Mountainous hyperbole

An interesting report on the radio this week got me thinking. I may not have it exactly right, but this is what I understood: Researchers compared attitudes toward learning in the U.S. with attitudes in Japan. In the U.S., according to this study, children are praised for catching on quickly, and such kids are called smart. In Japan, children are praised for working hard, and I heard no mention of intelligence. Researchers visited a classroom in both places and gave the children a math problem that was impossible to solve. The American children gave up in under a minute; the Japanese kids struggled for an hour until the researchers told them to stop. The report concluded that each society yielded different weaknesses. Japanese children tolerate prolonged effort well but aren’t very creative, and vice versa. And I thought that we writers are the perfect combo of East and West. We need that creative spark, but it comes to nothing without a lot, A LOT, of hard grunt work, which we may not honor enough. After all, I felt embarrassed when the last novel, whatever its name will be, took so long. I thought it should have come more easily, but now I’m taking comfort. Writers have it all!

Now onto this week’s topic. On September 1, 2012, Leslie Marie, aka Kilmeny-of-the-Ozarks, wrote, I have a writing question. It’s about the use of hyperbole. I was reading an excellent article on the subject this morning and it reminded me of an instance where my writing instructor said I had used hyperbole and should delete it.

The problem is, my story is Christian fantasy based on Norse myth–and the hyperbole was the World Ash Tree that, according to myth, the world is built upon. I described the trunk of a tree as “larger than a mountain.” I didn’t think it hyperbole but logical for my imagined world–if it’s holding up the whole world then surely it would be bigger than the mountains! She said it’s too big a stretch of the imagination.

My instructor has been very helpful, so I want to listen and learn, but this seems like a necessary “hyperbole” for my story! The article I mentioned, used Edgar Rice Burroughs’ Barsoom series (e-texts can be found on Project Gutenberg–fun read!) for an example–that hyperbole doesn’t work well when everything is stretched to the limit. Like all the women are gorgeous, all the bad guys are the cruelest he’s ever met, the hero has no faults…but it seemed to me that I had enough contrasts in my story for the huge tree to stand out…

So, I guess what I’m asking is, what do you think of hyperbole? How can it be done well and when should it be avoided?

First off, the comparison between a tree that supports a world and a mountain doesn’t seem like hyperbole to me, just a reasonable comparison that gives the reader a sense of scale, a way to judge size.

But I do agree with the article about hyperbole overload. When everyone and every feature of landscape are maxed out, that sense of scale is erased. It doesn’t sound like you did that.

Generally, I like hyperbole because hyperbolic language is lively and economical. Here’s an example from my Dave at Night in which Dave describes Mr. Bloom, the superintendent of the orphanage where he’s just been left. Mr. Bloom is the main villain of the book.

Mr. Bloom was huge, not fat. His chest and head loomed over his desk like the Hebrew Home for Boys loomed over Broadway. He pushed back his chair and stood up. Scraping against the wall on the way, he walked around to my side of his desk and bent down to inspect me through thick spectacles. He smiled, showing a million teeth.

I guess there are two examples of hyperbole here, the comparison between Mr. Bloom looming and the orphanage dominating the street, and the million teeth. The reader knows he doesn’t have that many, but she gets the picture: big, fake smile showing lots of teeth, which I could have said straight out, something like this, Mr. Doom’s big smile, which revealed a lot of teeth, seemed fake. See? It’s not as lively, and it uses up more words; it’s not economical.

Besides, hyperbole gives an opportunity for character development. Imagine Phil is describing Zelda, a very short person (like me). Will he say she’s small as a Barbie doll or a hamster or a dot of dust in sunlight? The answer suggests the cast of Phil’s mind by the kind of similes he’s drawn to.

We can also use hyperbole to reveal a character’s emotional state. In the grip of terror, a character can see a threat unrealistically, hyperbolically. The gun in the mugger’s hand can seem to glow; the mugger himself can appear seven feet tall. In the grips of romance, Phil can describe Zelda to his friend Petra as having emerald eyes, skin as perfect as satin, and the delicacy of a butterfly. Petra, who’s maybe a wee bit jealous, meets Zelda and comes up with her own hyperboles when she thinks, Yeah, right. Eyes the exact color of pus, the kind of thin skin that makes you look eighty by the time you’re thirty, and skinny as a pencil.

The barbie-hamster-dust simile, whichever is chosen, when delivered by an impartial narrator, gives a sense of Zelda. A hamster creates quite a different picture in a reader’s imagination than Barbie does. And dust in sunlight is fascinating. Is Zelda dirty? Fragile? Both? We can’t wait to learn more about her.

Hyperbole is characteristic of tall tales and part of their charm. For example, the fish that got away was as big as a whale. When we use wild hyperbole we employ a technique of tall tales that adds flavor to our story. I say, go for it.

Here are three prompts:

∙ Write a tall tale about one of your friends or someone in your family. Pick one of her most important qualities and exaggerate it and its effects. For example, my father was pretty charming, so in my tale I might have him charm the painted bird off a plate and go on from there.

∙ Pick a character in one of your stories and describe him hyperbolically. Go way over the top. Consider the result and, if any of it fits, insert that part of the description in your story.

∙ Fairy tales, which deal in exaggeration, are perfect for hyperbole. Retell a fairy tale loading up on the hyperbole. Don’t worry about overdoing. If it gets funny, so much the better.

Have fun, and save what you write!

In a word

On October 14, 2011, maybeawriter wrote, I have a problem with my stories. I like the ideas but the words never seem right. Please help!

I asked for clarification, and maybeawriter added, Well, it seems like they don’t flow right or seems like there is another word that might fit in better, but I can’t really think of any, like there could be a better word for just walking, or the feel of the water.

Word choice influences everything, but it especially affects voice, tone, and mood. I recently read M. T. Anderson’s young adult novel The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, which astonished me in the best possible way. Here’s a sentence early in the book: And so the answer to my perplexities, which must appear in all its clarity to those who look from above, was finally clear to me: that I too was the subject of a zoological experiment. Even earlier Mr. Anderson describes the house where Octavian lives as “gaunt,” such an imaginative and evocative adjective. The word choices perfectly represent my idea of 18th century expression. And, despite the elaborate sentences, Mr. Anderson tells a riveting story. When things get tough, Octavian becomes Observant. The term exactly expresses the character’s experience, and it breaks the reader’s heart, my heart anyway.

As I read I kept wishing I’d written the book. I couldn’t. I can write only what I can write although I can try to expand my style and my sentences. Reading a lot helps with that. While I was reading Octavian Nothing, I had to hold back from letting his sorts of sentences infiltrate my writing where they didn’t belong. The voices of other writers get inside us. When it’s no longer so fresh, in this case probably a few months from now, Mr. Anderson’s work will influence me subtly, appropriately.

Writing and reading poetry help me, too. I’m much more aware of consonant and vowel sounds than I used to be. In the sentence before this one, for example, I find the m’s in I’m much more and the ow’s in vowel sounds pleasing. I notice them as I write, and sometimes I shorten the distance between words to bring like sounds closer together. Other times I deliberately go against the harmony. You can do this without writing or reading poetry (although I’m a big fan of doing both). Here’s a prompt: Pick a paragraph (notice the alliteration; I could have written choose a paragraph) in a story you’re working on. Underline any alliteration and any repeat vowel sounds. I suspect you’ll find at least a few, because English is full of similar sounds. Look for substitutions you can make to increase the effect. Try them out. Does the paragraph read better?

Now go the other way. Substitute to move away from the similarities. Read the paragraph out loud and decide which you prefer and which goes more with the feeling of your story. There’s no right answer. The purpose is just to become more alert to sound and its subtle effects.

Maybeawriter, words are a pale reflection of experience. We can never precisely convey the feeling of water; not even Shakespeare could have. If we were writing for the man on the moon who has never felt rain, we couldn’t represent clearly enough the sensation of wetness. If he flew his spaceship into an ocean and swam out, then he might say, I get it now. Before I was just guessing. This suggests another prompt: Describe water for the man in the moon. You won’t succeed, but create a longing in him with your description, so that the distance between him and the nearest cloud becomes unbearable.

You can then go ahead and write a story about his visit to earth.

Some friends and I were just discussing the impossibility of describing the color red to someone blind from birth. We can talk about warm colors and cool colors and heat and power, blood, and even anger. We can describe the color wheel. A blind person will understand heat and blood and emotions and the idea of a color wheel, but he won’t experience red, I don’t think. In Fairest, I invented the color htun, and I describe it, but I’ve never seen it – wish I could. But I can come closer to picturing it than a blind person could because I already see colors.

What tools do we have to show our readers what they and the writer haven’t experienced? Writers of fantasy and sci fi and historical fiction voyage to places we’ve never been and never will go, and the glory in the writing is in creating something utterly new. We do it by moving from what we have experienced to what we haven’t. Suppose we’re describing charged mimo particles, which have the power to suck seeds out of the ground. In nature, the nature of this world, they appear only in huge colonies; you won’t encounter a single mimo on its own except in the laboratory. A colony will slide slowly down a slope, like fudge sauce over ice cream, all the while sparkling like a billion brown fireflies. If they’re important to your story, you can go further and tell the reader that Sal had a brush with them once. She was snoozing in a meadow on the west side of Chotig Mountain when a colony oozed out of an abandoned mine shaft and slithered down. She woke up when her pinky finger started tingling. Luckily she jumped to the right, out of its path. Her pinky was gone completely, leaving only a tiny blue scar, and that meadow will never bloom again. If you want more you can introduce a science teacher at Sal’s high school delivering a lecture about mimos.

None of us has encountered mimos, but we have seen dirt fields, scars, fireflies, and hot fudge descending on ice cream, and we know how tingling feels. Even if you’re home schooled, you’ve probably been lectured to, if only on television. We work toward the unknown from the familiar.

But when it comes to the familiar, like water, a perfectly acceptable choice is to zip by it quickly. Everybody knows the sensation of water, so it’s fine to say, the water was icy. But suppose this is a moment of heightened experience. Sal has been lost in the desert. She’s just reached an oasis and is drinking her first water in thirty-six hours. Or she’s covered in worm slime and is finally taking a shower. You want to describe either of these. Well, you might go for metaphor and call the water a surprise party, rebirth, birdsong. I’m choosing images that are somehow water-like. Water, even though it’s familiar, is often pleasantly shocking, like a surprise party. Rebirth is a common idea when it comes to water, which is essential for life. And birdsong is a fluid sound. I wouldn’t use a metaphor like The water was a shoe because it’s hard to imagine anything less like water than a shoe.

Going in a more practical direction, the best boon for word choice is a thesaurus. I often use www.thesaurus.com to take me beyond the words I usually use. Sometimes the synonyms I see persuade me to rephrase my whole sentence more pleasingly.

Now, on the blog I may make everything sound easy, and then, when we start writing, we struggle. So I’ll end with a sort-of quote, sort of because I don’t know where it comes from, but not from me, because I’m rarely so delightfully loose. The not-quite-a-quote goes something like, When my writing isn’t up to my standards, I lower my standards. Excellent advice if we’re going to slog all the way to the end.

Prompts are scattered through the post, but here’s one more: Invent a substance and incorporate it into a scene, using a new main character or a character in a story you’re working on.

Have fun, and save what you write!

In good voice

Before I get to today’s post, I want to tell you that the website is close to going live. Thanks for all your suggestions!

When I mentioned that I would move the blog over to the website, two of you expressed concern about leaving Blogspot, which is what I will do, probably not instantly but soon. I’d hate to lose anybody or stop hearing from any of you, so I want to assure you that there won’t be a change in the level of safety. The host will be invisible, as Blogspot is, and it will be a big company too, with a long history of hosting websites and blogs.

Also, I have a couple of events coming up for my new picture book, Betsy Red Hoodie, which will be out on September 14th. By events, I mean I’ll read from the book, maybe the entire book, answer questions, and sign. Here are the events:

September 21st at 4:30 PM, Bank Street Books, 2879 Broadway (near 114th Street) in Manhattan, (212) 678-1654.

October 9th at 2:00 PM, Ulster Plaza Barnes & Noble, 1177 Ulster Avenue, Kingston, NY, (845) 336-0590.

As I always do at an event I’ll ask if anyone is there because of the blog, and I’ll tell the unaware about it.

By the way, I love that this has become a place for sharing writing ideas and support. I don’t always weigh in, but I always read and enjoy.

On April 29, 2010, Debz wrote, I’ve been having some trouble with voice in my story. Like for one paragraph in my story it’s told perfectly, and sounds just right, but then the next paragraph, the voice changes and sounds all wrong for the story, and no matter how much I edit it, nothing seems right.
And on May 6, 2010, F wrote, Ms. Levine – I was thinking today, about how they say that you should write, write and write until you find your ‘voice’ and style of writing (And coincidentally how yours always has that ‘fairytale’ feel to it). Whenever I think upon this topic, I’ve always mused idly that my voice is sure to differ from book to book. Coincidentally, I came upon a similar topic on the net, where someone had mentioned authors whose voices have differed from series to series, leading to their readers not recognizing them.
What are your thoughts on the matter? Is it important for an author to write in a consistent voice? Or is it all right to differ from book to book?

Chapter 15 in Writing Magic is called “Voice” and is about voice. I just reread it and was mighty pleased! So you may find it helpful to take a look. Here is the first paragraph, which defines this slithery, tricky concept:

Everything written has a voice, from advertisements to warning notices. “Trespassing prohibited” is written in a different voice from “Stay out! That means you!”

And a few paragraphs later:

Suppose I’d just written “Voice is ubiquitous” instead of “Voice is everywhere”. The meaning is the same. I’ve changed only one word. But the voice is a little different, isn’t it?

Editors, when asked what they look for in a manuscript, sometimes say “Voice” and then can’t explain what they mean. Miss Red Pencil, a hypothetical editor, says she knows voice when she sees it. She’s being honest but not helpful, and her response makes voice seem scary. If it can’t be defined, how will I know if I have it? How can I go after it, work diligently, and get it?

Voice is an amalgam of many elements: word choice, vocabulary, sentence structure, kind of sentence, sentences combined together, mood, point of view, even tense. So let me go through them one by one.

Or start with two, because I’m not sure if word choice and vocabulary are the same. Vocabulary level is obvious. Does the voice in question run in a sesquipedalian direction? Meaning, does the writer use a lot of big words? But word choice is more than vocabulary. Words have tone. My late, much missed friend Nedda was once asked by a native French speaker, “Which is more elegant, ‘maybe’ or ‘perhaps’?” (Imagine the question asked with a charming French accent.)

Maybe and perhaps are synonyms, but we probably encounter perhaps more often on the page in narration and maybe more often in speech or in written dialogue. The level of difficulty is roughly the same for both. Possibly we learn maybe in first grade and perhaps in second. But the tone isn’t the same. Perhaps is a tad more formal.

rage – fury
argument – dispute
antediluvian – ancient
huge – gargantuan – ginormous – massive

In the word sets above, one word can often replace another. Think about which you’re drawn to. Do you like rage better than fury? Or vice versa? I think they’re equal, but one might seem angrier to you than the other, or you might prefer the long u in fury. Of course, rage is a verb as well as a noun, but consider both in their noun forms. Maybe you’d use one in a particular place, the other in a different situation. Or you might alternate them so you’re not repeating words, if you’re writing something with a lot of hostility in it.

Consider all the word sets, and when you choose words, be aware of your choices. Notice words in other writers’ work that they use and you never do.

Sentence structure. I’m thinking here of simple sentences – a subject, verb, maybe a direct object, and that’s it – compared to medium complex ones – a statement but and an opposing statement, or two simple statements joined by and – compared to really complex sentences with many dependent clauses, possibly a parenthesis or two and a statement between dashes (kind of like this sentence). Some writers are given to sentences that take up half a page. My sentences are usually straightforward. In Ever in particular they’re very short.

Kind of sentence. Do you use questions a lot, as I do? Or exclamations? Or mostly sentences that end with a period.

Combos. Are you mixing up your kinds of sentences: long after short, statement after a question? This is worth being aware of. Most of the time you don’t want sameness to creep in, because sameness is often dullness.

Mood. Is the feeling happy, somber, funny, sarcastic, straightforward and unemotional?

Point of view. For example, if you’re writing from the first-person POV of a twelve-year-old boy, the voice will be different from the voice of the same character looking back forty years at his twelve-year-old self. And so on. This will come naturally in the writing.

Tense. Are you writing in the past or present tense? The two feel different. I wrote Ever in present tense, because past would have suggested something about the book’s outcome. Present tense sometimes gives a book a feeling of immediacy, as if events are happening this week.

Debz, you can analyze your voice according to all these elements and change it. Experiment! Alter sentence length, word choice, and so on. Fool around even with the paragraph that seems right. Maybe if you revise it, the rest will fall into place.

Also, I hope you haven’t stopped writing until the segment is right. You may wind up cutting this part. Or something you write later may show you what you need to do. The whole may guide the pieces.

F, I think it’s fine to change voices from book to book, and I don’t see it as a problem if a reader doesn’t recognize an author’s voice. The reader is likely to be interested in the variation. My fairytale voice in some of my books is absent from others. Ever isn’t precisely written fairytale style. Dave at Night certainly isn’t, and neither is The Wish or Writing Magic or the blog.

Taste varies when it comes to voice. I don’t tolerate extra words well, but some people may not mind. If you like spare, graceful prose, William Strunk, Jr. & E.B. White’s The Elements of Style is worth reading. Let me change that, it’s a book you should read if you haven’t already. If you’re in high school heading for college, you may need it when you get there.

Last of all, there’s muddled voice, which accompanies errors in grammar, usage, spelling, punctuation. A reader can’t sort out the voice from the mistakes. Becoming best friends with a book of English usage will help. I’ve recommended Patricia T. O’Conner’s Woe Is I before, and this is a fine occasion to recommend it again.

The prompt is to take a page from the beginning of one of your stories, the beginning because that’s where voice is established. Rewrite the page three or four or more times, trying different sentence lengths, different vocabulary. Fool around. This is only an experiment. Try writing a paragraph entirely in exclamations. Write another as if someone were screaming it, do you hear me? Another as if all your characters were on a stage, exaggerating everything.

Have fun, and save what you write!