At the start of a novel, readers need to “see” what you’re showing them. And quickly, too, unless you have a carefully considered tactical reason to withhold this kind of information.
An elderly gentleman came in the room and was quickly deemed to be a nuisance by those who tried to deal with him. After a while it got to be too much and he was ejected. His departure was not at all voluntary.
This kind of writing defeats itself: its obvious purpose is to reveal what happened, but the language obscures, makes it literally harder to see.
Terms like “elderly gentleman” and “those who tried to deal with him,” keep us from seeing distinct characters and actions.
Informational report phrases like “he came in the room” summarize but don’t specify (Came how? Quietly? Boisterously? Limping? On a pogo stick?).
Euphemistic phrases like “he was quickly deemed a nuisance” are actually designed to push you away from anything specific (Deemed? By whom? Why? What was he doing? And how was he “deemed”?–was there a vote?).
Use of “it” without an antecedent, as in “it got to be too much,” instantly saps comprehension (What got to be too much?).
Turning a clever but empty phrase adds insult to incomprehension: “His departure was not at all voluntary.” (Okay, cute–but what happened? Specifically? Did he shoot his way out? Did goons throw him out? Perhaps he lodged a formal complaint and called a cab?)
And so on…grrr!
Now you’ve got a disgruntled reader on your hands. Why? Because your language is a tease: seeming to reveal people and events, while in reality, hiding them, obscuring them.
Fiction, unlike film, is not a visual medium. Readers are functionally blind in the world of your story because they can only “see” it indirectly through the coded medium of words on page. Especially in the opening, your job is to accommodate them as you would a blind person visiting your house for the first time. Give them enough to illuminate what needs to be “seen.”
Compare:
A disheveled old man, grizzled, bent, but weirdly dignified, shuffled into the wating room calling out for a doctor “immediately.” Parked grandly at the desk, he repeated the demand again and again, occasionally slapping the desktop with his hand. The receptionist was new, a high school girl in her first job. She tried to ignore him as long as she could, then called for Keesha, the oldest of the clinic nurses. Keesha strode out of the file area where she had already been watching, wary and poised at the first sound of his voice. In her neighborhood, a voice like that could be trouble. “Sir,” Keesha said. “Please sit down.” A glint of defiance lit his face. “No.” “Sir,” her voice was rising, “Please sit down now, or else.” “Or else? Or else? Well, well. Who in God’s world do you think you are, Missy?” “Sir–” “I repeat: I want to see the doctor now. This instant. I want to see the doctor. NOW.” Keesha strode out from behind the desk and took the old man’s arm. “No!” he shouted, “I will not, I will not…” “Yes you will, honey, yes you will,” Keesha muttered as she bum-rushed him to the clinic door and shoved him gently out into the heat of the parking lot.
Okay, I more than quadrupled it in length, but under the assumption that this action is occuring on page 1 or 2, I think the length is justified, a healthy trade-off for bringing events out of the gray zone of generality and into the full spectrum of specificity.
|
|
|
|
|
 |
