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  One example: deliberately omitting the use of characters' names. William Carlos Williams does this in his classic short story ''The Use of Force,'' in which a country doctor fights with a child to make her open her mouth so he can test her for diphtheria. Even after the doctor learns the little girl's name (Mathilda), he continues to think of her exclusively as ''the child.'' This makes her seem less like an individual than like a representation of childhood itself—which is appropriate, because Williams's story is about the appalling bonds of love-struggle-sexuality between children and adults.

  You must, however, present the omission of a critical name in such a way that we know it's deliberate, not merely carelessness. Williams accomplishes this by an overrepetition of ''the child,'' until it becomes almost a mantra—or a battle cry.

  Similarly, any other ordinary detail you conspicuously leave out of your story—genders, ages—will be emphasized. Judith Merril does this in her classic science fiction story ''Survival Ship,'' about a space ship landing on a new planet. Merril leaves out gender. Not until the last paragraph do you realize that the ship's captain and officers are female and the entire crew male. Instantly you must rethink all your assumptions about the story—and about the world behind it. Of course, this is the author's aim. She achieves it by omission.

  THE BEST WAY TO OMIT DETAILS

  We touched on this idea in chapter one, but it bears repeating: The very best way to leave things out is by the artful choosing of what goes in. Suppose you know sixty-three details about your character, all of which could go into a given paragraph of description. The success of the paragraph depends not only on choosing a manageable number of them (Gustave Flaubert recommended three), but also the right ones. Artful choice thus dictates what gets left out.

  For instance, consider this description from Paul Theroux's most recent novel, My Other Life:

  I sat in the shade of the verandah, watching the hot street and the white sky, the earth like pale powder, and everything still except the insects. I walked into the sun and immediately felt the weight of it on the top of my head. I stood alone in the middle of the street on the small black island of my shadow, and thought: I am where I want to be.

  This is as good as it gets. You can see the scene, feel it, experience it. What makes such a passage work? Economy, originality, flow—all the things we think of as ''good writing.'' But, mostly, something else: Each phrase adds value.

  That may sound like a curiously businesslike statement to apply to fiction, but look again at the paragraph. Every image adds new information to the picture we're forming in our minds. The first eight words orient us. The next eight show us what the character himself sees, economically conveying both a visual picture (street and white sky) and a feel (hot). The next five words deepen the image by adding a metaphor (''like pale powder'') that brings in a host of unstated connotations: Powder is dry, light, easily disturbed, a cover for what lies underneath. The next six words add a different sense: sound. The next sentence goes back to the issue of heat, emphasizing it with an original and extreme metaphor—think of the burning weight of the entire sun on your head!

  More new information is packed into the last sentence: that the character is alone. That he stands on his shadow as on a ''small black island,'' further emphasizing his aloneness and extending it into a realm beyond the simply visual (''No man is an island,'' etc.). And finally, in contrast to the heat and loneliness, which we might have interpreted as negatives, come the last seven words (''I am where I want to be.'') Those seven words simultaneously let us into the character's inner life and reverse all our emotional expectations by showing us, in a simple and nonpretentious way, that he is happy.

  As a result, Theroux's description:

  • is personal, conveying the character's view of the scene, not the author's

  • does not unduly slow down the pace, because it has meaning for the character; we thus receive it as more than just static pictures

  • appeals to more than one sense (sight, sound, temperature)

  • seems fresh, because the two metaphors are not hackneyed (especially the second one)

  And all that in seventy-one words! Theroux left out everything nones-sential—and that's the definition of good description.

  But how do you define essential? Genre can be one guide. Readers come to books and stories—any books and stories—with preconceptions. Actually, they're more than that: They're pre-choices. A reader who picks up the New Yorker has chosen it precisely because he wants a certain kind of fictional experience. The same is true for those who plunk down $25.95 for a new thriller, romance, adventure, science fiction, ''literary'' or mystery hardcover. Part of this choice is how much description they expect—and of what.

  A romance novel, for example, may include quite lengthy descriptions of clothes (read Judith Krantz), people's appearances and perhaps room interiors. Romance readers enjoy this. A fan of Tom Clancy, on the other hand, does not want to wade through page-length descriptions of someone's outfit. He does want page-length descriptions of the weaponry on a nuclear submarine.

  Sometimes even the subgenre makes a difference. Usually readers of police-procedural mysteries neither expect nor want lengthy description (think of Ed McBain's Eighty-Seventh Precinct novels). On the other hand, mystery writers as diverse as Simon Brett and Miriam Grace Monfredo include lots of description. Neither writes police pro-cedurals; Brett's ''Charles Paris'' mysteries are theater-based ''cozies'' and Monfredo's books are historical mysteries.

  Do consider genre when you consider what to leave out. This applies to both what you describe and how long you describe it.

  LEAVING OUT EXPLICIT MOTIVATIONS

  Omitting explicit motivations works for many different genres, if done right. It does not mean leaving out motivation itself. Your characters must have plausible, consistent reasons for their actions. Usually these reasons are expressed one of three ways:

  • through dialogue (''I'm not going to the wedding because I can't stand the thought of my father marrying that woman,'' Sue said.)

  • through thoughts (She wouldn't go. It would just be too horrible. How could her father marry such a tart?)

  • through exposition (The last thing Sue wanted to be doing on this lovely May morning was attending her father's wedding to a girl twenty-two years younger than he. But she didn't feel she had a choice.)

  It can, however, be quite effective to skip all of these and simply let the character's actions stand by themselves, unexplained. Margaret Drabble does this in her novel Jerusalem the Golden. Clara has just met Clelia at a poetry reading and has had an argument with her in the ladies' room. Immediately afterward, Clelia speaks:

  ''Look,'' she added, ''if you give me your address when we get back there, I'll give you a ring, and you must come and see me and I'll tell you about it.''

  And when they got back to the bar, Clara did indeed inscribe her name and address and common room telephone number upon a page of Clelia's unbelievably occupied diary... . And as she went home that night, she knew that she was sure that Clelia would at some point ring her.

  But why is Clara so sure? What has made Clelia ask for her number when they've been squabbling? Author Drabble doesn't say, forcing the reader to figure out the answers for himself. The result is to focus his thinking on what the characters are really like . . . which also focuses him more intently on the book itself.

  One note: This works better with some kinds of fiction than with others. Some commercial fiction, in all genres, subtly promises its readers that they will receive large doses of emotion or action, not thought puzzles. In such stories, you might do better to make motivations overtly clear.

  How do you know whether any fictional element is better included or left out? There's no right answer; it's a judgment call. Or—write it both ways, and ask some trusty readers which works best. They might just agree with Robert Browning that ''less is more.''

  SUMMARY: WHAT YOU DON'T SAY

  • You c
an't put in everything you know about your characters. Choose artfully.

  • Leaving out description results in characters subtly unconnected to their surroundings.

  • Leaving out dialogue puts emphasis on setting.

  • Leaving out details may throw whatever is omitted into sharp relief.

  • Leaving out explicit motivation forces the reader to supply it for himself.

  • Genre should influence what you choose to include or leave out.

  Many, many writers are tempted to create characters by basing the externals on real people: Cousin John's appearance, a neighbor's weird gestures, a friend's background and speech patterns. After all, the models are indubitably real, so shouldn't that bolster the believ-ability of their fictional counterparts? Wouldn't drawing on a real person's appearance, mannerisms, speech, tastes and observable behavior give you a boost up on characterization?

  Maybe yes, maybe no.

  It depends on who and what you copy, and how slavishly. Using a real person as a model can gain you a solid starting point for a fictional character. It can also gain you a watered-down and underimagined character—or a law suit.

  So if your Aunt Minnie is a fascinating kleptomaniac (her collection of stolen doorknobs from places where Woodrow Wilson slept; her purloined cat collars), there are both legal and personal questions to consider before you put her in a story. Can her husband Uncle Dan, the quick-tempered lawyer, sue you for libel? Will your mother, Aunt Minnie's sister, ever forgive you? If you change Aunt Minnie's name, do you have to inform your editor that she's based on a real person? If you decide that Aunt Minnie steals something from Madonna, and you want to put Madonna in the story, too, can you do that without permission?

  Laws, of course, change constantly. (Abraham Lincoln once wrote, ''A nation may be said to consist of its territories, its people, and its laws. The territory is the only part which is of certain durability.'') What I write now could be outdated next year, or not be applicable in your particular case. Specifics depend on who you copy, how you write about him and where you live. Nonetheless, let's examine some general guidelines, both legal and literary, for making use of the intriguing Aunt Minnie.

  PRECEDENTS AND CONSEQUENCES:

  SOME FAMOUS CHARACTERS BASED ON REAL PEOPLE

  Basing fictional characters on real people has a long and distinguished history. In David Copperfield, Charles Dickens based Mr. Micawber on his own feckless father, John Dickens. Scarlett O'Hara's life story drew on that of Margaret Mitchell's grandmother, Annie Fitzgerald Stephens, who survived the burning of Atlanta and went on to rebuild the family farm. In Dodsworth, Sinclair Lewis based his exploitive and selfish character Fran Dodsworth on his first wife—an interesting form of post-marital revenge also employed by Lady Caroline Lamb in Glenarvon and by Nora Ephron in Heartburn. A trio of famous dreamers—Jay Gatsby, Don Quixote and Alice in Wonderland—like-wise all began as people their authors knew.

  When such models recognized their fictional counterparts, there was a variety of consequences. Irascible critic Alexander Woollcott saw himself as the irascible protagonist in George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart's play The Man Who Came to Dinner. Woollcott was so delighted that he toured with the play. On the other hand, Truman Capote's jet-set friends were so undelighted to recognize themselves in ''La Cote Basque'' that some of them never spoke to Capote again.

  Consequences can be legal as well as social. An important libel case in California, Bindrim v. Mitchell (1979), resulted from novelist Gwen Davis Mitchell portraying in her novel Touching a character who conducted nude therapy sessions. She was sued by Dr. Paul Bindrim, a therapist who did just that. Even though Mitchell's fictional protagonist differed in several important ways from Bindrim, Mitchell lost the case. Bindrim was awarded a substantial settlement.

  THINK FIRST, WRITE LATER: SIX MODEL QUESTIONS

  Acts have consequences, and writing is an act. But you can at least minimize the personal and legal risks by forethought (we'll consider the literary risks in a moment). Ask yourself the following six questions before you borrow Aunt Minnie.

  Is What I'm Writing Actually Libelous?

  Libel laws vary from state to state; there is no federal law. However, various federal court cases have built up a body of defamation law through interpreting the freedoms of speech and of the press. State courts are bound by United States Supreme Court pronouncements, but in the constantly changing area of libel, this can still create differences among the states in deciding what is libelous and what is not. You can look up individual state statutes in the library.

  The strictest interpretations may find you libelous if the real-life model for your character can prove:

  • your character was recognizable as the model by members of the reading public, and

  • the character was portrayed negatively, and

  • as a result the model was injured professionally, emotionally or financially

  These are the grounds on which therapist Bindrim won his case against novelist Mitchell in California. However, other states have ruled differently on similar cases.

  You probably can't be successfully sued if:

  • you disguise Aunt Minnie so completely that not even all her family agrees that your character is her

  • you stick to the publicly documented, unembellished truth (If Aunt Minnie's conviction(s) for theft are a matter of public record,

  and if you don't add any made-up, unflattering elements to her portrait, you're probably on legally safe ground.) • you say only positive things about the character (If your protagonist is based on your friend Karl, and you portray Karl as an absolute prince, he cannot claim your portrayal defamed him.)

  Is Aunt Minnie a Public Figure?

  The courts have allowed considerably more leeway to authors writing about public figures than to those writing about private citizens. Don DeLillo's novel Libra, for instance, gave Richard Nixon an extremely unflattering character. But even if Aunt Minnie qualifies as a private citizen, she still has to prove malice on your part in order to successfully sue. She has to prove that you published private, damaging facts that are identifiably about her.

  Is Aunt Minnie Dead?

  Most states—but, again, not all—hold that a dead person can't be libeled. Maybe Aunt Minnie's story will gain in richness and power if you mull it over for another decade.

  If I Am Sued, Who Will Bear the Legal Expenses?

  Almost always, you will.

  Most novel contracts contain lengthy paragraphs in which you agree that you haven't libeled anyone, or if you have, it's your financial problem. It's also important in this context to remember that anyone can initiate a lawsuit for libel, no matter how unfounded. The case may well be thrown out of court, but by the time it is, you may have already incurred some legal expenses.

  Whose Feelings Will Be Hurt by This Book, and How Much?

  Here we leave the realm of legal consequences and enter into social ones. Obviously, this is a personal question. Some writers base characters on real models and trust that the model will understand, not care or never see the story. (I know several authors who do not want their landlord, mother or ex-lover to ever read specific works. The writers are not sure what they'll say if the respective models ever do get hold of the books.)

  Other writers take the stance that both life and art involve pain,

  and to write honestly is worth whatever conflicts this causes, including estrangement from friends and relatives. (J.P. Donleavy went so far as to say that unless at least three people sue you after the publication of your first novel, you haven't been honest enough.) Still others work hard to make sure that their models are unrecognizable in the final draft, protecting themselves from lawsuits and Aunt Minnie from embarrassment.

  How Much Can I Disguise Aunt Minnie— and How Much Disguise Is Enough?

  There are no hard and fast rules about how much you need to change a character to protect yourself from successful legal action. However, merely changi
ng the name is not sufficient. Changing a character's sex, locale, profession and family connections may or may not be sufficient: Is the character still recognizable? To whom? Would a jury think so? You can't be sure. Thus, the more you change, the legally safer you'll be. On the other hand, if you make Aunt Minnie not a kleptomaniac but an arsonist, make her husband not a lawyer but a dairy farmer, and her fate not to end as an antiques dealer but in a rest home, is this still the story you wanted to tell? Your goal was to disguise the model, not obliterate her.

  MORE THAN A FAKE MUSTACHE: HOW TO DISGUISE CHARACTERS

  Preliminary concerns are to change the model's name, appearance, hometown, etc. This is easy to do. It's also minor, compared to restructuring the model's unique personality.

  Fortunately, that sort of basic restructuring may actually strengthen your story. This is because real live people contain masses of contradictions, unprocessed experiences, confused motivations and simultaneous emotions. In the space of five minutes, a human being can experience many memories, impulses (some acted on, some not), feelings, goads of conscience, insecurities, wishes, frustrations, old angers—even if outwardly all she's doing is standing by the stove frying bacon. If you could somehow get all of this into your novel, it would be exactly like real life.

  But fiction is not real life. Fiction, as we saw in the chapter on dialogue, is the act of compressing real life in order to express something meaningful about it. To do that, those elements that contribute to the meaning are highlighted; those that are irrelevant are edited out.

  In your novel about Aunt Minnie, for instance, you might emphasize her competitiveness (she wants what her friends have, even if she has to steal it), but downplay her love of gardening and her bad temper. You will have simplified Aunt Minnie for the sake of the story. You will also have taken the first step in the process of disguising her: subtracting some traits. Choose the ones that don't contribute to your overall plot. This will give greater prominence to those traits that do contribute. (Note: We've now moved from a character's external traits to her internal ones: What Makes Minnie Run. That's why this chapter is the last one in part one. It's a bridge to part two, where we'll consider your character's psychological innards.)