain said, The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.
I think also though that adding one of these "acknowledgment/emphasis" words can make your meaning and your intent plain, yet in a subtle way. It tells the reader you do in fact know what you're doing, that you remember what you have done. Doesn't usually take much, but establishes credibility, showing that you know the import of your events and your words.
Alicia
That gave me pause. The two adjectives there didn't seem similar enough to be joined by "and". I suggested that she put the word "both" in there, as that would signal that she understood the two terms are somewhat contradictory and wanted that conflict. That is, by emphasizing the "bothness," she would be signalling that she recognized and wanted the contradiction. (That is, not that she's so clueless she thought they were the same thing.
These little words are useful as they help draw attention to aspects that you might want to subtly emphasize. I was recently reading a submission where the hero and the heroine met in chapter two in kind of mysterious circumstances (and kissed), so in my head it wasn't entirely clear that they knew who each other was. Then they became betrothed (long story), and I kept asking, "Do they know that they met and kissed in chapter two?" For example, there was one scene where she's wondering if he is going to "press his affections" on her now that they're engaged, and she asks him outright, and he says, "When I kiss you, you'll have the answer to that" (or something like that). "When I kiss you?" But they've already kissed. Doesn't he remember?
Really, I asked this often enough that I think I became irritating. :) Finally the author said, "What is it I'm not doing that you think I should do?"
And I realized that if she just added "again"-- "When I kiss you again," that would be enough to signal that yes, he did remember kissing her in chapter two, that he didn't think the kissee back then was someone else entirely, and that he knew she also knew, that the kiss was part of both of their mental databases.
(Really, this is needed-- authors rather frequently forget what they've done earlier in the book. I've done it myself. When you do multiple drafts, you might think you cut out that she went to work the morning of the funeral, but in fact, you left that in there. So the reader reading that might think that you just forgot, right? And so when that verdict of "forgetting" could be applied to something you deliberately have in there, best to make it subtly clear with a signal word if you can. "No, I didn't forget. This will all make sense if you keep reading." Anyone have examples of this sort of thing I can use? :)
Twain said, The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug.
I think also though that adding one of these "acknowledgment/emphasis" words can make your meaning and your intent plain, yet in a subtle way. It tells the reader you do in fact know what you're doing, that you remember what you have done. Doesn't usually take much, but establishes credibility, showing that you know the import of your events and your words.
Alicia
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