Another part of writing from within a character is using language as only that character would. No two people speak the same. Each has her own little wardrobe of phrases and slang. Each misuses words differently. For instance, I’ve noticed that people from larger families always use a clause to seize attention before they say anything.
They’ll say, “Get this. It’s going to freeze tonight.”
Short aside: While researching for my book Rant I attended a seminar for used car salespeople. In it the instructor explained that people are usually one of three types: the visual, the auditory, or the tactile. The visual will preface each statement with visual terms. “Look here…” or “I see, but…” The auditory will use terms based on hearing: “Listen up…” or “I hear what you’re saying.” The tactile will use physical, active terms: “I catch your drift,” or, “I can’t wrap my mind around it.” Bullshit or not, it’s a good place to start. Which way will your character skew?
More important, what consistent language mistakes will he or she make?
According to Tom Spanbauer, his teacher Gordon Lish called this calculated flawed language “burnt tongue.” Lish advocated that stories should not sound as if they’ve been written by a writer. Stories have greater authority if they’re delivered with the same passion and flawed language that an actual person would use telling the emotion-laden truth.
So if writing from within a character, you should “burn” the language. Customize it to the speaker. Even when writing in third person, make the language reflect the character’s perspective and experience.
To all of Spanbauer’s and Lish’s advice, I’d just add: Make language your bitch.
Create a pidgin language for your character. Look how successfully it works in David Sedaris’s collection Me Talk Pretty One Day. Or in my own novel Pygmy and my short story “Eleanor.” Not to mention Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting. Readers have so many ways of determining meaning in a sentence. They look at context as well as words. So it’s a great trick to subvert reader expectation by writing a long, elegant passage that ends flatly on exactly the wrong word.
Early in the publishing process an editor told me that most successful copy editors learned English as a second language. They studied scrupulously what most Americans learned haphazardly. The result is that they know exactly where to place every comma, and how to use a semicolon, and they’re trained to iron out the mis-phrasings that keep narrative voice fresh and authentic.
The idiot character is more fun to hear because he bends the language for his purpose. So does the ESL character or the child. When we read The Color Purple the language demonstrates the narrator’s innocence from the book’s first word. This instantly primes us to care for and root for the character.
Beyond that, no abstracts (no inches, miles, minutes, days, decibels, tons, lumens) because the way someone depicts the world should more accurately depict him. Unless, of course, you’re depicting a scientist who scores high on the autism spectrum.
And no perfect newscaster language because the story should not sound fake, as if written by a writer.
Lastly, avoid what Spanbauer and Lish call “received text.” Meaning, no clichés. Authority: Play to the Strength of Your Medium
The pros: Books are cheap to write. They cost little more than time. And they’re cheap to produce and distribute, especially compared with films, which require huge consensus to come together. Books require a certain level of intelligence to consume so they’re less likely to fall into the wrong hands: a child’s, for example. Thus books can tackle topics not suited for children, whereas films can be so easily consumed that they must always self-censor.
Books are also consumed in private. In most cases this means one person making the continued effort to read and thereby giving her ongoing consent. Contrast this with films, which might be shown on airplanes to both consenting and nonconsenting viewers. Films cost a relative fortune to create and therefore must be presentable on television to make a profit. Comics…comics and graphic novels can offer almost the spectacle of film, without the music. But their ease of consumption means they must self-censor.
The cons: Books take an enormous amount of time and energy to consume, compared with films. Prose can’t convey the spectacle that film can. Most books fail to viscerally engage the audience. They might act upon your mind and emotions, but they seldom generate a sympathetic physical reaction. Compared with video games, books offer no way for the audience to actively control events. But video games are less likely to explore the full spectrum of emotion and ultimately break the audience’s heart.
An aside: Among the strengths of film is its ability to depict motion. And as always action carries its own authority. Consider how many “movies” include crucial scenes that are resolved by a spectacular dance. Among them are Napoleon Dynamite, Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (the tequila dance atop the bar), Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion, Flashdance, Footloose, Saturday Night Fever…In contrast, duh, dance sequences are less effective in novels.
So when choosing an idea for a book, make sure it’s an idea that only a book can best present. If it’s an idea that film, comics, or gaming can depict, why bother writing the book?
If you were my student I’d tell you to write the most outlandish, challenging, provocative stories. Take full advantage of the complete freedom books provide. To not take advantage of that freedom is to waste the one chief strength of the medium. Authority: How Do You Get to Impossible?
How do you convince a reader of something beyond his own experience?
You start with what he does know, and
