The Tale’s Details

To me, vivid writing is the hallmark of great fiction.

Since I spend most of my time reading mysteries and thrillers, I don’t see very much great fiction. Nevada Barr is superb, but surrounded as she is by National Parks, how can she not be? Patricia Cornwell packs in plenty of detail, much of it gruesome, but what I like best is her mastery of emotions. I like Sharon McCrumb, too.

When I read a finely turned phrase, I get all gooey inside. I want to read more. I want to savor each rich morsel.

I suppose there are several schools of thought on this. On the one hand, critics (and editors, allegedly) frown on purple prose, with its rich alliteration. Doesn’t writing that scans like poetry soothe the savage, beastly reader? It’s certainly easier to read than endless blocks of Faulknerian text. My friend John says you have to work to appreciate art. I don't believe that. Art just grabs you.

Aside from that, writing that captures the beauty of a moment – the sky, the water, the smells, the emotions – brings the reader with them on a journey. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do?

I have been justly criticized for getting lost in description. “What does this do to carry the story along?” they ask. Nothing. I cut ten pages from the first chapters of Red Crush, and I should probably cut ten more. I agree. Irrelevant details about irrelevant events add nothing to the storytelling.

Then again, spartan prose pared down to the minimum risks losing the reader’s interest. See Dick. See Dick run. Run Dick, run. We got past that in second grade. Even Dr. Seuss spiced up his narrative with green eggs.

In good writing, details tell a story of their own, a story that the author doesn’t have to spell out as if the reader doesn’t get it. We can interpret emotions from facial contortions. We can infer social class from the way a person is dressed. It two women are dressed similarly, but one is in wool and the other is in acrylic, we can see both the status difference and the inference that one is probably copying the other.

In the best writing, moods weigh in on us from the clouds and rain, from the relentless optimism of a bright, sunny day. Where did Noir get its name? The settings are dark. The stories are dark. We start looking over our own shoulders because the atmosphere on the page is infectious. Perhaps we get carried away with pretentious symbolism, but sometimes symbols work at a subliminal level.

It was worth a try, anyway.

Another dimension of good writing is the author’s ability to transport us to new places. Thrillers often take us to exotic locales, feeding us with word pictures and place details we will never see for ourselves. Everyone who’s been to Vladivostok raise their hand. Everyone who wants to go can fill out the sign-up sheet at the back of the room. The train for Siberia leaves in an hour.

Some places remain exotic, even while they’re close at hand. The CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia is off limits to most of us. The GM Design Center is equally out of bounds for the same reason. Secrecy. GM doesn’t want anyone at Ford to know what their 2013 cars will look like, and the CIA doesn’t want the Russians to know their secrets, either. If you were allowed in there, you might spill the beans under the influence of sodium pentothal.

Their paranoia tantalizes us with forbidden fruit. We want what we can’t have.

While the mysterious cave where autos are born might be intriguing to many of us, the factory that makes Charmin is probably not. We are emotionally invested in cars because they express a piece of who we are, or who we wish we were. 

“How could someone possibly embody me in their creation?” The question returns us to Kandinsky. Art expresses the emotional state of the artist, but also resonates with the viewer.

If we see ourselves in a car or truck, it’s because there’s a bit of who we want to be embedded in the design. We see it. Other people see it and think some of the thoughts we hope for, with us as the lead character. We are intrigued that that can occur, and would like to see a glimmer of how it happens.

The sights, sounds, smells and souls at work in car design create an atmosphere unlike anything the rest of us will encounter anyplace else. It really is exotic, much more than any office building, even one populated by spies.

That’s what I’m hoping for, anyway. Go on, take a peek. It’ll only cost you four bucks.