October 8, 2019--John Allan: Any Sense At All

John Allan said, "You make me sound smarter than I am."

We were having breakfast together at the Bristol Diner.

"You mean in the blog I wrote last week about Trump's Australian connection?"

"That's the one. I was the one who posed the question that got us going but you put words in my mouth. Not that that upset me. I liked the words and thoughts you assigned to me."

"He does that all the time," Rona chimed in, "He claims it's the way he gets closer to the essence of a situation."

"I didn't make stuff up the other day. You said almost everything I attributed to you."

"'Almost everything?' I'm not sure I see that as journalistic."

"It isn't," I said, "I'm not a journalist. I see myself as an essayist."

"What pray tell is that?" playing with me, John said.

"I know this will sound pompous but I seek the truth in things. Which means I often have to extract it from ambiguous and incomplete information."

"I get that," he said, "So tell me how that worked the other day when we were talking about Australia because it still sounds as if you make stuff up."

"First of all, you're not the best witness as to what was said, what even you yourself said. No one is. I mean about what they say. No one is a human tape recorder, capturing  exactly what they said. And then there are the subtle inferences that are often best communicated via body language and gestures and nods and winks. You're really good at the latter. You're about the best winker and shrugger I know. It's like a private language of yours."

"That makes sense to me, "John said, "And I do like that, but still I'm a little uncomfortable with your methodology. Particularly when it comes to me." He sent me a broad wink.

"Let me tell you a story--"

"Not another story!" This time John didn't wink.

"I know. I can be tedious with some of my stories. But I think you'll like this one. It's about finding truth in discourse. Though putting it this way makes it sound more profound than it is."

"Actually," John said, "this story sounds promising."

"It was told to me by a colleague and friend, Sir Claus Moser, who I worked with in some of the Ford Foundation's work with expanding higher education opportunities for low-income students. He led that effort for Great Britain but before that was head of development for the British Museum and before that was the secretary to the British cabinet. In that role, among other things, he was responsible for preparing the minutes of cabinet meetings."

"Where is this headed?" John asked, "I've got to get to the office."

"I'm almost done," I said. This time Rona rolled her eyes.

"He told me there are three ways to prepare the minutes. 'Since recoding devices weren't allowed, first, you can do your best to capture as precisely as possible exactly what members said. Then, you can do that and add a little editing. For example, to clean up the grammar and syntax. Finally, you can do what I did--write what members would have said if they had any sense at all.'"

"I do like that," John said. "And I take your point. Now I have to get to work."

October 7, 2015--Rules of Writing

Somehow I never got around to reading anything by Elmore Leonard.

I enjoy Raymond Chandler so I can't quite say I dislike detective novels, though they are not among my favorites.

But Leonard has escaped me except for a few movies such as Get Shorty that are based on his novels. And I haven't been that impressed by them.

But when less than a month ago The New York Review of Books published a major piece about him--"The Elmore Leonard Story"--I ordered and read Out of Sight. Not bad, but still not for me Raymond Chandler.

Though I liked what Joan Acocella in the NYR had to say--

Elmore Leonard, who died two summers ago, aged eighty-seven, became famous as a crime novelist, but didn't like being grouped with most of the big names in that genre, people such as Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett or, indeed, any of the noir writers. He disapproved of their melodrama, their pessimism, their psychos and nymphs and fancy writing. He saw in crime no glamor or sexiness but, on the contrary, long hours and sore feet. His criminals didn't become what they were out of any fondness for vice. They just needed the work, and that's what was available.

I confess, the things Leonard dislikes about Chandler are among the very reasons I like him!

There is, though, one brilliant scene in Out of Sight.

When Jack Foley, who has just broken out of prison encounters a beautiful deputy U.S. marshall, Karen Sisco, who, by chance is parking outside the gates when the breakout occurs, though there for other business, Foley takes her captive, puts her in the getaway car's trunk, and joins her there, not for hanky-panky but, for among other things, to talk about movies. Especially ones in which Faye Dunaway stars!

That alone is worth the price of the book.

In his lifetime Leonard wrote more than 30 novels and because of the sparseness of his prose and vivid dialogue became a sort of writers-writer. So much so, and obviously relishing it, he took to issuing rules of writing, including these ten--

1. Never open a book with weather.

2. Avoid prologues.

3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue.

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said."

5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000  words.

6. Never use the word "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose."

7. Use regional dialect, patois sparingly.

8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.

9. Don't go into detail describing places and things.

10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

He added, "My most important rule is one that sums up the 10."

And, my favorite, "If it sounds like rewriting, rewrite it."

As much as I like most of these, and would add, "Show, don't tell," I need dispensation to use more exclamation points. In this piece alone I've used up more than my lifetime supply!

May 16, 2014--Stopped Time

An unusually observent niece asked, "What is it with you and all the stopped clocks?"

"What do you mean?" I was confused.

"Well, here in your New York apartment, on your dining table, you have that big Art Nouveau clock, the one with the gilded doves, that's stopped at 6:47 and then there's the Tramp Art clock near your desk that's stopped at 10:42."

She folded her arms across her chest and stared at me, seeking a plausible explanation.

While waiting, since I was not forthcoming, she pressed on, "And up in Maine you have that Regulator clock opposite your work place that's also stopped. As I remember it, it's always 2:25. As they say, it's the right time twice a day." She smiled.

"I hadn't thought about that, but I guess you're right. I don't see it, though, to be a . . ."

"Sign of anything or meaningful?"

"Not really," I shrugged.

"I'll reserve judgement about that," she sighed. "But then there's one more--at least as far as I know only one more--that big clock down in Florida, the one in the kitchen over the stove."

"What about that one?"

"It's not stopped, but it's . . ."

"It's what? If you're seeing a pattern the fact that it's not stopped sort of breaks it, no?"

"Literally, I suppose so. But it's always either an hour ahead or behind--I forget--the actual time." Again, she looked at me, waiting for an explanation.

Still I had nothing much to add, so she said, "It seems to me that you have issues about time."

Nothing will make one feel older than to hear that from someone her age.

"It's not because I'm as old as I am. I mean . . ."

"I'm not suggesting that. But you do have this strange--OK, interesting--thing about time that I'm wondering about. Time of day more than time of life. If that distinction makes any sense."

"Maybe it does. I do see the differences."

"It's not as if you have dozens of clocks. In fact, other than the ones that are on cable boxes and satellite radios and microwave ovens and . . ."

"Stop right there. The ones on those--microwaves and stoves--are on all the time but need to be set and then adjusted twice a year when we switch to daylight savings or standard time. You can't stop them or shut them off unless you unplug the appliances altogether. And they aren't beamed in via cable companies or as a result of being connected to the Internet so you have to pay attention to them after power surges."

She nodded, saying nothing. "By why am I rattling on like this? About stoves and power surges and daylight savings time? I'm sounding defensive even to myself. But what I'll admit is more interesting is your noticing all the stopped clocks. I'll give you that."

"So?"

 "So what?"

"I think it's fair to say you're quite a compulsive person. You like everything lined up--like the books on your bookcases and all the stuff on your desk. Your notes, pads, pens, your yellow stickies. And as far as I can tell, all your stuff works properly. You take a lot of pride making sure that's the case. So . . . ?"

"Obviously you not only noticed this but also have thought about it. So what's your hypothesis?"

She shrugged but said, "One thing I noticed is that all the stopped clocks are near where you set up your computer to write. In New York and Maine. In both places, while working you have line-of-sight with stopped clocks."

"Go on."

"And you can't see any others that are working."

"Could be."

"So if that's true, what's the story? When you're working, if you're inclined, all you can see are stopped clocks." Her foot was tapping as she looked at me.

"You're making a connection between my writing and the clocks that are stopped?"

She nodded, smiling slyly.

"Are you suggesting that I see my writing as a way to stop time?"

"Could be."

"Not uninteresting. There's lots of commentary about how writers and visual artists see their work as living on after they are gone. Composers too. A sort of egotistical attempt to live beyond time."

"This is sounding right."

"But to tell you the truth I've never thought my writing good enough to withstand the test of time. If I can use that cliché."

She didn't say a word, holding me in her line of sight. "I think of my stories as amusements, not literature much less art."

"Really?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Yes, really." I paused to give it more thought. "At least that's what I think."

"From the evidence of all these clocks you might think some more."

"I'll do that. I'll give it additional thought."

"Sounds good. And be sure to let me know what you come up with."