More of a Gesture, Really.
Chapter 13 is going better than I had hoped; I'm already about a third done, after zooming my way past what I thought would be one of the hard parts last night. I've noticed in recent months that I've been making heavy use of a very handy narratological tool: that of conveying characters' emotions by describing the movements of their hands, shoulders, eyes, and lips. It says much more, after all, to have Giles whip off his glasses during an argument, or to have my character Helen hide her shaking hands under her desk, than it does to say "He was pissed off" or "She was afraid and ashamed". It's part of the grand old rule of writing called Show, Don't Tell. Even so, this narratological tool has its limitations; I bump up against them occasionally, when I want to describe a complex state of mind in a character without resorting to my own narrative prose, which has a limited range of tone. I also, apparently, have a limited range of sentence structures to use when describing a series of actions. Take for example this snippet from Chapter 12:
She set open the doors of his sound system and turned on the power; lifted the lid of the turntable and blew the dust off the needle. With infinite care she removed the record from its cover and placed it on the turntable; she set the turntable spinning and used the velvet brush to clean the surface of the vinyl. The scent of static and the spinning words on the center of the disk brought unbidden childhood memories. She lifted the needle and (silently hoping that Giles would not be too scandalized at this liberty) laid it gently on the turning record; it landed perfectly, like a leaf falling to the surface of a river.
As the Requiem began she looked around her for a place to imbibe the music; after a moment surveying the room with a thoughtful twist to her lips, she decided on the table. She moved the centerpiece aside, crawled onto the top of the sturdy table, and arranged herself in more or less a lotus position. She took off her glasses, laid them next to her on the table, and shut her eyes.
Stripped of its narrative verbiage, it goes something like this: She did this and did this; did this and did this. With infinite care she did this and did this; she did this and used this to do this....She did this, did this, and did this. She did this, did this, and did this.
Oy vey.
That, in essence, is the problem with conveying a character's state of mind through a detailed description of his or her actions. A better writer, perhaps, might have more sentence structures waiting in her subconscious at her disposal; or, like A.S. Byatt, be able to capture an entire tableau of movements with one devastatingly raw and unvarnished phrase. Myself, I just worry on the best I can.
A problem, too, is that language itself, with its tangle of referents and its habit of making everything either totally opaque or totally transparent, frustrates the writer who wants a translucent glow. I want something in my narrative that is not quite fact, nor quite intuition. Sometimes, writing, I feel like Tom Hanks in Apollo 13 shouting, "I need a Gimbel lock!" (Whatever that is.) Meanwhile the other part of me is Gary Sinise attempting to figure out how to get everybody home on less power than it takes to work a toaster. Um, okay, abandoning this metaphor now before it gets hairy, and before I have to mention Kevin Bacon.
Writers: what do you do about this problem? Or are you busy frying other narratological fish?
Chapter 13 is going better than I had hoped; I'm already about a third done, after zooming my way past what I thought would be one of the hard parts last night. I've noticed in recent months that I've been making heavy use of a very handy narratological tool: that of conveying characters' emotions by describing the movements of their hands, shoulders, eyes, and lips. It says much more, after all, to have Giles whip off his glasses during an argument, or to have my character Helen hide her shaking hands under her desk, than it does to say "He was pissed off" or "She was afraid and ashamed". It's part of the grand old rule of writing called Show, Don't Tell. Even so, this narratological tool has its limitations; I bump up against them occasionally, when I want to describe a complex state of mind in a character without resorting to my own narrative prose, which has a limited range of tone. I also, apparently, have a limited range of sentence structures to use when describing a series of actions. Take for example this snippet from Chapter 12:
She set open the doors of his sound system and turned on the power; lifted the lid of the turntable and blew the dust off the needle. With infinite care she removed the record from its cover and placed it on the turntable; she set the turntable spinning and used the velvet brush to clean the surface of the vinyl. The scent of static and the spinning words on the center of the disk brought unbidden childhood memories. She lifted the needle and (silently hoping that Giles would not be too scandalized at this liberty) laid it gently on the turning record; it landed perfectly, like a leaf falling to the surface of a river.
As the Requiem began she looked around her for a place to imbibe the music; after a moment surveying the room with a thoughtful twist to her lips, she decided on the table. She moved the centerpiece aside, crawled onto the top of the sturdy table, and arranged herself in more or less a lotus position. She took off her glasses, laid them next to her on the table, and shut her eyes.
Stripped of its narrative verbiage, it goes something like this: She did this and did this; did this and did this. With infinite care she did this and did this; she did this and used this to do this....She did this, did this, and did this. She did this, did this, and did this.
Oy vey.
That, in essence, is the problem with conveying a character's state of mind through a detailed description of his or her actions. A better writer, perhaps, might have more sentence structures waiting in her subconscious at her disposal; or, like A.S. Byatt, be able to capture an entire tableau of movements with one devastatingly raw and unvarnished phrase. Myself, I just worry on the best I can.
A problem, too, is that language itself, with its tangle of referents and its habit of making everything either totally opaque or totally transparent, frustrates the writer who wants a translucent glow. I want something in my narrative that is not quite fact, nor quite intuition. Sometimes, writing, I feel like Tom Hanks in Apollo 13 shouting, "I need a Gimbel lock!" (Whatever that is.) Meanwhile the other part of me is Gary Sinise attempting to figure out how to get everybody home on less power than it takes to work a toaster. Um, okay, abandoning this metaphor now before it gets hairy, and before I have to mention Kevin Bacon.
Writers: what do you do about this problem? Or are you busy frying other narratological fish?
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