Dear Reader: Let’s Talk About the White Space

When I
write a scene or a bit of dialogue, Reader, I leave some space in the text just
for you. It’s called white space, and it’s my way of allowing you to make the
story yours and yours alone. It’s a space where you can take what is written and
twist it to fit your point of view, your experiences. I don’t want to think for
you, Reader, because I know you’re an intelligent and capable person. I mean,
if you weren’t, then why are you reading my book? Am I right? Of course I am.



But the
white space contains something else too, something you can’t touch or smell or
even see just a little. It contains a piece of me, Reader. A piece that may or
may not make its way to you, but it’s still there waiting to be discovered.
When you find this in a book, Reader, you are among the lucky few. You’ve found
a writer you can trust to craft a story that will take your breath away.



I can see I’ve
confused you. That’s my fault, Reader, because sometimes I talk in circles. Let
me show you an example:



A man sits
alone at a bar. In front of him is a half-empty (or half full, depending on
your attitude) bottle of beer, the label torn at the edges. The bottle is warm,
and the label is dry. He speaks to no one, although much revelry is occurring around
him. A leggy redhead sits to his right. Now and then she glances at him, but he
doesn’t notice her, or at least it seems he doesn’t. Another man walks in, and
he walks straight toward our loner at the bar. He whispers something to the
man. The man hangs his head, sighing heavily and pushes his beer away. He
stands and follows the other man out of the bar, but looks back just once at
the redhead. She smiles and turns back to her drink.



As a
separate scene, this is…not that revealing. But in the white space we see a lot
of things that tip us off to unspoken elements in this scene, that imply events prior to this moment, and that might
foreshadow something in the next scenes. The label on his bottle shows that although
he sits there quietly, something is bothering him, and its dryness combined
with the warmth of the bottle implies he’s sat there for a while. The leggy
redhead adds some conflict to the scene, but we don’t know how she’s involved
unless we read the story. Her smile at the end tells you something, but what?
You’ll see later. I left that in that white space little clues, bits of tension
and small suggestions that will bring everything into focus in later scenes. This
is a simple example, with very basic messages in the white space, but I hope it
makes it more clear.



The white
space, to put it simply, is the space between the lines. It’s where most of the
action and the story take place. When you read a passage and say “I don’t get
it.” or “Why didn’t she just write that instead of being all coy and shit?” you
kind of annoy me, Reader. It’s not coy I’m trying to be. Writers don’t like to
give you everything, Reader. Not the good ones anyway. We like to leave you
some wiggle room, and we like to create a bit of tension. Because you know how
fickle you are, Reader. You have a life beyond my book that tries to drag your
attention away from me. I want to make sure you come back. So I leave a bit of
white space to entice you.



The art of
creating in that space is, sadly, one we are losing. Our culture is living in a
fast-food world where everything is served to you immediately and without
effort on your part. But Reader, is that any way to enjoy a book? It takes the
magic out of the story and you’re left empty and cold. I don’t want to do that
to you, Reader. I don’t want to title my book so it slaps you with the entire
plot in five words or less. I don’t want to hit you over the head with
descriptions so detailed you are mentally moving the furniture you first
imagined in my fictional room to suit what I’ve told you. I don’t want to send
you the easy message, the polite message or even the clever one. I want to send
you the message that affects you the most intensely. I have no need for clever
authorial tricks and sleights of hand that serve no other purpose than to
impress you, because you, Reader, have a brain in your head, and I know you
want to use it occasionally.



Many
writers claim that publishers want a book that ignores those deeper and subtler
themes that we describe in the white space, because those themes often cause discomfort
on the part of the reader. But you, Reader, I know you like those themes hidden
in the white space. I know that discomfort makes you think, and I know you
enjoy a bit of thought from time to time. And I know the publishers know this
too, so the assumption that we should remove the white space is bullshit tossed
about by lazy writers.
 


I know you
want a well-written novel that is based on the nuances of craft and plot. You
want a story that takes your breath but does so quietly, without telling you said
breath should be gone. I want to give you simple lines of just a few words that
contain within them enough story and meaning to knock you on your ass. You see,
Reader, it is in what is not said,
rather than what is said that makes you love my words. It is the silence that echoes
between the lines of text that gives a story its power. Taken out of context,
the same lines could be perceived as boring, even confusing, but when combined
with the characters I bust my ass to create for you, and the text before and
after that white space, those lines hold meaning that is scorching in
intensity. And you know you enjoy a good scorch now and then, Reader.



Don’t think
I create this white space without effort. It is not as simple as not writing certain
parts or words. It is perhaps one of the most difficult aspects of the craft to
master. To construct a story in the “void” between the lines of text and to
allow the juxtaposition between the text and the white space be the vessel that
carries said story is beyond hard. But for you, Reader, I would do almost
anything. Not that thing. We
discussed this already. But almost anything else I would do to ensure that when
you read my book, you have an experience that takes your breath away, or at
least makes it short and panty-like.



The trick to
creating white space, in case you’re curious, is in word choices and the
arrangement of sentences. It is in the description, and how we shape it to each
scene. For me personally, I create a scene with all its detail and then I remove
those details until I’ve left only what’s necessary to place you. Then I let
you, Reader, do the rest.



To do this
I must make the sure words I leave behind are heavy with meaning, sometimes
containing more than one meaning. I use one meaning to form the word, while the
other meaning, or meanings, is what I leave in the white space, hanging
expectantly, hoping you’ll see and appreciate its presence, while trying to be
as inconspicuous as possible.



If you’re
lost, Reader, or you have no clue just what the hell I’m talking about, I’ll
make it simpler, although I know you’re smarter than that. You could say the
white space is like sitting on a dock, listening to the wind as it caresses the
water. When you first sit down, you hear the traffic on the road behind you,
the boats roaring in the distance, or the geese squawking and honking overhead.
But after a time, this obvious noise fades into the background, and you are
left with the sound of nature’s breath. A sound you don’t usually hear over the
commotion of the rest of the world. That is the white space, and that is what
makes a book brilliant.



That is my
goal every time I write, Reader. So, let’s not pretend you want it easy. I know
you better than that.