Memory

I was out walking this morning and a helicopter flew overhead. Suddenly I was back in a place far, far away and long, long ago. There the sound of a helicopter meant safety or rescue, since the skies were completely controlled by the U.S.  I found it interesting that a single sound could bring up a complete panoply of memories that are nearly fifty years old.

Memory is of course a prerequisite for writers to have in their quill of tools, needed to convey meaning in their stories. If writers couldn’t rely on the memories of their readers, they would all have short stories that were over a hundred pages long.

If it weren’t for the memories of the reader, every time a writer referred to the smell of Honeysuckle there would follow a two or three sentence explanation of how sweet the flowers were and how powerful the sent when the vine was in bloom.

Even though there are hundreds of color variations in the rose family, just the mention of receiving a dozen roses for Valentine’s Day brings to mind the rich deep red color that is associated with the memory of flowers sent to a lover. Not only the color, but the reader will probably also think they are seeing the long stem variety. Think of all of the words that the writer can save by relying on the reader to fill in the description of the flowers given to the lover.

Not only colors, but sounds as well come in standard issue. Write that the character heard the bells ringing in the church tower, and each reader can fill in what the bells sound like. The interesting thing here is that the memory may very well be different for each reader. Some may come from a background where their church had a single bell. They will hear that single bell ringing as they read the words on the page. Others may come from a place that had a grand cathedral, where multiple tiers of bells rang out welcome to the parishioners. They will hear all of those bells ringing because of those same words that had the former reader hearing but one.

  Taste memories are also very useful for the writer. Mention a “juicy” hamburger and every reader, even the vegetarian ones can get the picture the writer is trying to evoke. The phrase “tough as shoe leather” is another that most writers can use with the clear anticipation that the reader with have a reasonable feeling for what the meat was like.

Interesting then, is what the writer can expect to bring to the reader if they speak of “steamed broccoli.”  I suspect that many readers are left with no memory at all. Perhaps that is why you almost never read of steamed broccoli in the description of what is being served at the dinner party that preceded the murder in the lounge.

Ah, but the merest mention of chocolate cake, has everyone who turns the page filled with memories of that treat. For those who have had it only as the exception to a more stringent diet, it takes only a single experience to call to mind that memory when the words appear on the page.  For others who have found that wonder on their plates after many meals, the words will either bring to mind a cherished memory of some special occasion where the delicacy was served, or perhaps a place where that was the standard fare every time the reader visited a special person. A visit to grandma’s house, and not the kind of visit that involves wolves in grandma’s clothing.

The funny thing is that words can evoke memories even where the reader has had no experience. It is a very special person who can read the words “Smooth as a baby’s bottom” and not have a tactile memory brought to mind. This is true even for those who have never held a baby, and certainly not had the experience to have felt the baby’s rump.

So we have “memory” as an enabler, a space saver, and a descriptive assistant. Remember that reasonable writers rely on memory, and always avoid alliteration.

It's Alive

It’s Alive

What is it in the description of a character, which makes the character come alive for us? How does the author communicate to the reader, why this person is memorable? What makes the character jump off the page, and tell us that they are going to be with us throughout the story.

Queequeg was first described as covered with tattoos. Does that evoke enough in us to picture the character? The first description of the boy wizard is that of a lightening scar on his forehead. The tattoos may not make him unique among his peers, but it is enough of a difference from the average reader to make him standout in our memories. As for the lightening scar, it is portrayed as a badge of sorts. One that will identify the character to others in the story, and remains a distinctive and visible identification of who he is both to his friends and to his enemies.

If a character is very tall, will that make him stand out from others? In the real world it worked for both George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. Try to find a story with either of those men in it, and see if they aren’t described by their height. Eyes are popular features that the author includes to make us picture the character. Are the eyes piercing, or milky? Can they be brilliant or are they pale? Often the color is used as an identifier. Brilliant blue, dark brown, black as the night (And often as their soul), or if the author is working overtime violet or green.

The author goes with the old adage that the “eyes are the window to the soul,” and thus makes us see what the character will be by noticing their eyes. Every so often the author will go in the opposite direction and use the description of the eyes to show the lack of importance of the character. The eyes are dull, unfocused, wandering. They never look directly at you. They move too much, and indicate that we should distrust the character.

How about clothes? The famed “deerstalker” hat immediately brings to mine the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. The all green attire of the archer, finds us remembering Robin Hood. Although, one does wonder what he did in the winter when Sherwood forest was all covered with white snow. Talk about a stand out type of guy.

In how many stories can you remember the villain as wearing “hob nailed” boots? They must have been on sale at “Bad Guys Are Us.” Early Westerns had the bad guy wearing the black hat and the good guys wearing a white hat. That identification would later cause trouble for our sword welding friend with the Spanish accent, whose name began with Zorro. There the hero always was identified by his all black attire. Stylish, but it must have been hot in the California sun.

If I say rumpled rain coat, you think “Colombo.” If I tell you that I saw a man in a bright yellow hat, you’re likely to ask if he had a curious monkey with him. If I said he had a long red cape, you might ask if it was a bird or perhaps a plane. If I told you that I spotted a short person with white gloves and large round ears. Mickey pops into your head.

Sometimes it’s not what they wear, but what they carry with them that makes them distinctive. For instance, a very large man may not be easily identifiable, but if I add that he was carrying a large axe, our buddy Paul Bunyan comes to mind. If that was a large man walking near the railroad tracks, he might be a mystery. Add that he was carrying a large hammer, and you think John Henry. Of course to be fair, if I also mentioned that he had a helmet with horns, you would go with “Thor.”

Many comic book characters are identified by their unique costumes.  The all red “Flash,” or the green “Green lantern.” The “Batman” comes in all black, and those fantastic four are attired in various clothes that are blue. Many of the heroes wear tight fitting costumes, but if I tell you that they have an “X” on the front you can identify them as members of the mutant “X-Men.”

Of course the exact opposite might be true. If I tell you that I saw a naked woman, you might ask where I was standing. If I add, that she was riding a horse, you would guess that I saw Lady Godiva.

Last but not least is the fellow whose clothes are not individual, who carries nothing identifiable, and whose eyes may not even match, but has large bolts piercing each side of his neck, you would of course say…

The Devil is in the Details

The Devil is in the Details

What a great phrase. It’s evocative, intriguing, and at the basic level informative. What does it mean? Watch out for the small print, or perhaps find out what they’re not telling you.  My thought for the day is related more to what an author or reader might concern themselves with. Just how much detail do you need to provide the reader?

I just finished reading a book where the author did everything except tell the reader how many buttons the character had on his jacket. Was that level of detail necessary? No, not for the reader to picture the character, nor to determine what and why the character was doing what they were doing. Did it provide the reader more information to visualize the character? I doubt it. Especially since the author provided the same level of detail for most of the characters, protagonist or not. Did it improve the comprehension of the story? Possibly, I don’t think that it helped me to follow the story. In fact I think that it might have slowed down the story’s pace.

Having made that observation I thought I’d go back and check out the level of detail my favorite author used in describing her characters. She starts out slowly, giving only small clues to what the characters looked like. A single line for each, pointing out an item or two about their appearance. Then she begins to get steam in her locomotive’s engine and starts to add more and more detail.

By the time she gets to her first description of the hero’s mentor, she’s up to a paragraph for the man. His hair, his clothes, and finally his eyes are revealed. Granted, his appearance is very different from the rest of what society would expect a teacher of the young to look like; however, he is a wizard and as such deserves a little leeway in choosing his hair style and clothes.

It is perhaps by way of comparison that we begin to see how this side of the story will unfold. The dull normal people who live in the world that we see every day, and the magical folks that the hero will be spending most of the rest of his life with.

As for the hero himself, our first look gives us barely a sentence of information. Granted he is a toddler, roughly one year old. We are told of his most distinctive physical attribute, the lightening shaped scar on his forehead. Seven pages, and ten years later, we see him again. This time we are given a much more complete picture of the lad.

We’re told of his general size, a mention of his physical prowess. We read of his clothing, the fact that he now wears glasses, and the effect of his nearly indentured servitude upon his daily life. Another seven pages and we are treated to the first sign that this person will be very different from those around him.

Were Ms. Rowling’s extensive descriptions of the characters in the books excessive? Did they slow down the story as the previous author’s? I don’t think they did.

So I’m left with the question, of how much detail is necessary for a story, unanswered. Apparently the amount of detail the reader needs is governed not by volume, but rather by pertinence.

The Last Word

The Last Word(s)

What would you like your last words to be? 

Detectives are forever arriving at a murder scene and finding the victim’s head cradled in the lap of his wife, or significant other. The detective can see that the victim has been shot in the chest, and has bled all over the significant other. He asks the ever present uniformed officer, “What happened here?” The officer tells him that his wife found the victim on the floor, and that he was alive when she got to him. The detective, who is usually played by a gruff insensitive lout, looks down at the wife, who is sobbing uncontrollably, and says “Did he say anything before he died?”

The wife says that the victim said “table,” or “cousin.”  This of course leads the detective down several dead end alleyways before the brilliant, but junior partner, corrects the situation by reasoning out that the last words were actually “Table tennis” or Cosine.” Either of which eventually lead them to the murderer. 

Just once wouldn’t you like the dialog to go like this?

Detective: Did he say anything before he died”

Wife: “Yes”

Detective: Well, what did he say? Did he say who killed him?”

Wife: “He said,” and here she starts to sob, so that what she says in unintelligible.

Detective: “What? What did he say? I can’t hear you through your crying.

Wife: She pulls herself together long enough to shout, “He said, ‘ouch!’”

            Not very helpful, but it would be a lot of fun. I suppose it’s wrong of me but I would like to think that someone’s last words might bring a laugh to those around who are watching them die. What better way to go out of this realm of existence, than leaving those who are near you with a laugh.

I mean what would the history books be like if Lincoln’s last words would have been spoken after he was carried across the street, having just been shot by John Wilkes Booth. He revives just long enough to say “Did the hero get the girl?” The scene ends with the doctors, secret service agents, and Mary Todd Lincoln all asking. “Does anybody know how the damn play ends?”

Now “Rosebud” was a pretty enigmatic thing to say, and it does give us the reason for the rest of the movie. But what if Kane’s last words had been, “I win. I’ve got the most toys. I’ve even still got Rosebud.” Not as helpful, but a funnier ending.

Perhaps we should think about, what we’d like to be remembered as saying at the end of our days. We could think up a really great line, and then start each day saying it over and over, so that if we should find ourselves dying we’ll be ready with the best exit line ever. 

Things like, “I didn’t know the knife was loaded.” Or, “I guess you’re right honey. It was a left turn.” How about, “I see a light. Oh no never mind, it’s just the sun.”

If you’re going on a plane trip, say over and over, “I should have taken the train.” If it’s a boat trip then, “Shouldn’t there have been a lifeboat drill?”

If you’re scheduled for a stress test later in the day, keep thinking, “Doc, are you sure this thing is safe?”

Big steak dinner that night, then you could go with, “Mom always said, I should take smaller bites.”

I suppose, that if you were really clever you could buy a tomb stone for your grave and have the best last line chiseled in stone ready to bring a laugh to all at the funeral.  Things like:

“You’ll never find out where I buried the money.”

“Did you check the pockets of this suit?”

“Why is it so dark in here?”

“So that’s the meaning of the universe!”

“Who’s next?”

A Learning Experience

A Learning Experience

If it’s true that we learn from our failures the following is what I believe to be an excellent learning tool. It is a short, short story that I submitted for a contest, that did not get selected. The theme of the contest was Moxie.

A Hero, Unsung & Unknown

Each morning Mike woke up at 6:00 a.m. He didn’t have to be up until 6:30, but Mr. Eckert, the baker who lived next door, left for work at 6:15 and he loved to sing opera while he drank his morning coffee. The walls between the apartments weren’t paper thin, but they might just have been cardboard.  Mike never complained about waking up earlier, because every-so-often Mr. Eckert would bring home extras from the bakery. Those doughnuts were the only sweets that would come to Mike’s apartment.

Mike would start his day with a small glass of milk. At least that was the way it started on the first two days of the week, after his sister went to the store with her paycheck. By the third day the milk was gone, and there wouldn’t be any more for the rest of the week. Mike lived with his seventeen year old sister and her one year old daughter. His father had left them three years ago, when Mike had been seven. Their mother had been arrested and convicted for drug use and sales, just about a year after that.

The apartment was in their mother’s name but the system hadn’t caught up with the fact that she didn’t live there, and the “super” didn’t care as long as they paid the rent plus ten percent for his silence.

Mike went to school almost ten months a year but he prayed for summer school. School provided a free lunch and it was lunch that would be the most food Mike would see during the day. He didn’t complain since he knew that his sister took him in when he had nowhere else to turn. She worked in a diner during the day, and asked for extra shifts whenever they were available. An old lady on the next floor watched the baby during the day in exchange for Mike and his sister helping to fix her meals and cleaning her place one a week. That was OK with Mike, even though he hated cleaning the old lady’s bathroom.

Mike liked school. He liked to learn new things, and the school had a library with books that Mike could take home at night. Sure he was small and got beat up a lot because he didn’t have any lunch money to pay off the gangs. But that was ok, and a lot of times they were too busy shaking down the kids with real money to bother with Mike.

Mike was a bright student, all of his teachers said so. They couldn’t understand why he seemed to be less attentive during the latter part of the week. He couldn’t tell them that it was hard to hear the teacher, when his empty stomach was making so much noise. Still he was getting good grades, and that meant that his sister didn’t have to take time off from work to attend the parent-teacher conferences.

Life for Mike was a balance of problems and solutions. Since they didn’t have many solutions, Mike felt it was his job to make sure that there were as few problems as possible. If Mike going to school hungry was a problem, he ignored it because there was no solution. There was a food bank that they went to, but they could only afford the bus fare to that church with the food bank once a month. They had no car or friends with cars.

At night Mike would read those books from school, and would do his homework in the kitchen where there was a ceiling light.  The noise from the apartment next door, where they played their TV too loud, was a distraction, but Mike liked it. He would listen to the sound from the TV and try to imagine what was on the screen. When Mike was younger they had a TV, but their mother sold it to support her habit.

When his sister got home from work he would tell her about his day, and she would describe the customers who came into the diner. There was one guy who would come in and leave a big tip. He had asked her out a lot, but she knew that he was a runner for the local drug gang and she wouldn’t get into the drug life again. Fifteen years with their mother had taught her one thing, “Life with drugs was like no life at all.” His sister believed that it was their mother’s drug habit that had driven their father away. Mike didn’t remember him all that well, so he believed his sister’s version of what happened.

Mike would stay up to hear the weather on the TV next door. If it was going to be cold the next day, he would be sure to wear three shirts to school. He had a jacket they got from Good Will, but it was light weight and didn’t help much in the cold. Shoes were a problem too. His were worn and had a small hole in the left sole. That meant that when it rained or snowed he was going to have wet feet at school. It was another problem that had no solution, so Mike made sure his sister never found out about his shoes.

Mike would go to sleep at night thinking about the three shirts he had to wear, and his shoes that would be wet for most of the day. He tried to plan how he would avoid the school bullies, while making it to the lunchroom. He couldn’t get into a fight and have detention after school, because he had to get home to take his sister’s baby from the old lady. In the morning he would get up to start another day, and that proved that he had moxie.