December 28, 2011

Before I start, here’s a link to a poem I read this week and loved that seems to me to get (metaphorically) to the essence of fiction and poetry: http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php?date=2011/12/20.

On August 16, 2011, bluekiwii wrote, ….The best stories are the ones which show more than tell. I’ve heard this advice many times in articles and books on how-to-write. Yet I wonder sometimes if I’m not underestimating the value of telling. I feel that telling instead of showing helps the reader get inside the character’s head more easily than a simple chronicling of events (she runs, she slides, she fidgets) ever could. As I write, I wonder if I should focus on describing the events only or if I should probe at the thoughts and inner monologues of the character (for isn’t telling readers how the character feels considered less powerful then showing?) Is it okay for a character to say that they are nervous: “There is no need to be nervous—why it is so very silly really…” ? Or is it better to show the character’s nervous state instead: “the old man looked away from the person’s face and fiddled with the zipper of his sweater.” In other words, is it really important to be able to display what a character is thinking or should a reader get to know a character purely through actions? How do you pick when it is more advantageous to “tell” instead of “show”? Is there any value at all to telling instead of showing?

My chapter in Writing Magic called “Show and Tell” discusses the difference between the two, so I hope everyone who’s puzzled over this will take a look.

I believe that thoughts fall into the category of showing, just as dialogue does. Telling, in my opinion, is narration. Here’s an example: The young princess collapsed on the bed in a deep sleep while beads of blood from her finger stained the counterpane. And showing might be: Her mind went cobwebby; her knees turned rubbery; the bed seemed to rise to meet her. Her last waking thought: The prince, when he comes, will not approve of blood on the counterpane.

But the difference is hard to tease out and may even be a matter of debate. In my telling sentence above, I’m not even sure about the end of the sentence. The young princess collapsed on the bed in a deep sleep is certainly telling (I think!), but while beads of blood from her finger stained the counterpane may be showing.

Unless we’re writing from the POV of an omniscient narrator who reveals everyone’s thoughts and emotions, we have to rely mostly on action for our non-POV characters. But we learn tons about people from what they do, and dialogue, revealing dialogue, is also action. We have other cues, too, like dress, facial expression, and body language. If, for example, Yolanda is usually a fashion plate, the reader and other characters are going to wonder what’s going on when she comes to school looking like she dressed with her eyes closed. If she’s usually quiet in class but now her arm is waving wildly at the teacher, we’re likely to think something is up.

But, when it comes to the POV character, if we omit his thoughts and feelings, we’re writing handicapped. He has thoughts and feelings. Why would we keep them secret? In sleeping princess’s thought above, we learn a fair amount about her from just thirteen words. She’s fastidious and worries about making a good impression a hundred years off but not about nightmares, and she isn’t looking forward to all that rest.

This blog is mostly telling. I just looked at a magazine article and concluded that it was basically telling with a few incidents sprinkled in, examples of showing that livened up the prose. I also looked online at the front page of two major newspapers, The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. Just about all telling there, reflecting the reportorial nature of telling, which certainly has a place in fiction.

These three sentences of pure telling start a chapter in Fairest: A week passed. The mood in the castle was bleak. The corridor troubadours sang of pain and grief. For some reason that I no longer remember I needed that time span to go by but I didn’t want to show a week in which nothing of plot importance happened. Telling is great at moving a story along.

Showing allows the reader to draw his own conclusions about the characters and the unfolding tale, and usually that’s preferable. But sometimes we want to nail a thing down and say nothing that could be misunderstood. Sometimes we want to say, Perry hated Willa.

I just revisited The Birthday Room (ten and up, I’d guess) by Kevin Henkes, a book I love. The first page is strictly telling and, as I skipped through, it seemed to me that there’s more telling throughout than I usually use, and yet it’s a marvelous book. I think the telling contributes to the thoughtful tone. Read it, if you haven’t already, and learn.

The maxim, Show don’t tell, may be a shibboleth we can do just as well without. Writing that, as bluekiwii said, gets the reader inside the character’s head (when we want him to be there) is doing its job whether it’s showing or telling.

A more useful distinction may be between high detail and low. A week passed is low detail. This is from later in the chapter: I put the letters in the top drawer of my bureau and dressed in yet another of Dame Ethele’s horrors. This one had so much draped cloth in the sleeves that they would have been useful on a sailing ship. The headdress too was cursed with excess cloth, which culminated in flaps that fell on each side of my face like the long droopy ears of an Ayorthaian hare.

Is it telling or showing? Don’t know. I’m pretty sure, though, that there’s high detail. I loved describing the costumes in Fairest, most of which came from fashion history books. The silly outfits people used to wear! (And still do!)

I could have gone into much greater detail. Notice I didn’t mention the color of the “horror” or the kind of fabric or the quality of the dressmaking. The goal was to demonstrate how ridiculous Aza felt. With that accomplished I moved on.

So purpose can guide you when you choose between showing and telling and level of detail. When you’ve done what you’ve set out to do, stop. That can be hard to tell in a first draft. You may need to wait for revision and revision and revision to arrive at certainty about where to cut and where to expand.

Prompts:

• This is the first sentence of “Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp” from Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy Book: “There once lived a poor tailor, who had a son called Aladdin, a careless, idle boy who would do nothing but play ball all day long in the streets with little idle boys like himself.” This is an example of extreme telling, very compressed. Unpack the sentence using detail and showing to draw the reader in. Interest the reader in Aladdin and his unhappy dad. See if you can get at least three pages out of the one sentence. (The Lang fairy books are the source of most of my books based on fairytales. If you don’t know them, each is a different color. They’re in the public domain so you don’t have to worry about copyright, and they’re available online for free.)

• Let’s take Perry hated Willa from above. Write a scene that shows the hatred without stating it outright. Then revise the scene with tiny tweaks that turn the hatred into a different emotion, like love or curiosity or despair.

• This is a prompt for the blog itself. Are there other rules of writing (some we’ve discussed here, like words teachers despise) that mystify you? Post about them.

Have fun, and save what you write!

Writing in tongues

On August 12, 2011, Caitlyn wrote, ….My story is set in modern times, but it has a group of major characters who have been around for a few thousand years, and English is not their first language. Though they speak English around the MC, in stressful or emotional situations they revert to their native tongue. Many of those lines of dialogue are left uninterpreted, at least for a while.
I feel like the language needs to be included for authenticity’s sake, so I was wondering: what is the best way to include another language in a story? Is it necessary to interpret every single thing they say immediately? And is it better for the author to say something like “He spoke to his companion in German,” or to include the actual German dialogue?

I’m with you, Caitlyn. I think your impulse to have your characters lapse into their home tongue is good, very likely what they’d do.

Naturally, as in most things writing, how to handle a language other than English (or the native language of the writer) is up to you. My only certainty is that if the other language exists and you decide to include it, everything needs to be correct, not only grammar and spelling but also expression. If the language is German it has to read as if a German-speaker had written it. (Kudos to you if you’re fluent in another language!)

Of course if you include more than a few words at a time in the other language most readers will skip the passage. Some will read through even without comprehension, especially if the sounds are pleasing or interesting. When I read and reread The Lord of the Rings trilogy I used to say the language of the orcs out loud because I loved the sound. The more euphonious elves’ tongue didn’t appeal to me as much.

It’s fun to use languages in books, in my opinion. There’s French in A Tale of Two Castles, anglicized French, meaning that I gave French words an English spelling. One of the streets is Roo Street. In French, as you may know, rue means street. Fun! The ogre’s name is Count Jonty Um, which comes from the French gentil homme, and the meaning of his name has significance for the story, although it’s okay if the reader doesn’t get it.

I think it’s fine to write out the foreign bits sometimes and at other times to say merely that Karl switched to German to better express his feeling of elation, for example. You want to be kind to your readers and not use so many unknown words that they get frustrated. I don’t think you need to translate everything, but you don’t want readers to feel lost – except when you do want them to. You could heighten suspense by putting in a few critical words in an unknown tongue. The judge pronounces Milo rewnee and sentences him to seven ubils in yokto. The reader cares about Milo and zips on to the next chapter desperate to find out if rewnee and ubils and yokto are good or awful. You can write a romantic moment in which all the terms of endearment are incomprehensible. Or you can have Milo ream out his assistant Kristen entirely in the language of Xic, and Kristen can blush and babble an apology.

It’s cool to teach your reader a new word in an existing language or in a made-up one. A former student of mine is now in the Peace Corps in Moldova where Romanian is spoken. I read her fascinating blog about her experiences, and she uses the word frumos so often that I’ve picked it up. Means beautiful but, as far as I can tell, as relates only to a person; I don’t think you’d call a sunset frumos.

I’ve made up fragments of several languages, and there are some decisions to be made:

∙ How will the language look? Gnomic in Ella Enchanted, for example, is punctuated backwards and the capitals appear at the end of a name and at the end of the sentence. When the reader sees these features he knows that he’s looking at the language of the gnomes. You have punctuation marks, capitals, and repeat letters or omitted letters to work with. If you come up with exotic signs that require calligraphy, you’ll be creating a problem for your publisher, so I’d suggest staying away from them.

∙ How will the language sound? Each of the languages in Ella Enchanted has a particular sound. Abdegi, the language of the giants, for example, is accompanied by emotive noises, like whoops and howls. Every word in Ayorthaian begins with a vowel and ends with the same vowel.

∙ Will there be consistent meaning? When a word repeats in one of the languages in Ella Enchanted, it’s the same each time. For example, the Gnomic word brzzay always means digging. By contrast, in Ever the word for digging might be ioopll the first time it shows up and eressc the next. I just hit keys on my keyboard at random. My thinking was that Wadir where the language is spoken is a dreamlike place with shifting meaning.

∙ Are you going to deal with grammar, tenses, plurals, etc.? I never have. I did a little with plurals and past tense in Ella Enchanted but not much and I wasn’t consistent. However, more power to you if you go all out.

At the beginning of Fairy Haven and the Quest for the Wand there’s a sad song in Mermish, the language of the mermaids, which has no consonants, only vowels, because I decided that consonants would be hard to form underwater. I performed the song once for some friends. Afterward, one of them asked me why I had to read, why I couldn’t simply sing any vowels that came to mind. I just looked at him in astonishment.

When we fool around with other languages we’re exploring language itself, a worthy endeavor for a writer. Here are some prompts to prime your language pump:

∙ Above I wrote, You can write a romantic moment in which all the terms of endearment are incomprehensible. Try doing exactly that, you adorable quayth. It’s up to you whether or not both people in the romance speak this strange tongue.

∙ And I wrote, Or you can have Milo ream out his assistant Kristen entirely in the language of Xic, and Kristen can blush and babble an apology. Now write the tirade in Xic, maybe along with thoughts in English. Make decisions about the kind of language you want, how it should sound and look on the page.

∙ I like invented sayings as well as invented languages. In A Tale of Two Castles, Elodie spouts expressions from her home, the island of Lahnt. Here’s one with a creepy medieval feel: Love your lice. Only skeletons have none. Here’s a moralistic one: He who gambles his worth has already lost his worth. Go to a story you’re working on or one you’ve finished. Make up three proverbs that would go with the culture of your world or the personality of one of your characters. For example, I would expect the aphorisms of ancient Sparta to be warlike.

Have fun and save what you write!

Going crazy

Before I start the post, in case anyone will be near Pawling, New York, this Saturday, I’m signing and talking. Details are on my website.

In August, Alexbella Sara wrote, How does one get across that a character is, to put it quite bluntly, going insane? I have one who is going insane and I don’t know how to show it.

And Lexi commented, I wrote a story where my MC temporarily lost his mind. Now I’m not saying that this is the best way to do it or anything, but when I did it, I gradually began interrupting his normal thoughts with less logical thoughts until he wasn’t thinking or saying anything sensible. I made him wonder every now and then in the beginning why he head felt so foggy, but soon he stopped wondering. And since I was writing in third person, I was able to make other characters reflect on how strange he was acting until they all knew that he was completely insane. Of course, I’m just a beginner and may not know what I’m talking about, and it may not work with your story, but just thought I’d let you know what worked for me. Hope that helps!
Lexi’s advice sounds good. Here are some more thoughts:

I’m not a psychologist, but I’m sure there are lots of ways to be crazy; schizophrenia, manic depression, multiple personality leap to mind. And every crazy person is nuts in his own unique fashion. A schizophrenic may hear voices, but Vera’s voices will say different things from Victor’s. So you may want to consider what Vera is like before she disappears around the bend. If she’s just a tad jealous, for example, and begins to hear voices, they may tell her that her best friend Zinnia has been spending an awful lot of time with their classmate Caroline. If Vera is boring, her voices may instruct her to memorize home appliance owner’s manuals.

Madness is fun! (Fun for the writer, not for a real person.) You can be inventive. You can be wild. You can design your own kind of madness. Victor can suddenly start making animal noises. Or he can spend hours licking the china in his great-grandmother’s tea set. So here’s an early prompt: List seven unheard-of symptoms of madness, symptoms you’ve made up.

Detail is crucial in establishing balminess, as in every other sort of writing. Suppose we were trying to develop me as a character going bonkers. Every morning, in actual fact, I pour my high fiber cereal into my beautiful pottery bowl made by my sister-in-law Betsy Levine (www.prescotthillpottery.com – just a little family product placement!). Suppose on the first day of the rest of my nutty life I start pouring and pouring and pouring. Cereal spills onto the counter, onto the floor, mounds around my feet because I started with a full cereal box. Reggie trots into the kitchen and scarfs up cereal, which could be bad for his stomach, but I don’t notice because I’m so involved in staring at the design on the counter top. I’m wondering why I never noticed before how the colors bleed into each other, like drops in an ocean, like souls in love, like blood in war. Reggie, sensing something amiss, barks, and I snap out of it and am surprised to see cereal everywhere.

So we can start with some little thing, pouring cereal or anything else, and make it grow. It can be a tiny comment in a conversation, a momentary thought. But it needs to be specific and in some way off.

Lana’s lunacy can be concealed. Her inner life may be crazy as a bedbug’s, but she can be entirely aware of how she’s perceived and she can keep a tight lid on herself, at least in the early stages. We often see this in crazy villains. The reader witnesses the madness in Lena’s thoughts and actions when she’s alone, but when other characters are present she’s as ordinary as green peas.

If Kevin starts out sympathetic before he falls off his rocker, the reader will suffer, maybe more than he does. He may not be aware of what he does, but we are and we squirm. Say he has a crush on Jane. Yesterday, their romance was showing promise, but today he’s wrapped his muffler around his head and is pretending to be an injured Civil War veteran, which Jane doesn’t know how to deal with.

Or, and this is exceedingly painful, if Harriet is aware of her transformation from sane to wacko and is tormented by the change, we’ll writhe with her.

You also don’t have to take the sad, sympathetic route. In my short novel, The Princess Test, the maid Trudy slowly goes berserk. The book is funny, and her descent into madness is too. So your handling of psychosis depends on the genre you’re writing in. Humorous book: humorous treatment. In fantasy, you can make up your own version of crazy. For a historical story you may need to do some research. In the Romantic-period novel Jane Eyre, Rochester’s wife is mostly heard and is glimpsed only fleetingly, but we never doubt that she’s loony. You may need research as well for a contemporary tale if you want the insanity to be realistic.

A wonderful novel about insanity is I Never Promised You a Rose Garden by Joanne Greenberg, which was popular when I was a young adult. (I’d guess it’s appropriate for age twelve and up, but check with a librarian.) For high school and up there’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey. I’ve never watched this horror movie or read the book because I’m a wimp, but I believe The Shining by Stephen King is an amazing portrait of someone going crazy. And an old horror movie I did see and would never ever see again (definitely on an adult level) is Repulsion. The audience gets to understand the main character’s madness from the inside out, because some of the movie is shown through her eyes. It is the scariest movie I’ve ever seen. And one of the most tragic.

As I’ve been writing this post, I’ve been aware of the multitude of synonyms for madness. I’ve used many of them, but here are some more: ape, bizarro, cracked, daft, deranged, dingy, dippy, flaky, flipped out, fruity, moonstruck, unsound, out to lunch, potty, screwy, touched, unbalanced, unhinged, unglued, wigged out. You may know additional terms. Please post any colorful ones. Why do you think we can say crazy so many ways? A little psychosis in our forebears? A little obsessiveness? Mnah hah hah!

Here are three prompts:

∙ Use yourself as an example. As you go through your day, jot down little things you could do that would show your mental deterioration. Make your mad self the main character in a short story. If you have an understanding family, try something out. Startle someone and see if it works. Then, hasten to explain.

∙ Gina, an investigative reporter, checks herself into a lunatic asylum to expose administrative abuses, but being in this environment begins to change her. She wonders why she volunteered for this particular assignment. Write how she gradually goes mental.

∙ Invent a secret government (any government) project to induce insanity in captured spies. Write how the scientists accomplish their goals. Write the effects on the prisoners. Pick a hero or heroine and write the story.

Have fun and save what you write!

Mind swap

Congratulations to all you NaNoWriMo writers! Whether you made your word count or not, you worked hard, and I’m guessing you have lots of new material to fuel your writing for the year. Kudos to you!

If you’re going to be in the vicinity of Tarrytown, New York, this Saturday, I’m signing. Check out the details on my website. If you come, I’ll just be signing, not reading or speaking, but I expect to have plenty of time to chat. If you come, please let me know you read about the event on the blog.

On July 29th, 2011, Emma wrote, This comment is really just food for thought, but I wondered what you and the bloggers would think. You see, my brothers were watching a Myth Busters episode called “Mission Impossible Mask” where Jamie and the other guy were trying to use a mask to fool people into believing that they were each other. However, their mannerisms gave them away so they had to have an actor teach them how to behave like one another. More recently I watched an episode of “Gilligan’s Island” where everyone got mind-swapped, and it was hilarious because they were all acting like each other and you could clearly tell who had been swapped with whom. All of that got me thinking: is there any way to make our characters and their mannerisms that recognizable? I tried a writing exercise just for fun where my MCs got mind swapped, and it’s really hard because you can’t actually see them. Do you think that’s a bad thing?

That’s a wonderful prompt, which I’ll hold for the end.

Everyone has mannerisms, some people more than others, some mannerisms more pronounced than others; everyone can be impersonated. Each way of speaking, each physical presentation, is unique. The bits that we do, our personal shtick, are myriad, so many and so slight that they’re hard to write and catch them all but obvious to see and hear. Whenever I see myself in a taped interview I’m amazed. I move around so much, like a puppet. I tilt and bob my head; my voice is breathy, which I never hear as I’m speaking. Aaa!

Here’s a prompt early in the post. List every element of physical description you can think of. Just a list. Don’t do anything with it. Here are a few items to start you off:

round shouldered
bow-legged
soft voice
baby talk
a lot of hand gestures
small eyes

See if you can get a page or two in your list, a few words to a line. Add to the list whenever you think of something or observe something unusual. Watch people over the next few days with your list in mind. Notice that I included in my starter list both characteristics that have nothing to do with the personality inside the body, like small eyes, and characteristics that are mutable, that would change in a mind swap, like the hand gestures. Include both kinds of characteristics in your list, which can become a resource for you whenever you write physical description.

I was on the New York City subway yesterday. Sitting across the train car from me was a woman who managed to look up at me beseechingly even though our eyes were at a level. How did she do that? She said nothing; she wasn’t crying. But I got a sense of sadness and need. Was it the blue eye shadow, the bags under her eyes? I don’t know. I do know that she sat pigeon-toed, and the turned-in toes added to the woe somehow. The eyes and the toes would go on my list.

Here’s another prompt: Take a look at a story you’re working on. Find the spot where you introduced a character. If the physical description is solid, terrific. But if it’s a little vague, drop in something from your list.

Mannerisms are particularly useful because they reveal character as well as help the reader see the physical person. But we have to watch out and not succumb to stereotype. A slouch, for example, can mean a bunch of things. May mean Nathan feels too tall. Or his father always told him to stand straight, so, rebellious by nature, he trained himself to slouch. Or he admires an actor who slouches. You try it (another prompt): List three possible psychological explanations for Nadine’s almost inaudible speech.

Sometimes it can feel awkward to introduce physical qualities and we have to plan how to bring in the information. We can make Norman, the gesturer, do something, as in, He gestured so wildly he knocked over a Ming dynasty vase valued at $300,000. Or Nancy can say to him, “Are you swatting a fly?” Or Ned can think, Norman uses his hands a lot as if his words need extra help. These are the three ways I can come up with for inserting physical information: action, dialogue, and thoughts.

The POV character is a special case. Nellie, the narrator, can easily show other characters’ looks in her thoughts. She can also think about her own appearance and mannerisms, but she has to have a reason or she may seem vain or self-involved or self-critical – which, of course, she can certainly be. But if not, she needs an excuse. Maybe she’s about to meet new people, and she’s preparing herself by imagining how they’re going to view her. A little self-involved, but it’s a special occasion. And you still have action and dialogue. Nancy can make the fly-swatting crack to her. Nellie can knock over the Ming vase.

But we may not want to give Nellie a lot of odd characteristics or the reader may have trouble identifying. We may want her to be a blankish slate, so the reader can slip inside. If she keeps licking her lips, if she shrugs every few minutes, if she starts almost every sentence with, “Sorry, but,” the reader may find her unappealing. I keep saying “may” because you may want such a character, and some of the most endearing main characters in literature are odd. So if you want to, go for it.

Once we introduce a mannerism we don’t want to keep bringing it up. An occasional, very occasional, reminder is plenty or the reader will get irritated. And that’s what makes the mind swap harder for a writer than for an actor. When we’re watching a movie, the character’s presentation is always before us. He’s always slouching, always gesticulating, always speaking softly. Those lucky actors!

So now for the mind swap.

∙ Pick two characters in the story you’re working on and write a mind swap scene. Or pick three and make it a round-robin swap.

∙ Swap the villain from one of your stories with the villain from another and rewrite the climax. Swap the villain in one story with the hero in another.

∙ Invent new characters for your mind swap. Think of characters who wouldn’t be happy to be inside each other’s selves. For example, someone who’s terrified of heights wouldn’t do well in the body of a sky diver. You can make the switch happen right before a jump. The sky diver might be bored to death in the body of a writer.

∙ Swap the minds of two characters from books you love. For me, I’d switch Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice. Then, in a separate effort, with Jane and Elizabeth back in their proper bodies, I might try exchanging Rochester and Darcy. The possibilities are endless: put Hamlet in Macbeth’s place; trade Sherlock Holmes and Peter Pan; Anne of Anne of Green Gables with Jo of Little Women. Or whatever you like.

Have fun, and save what you write!