One of my rare long posts about writing follows, so pour yourself a beverage. Ready?
I came across this wonderful comment from Nick Hornby, quoted in Paige Ferrari’s article in the February issue of Radar Magazine (boldface is mine):
"In a way, I think all books should be teen books," says Hornby, whose new release, Slam, tells the tale of a young skateboarding chav who impregnates his teenage girlfriend. "I can read them quickly without getting bogged down, and feel I've read something that was meant in the way literature's supposed to be. They're very digestible, designed not to bore people."
And I was thinking, right on, Nick, I might just do a blog post about that, but first I got distracted by tomorrow’s just-delivered New York Times magazine. It contains a feature article about writer Charles Bock, whose first novel Beautiful Children comes out this week and is apparently already enjoying major buzz.
This is fascinating stuff to a writer – how does a first novel get so hyped before it’s even out? And then I came to a one-paragraph excerpt from the book, which is set in Las Vegas:
The neon. The halogen. The viscous liquid light. Thousands of millions of watts, flowing through letters of looping cursive and semi-cursive, filling then emptying, then starting over again. Waves of electricity, emanating from pop-art facades, actually transforming the nature of the atmosphere, creating a mutation of night, a night that is not night — daytime at night.
And I thought, yikes. First novel is right. Look at the verbs: flowing, filling, emptying, starting, emanating, transforming, creating. Is there no subject performing any of these actions? Dear God, are we going to stay in the passive mode for three hundred pages? I for one will be playing “throw the book across the room” long before that happens, friends.
Putting aside the question of where the red pencil of Mr. Bock’s editor was when this ingfest was aborning, I decided to try to unpack my “yikes” of dismay into a more useful analysis. Forgive me; I know one writer rewriting the words of another is always an unseemly exercise, but perhaps this will be instructive. And much quicker and cheaper than enrolling in an MFA program, I promise.
First, reread Mr. Bock’s original. Now, if one were truly hardcore, one might simply say:
Even at night, the artificial light of the signs made Las Vegas as bright as day.
—and then get on with the story (and Reader, how I always pray that there is one!). But we’re not in that much of a hurry. We want to use language to set the mood, and we’ll fix the boringinging verbs in our edit.
Look at the text again. I’ve underlined the bits that merit scrutiny:
The neon. The halogen. The viscous liquid light. Thousands of millions of watts, flowing through letters of looping cursive and semi-cursive, filling then emptying, then starting over again. Waves of electricity, emanating from pop-art facades, actually transforming the nature of the atmosphere, creating a mutation of night, a night that is not night — daytime at night.
Viscous means syrupy, gluey, a thick liquid that resists flow (solids can’t really be viscous, can they?). So a viscous liquid is a thick liquid liquid. This is what is known as the Department of Redundancy Department.
Thousands of millions. Last time I checked, thousands of millions were called billions.
Flow implies a steady stream, but then we learn the energy fills
and empties and fills again. Seems like the wrong word. Let’s try
"pulse."
Semi-cursive. We've just mentioned cursive, so what is semi-cursive?
Half print? Partial script? Is this a paragraph about typography, or
the light in Vegas? I say cut it out and see how the wound heals.
One might start over, but to start over again? That is a lot of starting over. I will fix.
Waves of electricity. I'm no scientist, now, but how else would electricity actually travel? I’m thinking we can do without the waves.
Electricity emanating: We have already heard about the watts, so to introduce electricity as a new idea is a bit of a conversation-stopper. And electricity emanating is an ugly tongue-twister of a phrase. I’ll surprise you with something else.
If someone can explain to me the difference between transforming and actually transforming, I would be most grateful. Until then we shall drop actually.
Nature of the atmosphere also makes me squirm. Atmosphere is one of those words that implies a certain, shall we say, atmosphericness? So how is the nature of the atmosphere different from “the atmosphere”? It’s like saying “transforming the atmosphere of the atmosphere.” I will omit nature of, and see if the house of cards topples.
Creating a mutation. “Mutation” conveniently has its own verb form: "mutating." Let’s take it out for a spin.
Whew! Now let’s clean up the original paragraph by applying these editorial suggestions and see what’s left:
The neon. The halogen. The viscous light. Billions of watts pulse through letters of looping cursive, filling and emptying and filling them again. Energy sparks from pop-art facades and transforms the atmosphere, mutating the night into not-night — daytime at night.
It’s shorter and cleaner, but now we have a new problem: the more you strip away the verbiage, the easier it is to see that this paragraph doesn’t make sense. Why not?
Because, after all that description, he ends up saying that nighttime in Vegas is like daylight. And it clearly isn’t.
Readers, it is ever thus: Take away the sloppy writing and you reveal the sloppy thinking. (I suspect this is why many writers cling so desperately to their sloppy writing. Bury yourself up to the neck in a pile of sequins and no one will notice you’re not wearing a dress.)
What is the purpose of this paragraph? To describe how the artificial light in Vegas makes nighttime there unlike anything else — not night, not day. I’ve never been to Vegas, but here’s a stab:
The air is viscous with light. Billions of watts pulse through letters of looping neon, filling and emptying and filling them again. Energy sparks from pop-art facades and transforms the atmosphere, mutating the darkness into — not daylight, not moonlight — Vegas light.
Pencils down.
Of course, you might like his original version better, just because. And he’s in the Times, and I’m not, and you’d think that would shut me right up. But at least I know what my edited version means.
Before I go, sincere apologies to Mr. Bock for making a point at his expense; this paragraph is all I’ve read of his much-buzzed-about book and I have every confidence that he will receive enough accolades and sales and film offers to soften the sting of my well-meaning ruler across the knuckles of his prose.
And it is a first novel, so give the guy a break. None of us can claim innocence to the charge of sloppy writing. I look at things I wrote a few years ago, a few months ago — heck, last week! — and think, i yi yi, if only I could go back and fix! To write and rewrite and think critically about writing means to continually raise your standards, bit by bit. That's a good thing.
But still, people always ask: Why is writing so hard? And why does it take so long, and require so many drafts?
My answer is demonstrated above, in the close reading and revision of this single paragraph. Because books have many, many paragraphs in them, and you have to do this kind of thinking and precision work on each one. Otherwise someone might throw your book across the — ouch! Hey, that was my head!
xoxo
m
Recent Comments