Hot writing tips from an editor #5

At the basic level, a story is about something(s) happening. Even in a story intentionally about nothing or about the quest for nothingness (looking at you, Mx Moshfegh), a character takes action, has thoughts, moves forward (or backward) in time, and does stuff that means, or moves towards, ‘nothing’ – something happens.

But sometimes, in a story, nothing happens.

Consider the following (unartful) example:

‘She stood on the platform for the train headed towards Tokyo. The train pulled in, and its doors slid open. It seemed inviting, like it wanted her to come on board. The carriage interior looked luxurious and warmly decorated.‘

There is an intention for something to be happening here. But did it happen?

• Did she enter the train carriage, or did she just tell us what she could see through the window?
• Did she board the train at all, or did she just tell us it might be something to do?
• Was the train actually inviting and luxurious, or did it just appear to be (but, in reality, wasn’t)?
• Was she going to Tokyo or somewhere along the Tokyo line?
• Did she even approach the train in the first place, or was it that she looked at it from where she stood, way back on the platform?

There is a tension in the slow detail of this improvised scene. That won’t always be the case (and as a scene that was intended to be quite passive and wholesome, the tension is entirely misplaced). And don’t let it fool you – it’s only a successful, satisfying tension if, in the bigger picture, all these reader questions are clearly answered.

At the end of a chapter, unanswered questions create a compelling page-turner. In the middle of a chapter, where the narrative continues forward but the events along the way are not definite, the reader is likely to feel lost. If the next scene is the character disembarking in Tokyo, for example, the reader would have to backtrack to connect the dots, like, ‘okay, so these things did happen.’ Thus, the magic of storytelling has been broken.

This lack of definiteness is common in narrative writing, where the intention to act is given – ‘headed towards Tokyo’ – but not the actuality; and where the writer expresses potential – ‘seemed inviting’ – but never clarifies the outcome. The latter is known as tentative language.

Tentative language makes the narrative feel uncertain, which makes the author appear uncertain in their writing. How could a reader be spellbound by an uncertain character in the uncertain world of an uncertain narrative written by an uncertain author?

I’d argue that they won’t, that the reader won’t feel connected to the story because the characters in the story aren’t connected to the story, or to, well, anything.
It’s all just a big, ol’ ¯ \_(ツ)_/¯.

Let’s try rewriting the example, this time without tentative language.

‘She stood on the platform of the train to Tokyo. The train pulled in and its doors slid open, inviting her to come on board. The carriage interior was luxurious and warmly decorated.‘

The writing is more definite. And, being definite, I am convinced that it is happening – I am immersed in the narrative, or willing to immerse in it. It is clearer that the character’s destination is Tokyo. The train isn’t potentially deceptive, it is inviting. But there is still something missing: the actual action.

The character is invited to come on board the train, but we don’t know if she does it. We don’t know if she entered the carriage, or if she only knows what to expect to find inside. So, let’s add some action.

‘She stood on the platform of the train to Tokyo. The train pulled in and its doors slid open, inviting her to come on board, so she did. Inside, the carriage was luxurious and warmly decorated.‘

My editing has removed the tension that was present earlier (which wasn’t meant to be there in the first place). It also removes the vagueness. Taking its place is writing that is more certain, clear, and complete. At least, if I’ve done my job right, that’s the feeling of this example, especially in contrast to the first iteration.¹

Intent is always a point of contention in real life. Where humans are fallible (very, very fallible) our honest intention for our failed action may still count towards brownie points, or it may be irrelevant in the face of catastrophic failure. A character in a novel who tries their utmost to be a good person but has only chaos and failure thrown at them is such a broken hero the reader will only feel empathy towards them as a mirror of our own failings and our futility against the whims of a large world with its own goals.

But if there is no intent, and there is no definite language, there will only be boredom, frustration, disinterest, and a narrative that isn’t even a narrative and may as well end with ‘but I didn’t do any of that. I stayed exactly where I was on page 1. The end.’

Tentative language can be used intentionally, of course, and vague intention to act is different to having an unreliable narrator. But more on that another time.