This is the final part of the article I quoted in my earlier thread. (The best bits are the paragraphs towards the end.)
The Scourge of Forgetting Your Characters
'What, Clodius! and how have you slept on your good fortune?' cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young man, in a chariot of the most fastidious and graceful fashion. [Here follow 83 words describing the chariot.] The owner himself was of that slender and beautiful symmetry from which the sculptors of Athens drew their models; his Grecian origin betrayed itself in his light but clustering locks, and the perfect harmony of his features. He wore no toga . . . [lengthy commentary on togas falling out of fashion] . . . but his tunic glowed in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye, and the fibulae, or buckles, by which it was fastened, sparkled with emeralds: around his neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast twisted itself into the form of a serpent's head, from the mouth of which hung pendent a large signet ring of elaborate and most exquisite workmanship; the sleeves of the tunic were loose, and fringed at the hand with gold: and across the waist a girdle wrought in arabesque designs, and of the same material as the fringe, served in lieu of pockets for the receptacle of the handkerchief and the purse, the stilus [sic] and the tablets.
The Last Days of Pompeii, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Now you know why the annual contest for the most miserably written opening line of a novel is named for Bulwer-Lytton. (Actually, it was named in honor of the opening line of his novel Clifford Irving: "It was a dark and stormy night . . .") But what makes this passage hard to bear is not mere verbosity or that Bulwer-Lytton ignores reality -- the details are, for the most part, specific. It's overwritten because he ignores his narrator, Clodius. Clodius knows this young dandy well and sees him regularly, so he probably wouldn't notice every last arabesque on his tunic. Essentially, Bulwer-Lytton is elbowing Clodius aside so he can describe something that interests him.
Just to show that ignoring characters with overwriting was not an exclusively Victorian phenomenon, here's a passage from Terry Brooks' 1977 The Sword of Shannara:
In the midst of the chilling cries, with a low rumble that sounded from the heart of the earth, the Hadeshorn opened at its center in the manner of a thrashing whirlpool and from out of its murky waters rose the shroud of an old man, bowed with age. The figure rose to full height and appeared to stand on the waters themselves, the tall, thin body a transparent gray of ghostlike hue that shimmered like the lake beneath it. Flick [the narrator] turned completely white. The appearance of this final horror only confirmed his belief that their last moments on earth were at hand.
Again, the details are concrete, and Flick would certainly be paying close attention to the apparition. But it's hard to believe that he would describe it in such formal language. Someone in mortal terror doesn't think of how his or her beliefs are confirmed by an appearance with a ghostlike hue. Brooks has ignored his character in order to exercise his linguistic skills.
Of course, there are no rules. You may sometimes need to stretch a character's natural language -- when she or he is having an epiphany, for instance. If so, be careful, since these moments are where the temptation to overwrite is strongest. Stay inside your character and whatever you do, don't let your language get out of hand.
The Blight of Inattention to Yourself
The Brooks passage illustrates another source of overwriting -- an inattention to your own, natural voice. Given that Brooks' book is in the same genre and general spirit as Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, it's fair to guess that Brooks got in trouble by trying to imitate Tolkien's voice. For comparison's sake, consider the following description of the arrival of the Balrog in The Fellowship of the Ring:
But it was not the trolls that had filled the Elf with terror. The ranks of the orcs had opened, and they crowded away, as if they themselves were afraid. Something was coming up behind them. What it was could not be seen: it was like a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater; and a power and terror seemed to be in it and to go before it.
While some might consider Tolkien to be overwritten as well, his passage is more effective in part because it is not forced. He was raised during the late Victorian era and spent his life among Oxbridge scholars as one of their number, steeped in philological texts and dark-age and medieval epic poetry (his academic specialty). A formal and elevated language ("terror seemed to be in it and to go before it" is reminiscent of the King James Bible) is his natural voice. Brooks' voice, on the other hand, seems to be a conscious attempt to capture the same flavor and feel that arose so naturally for Tolkien -- forcing a voice rather than expressing one. The strain shows.
Incidentally, writing in something other than your natural voice doesn't necessarily mean overwriting. Many writers, in an attempt to avoid overblown prose, write in a minimalism that is no more natural to them than baroque excess would be. Writing well almost inevitably means writing like yourself -- finding your own voice and letting it flow.
Here is an exercise that can help you find your voice. Place a notebook next to your bed, and as soon as you wake in the morning, start writing. Don't hesitate, don't think, just let the words flow, with as little input from your conscious mind as possible. The results may not be elegant, but they will be authentic. If they are radically different in tone from your usual writing, then you may be trying to force a voice that isn't your own. Learn to let go a bit more as you write.
Try this trick the next time you write: sit down with an alarm clock and write as fast as you can for only an hour. You may plan out your next passage as much as you want, but write it all down within the hour. If you manage five or more pages, whatever is there is truly your own. Of course, there's nothing wrong with polishing your prose once it's written (you want clarity as well as authenticity), but it should never be at the expense of your voice.
Bear in mind that your writing style is not an end in itself. It exists to serve your story. Focus on your style for its own sake and you run the risk of creating a linguistic feedback loop -- elegant language for the sake of elegant language -- that will condemn you to the slush pile forever. Focus on your story -- your characters, your settings, your plot -- and your natural style will emerge. Whether it's flowery or plain, baroque or minimalist, it will be unique and wholly yours. And, really, there's nothing else worth doing.
But remember: Purple prose. It's bad.
This post was last edited by Cobble, 02 Jul 2008, 07:57
Overwriting - A Cure (2)
02 Jul 2008, 07:38
