I just came across this clip from “The Martha Stewart Show” and I’m frightened. It’s a nine-minute clip (the longest I could watch, after a couple of attempts, was 1:09; I think you get the idea pretty quick — and the idea is: “Creepy Weird.”)
Archive for October 13, 2008
Elmore Leonard’s Rules for Writing
As part of a series called “Writers on Writing,” published in The New York Times, Elmore Leonard penned a thought-provoking article that first saw print on July 16, 2001. Every once in a while I remember that it exists and go back to reread Leonard’s observations.
I’m sympathetic to Elmore Leonard’s basic vision. I mean to say, I think I could hang out with the guy. When he talks about writing, I tend to nod my head. Grateful, reaffirmed, inspired. He explains in the opening paragraph, “These are rules I’ve picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I’m writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what’s taking place in the story.”
A long time ago I decided that ego was the enemy of good writing. Thing is, that’s a tough dragon to slay. These days, I most admire writers who get out of the way (another way of saying, “remain invisible”) — who strive to eliminate any trace of “look at me, I’m so darned clever!” from their writing. (That tends to be the exact opposite of what we are taught to appreciate in college English courses, so most of my adult writing life has been about trying to unlearn aspects of my college education.)
Regarding Leonard: I like his everyday guyness, his plainspeak, his pragmatism, his unpretentiousness. Unfortunately, and oddly, I’ve never really gotten into his books. Maybe I’ve tried the wrong ones, or not tried hard enough. The thing is, I want to like his books more than I actually do. It may be worth noting that so many of his books have been made into movies precisely because he is such a “show, don’t tell” styled writer. Or maybe it’s because he’s okay with sex and violence.
Though I encourage readers to go back to the full article (linked above), I’ll only post the ten rules along with an indispensable additional comment or two from Leonard (in the article, he provides more background on each rule). Enjoy. And remember, when it comes to writing, there are no rules. But guidelines can be instructive.
1. Never open a book with weather.
2. Avoid prologues
3. Never use a verb other than ”said” to carry dialogue.
Writes Leonard: “The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in.”
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb ”said” . . .
Says Leonard: “To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin.” For what it’s worth, there are a ton of adverbs used exactly this way in the Harry Potter books.
5. Keep your exclamation points under control.
6. Never use the words ”suddenly” or ”all hell broke loose.”
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
And here comes my personal favorite:
10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.
Leonard comments: “Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. What the writer is doing, he’s writing, perpetrating hooptedoodle, perhaps taking another shot at the weather, or has gone into the character’s head, and the reader either knows what the guy’s thinking or doesn’t care. I’ll bet you don’t skip dialogue.
My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.”
I love that phrase, “perpetrating hooptedoodle.”
NOTE: For more posts that touch on the writing process, click on the “writing process” icon on the right sidebar, beneath “CATEGORIES.” I’m trying to do more of this kind of thing on this blog, in the hopes that it might sell books, urm, be helpful to teachers, or to writers of any age!
ANOTHER NOTE: I lifted that sound, urm, from the legendary graphic novel, The Watchmen (soon to be a major motion picture). A character in there says it a lot, just a variation on “um,” but I like it.
Happy Birthday, John Lennon
Happy birthday, John Lennon.
He’d be 68 today, October 9, if only . . . .
The way an older generation remembers the exact circumstances when they first learned of John F. Kennedy’s death, I remember the time and place when I heard the news about John, December 8, 1980. I can close my eyes and be there. I was in college, my roommates had all gone out on the town, but I stayed home working on a paper. They returned in the wee hours, I was sitting at the kitchen table tapping on a typewriter, and they told me. It was the kind of news story we’ve experienced many times since — the kind we struggle to comprehend. So go on, light a candle.
The song selection below is obvious and over-exposed, I suppose. But in the end, I think, still exactly right.
The Writing Process: Theft (and Tom Chiarella)!
I was reading an article in Esquire this morning, “How to Be a Sweet-Talker” by Tom Chiarella. He’s a fine writer and I’ve read his work for several years. I came across this sentence:
I spent the great flood lying in front of my television like a bag of dirty clothes, listening to the rain, watching Runaway Train on DVD.
I was struck by that image — like a bag of dirty clothes. I was impressed, envious. That was good writing, a perfect image, you can see him there, lazing on the couch. And I thought: I might steal that line someday. No, not exactly, not word for word. I thought of Bystander (Feiwel and Friends, Fall, 2009), a manuscript that I had been discussing last night with my editor, Liz. There’s a scene where a boy is sprawled on his bed, deep in thought. But no, not there. Probably another time, another place, I don’t know when, or even if ever.
If I do end up borrowing that image, I’ll change it out of respect for Mr. Chiarella, and in the service of my character. For starters, I don’t think a kid would come up with that exact image. A pile of dirty clothes maybe? A pile of rags? A bag of bones? I don’t know. It’s entirely possible I won’t ever use it. It’s likely I’ll forget the exact words that Chiarella used. But I suspect the image will remain (especially now that I’ve written about it).
My main point is about reading. All writers admire things in books; we all learn our craft by reading (and, of course, by writing). While that’s true of everyone, there’s a distinction. As an author, someone who appreciates good writing, I read with active sympathy for the writer. I’m aware of the person behind the text, that somebody sat down and wrote this, selected those exact words. I don’t think all readers do that, especially young readers. The emphasis is more often on plot: what happens next, and then what, and then what. But I notice punctuation, the use of a semi-colon, the shape and rhythm of sentences. That’s how you learn. It’s also why I’m such a ridiculously slow reader.
And no, I don’t really think it’s stealing. We are all, as Sir Isaac Newton said, standing on the shoulders of giants and, yes, midgets. (We learn what NOT to do, too.) Everything I’ve ever read goes into the blender and informs the blank, glowing screen of my computer. But maybe what I learned most of all from Tom Chiarella, or re-learned, was to keep trying to make my images fresh, to stay away from sleepy cliches, to reach for something new. And, hey, if anyone wishes to steal a turn of phrase from me, please be my guest. I gladly grant permission. After all, as readers and writers and lovers of the language, we’re all in this together.
Endnote: In writing this, and poking around, I learned that Tom Chiarella has written a book called Writing Dialogue. I immediately ordered it. So at least he’ll get some royalties out of the deal!
Category: Fun Clips, the writing process / Tags: Esquire, How to Be a Sweet-Talker, the writing process, Tom Chiarella
Fan Mail Wednesday: #15
Okay, imagine that I’m holding a large cardboard box filled with thousands of paper scraps. I roll up my sleeve, reach in my hand, stir things up a bit, and pull out a note. Wow — what are the odds? — this one comes from a young friend who lives in the area!
Mr Preller:
I read your book Along Came Spider. I thought that it was really great. I like how you added Sam L____ into your book. I picked up on that pretty fast. Why did you chose the name Satchel? I was also wondering did you use a part of the Bible in your book when Spider denies his friendship to Trey three times before feeling bad about what he had done?
Max
I replied:
Dear Max:
My compliments: You are an astute reader! Yes, our mutual friend, Sam, did inspire one attribute of the book character, Satchel Lewis. Not that Satchel is much of a presence. He is referenced only once, in a brief paragraph on page six:
Next to Joseph sat the kid in shorts, Satchel Lewis. He took pride in being the first boy in shorts after winter and the last in pants in the fall. He basically wore shorts unless it was, like, twenty degrees below and windy.
My feeling is that there are kids like that in every school. I’ve met so many boys who refuse to wear winter coats (too bulky), who walk around on snowy days wearing shorts and a light sweatshirt. (They are, I say with a shiver, certifiably insane.) I figured he was a type of kid that readers would recognize and think, “Yeah, that’s just like _____.” The trick with writing this type of realistic fiction, which is set in a typical school environment, is that it’s important for readers to identify with that world, to say, “Yes, I know this place; and I know a kid just like that.”
As for why I chose the name Satchel, no real reason, though I do admire the old baseball player, Satchel Paige, who once advised: “If your stomach disputes you, lie down and pacify it with cool thoughts.”
I grew up on Long Island and went to St. Frances de Chantel, a Catholic elementary school in Wantagh, from grades one through six. From a young age I was aware of the Bible and the gospel stories concerning Jesus. When I was writing that particular playground scene, where Spider tries to distance himself from Trey, I was reminded of that moment in the Bible when Peter three times denies his association with Jesus. Also, I have to admit to being influenced by the soundtrack to the 1970 rock opera by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Weber, Jesus Christ Superstar. There’s a song on there called “Peter’s Denial.” I listened to it countless times while gawking at the lyric booklet, full of shock and amazement. Back then, as a nine-year-old, that album seemed so rebellious, so dangerous; my mother did not approve, but my four older brothers thought it was the coolest thing ever. Just listening to it seemed like a revolutionary act. So I put that echo in my book, that connection, loosely tying Peter and Spider together, because it felt right to me.
The core of Along Came Spider is about trying to do the right thing, trying to be a decent person in the classroom, on the bus, out on the playground. You know that question, asked by Cain to God: Am I my brother’s keeper? What is our responsibility to our “brothers,” in the broadest sense of the word? But sometimes even the best of us falter (yes, even future saints like Peter), because it’s not always easy to be good, and right, and just, and fair, and loyal, and true. The value is in the struggle. In the trying.
One last thing: Yikes, all of the above sounds like heavy sledding. I wanted the story to be light, and easy to read, and funny. A sugar-coated vitamin, I suppose. Hopefully it reads that way.
Thanks for writing.
JP