Part 13 (1/2)

Catching ”one-plus-ones” is a function of what is called ”line editing.” Shouldn't writers rely on editors to catch things like that? The hard fact is that editors do a lot less line editing than they used to. If a novel requires a lot of line editing, it is less likely to be taken on by a publisher, who has to consider the cost of editing. Which is why is it inc.u.mbent upon writers to become, in effect, their own editors. This also applies to nonfiction writers and to writers of screenplays and TV dramas.

On television, the program In the Heat of the Night had a glaring example of one-plus-one when Virgil Tibbs's wife said to him, ”My parents, Mom and Dad .. ”

Who else might her parents be besides ”Mom and Dad”? The script writer should have kept one or the other, not both.

Most often the one-plus-one has the repet.i.tion put in a slightly different way. Here's an example from an American cla.s.sic: He was dirty. Everything about him was unclean. Even the whites of his eyes were soiled.

What did the author fail to eliminate? Before you go on, why don't you try your hand at being his editor and bracket what you'd leave out.

You could have eliminated either of the first two sentences. My preference would be to eliminate the second sentence because the short first sentence sets up the effective last sentence better: He was dirty. Even the whites of his eyes were soiled.

That example of one-plus-one comes from Sherwood Anderson's cla.s.sic, Winesburg, Ohio. Here's another example: It was a dreadful situation, a time of purest humiliation.

Here the choice is clearer. The first clause is general and familiar. ”It was a time of purest humiliation” is more specific. All you have to do is delete the words ”a dreadful situation” and you have a more specific sentence that doesn't say the same thing twice.

The following is an example of one-plus-one from a recent book by a much admired and successful novelist: He had time to think, time to become an old man in aspic, in sculptured soap, quaint and white.

Now let's think about that sentence. There are two images, ”an old man in aspic” and an old man ”in sculptured soap.” What's wrong?

Both images convey the same thing. A person in aspic is immobilized. A person in sculptured soap is immobilized. Two images that convey the same thing make the reader conscious of the images instead of letting the reader experience the effect. And by cutting one of the two, the pace speeds up. If the author chose the second one, the old man ”in sculptured soap,” he should have eliminated ”quaint and white.” We usually think of soap as white unless a color is indicated. And ”quaint” means ”odd in a pleasing way” or ”old-fas.h.i.+oned.” Neither definition really helps the image in this context. ”An old man in sculptured soap” is strong. ”An old man in sculptured soap, quaint and white,” is weaker. If the author felt he had to elaborate on sculptured soap to make the image work, perhaps he should have chosen ”an old man in aspic” instead. Sometimes a one-plus-one is created by an unnecessary repet.i.tion: I noticed the finesse with which Mr. Brethson held the creases in his trousers as he sat down. I was always fascinated by what people did to keep dress-up clothes in shape.

The first-person narrator notices how Brethson holds the creases in his trousers. The narrator's generalization of what he sees is distracting. In the editing, the second sentence should come out.

Earlier in this book I have several times expressed admiration for the work of a new novelist, Nanci Kincaid, whose Crossing Blood was published in the autumn of 1992. Her effective characterization, often accomplished in a stroke, deserves high praise. But she's evidently had no training in eliminating one-plus-ones. In fact, here she demonstrates one-plus-one-plus-one equals one third! Let's look at what she does one sentence at a time: Sometimes I wished I had run after Daddy, hugged his leg like a boa constrictor.

Not bad, though perhaps the image of a boa constrictor is more negative than the author intended, as the context would seem to indicate.

Sometimes I wished I had run after Daddy, stuck to him like a Band-Aid.

A nice image.

Sometimes I wished I had run after Daddy, locked myself around him like a ball on a chain, like I was the law and he was the prisoner.

Fine. The only problem is that Nanci Kincaid used all three images, one after the other. The pa.s.sage from her novel reads: Sometimes I wished I had run after Daddy, hugged his leg like a boa constrictor, stuck to him like a Band-Aid, locked myself around him like a ball on a chain, like I was the law and he was the prisoner.

Any one of the three images would be stronger than all three strung together. And the pace would, of course, quicken. The images don't reinforce each other. Once again we break our experience to become conscious of words on paper.

It's time for a word of caution. The ”one plus one” guideline does not apply to a conscious piling-up of words for effect. Here is an example of a purposeful piling-up first of verbs and then of adjectives, taken from a recent nonfiction book: Their object is to tear down the individual in the eyes of the court, to deprecate, denounce, defame, condemn, and revile him, and to besmirch whatever reputation he may have had. Their intent is to leave him demoralized, disheartened, discouraged, depressed, and shaken.

Clearly, this intentional piling on of verbs or adjectives is done consciously for effect, unlike the ”one-plus-ones” that diminish the effect rather than add to it.

In this chapter, we've learned to look closely at what we write, to test each word and phrase both for accuracy and necessity. We've also learned to eliminate most adjectives and adverbs as unnecessary flab. And we've found out that even successful writers trip up and reduce the effect of their work with unnecessary repet.i.tion.

Removing all forms of flab, including one-plus-ones, increases pace, helping a reader to feel that ”this book moves fast.”

I trust you've enjoyed improving the pace of cla.s.sics and bestsellers and knowing that you won't be making the same mistakes.

One of the most important things a writer of fiction or nonfiction can do over time is to find his individual voice, style, and view of the world. The author's ”voice” is made up of the many factors that distinguish an author from all other authors. Recognizing an individual author's voice is like recognizing a voice on the telephone. Many authors first find their ”voice” when they learn to examine each word for its necessity, precision, and clarity, as we are doing here. The originality of some of the writers I have worked with was immediately apparent: James Baldwin and Bertram Wolfe come to mind. Among my recent students, a young man named Steve Talsky began his work this way: I am the way, the answer and the light, through me all things are possible.

He had written this once as a joke on the headboard of his bed.

No one else I know-published or unpublished-could have written that beginning. More recently, when I saw the early pages of a completed novel by Anne James Valadez, my spirits rose in the hope that she could sustain the promise of those early pages, a thoroughly believable scene of two trees who were once lovers and now, rooted in place, can only report what goes on beneath their branches. Despite the rootedness of the trees, the story is anything but static. It is a work of remarkable originality.

An extremely small percentage of writers show signs of an original voice at the outset. It usually develops over time, and has two components, the originality of what is said and the originality of the way it is said.

Over the years, I encountered writers who felt they didn't make their mark because what they wrote was not sufficiently different from what other writers write. I developed a teaching strategy, a way for writers to discover what they alone can do. It is a high-risk, high-gain experiment. Though it can be accomplished in minutes, it takes hard thought and perseverance. If the exercise works for you, it could tap your originality.

I ask you to imagine yourself on a rooftop, the townspeople a.s.sembled below. You are allowed to shout down one last sentence. It is the sentence that the world will remember you by forever. If you say it loud enough, everyone in the world will hear you, no matter where they are. Think of shouting the sentence, even if you seldom shout. What one thing are you going to say? If you'd like to try that exercise now, write down the sentence.

Is your sentence one that could have been said by any person you know? If so, revise it until you are convinced no one else could have said that sentence.

When you've reworked your original sentence, consider these additional questions: Is your sentence outrageous? Could it be? Is your sentence a question? Would it be stronger as a question?

Make whatever changes you like. I have still more questions: Would the crowd below cheer your sentence? Can you revise it to give them something they'd want to cheer?

As you can see, I am asking question after question to help you strengthen and individualize your sentence. I continue: Suppose the person you most love in all the world were to strongly disagree with your sentence. Can you answer his or her disagreement in a second sentence? Please add it.

Some writers will try to get out of further work by saying that their loved one would agree with the sentence. People have different scripts. If your sentence is original, the chances of another person-even your closest loved one-agreeing with it without the slightest exception is extremely unlikely.

Has your second sentence weakened your first? It usually does. If so, make it stronger than the first.

When you've done that, you now have the option of choosing one or the other sentence. There may be value in combining and condensing them.

Finished? Now imagine that you look down and see that the crowd below you is gone. You see only one person, your greatest enemy, who says, ”I didn't hear you. Would you repeat that?”

It is a fact that given one last sentence, addressing one's enemy can light up the imagination more than an anonymous crowd can. You don't want to give your enemy the last word or let him respond in a way that would demolish what you've said. Can you alter your sentence so that your statement will be enemy-proof?

This, of course, continues the exercise with one of its most difficult phases, creating an original sentence that is strong and to the best of the writer's ability, seemingly incontrovertible.

Suppose you found out that the only way to get your message across would be if you whispered your sentence. How would you revise it so that it would be suitable for whispering?

It isn't always easy to change a shouted sentence to one that can be whispered and heard, but it sometimes produces intriguing results and shows how the intent to whisper can produce words that are stronger than shouted words.

The last thing I'll ask is for you to look at all of the versions of your sentence. Is there a prior version that is actually stronger than the last? Can the virtues of one be embodied in another? And most important, which sentence now strikes you as the most original, the one least likely to have been written by someone else?

The first attempt at this exercise may not produce your ideal original expression. Save your results and try again. But my experience has been that often the first run of this exercise will direct you to a theme or expression of a theme that is uniquely yours. You have begun to tap your originality, to find your voice. In the meantime, you've had another lesson in the value of shunning the sentence that comes first, and honing, changing, polis.h.i.+ng the words of a single sentence to test all of its possibilities. That is, after all, the writer's work.

One day in 1962 an elderly woman with a marked Greek accent came to see me in my apartment in New York. Elia Kazan's mother arrived holding in her hand an advance copy of her son's first book, America America, which I was about to publish. Her voice betraying a slight quiver, she said that when the plays her son directed won Pulitzer Prizes and his direction of films twice won Academy Awards, her friends were not impressed because they, also Greek immigrants, did not go to the movies or see Broadway plays. Now, she said, holding America America up triumphantly, at long last she had something that she could show her friends!

The book, which had a modest first printing, was selected by the Reader's Digest Condensed Book Club, reprinted in ma.s.s market paperback, translated into many languages, made into a film, and widely reviewed as the best fiction ever on the uniquely American theme of immigration. All of that might not have happened. When the ma.n.u.script arrived, Kazan's name for it was The Anatolian Smile, which, I thought, closed the door against a wide readers.h.i.+p. The Anatolian Smile was not a t.i.tle designed to attract readers, nor did it resonate with the book's grand theme, how a young man, beset by the hards.h.i.+ps of the old world, determined to emigrate to America, and stopped at nothing-even murder-to get to the United States.

Given Kazan's considerable reputation as a director and his known ability to say no in a voice designed to quash an opponent, others might have been tempted to go with the original t.i.tle. Kazan's first book also happened to be the first book that I would be publis.h.i.+ng under the Stein and Day imprint; my idealistic determination was to make every book a winner. That t.i.tle, The Anatolian Smile, would not help. I contributed one word twice, the t.i.tle America America.

I have met many talented writers who insulate their books from the public with t.i.tles that are not likely to arouse a reader's interest or to promise a rich experience. That stubbornness is persistent. Many years after Kazan's book left my care, he recycled his original t.i.tle and had another publisher, perhaps less willing to oppose his strong will, issue a novel with the t.i.tle The Anatolian. That was the first time one of his novels missed a run on the bestseller list. The author was the same. The quality of writing was the same. The t.i.tle, an avoidable mistake, may have turned off the many millions who were part of his longstanding audience. The novel quickly dropped from sight, its door closed.

A book's life depends on reviewers, booksellers, and readers. Picture a reviewer standing before shelves loaded with the many dozens of review copies that arrive from publishers each week. He can review only one. Which does he pull down from the shelf to see if he might be interested in reviewing it? Would he pull down a book called Argghocker! And how will people know Argghocker is wonderful if it doesn't get reviewed?

Venture into any bookstore and look at the t.i.tles of new novels on display. Take note of your reactions to the t.i.tles of books by authors you don't know. You'll see how many books don't tempt you to pick them up because of their t.i.tles, and which t.i.tles intrigue you enough to want to take them down off the shelf and read the flaps.

t.i.tles are equally important in nonfiction. While the subject matter of an ordinary nonfiction book is often enough to attract initial interest to it, a lively t.i.tle will help even a how-to book. As nonfiction ascends in ambition and achievement, the t.i.tle becomes as influential as for a novel. One of the authors I worked with closely over many years was Bertram D. Wolfe, whose best work became cla.s.sics. Wolfe wanted to do a biography of Diego Rivera, one of the great twentieth-century painters Wolfe had known well. The hitch was that two decades earlier Wolfe had already written a biography of Diego Rivera that was published by Alfred A. Knopf, one of the finest publishers in America. The book was t.i.tled simply Diego Rivera. Though published in a beautiful edition, it did not do well. Wolfe put forward that Rivera had lived another eighteen years after the first biography was published, the events of those years unrecorded. Moreover, Wolfe a.s.serted, in the intervening years he had acquired more insight into the artist and his work. And so he embarked on a new biography, which he t.i.tled The Fabulous Life of Diego Rivera.