Sergeant Sargent
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- Posted: Sun, 20 May 2007 01:19:44 +0000
Forward: The following is actually a rant. This rant embraces showing--not telling, and is all about the silly things we do when we fall in love with description, metaphor, and purple prose. Think of it as a 1950s public service announcement for writers.
Now also found on FictionPress!
- Mods,
Please leave this in the Writer's Forum. emo
We were sitting at the exquisite Trés Bien; Danny Description shipped a dark wine* while I pretended to watch waiters scuttle about like penguins on the National Geographic Channel, concealing my deeper thoughts. I drew a hard, shallow breath and turned to Danny. "We need to talk."
*The wine was actually a 1989 Château Margaux, one of the world's most sought after wines beginning in 1855. It is approximately 75% Cabernet Sauvignon, 20% Merlot, 5% Petit Verdot and Cabernet Franc grapes. You really don't need to know this, but these sort of things crop up constantly around Danny Description, so please forgive my choppy narrative.
Danny Description gazed at me with his translucent eyes, each resembling a gigantic navy blue marble that you could stare into forever without finding the center. I quickly glanced at my napkin, narrowly avoiding another slip into purple prose. "Is something the matter, dear?" he inquired, voice luscious like silk.
I concentrate on my napkin. There is not much you can say about a napkin, even around Danny Description, but I dare not think on that too long. "Yes, well... I think you're a bit... superfluous."
Danny chuckled, his voice chimed with the ringing of harmonious bells, and when he spoke his voice cooed, lending the accent of a contented feline crossed with a turtledove to his resplendent words. I winced at the metaphor. "Of course I am. I have an obligation to entrance the reader with sublime prose."
"That's exactly the problem. Sometimes pretty words get in the way of a story. Remember last Thursday at the coffee shop when I held up the line for ten minutes while I described the font on the menu? By the time I was finished I'd completely forgotten where I was." My cheeks flushed in memory.*
*They turned a color that was not at first rosy, rather like a strawberry-lemon tea, then intensified to a florid crimson that triggered a burning sensation beneath my ears and caused me to wind my napkin in frustration as my embarrassment mounted and I prayed for this prolix sentence to end.
Danny shook his head, his hair flapping about his face like the wings of a bat. I sighed relief as the simile ended abruptly, not to the amusement of Danny Description, who thought it was quite the ugly figure of speech and needed more flowery words and spaces for commas and certainly no references to the winged rodent, which was really only suitable in the case of certain villainous characters, and Danny considered himself quite the opposite. He sat down his glass and fixed me with a firm glare. "I admit that it was not the best decision on my part, but you needed to describe something. How else would anyone know what you were looking at?"
"Most people have been in a coffee shop. We could have just said coffee shop."
"I was simply following the old adage: Show, don't tell. It's the foundation of all creative writing and you should be thankful for all the work I do. Imagine what Lord of the Rings would be without me." A lot less boring, I said to myself. Danny went on, "What would Ray Bradbury do without my splendid prose?" Write a sentence that doesn't need to be read three times to understand, I thought. "Books would be painfully boring without me. More importantly, they would have no meaning. Take horror, for instance."
I hesitated. Danny Description scribbled some prose on a napkin and handed it to me. “Read this out loud, in whatever tone seems most appropriate.”
I frowned at Danny’s elaborate cursive. Even before I could translate his calligraphy into English, a cold chill ran down my spine. While Danny had momentarily refrained from plunging me into the gushing sea of purple prose, this absence left behind a vacuum of white space.
“Dracula came to the door. He opened it. John looked worriedly over his shoulder, then went inside.” I sounded like a kindergartener. I folded up the napkin and slid it across the table condescendingly.
“Alright. Horror wouldn’t exist without you.”
“Nor poetry.”
“True.”
“Nor romance, comedy, action, fantasy, science fiction….”
“Those too.”
“I am an essential part of literature.”
“But if you were paying attention to this story, you’d also notice how nice it is when you shut up.”
Danny wore a scowl like a cat doused by a bucket of ice water. His brow knitted, pushing together the lines of his forehead (he would like to add that there were actually only a few wrinkles, and that rather than distract from his beauty they intensified his obvious frustration into a red hot poker of malice). He was so cross he couldn’t think of anything pretentious enough to fill this space. Please accept the previous sentence as his apology.
“All I’m saying is that you should quiet down and save your strength for the right moment. Sometimes the best description can come in the form of a single word.
“Carnage.
“Stillness.
“Wonder.”
I licked my lips, savoring the flavors. Danny refrained from metaphor, thinking he was being spiteful, but his recess made each word sweeter.
Sorrow welled within me. It didn’t actually well. Bubbled is a better word. When Danny starts acting passionate about something, he tends to cause me to exaggerate. However, I did feel sorry, but deep in whatever part of me knows I am a writer, I knew what I had to say was for the good of every story I would ever pen. “So I was thinking, maybe we should just be friends.”
Daniel gawked. After a speechless pause, he stood up and stormed away from the table. I felt a little scared. Of course, Danny would come back when I needed him. It was just his job. Provided I can outrun the bill, I think I’ll manage.
Now also found on FictionPress!
- Mods,
Please leave this in the Writer's Forum. emo
We were sitting at the exquisite Trés Bien; Danny Description shipped a dark wine* while I pretended to watch waiters scuttle about like penguins on the National Geographic Channel, concealing my deeper thoughts. I drew a hard, shallow breath and turned to Danny. "We need to talk."
*The wine was actually a 1989 Château Margaux, one of the world's most sought after wines beginning in 1855. It is approximately 75% Cabernet Sauvignon, 20% Merlot, 5% Petit Verdot and Cabernet Franc grapes. You really don't need to know this, but these sort of things crop up constantly around Danny Description, so please forgive my choppy narrative.
Danny Description gazed at me with his translucent eyes, each resembling a gigantic navy blue marble that you could stare into forever without finding the center. I quickly glanced at my napkin, narrowly avoiding another slip into purple prose. "Is something the matter, dear?" he inquired, voice luscious like silk.
I concentrate on my napkin. There is not much you can say about a napkin, even around Danny Description, but I dare not think on that too long. "Yes, well... I think you're a bit... superfluous."
Danny chuckled, his voice chimed with the ringing of harmonious bells, and when he spoke his voice cooed, lending the accent of a contented feline crossed with a turtledove to his resplendent words. I winced at the metaphor. "Of course I am. I have an obligation to entrance the reader with sublime prose."
"That's exactly the problem. Sometimes pretty words get in the way of a story. Remember last Thursday at the coffee shop when I held up the line for ten minutes while I described the font on the menu? By the time I was finished I'd completely forgotten where I was." My cheeks flushed in memory.*
*They turned a color that was not at first rosy, rather like a strawberry-lemon tea, then intensified to a florid crimson that triggered a burning sensation beneath my ears and caused me to wind my napkin in frustration as my embarrassment mounted and I prayed for this prolix sentence to end.
Danny shook his head, his hair flapping about his face like the wings of a bat. I sighed relief as the simile ended abruptly, not to the amusement of Danny Description, who thought it was quite the ugly figure of speech and needed more flowery words and spaces for commas and certainly no references to the winged rodent, which was really only suitable in the case of certain villainous characters, and Danny considered himself quite the opposite. He sat down his glass and fixed me with a firm glare. "I admit that it was not the best decision on my part, but you needed to describe something. How else would anyone know what you were looking at?"
"Most people have been in a coffee shop. We could have just said coffee shop."
"I was simply following the old adage: Show, don't tell. It's the foundation of all creative writing and you should be thankful for all the work I do. Imagine what Lord of the Rings would be without me." A lot less boring, I said to myself. Danny went on, "What would Ray Bradbury do without my splendid prose?" Write a sentence that doesn't need to be read three times to understand, I thought. "Books would be painfully boring without me. More importantly, they would have no meaning. Take horror, for instance."
I hesitated. Danny Description scribbled some prose on a napkin and handed it to me. “Read this out loud, in whatever tone seems most appropriate.”
I frowned at Danny’s elaborate cursive. Even before I could translate his calligraphy into English, a cold chill ran down my spine. While Danny had momentarily refrained from plunging me into the gushing sea of purple prose, this absence left behind a vacuum of white space.
“Dracula came to the door. He opened it. John looked worriedly over his shoulder, then went inside.” I sounded like a kindergartener. I folded up the napkin and slid it across the table condescendingly.
“Alright. Horror wouldn’t exist without you.”
“Nor poetry.”
“True.”
“Nor romance, comedy, action, fantasy, science fiction….”
“Those too.”
“I am an essential part of literature.”
“But if you were paying attention to this story, you’d also notice how nice it is when you shut up.”
Danny wore a scowl like a cat doused by a bucket of ice water. His brow knitted, pushing together the lines of his forehead (he would like to add that there were actually only a few wrinkles, and that rather than distract from his beauty they intensified his obvious frustration into a red hot poker of malice). He was so cross he couldn’t think of anything pretentious enough to fill this space. Please accept the previous sentence as his apology.
“All I’m saying is that you should quiet down and save your strength for the right moment. Sometimes the best description can come in the form of a single word.
“Carnage.
“Stillness.
“Wonder.”
I licked my lips, savoring the flavors. Danny refrained from metaphor, thinking he was being spiteful, but his recess made each word sweeter.
Sorrow welled within me. It didn’t actually well. Bubbled is a better word. When Danny starts acting passionate about something, he tends to cause me to exaggerate. However, I did feel sorry, but deep in whatever part of me knows I am a writer, I knew what I had to say was for the good of every story I would ever pen. “So I was thinking, maybe we should just be friends.”
Daniel gawked. After a speechless pause, he stood up and stormed away from the table. I felt a little scared. Of course, Danny would come back when I needed him. It was just his job. Provided I can outrun the bill, I think I’ll manage.
