island,'' further emphasizing his aloneness and extending it into a realm beyond the simply visual (''No man is an island,'' etc.). And finally, in contrast to the heat and loneliness, which we might have interpreted as negatives, come the last seven words (''I am where I want to be.'') Those seven words simultaneously let us into the character's inner life and reverse all our emotional expectations by showing us, in a simple and nonpretentious way, that he is happy.
As a result, Theroux's description:
• is personal, conveying the character's view of the scene, not the author's
• does not unduly slow down the pace, because it has meaning for the character; we thus receive it as more than just static pictures
• appeals to more than one sense (sight, sound, temperature)
• seems fresh, because the two metaphors are not hackneyed (especially the second one)
And all that in seventy-one words! Theroux left out everything nones-sential—and that's the definition of good description.
But how do you define essential? Genre can be one guide. Readers come to books and stories—any books and stories—with preconceptions. Actually, they're more than that: They're pre-choices. A reader who picks up the New Yorker has chosen it precisely because he wants a certain kind of fictional experience. The same is true for those who plunk down $25.95 for a new thriller, romance, adventure, science fiction, ''literary'' or mystery hardcover. Part of this choice is how much description they expect—and of what.
A romance novel, for example, may include quite lengthy descriptions of clothes (read Judith Krantz), people's appearances and perhaps room interiors. Romance readers enjoy this. A fan of Tom Clancy, on the other hand, does not want to wade through page-length descriptions of someone's outfit. He does want page-length descriptions of the weaponry on a nuclear submarine.
Sometimes even the subgenre makes a difference. Usually readers of police-procedural mysteries neither expect nor want lengthy description (think of Ed McBain's Eighty-Seventh Precinct novels). On the other hand, mystery writers as diverse as Simon Brett and Miriam Grace Monfredo include lots of description. Neither writes police pro-cedurals; Brett's ''Charles Paris'' mysteries are theater-based ''cozies'' and Monfredo's books are historical mysteries.
Do consider genre when you consider what to leave out. This applies to both what you describe and how long you describe it.
LEAVING OUT EXPLICIT MOTIVATIONS
Omitting explicit motivations works for many different genres, if done right. It does not mean leaving out motivation itself. Your characters must have plausible, consistent reasons for their actions. Usually these reasons are expressed one of three ways:
• through dialogue (''I'm not going to the wedding because I can't stand the thought of my father marrying that woman,'' Sue said.)
• through thoughts (She wouldn't go. It would just be too horrible. How could her father marry such a tart?)
• through exposition (The last thing Sue wanted to be doing on this lovely May morning was attending her father's wedding to a girl twenty-two years younger than he. But she didn't feel she had a choice.)
It can, however, be quite effective to skip all of these and simply let the character's actions stand by themselves, unexplained. Margaret Drabble does this in her novel Jerusalem the Golden. Clara has just met Clelia at a poetry reading and has had an argument with her in the ladies' room. Immediately afterward, Clelia speaks:
''Look,'' she added, ''if you give me your address when we get back there, I'll give you a ring, and you must come and see me and I'll tell you about it.''
And when they got back to the bar, Clara did indeed inscribe her name and address and common room telephone number upon a page of Clelia's unbelievably occupied diary... . And as she went home that night, she knew that she was sure that Clelia would at some point ring
As a result, Theroux's description:
• is personal, conveying the character's view of the scene, not the author's
• does not unduly slow down the pace, because it has meaning for the character; we thus receive it as more than just static pictures
• appeals to more than one sense (sight, sound, temperature)
• seems fresh, because the two metaphors are not hackneyed (especially the second one)
And all that in seventy-one words! Theroux left out everything nones-sential—and that's the definition of good description.
But how do you define essential? Genre can be one guide. Readers come to books and stories—any books and stories—with preconceptions. Actually, they're more than that: They're pre-choices. A reader who picks up the New Yorker has chosen it precisely because he wants a certain kind of fictional experience. The same is true for those who plunk down $25.95 for a new thriller, romance, adventure, science fiction, ''literary'' or mystery hardcover. Part of this choice is how much description they expect—and of what.
A romance novel, for example, may include quite lengthy descriptions of clothes (read Judith Krantz), people's appearances and perhaps room interiors. Romance readers enjoy this. A fan of Tom Clancy, on the other hand, does not want to wade through page-length descriptions of someone's outfit. He does want page-length descriptions of the weaponry on a nuclear submarine.
Sometimes even the subgenre makes a difference. Usually readers of police-procedural mysteries neither expect nor want lengthy description (think of Ed McBain's Eighty-Seventh Precinct novels). On the other hand, mystery writers as diverse as Simon Brett and Miriam Grace Monfredo include lots of description. Neither writes police pro-cedurals; Brett's ''Charles Paris'' mysteries are theater-based ''cozies'' and Monfredo's books are historical mysteries.
Do consider genre when you consider what to leave out. This applies to both what you describe and how long you describe it.
LEAVING OUT EXPLICIT MOTIVATIONS
Omitting explicit motivations works for many different genres, if done right. It does not mean leaving out motivation itself. Your characters must have plausible, consistent reasons for their actions. Usually these reasons are expressed one of three ways:
• through dialogue (''I'm not going to the wedding because I can't stand the thought of my father marrying that woman,'' Sue said.)
• through thoughts (She wouldn't go. It would just be too horrible. How could her father marry such a tart?)
• through exposition (The last thing Sue wanted to be doing on this lovely May morning was attending her father's wedding to a girl twenty-two years younger than he. But she didn't feel she had a choice.)
It can, however, be quite effective to skip all of these and simply let the character's actions stand by themselves, unexplained. Margaret Drabble does this in her novel Jerusalem the Golden. Clara has just met Clelia at a poetry reading and has had an argument with her in the ladies' room. Immediately afterward, Clelia speaks:
''Look,'' she added, ''if you give me your address when we get back there, I'll give you a ring, and you must come and see me and I'll tell you about it.''
And when they got back to the bar, Clara did indeed inscribe her name and address and common room telephone number upon a page of Clelia's unbelievably occupied diary... . And as she went home that night, she knew that she was sure that Clelia would at some point ring
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