Words Fail Me Part 13

The Wing of Madness.

William Styron has described his terrifying descent into depression as an overwhelming horror that the feeble word depression only makes a mockery of. But in his memoir Darkness Visible he does something better than merely describe this torment; he helps the reader see it through the eyes of a sufferer. In this pa.s.sage, he suddenly realizes how ill he is: "One bright day on a walk through the woods with my dog I heard a flock of Canada geese honking high above the trees ablaze with foliage; ordinarily a sight and sound that would have exhilarated me, the flight of birds caused me to stop, riveted with fear, and I stood stranded there, helpless, s.h.i.+vering, aware for the first time that I had been stricken by no mere pangs of withdrawal but by a serious illness whose name and actuality I was able finally to acknowledge. Going home, I couldn't rid my mind of the line of Baudelaire's, dredged up from the distant past, that for several days had been skittering around at the edge of my consciousness: 'I have felt the wind of the wing of madness. "

Much later, as Styron's depression begins to lift, another wild bird appears, but this one is a sign of hope: "Although I was still shaky I knew I had emerged into light. I felt my-self no longer a husk but a body with some of the body's sweet juices stirring again. I had my first dream in many months, confused but to this day imperishable, with a flute in it somewhere, and a wild goose, and a dancing girl."

Styron doesn't just tell us the madness is loosening its grip. He shows us how he knows.

Crows in a Graveyard.

Frank McCourt, in Angela's Ashes, writes about the anger he felt as a child when a little brother died senselessly. He doesn't say he was angry, but who can doubt it after reading this bleak burial pa.s.sage?

"I did not like the jackdaws that perched on trees and gravestones and I did not want to leave Oliver with them. I threw a rock at a jackdaws that waddled over toward Oliver's grave. Dad said I shouldn't throw rocks at jackdaws, they might be somebody's soul. I didn't know what a soul was but I didn't ask him because I didn't care. Oliver was dead and I hated jackdaws. I'd be a man someday and I'd come back with a bag of rocks and I'd leave the graveyard littered with dead jackdaws."

As young Frank strikes out at the crows in the cemetery, we can feel his rage over Oliver's death. You might remember that when you write about strong feelings. Give just enough detail to summon up the emotion. The readers will do the rest themselves.

Love Potions.

One day I idly picked up Jane Austen's Emma and turned to my favorite scene. It's the ninth inning, and Mr. Knightley, the man Emma has loved for years without realizing it, declares his love for her. The two of them, alone in a garden, are overcome with emotion.

I'd remembered Emma's response as pa.s.sionate and tumultuous, a three-hanky job. But wait a minute. Where's the moving declaration of love? This is all that Austen tells us about Emma's reply: "What did she say? Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does."

It's a wonderful scene, but what makes it wonderful is what's left out. Without realizing it, we provide the missing pieces as we read. We use our imaginations. And later we remember that scene as being more impa.s.sioned than it actually is. Austen does more without words than most writers do with them.

A Glance Is Enough.

For expressing feelings, nothing beats simple, honest writing. One small detail, such as a shoe washed up on a beach, can be more tragic than a graphic description of a drowning victim's body. A simple sentence about a honeymoon cottage with its curtains drawn for days on end can say more about pa.s.sion than a catalog of s.e.xual particulars.

Never underestimate the power of understatement. Wield a fine brush, not a trowel. You can move readers without resorting to corny cliches, icky sentiment, and heavy-handed goop.

"When there are no words," Flaubert wrote, "a glance is enough."

27. The Importance of Being Honest.

LEVELING WITH THE READER.

How often do we read things we don't believe, by authors who don't believe them either? I'm not talking about stretching the truth with exaggerations like "One size fits all" or "Easy to a.s.semble." And I don't mean occasional white lies, the harmless fibs everyone uses now and then: "Wish you were here" or "It's just what I wanted!" I'm talking about those little gray lies we read all the time, the ones sneaky writers use to say something without really saying it.

"This isn't aimed at you personally," your supervisor writes in a negative evaluation. (Oh yes it is.) "Idon't mean to criticize,"a neighbor says in a note about the wildflower meadow you've decided to grow instead of a lawn. (Oh yes she does.) "I'm not a demanding person," your father-in-law writes, then proceeds to tell you exactly how he'd like his breakfast prepared when he comes to visit. (Oh yes he is.) That type of dishonest writing doesn't fool anybody. We know it's not true, the writers know it's not true, and we know they know we know. So why the empty disclaimers? Let's look at a few of them and find out.

Cowardly Lying.

Many writers lie with the best of intentions. They have bad news to deliver, so they try to soften the blow. Imagine you're a violin teacher, writing a six-month review of little Herschel's progress. How do you tell his folks it's hopeless because Herschel can't play in tune?

You could take the spineless way out: I won't say that Herschel is entirely without talent for the violin, but it may not be in his best interest to continue.

Or you could tell the truth, but tactfully: The violin is not Herschel's instrument because he has a poor sense of pitch. But he enjoys music and has good rhythm, so why not let him try the drums?

A lie doesn't really soften a blow. It's often kinder to tell the truth, especially if there's some good in it.

The Sneak Charmer.

A weaselly writer can always find a way to sneak in an opinion without taking responsibility for it. The most common method, the back-door denial, has become familiar enough that we take it for granted. How many times have you read statements like these?

No one's suggesting war is a good thing. (Translation: It has its points.).

Not all performance artists are weird. (Just most of them.).

Not every pit bull is a killer. (Show me one that isn't.).

Lawyers don't always have their hands in our pockets. (They have to eat sometime.).

I wouldn't say teenagers are difficult. (They're h.e.l.l on earth.).

Patent-leather pumps are not unattractive. (I wouldn't be caught dead in them.).

Her last production wasn't a total flop. (It bombed.).

Writers play this game when they don't have the courage to be honest.

I've heard of a college professor who didn't want to offend mediocre job applicants asking for letters of recommendation. He was reluctant to lie, but he didn't want to tell the truth, either, so he prepared a few stock comments that could be read in two ways:"I would urge you to waste no time in making this candidate an offer of employment....In my opinion, you will be very fortunate to get this person to work for you....I most enthusiastically recommend this candidate with no qualifications whatsoever."

The One That Got Away.

Everyone exaggerates from time to time, and we accept that as part of being human. We don't take fish stories seriously, for example, unless the fish is in evidence. We also don't mind an exaggeration or two in humorous writing, like the yo-yo dieter's lament that her b.u.t.t is as big as a Buick.

But if you want to be believed, go easy on the hyperbole. If readers think you're stretching a point here or there, even a minor one, they might suspect everything you write. Suppose you're arguing against the construction of a car wash on your street. You make a good case, based on an engineering report about potential water-pressure and drainage problems. You'd only weaken your pet.i.tion to the planning commission by throwing in wild speculation about thousands of cars driving through every hour, honking noisily, and generally disturbing the peace.

Be honest. Trust the bare facts (or the bare events, if you're writing fiction). Things are amazing enough as they are. The padding will make what's underneath look suspicious.

Scare Tactics.

Readers know when you're leveling with them and when you're not. You may grab their attention the first time you raise an alarm for no good reason. But it won't work the second time. A parents' group, for instance, would stir up more skepticism than support by citing unfounded predictions that four out of five kids who play video games will end up in prison.

A writer depends on the trust of readers. A good way to lose it is to sound a false alarm. I make it a rule never to cry wolf unless there are at least three of them at the door.

Writing Is Believing.

The way to make readers believe what you write is to write only what you believe. This is true for fiction, too. It won't be believable if the author doesn't believe in it.

In The Human Comedy, Balzac created a doctor named Bianchon. It's said that years later, when he was on his deathbed, Balzac cried: "Send for Bianchon. Bianchon will save me." Now that's believing in what you write.

28. Once around the Block.

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU'RE STUCK.

Stuck, are you? Everybody is, now and then. Writer's block is not a character flaw, and it's not permanent, or at least not usually. Most writers, including some of the best, have gotten stuck but have survived to write again. The question isn't whether you'll get back to your writing, but when-and how much time you'll waste in the interim.

Don't panic just yet. You may not beas stuck as you think. There's stuck, and then there's stuck. Don't lose sight of the progress you've made. A minor hurdle can seem mountainous if you think you're getting nowhere. Take another look at the signs of progress described in chapter 5.

Now, in the interest of making your pause a brief one, let's get on with it.

Short-Term Therapy.

Writer's block is like the flu. Everybody has a favorite cure. What works for one person may not work for another, and what works today may not work tomorrow. If your case is a mild one, here are some folk remedies you might try.

* Take a shower. It's relaxing, and everybody thinks in the shower. If you don't get ideas there, you're hopeless.

* Go for a walk. Once around the block can't hurt. Suck in some fresh air, get the red corpuscles moving, give those tired gray cells a break.

* Eat something. n.o.body writes well on an empty stomach. Don't stuff yourself, though, or you'll write like a slug.

* Read something. For a few minutes of R&R, try a quick shot of a writer you like-a page or two of Fran Lebowitz, or Wordsworth, or Stephen Hawking, or Barbara Pym. But make it a minivacation, not an extended stay.

* Change clothes. You may be itchy or pinched, too warm or too cold. Put on something more comfortable. And don't try to write in spandex. You may cut off circulation to the brain.

I know what you're thinking. Hmmm, those remedies sound like fun. But I'm way ahead of you. If you take ten or fifteen minutes to eat a BLT, add another ten or fifteen minutes to your writing session.

Detour Ahead.