Huh?
We have already seen where reality works best in fiction. In Mark Twain's The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Twain brought life and energy to what could normally be called a tall tale by conveying authentic sounds, reactions, and relationships to engage the reader.
While Twain was a master storyteller, the problem for modern writers to avoid is becoming so entranced with reality that we forget to pay attention to its overuse, particularly in the detail, dialogue, and pacing of the story.
Detail
A single early literature survey class will quickly illustrate how classic authors REALLY paid attention to detail. No matter who/what a character was, the reader had no trouble picturing what that person looked like, smelled like, or sounded like.
If a matriarchal crone had a wart on her chin, the author provided a topographical map of its surface, the precise location, and its ability to frighten small children, dogs, and the illegitimate offspring of a red-eyed tree frog. (I have no idea where that image came from. Sorry.)
Pub scenes choked the reader with odors of sweaty coal miners, stale beer, and the patrons' horses just outside the door.
Opera scenes not only related the songs and the girth of the singers, the readers experienced the basso's rumblings in their chests. The prima donna's excursions into the musical stratosphere shook the chandeliers until the readers heard their trembling and ringing.
No doubt the description thrilled the audiences of that time. Today, not so much. More often than not, the issue today is that modern readers regard such attention to precision as TMI (too much information). Accustomed to the cinematic pace of movies and television, today's audience simply desires to know only what is necessary to the story. Anything else is dross.
One can argue that this attention deficit disorder is unfortunate. Impatience and preference for the visceral can be detrimental to the reader's final appreciation of the work as a whole. For example, my first reaction to the first 70 pages of James Michener's Hawaii was "I don't care how the stinking islands were formed. I don't care if a bird pooped a flower seed onto the volcanic rock. Tell me a story!" Had I given up, however, I would have missed a fantastic tale of love, violence, intrigue, and history.
That said, it's important to remember Michener was Michener. Those attempting to break into the writing business don't have the reputation and history he had in order to force their readers through the thoroughness the writers want to provide.
Consequently, we need to address this shortcoming of our audiences. One does not accomplish this by talking down or cheapening the final product. Rather, it means recognizing the issue and finding techniques to alleviate its effects. Two important techniques involve the use of dialogue and control of pace.
Dialogue
One of the simplest yet most dangerous ways to engage the reader is the use of dialogue. Earlier entries on this blog have shown how extended, overly realistic dialogue can glaze the reader's eyeballs and turn him/her into a quivering, gelatinous mass of protoplasm.
That does not mean writers should refrain from utilizing dialogue, however. On the contrary, in addition to its dangers, dialogue has numerous advantages as well.
First is the wonder of white space. Some call this a cheap psychological trick, but it really works, especially if you have just inundated your reader with thirteen pages of dense, gray description. The fact that grammar rules demand that you hit return (enter) after every time somebody speaks provides welcome relief from all the type. Even if you use the same amount of words, the pages look less daunting, the text flies faster, and the reader feels as if he/she is accomplishing something.
Secondly, in what may be an even more blatant psychological manipulation, dialogue allows the reader to imagine himself/herself eavesdropping on a conversation. Whether we like to admit it or not, we all have a bit of the voyeur in us. We like to know what is going on in other people's lives. Hence, the success of the tabloid press.
This is not anything new. Writers have been using dramatic irony since the inception of the written word. Why? Because through its use, the readers know something that the characters don't. They know what everybody is saying, doing, thinking, wishing ... And they know why. Hence, they feel smarter, privileged, sneakier. Heck, they feel superior, almost god-like in their omniscience.
They are happy! And happy readers buy more books. And when readers buy more books, writers are happy. Cheerfulness reigns. What a wonderful thing!
Thirdly, dialogue simplifies the writer's task of storytelling. What a character speaks allows the reader to ascertain what that character feels without the author using excessive adverbial attributions. (he said perturbedly ... she answered with all the excitement of a tranquilized sloth ... and so on.) This use of the imagination allows the reader to interact with the words, not simply decipher them. This interaction leads to the transportation to the core of the writer's world. It is here that the writer and the reader bond.
Pace
Both constant rushing and relentless slogging can turn a story into mush. Mush like oatmeal may be good for breakfast, but mushy stories are bad and sure to turn off the reader. The key to pacing your story appropriately is simple. Variety.
One of America's greatest writers, Ray Bradbury, gave us a superb example of how to properly pace a short story in "August 26: 'There Will Come Soft Rains'."
Several things make this story unique, not just Bradbury's control of speed. First, there are no characters. All living organisms except one unfortunate dog are dead. Second, because there are no characters, there is no conversation.
As constraining as the premise is, the major fictional elements are clear. The exposition tells the reader what has happened and establishes the conflict. Complications intensify it and dramatically lead to the climax. The stunning resolution answers all the major questions and leaves the reader chewing on the story's theme/moral.
To accomplish this feat, Bradbury gives a clinic on managing rate.
The exposition, while detailed and explicit, consists of short paragraphs of no more than four sentences (Usually, two or three.) From the opening words, there is a quiet, passiveness to the setting, one remaining house amidst the radioactive rubble of a city destroyed by a nuclear explosion. The quiet pace belies the tragedy that has already occurred. It also invites the reader to enter the narration to find out what could possibly happen next in a world of blankness.
As the story and its tension escalate, mental pictures intensify, growing ever more graphic, ever more excruciating. To both attract and torment the reader, Bradbury turns up the pace.
The conflict not only moves; it bolts, racing faster and ever faster uphill toward the climax. Sentences snap into fragments. Fragments shatter into lists of nouns, verbs, and flashing images. Periods become commas. The reader cannot help stumbling forward through the chaos and confusion to toward the shattering conclusion.
At the climax, the story flies off into nothing and crashes into silence. It is the thunderous race into the quiet of oblivion that gives the story its impact and ultimate significance.
Had Bradbury fallen into the trap of replicating desolation and meaningless destruction in fine detail, the story would have failed miserably. Instead, he managed reality to write one of the most effective pieces of fiction of the 20th century.
And that's what we aspire to, isn't it? To write effective, even monumental fiction?
That then is the point of today's installment: To write our best, we must use reality, yes, but manage it to most effectively communicate our theme, our purpose. In other words, keep real right. Reject wrong.
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