Learn Writing with Uncle Jim, Volume 1

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SusanR

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Interesting contrast between Dickens and Hammett. Both written in the style of their times, yet I was bored by the opening of Maltese Falcon and drawn in by Christmas Carol. Maybe it will take another hundred years for Hammett to appear fresh again? Maybe the young people of the roaring 'Twenties, upon reading Dickens' work, sighed and thought, "Not another stodgy, boring morality tale."

SusanR
 

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The heavy description does slow it down. The story coasts during the dialogue, then comes to a halt when the description starts up again.

I have a feeling Jim will soon tell us otherwise, but the time the description seems to contribute most necessarily to the story is in the last two paragraphs, where it's telling us not just what things look like, but also what's going on. In that desultory office, even the ashes are nervous. I think I'll read on to page two, but if things don't pick up pretty soon I might not go on to page three.
 

James D. Macdonald

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Spade & Archer

We have a book divided into chapters.
Samuel Spade's jaw was long and bony, his chin a jutting v under the more flexible v of his mouth.
Starts with the name of a character in the first two words. Moves on to description, starting with the jaw and moving up.
His nostrils curved back to make another smaller v.
Still moving up. This is apparently in third person omniscent POV -- no idea who the viewpoint character is here. Not at all pleasant looking, as described.
His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal.
Certainly an unusual eye color. Aren't most eyes horizontal, or at least horizontally placed? We continue to pan up.
The v motif was picked up again by thickish brows rising outward from twin creases above a hooked nose, and his pale brown hair grew down -- from high flat temples -- in a point on his forehead.
The longest and most complex sentence in the paragraph. Upward tilted eyebrows and a widow's peak. A satanic appearance.
He looked rather pleasantly like a blond satan.

Which is now made explicit by the author. "Satan" is the last word in the paragraph, a position of power. Satan, traditionally, isn't just the Tempter. He's also the Accuser. End of first paragraph.
He said to Effie Perine: "Yes, sweetheart?"

The complete second paragraph. Introduces a second character, through some dialog. We're in media res, as Spade is responding to something that happened before the start of the first paragraph. Of the two words of dialog, one is sexually charged. We're now in tight third-person limited. POV character is Spade.
She was a lanky sunburned girl whose tan dress of thin woollen stuff clung to her with an effect of dampness.
"Sunburned" is what we now call "suntanned." Spade's POV. He notices how her dress clings.
Her eyes were brown and playful in a shiny boyish face.

The second mention of eyes -- perhaps we have a theme going. A bit of characterization, and again the sexualized description.
She finished shutting the door behind her, leaned against it, and said: "There's a girl wants to see you. Her name's Wonderly."
Dialog. We're told the action that had been in progress just before the story started. Perine had begun shutting the door. Perine's words are slangy, ungrammatical. That's characterization. Third character introduced. End of third paragraph.
"A customer?"
Dialog. Explains the relationship between Spade and Perine: They're in business together in some way. End of fourth paragraph.
"I guess so. You'll want to see her anyway: she's a knockout."
Perine speaking. More sexualized language, revealing and reinforcing Spade's interests: He has an eye for the ladies. End of fifth paragraph.
"Shoo her in, darling," said Spade. "Shoo her in."
Sexualized language in this dialog. Lack of respect for the customer. The entire sixth paragraph is one line, nine words. Two sentences. Emphasis on the "s" sound.
Effie Perine opened the door again, following it back into the outer office, standing with a hand on the knob while saying: "Will you come in, Miss Wonderly?"
The seventh paragraph is a single sentence; action and dialog. The third character is mentioned again, still unseen. "Following," "standing" and "saying" are rather flat and uninteresting words -- the interest is on Miss Wonderly, not on Effie Perine. Still in Spade's POV.
A voice said, "Thank you," so softly that only the purest articulation made the words intelligible, and a young woman came through the doorway.
We hear the voice before we see the person. Characterization -- soft voice, pure articulation.
She advanced slowly with tentative steps, looking at Spade with cobalt-blue eyes that were both shy and probing.
Both tentative and slow. The eye theme. Both shy and probing. End of eighth paragraph.
She was tall and pliantly slender, without angularity anywhere.

Sexualized language in this description. We're looking through Spade's eyes.

Her body was erect and high-breasted, her legs long, her hands and feet narrow.

More sexualized language.
She wore two shades of blue that had been selected because of her eyes.

An assumption on the POV character's part. Characterization. "Eyes" in the position of power.

The hair curling from under her blue hat was darkly red, her full lips more brightly red.

"Full lips" are more secondary sexual characteristics.
White teeth glistened in the crescent her timid smile made.
Teeth, and implied lips. "Timid" charaterization. End of ninth paragraph.
Spade rose bowing and indicating with a thick-fingered hand the oaken armchair beside his desk.

Thick fingered, in strong contrast to Wonderly's hands. He's being obsequious, rising and bowing, contrasting with his earlier "shoo her in," (not "show her in"). His actions don't suit his thoughts.
He was quite six feet tall.
A big man.
The steep rounded slope of his shoulders made his body seem almost conical -- no broader than it was thick -- and kept his freshly pressed grey coat from fitting very well.
That's an unusual description. He's deformed. A hunchback? This fits with the satanic description in paragraph one. Omniscent POV, or perhaps Wonderly's POV. End of tenth paragraph.
Miss Wonderly murmurred, "Thank you," softly as before and sat down on the edge of the chair's wooden seat.
Another single-sentence paragraph, and back to Spade's POV. Seating opn the edge of the chair shows tension. End of eleventh paragraph.
Spade sank into his swivel-chair, made a quarter-turn to face her, smiled politely.

Lowering himself, and twisting himself. Heavy on the "s" sounds.

He smiled without separating his lips.

A false smile?

All the v's in his face grew longer.
Reminder of his satanic appearance. Three sentences. That's the twelfth paragraph.
The tappity-tap-tap and the thin bell and muffled whir of Effie Perine's typewriting came through the closed door.

Perine isn't listening at the door. This is a business environment.

Somewhere in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully.

Emphasizing the silence in the inner office. Spade is aware of distant sounds because there are no close ones.

On Spade's desk a limp cigarette smouldered in a brass tray filled with the remains of limp cigarettes.

Time passing. "Limp" is an interesting word -- repeated twice. Smouldering is fire, and sexual, imagery.

Ragged grey flakes of cigarette-ash dotted the yellow top of the desk and the green blotter and the papers that were there.

Much color. Ash is when fire burns out. Office environment.

A buff-curtained window, eight or ten inches open, let in from the court a current of air faintly scented with ammonia.

The viewpoint character doesn't much care how far the window is open. Complex syntax to put the word "ammonia" in the position of power. That's the smell of urine -- not a very good neighborhood. Also, fire and ash and stink, reinforces the satanic imagery.

The ashes on the desk twitched and crawled in the current.
Like living things. Burned out, but still living. Uneasy motion. The motion of the ash emphasizes that the two people aren't moving. Various senses -- sight, sound, and smell -- are used in this paragraph. End of thirteenth paragraph.
Miss Wonderly watched the grey flakes twitch and crawl.

Emphasizing the twitchiness. Spade, the viewpoint, is watching Wonderly.

Her eyes were uneasy.

Spade's conclusions. Eyes again. Eyes are very important, it seems. The windows to the soul. Spade is a private eye.

She sat on the very edge of the chair.

Second mention. Unease and tension.

Her feet were flat on the floor, as if she were about to rise.

Description. Coiled-spring tension.
Her hands in dark gloves clasped a flat dark handbag on her lap.

"Dark" rather than a color. Grasping is a motionless motion; it reinforces the tension imagery. A collection of short, choppy sentences. Restless, like twitching cigarette ash. End of the fourteenth paragraph.

Turn the page? Yes/no.
 
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SusanR

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I can't get past the (now) cliched tough-guy private eye thing. The passage made me want to roll my eyes. "Not this old schtick!"

But your analysis made it more interesting. I'm not used to reading like a writer, and have never--before reading your examples in this thead--ever actually sat down and analyzed a piece of prose. So I'm on a steep learning curve, here...:)

SusanR
 

scribbler1382

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James D. Macdonald said:
Somewhere in a neighboring office a power-driven machine vibrated dully.




Emphasizing the silence in the inner office. Spade is aware of distant sounds because there are no close ones.​




I loved this. What a perfect way to show not tell. Most people would have just said "The room was quiet."



 

James D. Macdonald

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Mentions of eyes:

His yellow-grey eyes were horizontal.

Her eyes were brown and playful in a shiny boyish face.

She advanced slowly with tentative steps, looking at Spade with cobalt-blue eyes that were both shy and probing.

She wore two shades of blue that had been selected because of her eyes.

Her eyes were uneasy.

Colors mentioned:

yellow-grey
pale brown
blond
tan
brown
cobalt-blue
two shades of blue
blue
darkly red
brightly red
white
grey
brass
grey
yellow
green
buff
grey
 

SusanR

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Sights and sounds. A bit of body awareness in the tense clutch of the handbag and looking like she was going to rise. No smells, though. It's funny, the great "Noses" of the perfume and wine industries are male, but I think (although I'm not certain) on average, women's olfactory senses are keener. Something primal about sniffing out one's own child from the herd.

It's really amazing to me how much detail I just suck in unnoticed when I read. You may not make a writer out of me, but I'll be a better reader!

SusanR
 

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Uncle Jim, at first I found this dull with too much description, but I'm with SusanR, your analysis made it more interesting. I had wondered about the ammonia smell but passed over it, and now I know from you what it means. This tells me I've probably passed over a lot as a reader, and likely missed some good detail out of being too lazy to research something that might have enhanced my experience of a story.

Unfortunately, it's an automatic reaction in me. I'm going to have to watch for it and re-learn to read.
 

Ken Schneider

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This information helps me to see how successful writers write. I have always read with the readers eye, not the writers.

I'm sure that is what Jim is trying to show us. A lot of information can be gleaned from the looking at one page from the writers point of view. What is he thinking, reading between the lines. I like it.

I found the same thing with the writing excercise Jim handed out last week.

I've finished mine, but am thinking of writing stories in all of the catagories, because its just fun.
 

James D. Macdonald

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This is an art. You, as the artist, need to make sure every word is doing its duty.

The readers may not notice -- consciously -- what you've done,but they will notice. That's what makes the difference.
 

James D. Macdonald

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Shall we try another book? A more recent book?

Here are the first two pages of a novel published in 2005:
In 1972 I was sixteen – young, my father said, to be traveling with him on his diplomatic missions. He preferred to know that I was sitting attentively in class at the International School of Amsterdam; in those days his foundation was based in Amsterdam, and it had been my home for so long that I had nearly forgotten our early life in the United States. It seems peculiar to me now that I should have been so obedient well into my teens, while the rest of my generation was experimenting with drugs and protesting the imperialist war in Vietnam, but I had been raised in a world so sheltered that it makes my adult life in academia look positively adventurous. To begin with, I was motherless, and the care that my father took of me had been deepened by a double sense of responsibility, so that he protected me more completely than he might have otherwise. My mother had died when I was a baby, before my father founded the Center for Peace and Democracy. My father never spoke of her and turned quietly away if I asked questions; I understood very young that this was a topic too painful for him to discuss. Instead, he took excellent care of me himself and provided me with a series of governesses and housekeepers – money was not an object with him where my upbringing was concerned, although we lived simply enough from day to day.

The latest of these housekeepers was Mrs. Clay, who took care of our narrow seventeenth-century town house on the Raamsgracht, a canal in the heart of the old city. Mrs. Clay let me in after school every day and was a surrogate parent when my father traveled, which was often. She was English, older than my mother would have been, skilled with a feather duster and clumsy with teenagers; sometimes, looking at her too-compassionate, long-toothed face over the dining table, I felt she must be thinking of my mother and I hated her for it. When my father was away, the handsome house echoed. No one could help me with my algebra, no one admired my new coat or told me to come here and give him a hug, or expressed shock over how tall I had grown. When my father returned from some name on the European map that hung on the wall in our dining room, he smelled like other times and places, spicy and tired. We took our vacations in Paris or Rome, diligently studying the landmarks my father thought I should see, but longed for those other places he disappeared to, those strange old places I had never known.

While he was gone, I went back and forth to school, dropping my books on the polished hall table with a bang. Neither Mrs. Clay nor my father let me go out in the evenings, except to the occasional carefully approved movie with carefully approved friends, and – to my retrospective astonishment – I never flouted these rules. I preferred solitude anyway; it was a medium in which I had been raised, in which I swam comfortably. I excelled at my studies but not in my social life. Girls my age terrified me, especially the tough-talking, chain-smoking sophisticates of our diplomatic circle – around them I always felt that my dress was too long, or too short, or that I should have been wearing something else entirely. Boys mystified me, although I dreamed vaguely of men. In fact, I was happiest alone in my father’s library, a large, fine room on the first floor of our house.

My father’s library had probably once been a sitting room, but he sat down only to read, and he considered a large library more important than a large living room. He had long since given me free run of his collection. During his absences, I spent hours doing my homework at the mahogany desk or browsing the shelves that lined every wall. I understood later that my father had either half forgotten what was on one of the top shelves or – more likely – assumed I would never be able to reach it; late one night I took down not only a translation of the Kama Sutra but also a much older volume and an envelope of yellowing papers.

I can’t say even now what made me pull them down. But the image I saw at the center of the book, the smell of age that rose from it, and my discovery that the papers were personal letters all caught my attention

Turn the page? Yes/no.
 
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SusanR

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Ok, I'm gonna see how far I can get, thinking about this as a writer.




In 1972 I was sixteen – young, my father said, to be traveling with him on his diplomatic missions.


Ok, a lot of information in 18 words. It's written in first person, and "he" is telling a tale from sometime in his past. We learn something about his father (a diplomat) and their relationship.

He preferred to know that I was sitting attentively in class at the Interantional School of Amsterdam; in those days his foundation was based in Amsterdam, and it had been my home for so long that I had nearly forgotten our early life in the United States.

More about their relationship, though very subtle. "He preferred to know...." More history, very easily delivered.


It seems particular to me now that I should have been so obedient well into my teens, while the rest of my generation was experimenting with druges and protesting the imperialist war in Vietnam, but I had been reaised in a world so sheltered that it makes my adult life in academia look positively adventurous.

The careful use of language does suggest an academic is writing; words like 'obedient', 'positively adventurous' etc. There's a tone of ironic distance, a suggestion that the character holds a gently ironic attitude.



To begin with, I was motherless, and the care that my father took of me had been deepened by a double sense of responsibility, so that he protected me more completely than he might have otherwise. My mother had died when I was a baby, before my father founded the Center for Peace and Democracy. My father never spoke of her and turned quietly away if I asked questions; I understood very young that this was a topic too painful for him to discuss. Instead, he took excellent care of me himself and provided me with a series of governesses and housekeepers – money was not an object wtih him where my upbringing was concerned, although we lived simply enough from day to day.

More gentle history, not too heavy-handed for backstory. More about the relationship with father. Contrast between the breaking boundaries of the times he's remembering, and the fact that his father's foundation was called the Center for Peace and Democracy. There may be conflict brewing there. The author has called my attention to the contrast between the genteel upbringing of the narrator and the tensions between the generations at large.



The latest of these housekeepers was Mrs. Clay, who took care of our narrow seventeenth-century town house on the Raamsgracht, a canal in the heart of the old city. Mrs. Clay let me in after school every day and was a surrogate parent when my father traveled, which was often. She was English, older than my mother would have been, skilled with a feather duster and clumsy with teenagers; sometimes, looking at her too-compasionate, long-toothed face over the dining table, I felt she must be thinking of my mother and I hated her for it. When my father was away, the handsome house echoed. No one could help me with my algebra, no one admired my new coat or told me to come here and give him a hug, or expressed shock over how tall I had grown.

A little more emotion is creeping into the tale now. I'm reminded of the pace of a therapy session. As the patient goes on (in the sympathetic silence), his memories become more alive and invested with emotion.

When my father returned from some name on the European map that hung on the wall in our dining room, he smelled like other times and places, spicy and tired.

"Smelled like other times and places, spicy and tired." This is the most vivid, evocative language yet.



We took our vacations in Paris or Rome, diligently studying the landmarks my father thought I should see, but longed for those other places he disappeared to, those strange old places I had never known.

While he was gone, I went back and forth to school, dropping my books on the polished hall table with a bang. Neither Mrs. Clay nor my father let me go out in the evenings, except to the occassional carefully approved movie with carefully approved friends, and – to my retrospective astonishment – I never flouted these rules.

Again, he expresses surprise that he was so obedient as a youth. This is now emphasized. Why? I want to know...did he have his rebellion later, as a young adult? Does he feel stifled in his life, and is this the prelude to a running-away-from-home tale?


I preferred solitude anyway; it was a medium in which I had been raised, in which I swam comfortably. I excelled at my studies but not in my social life. Girls my age terrified me, especially the tough-talking, chain-smoking sophisticates of our diplomatic circle – around them I always felt that my dress was too long, or too short, or that I should have been wearing something else entirely. Boys mystified me, although I dreamed vaguely of men. In fact, I was happiest alone in my father’s library, a large, fine room on the first floor of our house.

Aha! The gender of the narrator revealed. I realize that up until this paragraph, I assumed the narrator was male, but the overprotectiveness of father and Mrs. Clay is now a little clearer.

My father’s library had probably once been a sitting room, but he sat down only to read, and he considered a large library more important than a large living room. He had long since given me free run of his collection. During his absences, I spent hours doing my homework at the mahogany desk or browsing the shelves that lined every wall. I understood later that my father had either half forgotten what was on one of the top shelves or – more likely – assumed I would never be able to reach it; late one night I took down not only a translation of the Kama Sutra but also a much older volume and an envelope of yellowing papers.

Okay, good. Now we're getting into some hot water, here. She's afraid of her sexual awakening, sheltered and protected, but in the confines her father's library, she manages to find not only the Kama Sutra, but some mysterious, yellowing papers.

I can’t say even now what made me pull them down. But the image I saw at the center of the book, the smell of age that rose from it, and my discovery that the papers were personal letters all caught my attention



Turn the page? Yes/no.


Yes, surely. I want to know what those papers were, and what effect they had on this young, sheltered, impressionable adolescent girl.

*whew*

SusanR
 
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MadScientistMatt

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fallenangelwriter said:
yes, but hesitantly. I'm hoping this goes somewhere interesting quickly.

I agree - if it had ended anywhere before finding the secret stash of papers, I would have put it down. The secret papers make it moderately interesting, but there had better be something really good in there. Other than that, there seems to be hardly any conflict except the narrator's vague unease around her peers.
 

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I realize that up until this paragraph, I assumed the narrator was male, but the overprotectiveness of father and Mrs. Clay is now a little clearer.


Interesting! I was just sitting here asking myself why I was so sure by line 3 that the narrator was female.
 

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James D. Macdonald said:
Turn the page? Yes/no.

Yep, without hesitation. I expect the protagonist to be thrown out of her safe world very soon, especially considering the introduction of the papers.

I look forward to find out the title of this book.

edit: People need more patience. Sheesh.
 
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Ken Schneider

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HConn said:
Yep, without hesitation. patience.


I have to agree. And, I thought the speaker was a male until down the page.


I like to get to know my characters in a book I read. I find, and maybe this is why we are allowed to go so deep into her head at this point, that later we will be able to predict and or could be fooled by what her reaction will be to a certain situation. What I've read made me feel good, comfortable, and at ease. I want to turn the page and learn more about her.

This may be the direction the author is taking this introduction. I don't know, but would like to find out.

This isn't about a Knights Templar, is it Jim?
 
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I'm enjoying reading these openings and picking them apart.

Difficult choice. I think I would turn the page if it were a thick book, but not if it were a short one. There's complex language and long backstory, but the forgotten papers are intriging.
 

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I'd turn the page, certainly. The story starts slowly, and I appear to be in for a discursive time of it. But that book and envelope -- nestled next to the Kama Sutra! -- offers a promise of something more interesting lying just ahead.

Of course, having recognized the book (despite never having read a word of it -- it's a Stupid Writer Trick of mine, knowing things about books I've never read), the promise that book and envelope make becomes all the greater.

And I didn't picture the character as a girl until it was made clear, either. Still, I found out soon enough that I didn't feel too disoriented when I learned I was wrong.

I preferred solitude anyway; it was a medium in which I had been raised, in which I swam comfortably. I excelled at my studies but not in my social life. Girls my age terrified me, especially the tough-talking, chain-smoking sophisticates of our diplomatic circle – around them I always felt that my dress was too long, or too short, or that I should have been wearing something else entirely. Boys mystified me, although I dreamed vaguely of men. In fact, I was happiest alone in my father’s library, a large, fine room on the first floor of our house.

Ah, I recognize this impulse. Writing about a loner because it's easier (on so many levels) than writing about somebody with a social network. I was just discussing this with my husband over lunch today, in fact. It's a form of White Room Syndrome, where the story starts in a featureless white room because the author hasn't figured out the setting yet. Glad to see it's not a barrier to publication. :D
 

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Sharon Mock said:
And I didn't picture the character as a girl until it was made clear, either. Still, I found out soon enough that I didn't feel too disoriented when I learned I was wrong.

It did disorient me. My reaction was basically: "Why would he be wearing a dress...? Oh!" Then I quickly reread the previous paragraphs to see if there was anything else I needed to reinterpret in light of that revelation.

I don't like having to reread stuff. :)

Writing about a loner because it's easier (on so many levels) than writing about somebody with a social network.

And also because many writers are loners -- spending a lot of time on a solitary activity can either be a cause or a symptom of that -- and writing about somebody who has similarities to yourself is much easier than writing somebody totally different.
 

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Would it have helped in figuring out the gender of the first person narrator to know that the author is female?

(This is, incidentally, a first novel, published by a major house, 656 pages in trade cloth binding.)
 

marksiegal

Knowing the author was female is why I assumed the narrator was female, when I picked this up at the bookstore. I didn't get past the first paragraph at the time, because it didn't grab me enough for such a thick book (despite what else I knew about it). But reading the first two pages, yeah, I'd flip to page three.
 
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