As I mentioned in my previous blog, writers of fiction often grapple with the question of detail: how much, what kind, and how far off the narrative track you can stray in order to present an irresistible tidbit of information about a character, setting, or action. If you skimp on details you run the risk of presenting a bland, opaque story that goes bump in the night but never shows its face. Too much detail will bog down your story the way those gigantic tail feathers on the male peacock inhibit free movement.
Here’s an example. Recently I read “The Apostle,” a thriller by Brad Thor. The author is hugely successful in the marketplace and he knows his audience and he caters well to them. Personally, I find his right-wing politics to be heavy-handed and I resent the feeling that the author is leaning over my shoulder and hissing, “Get it? Get it? The liberal politicians are all idiots and the valiant warriors are all heroes!” It seems very Bush-Cheney-Rumsfeld, and it’s no wonder Glenn Beck swoons over Mr. Thor and his novels. But I digress; we are discussing novelistic detail. One of the primary tasks of the author is to introduce characters. If you are masterful, you can get them onstage and into the action seamlessly, without a lot of fanfare. But sometimes you need to stop and give a quick physical description.
While plowing through “The Apostle” I noticed that Mr. Thor has a habit of providing the exact height, in feet and inches, of characters as they are introduced. Mullah Massoud Akhund “stood about five-foot-eight.” Zwak “stood only a hair above five feet tall.” The unfortunate interpreter Sayed was “five-foot-six.” The American Dr. Julia Gallo was “five-foot-ten.” U.S. President Robert Alden “stood six-foot-two” while entertainment titan Stephanie Gallo “was tall, five-foot-ten when not in heels.” The information comes quickly; Mr. Thor introduces all of these characters within the first thirty pages. As I read the book, I was amazed that Mr. Thor’s editor at Simon and Schuster didn’t say, “Do we really need to provide these measurements?” But I suppose when you have a sales record as enviable as Mr. Thor’s and your books pay many salaries at the publishing house, no one is going to argue with you.
Some authors omit detail that you assume they would have to include. One of my favorite books is “Frankenstein” by Mary Shelley. When you read the book it is obvious that the nineteen-year-old author had a solid understanding of the particulars of the geographical regions used as settings, but zero knowledge of biology or chemistry. She makes no attempt to describe how the creature is brought to life. The description of how Frankenstein animates his creation is as substantial as a Scottish mist. There are vague references to collecting body parts and the laborious assembly process involving scientific instruments. The moment that the creature becomes animated is not marked by any of the theatrics we see in the movies: no thunder and lightning, no flash of cosmic energy. The “dull yellow eye of the creature” simply opens and the daemon awakes and the story marches forward.
By the way, to veer off–track for a moment, does anyone notice that during the daemon’s first big speech to Frankenstein on the glacier of Mont Blanc, he uses the archaic “thee” and “thou” when addressing his master, Frankenstein? In subsequent scenes – including when they repair to the hut so that the monster can tell his story, and later, after Frankenstein destroys the monster’s bride – the monster uses the conventional “you.” The appearance of the archaic forms is puzzling, and the only possible explanation is that Ms. Shelley intended the monster to speak thusly but, after trying it out in the first scene, abandoned the idea as too cumbersome.
Another of my favorite authors, Ian Fleming, weaves fascinating details through his James Bond books. Here is a typical passage; it’s from the first James Bond novel, “Casino Royale.” Bond is at the bar with his new CIA buddy Felix Leiter, and he is ordering drinks. Bond addresses the bartender: “A dry martini…. One. In a deep champagne goblet….Three measures of Gordon’s, one of vodka, half a measure of Kina Lillet. Shake it very well until it’s ice-cold, then add a large thin slice on lemon peel. Got it?” A few sentences later he samples the drink and advises the bartender that next time he should use vodka that is made from grain, not potato.
Later in the book Fleming explains that Bond brings a fastidious attention to detail to every facet of his work. He also has Bond reveal that as single man who travels constantly, he has developed a habit of demanding only the very best, as a sort of compensation for the lack of conventional comforts. Does it have anything to do with advancing the plot? Not really. But part of the attraction of the Bond books is that they are highly readable; the plot is not the only thing that holds your attention. The books are simply fun to read, even if you have read them many times before and know every twist and turn of the plot.
And in the particular case of the martini, we learn of the ingredients because we overhear Bond tell the bartender, not because the author has informed us directly. It’s a neat variation on the rule that writer’s workshop professors endlessly repeat: “Don’t tell – show!” Okay, okay. But more about that in another post.
One of the greatest examples of detail can be found in the “Curious George” books in the person of The Man with the Yellow Hat. This is all that we are told about him in the text. We don’t even know his name. He is simply the man who wears the yellow hat. This one descriptor is enough to have created an indelible character who has endured for decades.
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