Free FtQ chapter—dealing with overwriting

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Here, from the Description section of my book, Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells. is “Overwriting: the attack of killer verbiage”

Some writers new to the task of the novel put in every possible nuance and detail of a scene or action—and drown their pace and tension in a sludge of words. Invisible and deadly, overwriting can suffocate a narrative.

Overwriting is insidious, and can grow just a word or two at a time. Here are two examples from a client’s work:

He tasted her in his mouth. (Where else would he taste her?)

Her heart clenched in her chest. (Better there than in her purse, I guess.)

What pains me are far worse examples in published novels. Take the following trudge from The Experiment by John Darnton.

The scene: a woman enters a darkened bedroom. In the bed sleeps a man who she assumes is her love interest. Spreading minutiae like a blanket of kudzu, Darnton writes…and writes…and writes…

She thought that perhaps she should try to take a nap, too; the trip home had exhausted her. She walked around the bed, sat in a chair and unstrapped her shoes and took them off, placing them to one side. She stood up and unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap and bent down to pick it up and drape it over the back of the chair. She slipped her thumbs into the waist of her panties and slid them down her legs, placing them over the dress. Then she unfastened her bra and placed it on top. From the bed, she heard his breathing shift as he moved to a different level of sleep.

She walked to the right side of the bed, lifted the sheet and slipped underneath, pulling it up to her chin. The cotton felt cool to her skin.

Does the word “turgid” come to mind? If not, see a therapist immediately. Trust me on this: the entire purpose of this passage was to get the woman into the bed. Her method of disrobing had absolutely no bearing on anything that had gone before or anything that happened afterward.

It didn’t matter that she walked around the bed. Or sat in a chair. Or where she placed her discarded shoes. Or what she did with her dress or bra. Nor did her panty-removal process have any bearing—the person in the bed was asleep, and there was no sexual intent to the scene. And it didn’t matter which side of the bed she got into, either. Don’t get me started on other deficiencies in this dawdle.

When it comes to description, I’m with Stephen King, as expressed in his On Writing. To quote from his book,

Look—here’s a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot upon which it is contentedly chewing. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.

As King points out, the paragraph doesn’t tell us what the cage is made of. Wire mesh? Steel rods? Glass? It doesn’t tell us because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the reader “sees” allows him to visualize the rabbit inside and the most important story part of the description, the number on its back.

King says that good description makes the reader a participant in the story. Exactly right. Crisp, tight description lets the reader fill in the details, especially if they don’t matter to the storyline.

In the above example from Mr. Darnton’s book, all that verbiage boils down to this:

Exhausted by the trip home, she thought she should try a nap. She undressed, slipped underneath the sheet and pulled it up to her chin, the cotton cool on her skin.

Here’s a technique that might have helped Mr. Darnton avoid his logorrhea—read your narrative aloud. If, at some point, you detach and drift, your voice a drone in the background while your mind searches for something interesting to think about, your narrative has been binge expositing, and you need to apply the cure—vigorous exercise of the delete key.

For what it’s worth

Ray
© 2011 Ray Rhamey

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Comments

[Doug]

Here's another reference, from Alexander McCall Smith ("No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency"): http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703440004575548170190455294.html

"If somebody sets out in great detail what is before us, we very quickly become bored. That is not the way we see the world; we look for salience, we look for the feature that will engage our interest. ...

"The trouble with overwritten prose is that it takes away from the reader the opportunity to imagine a scene. We do not want to be told everything; we want a few brushstrokes, a few carefully chosen adjectives, and then we can do the rest ourselves."

[Deb]

I think the important part of this is realizing what is important.

Your examples of her slipping into bed IMO go too far to both extremes.
The first example gives it sexual tension and lots of un-neccesary detail.
The second one is dry and brings hardly any picture at all.

[Perry]

Hi, my name is Perry and I'm an over writer. I find that over writing my first draft is the best approach for me. I find it's easier to strip away than to build up.
That said, it takes a keen eye and a thick skin to get the final draft lean and clean without losing the life per Deb's comment.

[Ray Rhamey]

Just a note on "dry"--the purpose of the narrative was to get to more of a scene, and this bit was best done with "summary" rather than a scene. Yes, it doesn't give a picture, but it wasn't intended to; it was needed as a transitional bridge to important character stuff.

There are times when "telling," as in summary, are good tools to use in a narrative. In other words, not only should we not show too much, there are times when we shouldn't show at all.

[Densie Webb]

Ray, I feel like I just got an "A" on a pop quiz. I was actually thinking of the trimmed down version as a "transition" to something bigger. If it was leading up to a sex scene or a confrontation, then I think more of the getting-ready-for-bed scene would make sense to build tension. Otherwise it's like watching paint dry.

[Kathryn R.]

For a moment there I was having a panic attack...then I read on. Okay, I'm following the rules. Great topic, great examples. Thanks.

[Doug]

Oh, dear. Now we've got Stanley Fish's brand-new book, "How to Write a Sentence". Fish seems to think we need more art and less directness.

Adam Haslett was inspired by Fish's book to share his own thoughts on the virtues of verbosity and the propriety of prolixity, in the Financial Times:
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/8c60799c-24e2-11e0-895d-00144feab49a.html

[Carrieann]

I might be beating a dead horse, but thank you for postnig this!