The Wind Howled...Or Was That A Shriek?

My literary crush Elmore Leonard often discusses his 10 Rules Of Writing--all designed to keep the writer invisible in the story.

First on the list: Never Open A Book With Weather.

The reason is simple: Unless you're showing a character's reaction to the weather, the reader will skip over long sections of meteorological blathering. Yet some writers--myself included--have started scenes detailing everything from wind speed to barometric pressure, thinking we're supposed to create 'atmosphere'.

But if the characters don't care about the weather (in which case we'd show their reaction, rather than the weather itself), why should the reader?

In this interview he talks about reading a book that starts with: "The wind howled like a beast in pain." (Tellingly, I thought it was a pretty cool metaphor.) Leonard, however, laughed, then asked, "Whose point of view is that?"

He was kind, though, and suggested that the unnamed author would probably get out of his own way soon enough; that the writer might have been eager to showcase his (or her) abilities, and hadn't yet learned to let the characters tell the story.

But weather can also be a writer's friend, as in this example:

Imagine a newly-hired crime scene technician, unprepared for real-life investigations, trudging through a muddy field in the midst of a downpour to reach the corpse. Just as our poindexter reaches the ditch on the far side, lightning strikes a nearby tree. Startled, he slips in the mud and slides down the embankment on his backside--much to the amusement of the uniformed officers on the scene.

Congratulations! Weather has just provided you with conflict, tension, and--as the story progresses and our technician learns the ropes--a LOT of room for character growth.

If the story is strong enough, who needs atmosphere?

Cheers...and Happy Writing!

-T

"Liar!" he shouted dubiously...

O dialogue, how thou dost vex me...

Most writers (and all good editors) insist that 'he said,' or 'she said,' is the only proper attribution to dialogue. My literary crush Elmore Leonard sometimes peppers his with exotic fare like: 'Then Frank says, "No,"' Or 'Frank came back with: "No."' But he NEVER adds an adjective. (In fact, it's one of his Top Ten Rules, which I'll explore in another blog post.)

The truth is this: If dialogue is powerful, the attribution doesn't need an adjective. For example, when a character says, "I disliked Kilroy," rather than add, 'He said angrily,' I can change the dialogue to: "Kilroy deserved worse. So I gave it to him."

Still not sure what he's feeling? How about: "Kilroy's with his family. In Hell."

Another of Mr. Leonard's tricks is short, snappy back-and-forth conversations that reveal clues and plot twists. Sometimes a whole page of dialogue contains only a single attribution or motion tag to keep the reader clear about who is speaking. (BE COOL, pg 7.) The effect is like punching the throttle on a Mustang GT: Pure speed.

But there a caveat: The dialogue has to be good. Really, really good. I'll confess my current manuscript still has a few adjectives that modify attributions--usually to clarify a sarcastic remark.

I'm trying to get up the courage to remove even those.

Cheers...and happy writing!

-T

Picking up the thread...

Elmore Leonard says he can write anytime, anywhere--a skill I much admire but haven't yet mastered. (You're going to hear a lot of 'Elmore Leonard says' on this blog. Read one of his books or watch 'Justified' on FX to see why.)

Unlike Mr. Leonard, I have to concentrate--hard--when I write. A door slams, a child's voice rises a half-decibel, one of the dogs jumps off the couch, hackles raised, to announce that my neighbor's pickup needs a new muffler--and I'm no longer inside my character's head, seeing, feeling, and hearing events that exist solely in my imagination.

My worst distractions originate within. Worry, fear, anger, and feeling like I've left things undone can make it nearly impossible to sink into the story and write what I see--a process I call 'Picking up the Thread."

I've tried different strategies to combat interruption: Get up an hour early (better for planning than writing), escape to the makeshift office in the barn (great until it gets cold), noise-canceling headphones (weird).

But the best by far: Escape.

My favorite is a State Park cabin on a lake about an hour from my house. State Park accomodations verge on Spartan--no internet, no radio, rudimentary television. There's no gym or restaurant, and little interaction between guests. (Once, in December, I was the only person staying in the park, which was a tad spooky.)

That quiet simplicity creates room in my head for characters, plots, and emotion. When I 'Pick up the Thread,' the words appear on the page as if by magic and I struggle to type fast enough to capture them.

My latest project came to me during one of these escapes. I began writing at two am, hoping to catch the plot before it vanished. When the sun rose I'd finished chapter one and the outline. I didn't want to stop.

But it was time to go home and be distracted again.