Sleuth, page 9
Stunning it was. Tony, his wife Carmella, their daughter Meadow, and their son A. J. meet in a restaurant favoured by mob members for a family meal. Tony’s position with the mob has become increasingly precarious, and every viewer expects at least one member of the family to get whacked before the credits roll. And then ten seconds before the episode ends, while the Soprano family chats and scans the menus under the watchful eyes of several other restaurant customers, including a chillingly menacing man in a “Members Only” jacket, the screen fades to black and stays black until the final credits roll.
At that point, to paraphrase Yeats, mere anarchy was loosed upon the land. At approximately 9:55 p.m. on June 10, 2007, nearly 12 million people throughout North America picked up their remotes and threw them at their tv screens. They had been cheated of closure, and they weren’t going to take it. An online search for “last episode of the Sopranos” reveals that, after over a decade, those ten seconds of black screen still rankle viewers.
Lesson 1 about ending your novel is clear: give your readers closure.
Lesson 2 is at the heart of the covenant between writers of crime fiction and their readers: tie up all loose ends—no exceptions, no excuses.
Lesson 3: give your readers their second “aha” moment by revealing a truth that allows them to see the experience of being human in a new light. Note the word reveal. This is where you, as a writer, must take a giant step back and remember that good writing always shows rather than tells.
Your ending doesn’t need to be dramatic; in fact, it can be very simple—a small gesture, an exchange of words, a glimpse of something that suddenly assumes significance because everything in the novel has pointed toward the insight it brings. This is the moment for your reader (and perhaps your protagonist) to experience an epiphany.
Epiphany is a word that originally recognized a Christian festival held on January 6 in honour of the three wise men who saw a star in the east and, believing that it signalled a change in the world, journeyed to see the infant Jesus Christ. The stories in James Joyce’s collection The Dubliners centre on the idea of an epiphany, the moment when something occurs that suddenly makes us see and understand life in a new and clear way. Look at the endings of those five novels you examined earlier. Any epiphanies there?
Some critics see an epiphany in the contentious ten seconds of black screen that end The Sopranos. In the July 29, 2015, edition of the blog Observer Culture, Vinnie Mancuso’s article “Ten Seconds of Black: Revisiting the Life-Affirming Series Finale of The Sopranos” argues convincingly that writer David Chase’s ending for the last episode was inspired:
David Chase took it to the extreme and literally left us in the dark, and it was the finest thing he could have done. I never understood why the lingering question is always “Does Tony die?” Because of course he dies, eventually. So does AJ. So does Carmella. So does the man in the Members Only jacket, along with everyone else in that diner. And then the world will go on without them. Tony’s life, whether it lasts another ten seconds or fifty years, will go on until it doesn’t.
There just won’t be an audience around to watch anymore.
Those ten seconds of black represent not only the rest of Tony’s life, but the rest of our own. It is at the same time the most frustrating and the most comforting series finale of all time. It abruptly cuts to a blank screen, but there was an entire life lived before that blank screen, and there will be life after it no matter how short. Life goes on until the end credits.
Now that’s an epiphany!
Chapter 9
Style
Write in a way that comes naturally.—Strunk and White
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.—Elmore Leonard
In his glossary to Three Genres, Stephen Minot gives a concise and useful definition of style as “The manner in which a work is written. It is determined by the author’s decisions, both conscious and unconscious, regarding diction; syntax; narrative mode (relative importance of dialogue, thoughts, action, description) and pace (the reader’s sense of progress). It is closely connected with tone, the emotion generated by the work itself.”
The overall effect of the novel you write will be determined by the words you choose and how you put them on the page. This chapter addresses how you can ensure that, to paraphrase Samuel Coleridge, you put the best words in the best order to achieve what you set out to achieve with your novel.
Diction refers simply to the words you use. In life, much of what we know about people comes not simply from what they say but also from how they say it. The vocabulary you choose for your characters can reveal a great deal about who they are. Following are samples of dialogue from three characters in the Nero Wolfe novel The Rubber Band (1934). Note how in each case the diction complements the sentiment expressed.
The first speaker is Wolfe:
It has been many years since any woman has slept under this roof. Not that I disapprove of them, except when they attempt to function as domestic animals. When they stick to the vocations for which they are best adapted, such as chicanery, sophistry, self-adornment, cajolery, mystification and incubation, they are sometimes splendid creatures.
The second speaker is Clara Fox, a client in residence, pouring Archie Goodwin’s after-dinner coffee in the dining room while wearing his yellow dressing gown:
You know, Mr. Goodwin, this house represents the most insolent denial of female rights the mind of man has ever conceived. No woman in it from top to bottom, but the routine is faultless, the food is perfect, and the sweeping and dusting are impeccable. I have never been a housewife, but I can’t overlook this challenge. I’m going to marry Mr. Wolfe, and I know a girl that will be just the thing for you, and of course our friends will be in and out a good deal. This place needs some upsetting.
And the third speaker is Goodwin:
I know pretty well what my field is. Aside from my primary function as the thorn in the seat of Wolfe’s chair to keep him from going to sleep and waking up only for meals, I’m chiefly cut out for two things: to jump and grab something before the other guy can get his paws on it, and to collect pieces of the puzzle for Wolfe to work on.
Spoiler alert! Despite Clara’s many charms, Wolfe does not revise his forcefully expressed opinion of women. He remains a bachelor, as does Goodwin.
When I read these passages, I can hear the voices of Nero, Clara, and Archie. Give each of your characters a distinctive way of speaking. The section on minor characters suggests strategies you can use to find your character’s voice. Now is the time to bring those strategies into play.
Following are some considerations when you choose the words you’re going to put in a character’s mouth.
First, how old is the character? Child narrators are tricky. If you’re considering using a young narrator, decide carefully on age. Children perceive things differently at different stages in their development, and for that reason they can be untrustworthy as narrators. (Remember that golden oldie “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”?) Give the child a vocabulary that is believable and convincing. In Room, Emma Donoghue used Jack, a five-year-old narrator, affectingly. In The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Mark Haddon’s narrator is Christopher Boone, a fifteen year old who describes himself as “a mathematician with some behavioural difficulties,” and this choice of narrator works brilliantly. Jonathan Safran Foer’s nine-year-old narrator-protagonist, Oskar Schell, who sets out on a quest when he discovers a key after his father is killed on 9/11, is a fully realized character who offers the reader a heartbreaking perspective on how a child deals with grief. These books are all mysteries worth reading, and they’ll give you solid ideas about how to avoid missteps when you match vocabulary to a young character.
Second, how educated is the character? This question is not as elitist as it might sound. Facility with language can make a person soar, but it can also create barriers. Parents who have not had the advantage of a solid education can believe that an educated child suddenly thinks he or she is “too good” for the family. Educated children can be dismissive or ashamed of parents with less formal education.
Minot defines dialect as “dialogue that echoes a regional or ethnic speech pattern.” He goes on to note that, “With some exceptions, it is achieved by word choice and word order rather than the obtrusive use of phonetic spelling.” Using dialect in your writing is tricky. There is always the danger that it seems to demean your character.
In his novel Creole Belle, James Lee Burke, author of the Dave Robicheaux mystery series, has his protagonist, himself Creole, explain the patois:
As with many Creoles and Cajuns, there was a peculiarity at work in Tee Jolie’s speech. She was ungrammatical and her vocabulary was limited, but because of the cadence in her language and her regional accent, she was always pleasant to listen to, a voice from a gentler and more reserved time, even when what she spoke of was not pleasant to think about.
The following passage shows the melody of Tee Jolie’s speech:
“I always had my music and the piece of land my father left me and my sister and my mama,” she said. “I sang wit’ BonSoir, Catin. I was queen of the Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge. I t’ink back on that, and it’s like it was ten years ago instead of two. A lot can change in a short time, cain’t it? My mama died. Now it’s just me and my li’l sister, Blue and my granddaddy back in St. Martinville.”
Incidentally the New York Times calls Burke America’s best novelist. Not America’s best mystery novelist, but America’s best novelist, period. If you haven’t read him, you should. He does everything right.
Third, what does the speaker intend his or her words to convey? Most of us have different personae for different situations, and that means we use language differently depending on the situation. My diction when I deliver a lecture is different from the language I use with my young grandchildren and their friends. For good or ill, we use words to communicate. Words can be tools, but they can also be weapons. Words can be used as shields to keep others from seeing perceived vulnerability or weakness.
Never forget the power of silence. Words not spoken and questions not answered can send a powerful message. Harold Pinter’s use of long pauses and silence in The Homecoming shows how people use them to communicate in their daily lives. Think of the last time someone gave you “the silent treatment.” The memory will be painful, but it will be a compelling reminder that Pinter’s is a lesson worth learning.
When you’re considering the best words to put on the page, remember American poet E. A. Robinson’s observation: “Poetry tries to tell us something that cannot be said.” The solution to bridging the gap between what you need to say and the limitations of the vernacular might be found in your old poetry notes from first-year English.
Don’t tell me the moon is shining: show me the glint of light on broken glass.—Anton Chekov
Abstract versus Concrete
Paint a picture. Make the abstract concrete. An exercise I liked to use with my English 100 students drives home this point. I asked them to close their eyes, and when I said a word they were to tell me the images that appeared in their minds. As the two columns below demonstrate, the associations my students made were instructive.
Abstract Concrete
brave firefighter
spicy pizza
soothing massage
sexy my boy/girlfriend (smart answer!)
disgusting vomit
We cannot envision an abstraction. We will always respond to it with a concrete image, and that image will be something we can see, hear, touch, smell, or taste. Whenever possible, go for the concrete image in your writing. It is forceful, and it will connect with your reader.
Much of my novel Kaleidoscope is set in North Central Regina, an area that Maclean’s characterized as “the worst neighbourhood in Canada.” North Central is plagued by poverty, hopelessness, and their inevitable corollaries alcoholism, drug addiction, violence, and prostitution. Many of those selling their bodies are children not yet in their teens.
Seeing a child as young as one of my children and later as young as one of my grandchildren standing with dead eyes on street corners waiting to service an adult sickened me. Like many Reginans, I had read reports, signed petitions, and attended meetings about the abomination of child prostitution. But there were still children on street corners.
In Kaleidoscope, Joanne and her family have just moved into a condo in a renovated warehouse in the area. Joanne is out for an early morning run with a friend when there’s an incident:
When we turned onto Rose Street, a late-model black suv peeled past us. The vehicle slowed but didn’t stop at the stop sign on the corner. The door on the passenger side opened and someone threw a large bundle onto the pavement, slammed the door closed again, and the suv sped off. The incident was over in a matter of seconds. . . . As we came closer to the corner, we heard crying: what had appeared to be discarded clothing was a naked Aboriginal child, perhaps nine years old, wrapped in a blanket. She was clutching a ten-dollar bill, and her eyes were wide with terror. A grey-white viscous substance was dribbling from her mouth.
The viscous substance is semen.
I did scores of readings after Kaleidoscope was published, and invariably someone in the audience would bring up that scene. Often they would be angry with me for writing about something they deemed disgusting. I would agree that the image is disgusting, but, when I pointed out that the child represented scores of children forced into prostitution on our city’s streets, we were able to discuss the real problem. One concrete image can leave an indelible impression in your reader’s mind. Strong nouns, verbs, and images can help readers to see what you want them to see.
Syntax
Syntax means sentence structure, and as always the rule is to make certain the length and complexity of the sentences you write serve the novel. Trust your ear. Read several pages aloud. An unremitting barrage of short sentences will move the pace along but can make your writing seem choppy. Long sentences slow the pace, but they can also put your reader to sleep, so generally the Goldilocks rule applies: not too many short sentences, not too many long sentences. Find the right balance.
Narrative Mode
The exposition gives readers information about the novel, where they are, and whom they are with. In the opening of his novel Lush Life, Richard Price does it all in a single sentence (John Irving would be pleased): “The Quality of Life Task Force: four sweatshirts in a bogus taxi set up on the corner of Clinton Street alongside the Williamsburg Bridge off-ramp to profile the incoming salmon run; their mantra: Dope, guns, overtime; their motto: Everyone’s got something to lose.”
In the next passage, the reader meets the four cops who, like many members of the nypd, will be among the novel’s major characters. The reader learns their thoughts, sees them in action, and becomes familiarized with the setting of the action. The reader is now firmly in the world of Lush Life.
Lugo, Daley, Geohagan, Scharf [. . .] all in their thirties, which, at this late hour, made them some of the oldest white men on the Lower East Side.
Forty minutes without a nibble . . .
Restless, they finally pull out to honeycomb the narrow streets for an hour of endless tight right turns: falafel joint, jazz joint, gyro joint, corner. Schoolyard, crêperie, realtor, corner. Tenement, tenement, tenement museum, corner.
As Price goes on for another eight similar, repetitive sentences to list without comment or description the buildings the four officers pass as they make endless “tight right turns” honeycombing the area, readers see what the officers see and feel their boredom and growing frustration. After an hour, the four cops are itching for action, and they spot a possibility. Driven by their mantra and their motto, they move in.
Daley and Lugo slowly walk up on either side of the car, cross-beam the front seats. The driver, a young green-eyed Latino, rolls down his window. “Officer, what I do?”
Lugo rests his crossed arms on the open window as if it’s a backyard fence. “License and registration, please?”
[. . .]
Passing over his papers. “All serious, Officer, and no disrespect intended, maybe I can learn something here, but what did I do?”
“Primary, you have neon trim on your plates.”
“Hey, I didn’t put it there. This my sister’s whip.”
“Secondary, your windows are too dark.”
“I told her about that.”
“Tertiary, you crossed a solid yellow.”
“To get around a double-parked car.”
“Quadrary, you’re sitting by a hydrant.”
“That’s ’cause you just pulled me over.”
Lugo takes a moment to assess the level of mouth he’s getting.
As a rule he is soft-spoken, leaning in to the driver’s window to conversate, to explain, his expression baggy with patience, going eye to eye as if to make sure what he’s explicating here is being digested, seemingly deaf to the obligatory sputtering [. . .] of verbal abuse, but . . . if the driver says that one thing, goes one word over some invisible line, then without any change of expression, without any warning signs except maybe a slow straightening up, a sad/disgusted looking off, he steps back, reaches for the door handle, and the world as they knew it, is no more.
Price mixes action, dialogue, and exposition to bring the character of Lugo to life. Notice Lugo’s diction (“primary, secondary, tertiary, quadrary”), his patience in making certain his words are being understood, and his willingness to ignore verbal abuse. Lugo is a by-the-book cop until a suspect “goes one word over some invisible line.”
In five pages, Price has established the novel’s tone. The novel deals with inherently powerful material and emotions, but Price allows his material to speak for itself. Lush Life is filled with skilful writing, but none of it is ornate or heightened.
