Blame It On My Mother
“If you don’t know what that means, look it up,” my mother would say. She was a schoolteacher.
Since she knew the word, or so I assumed, I was irked when she pointed at our fifty-pound Funk & Wagnall’s. Why couldn’t she just tell me the meaning?
This annoying habit of hers instilled in me an enduring lesson. Her response implied that I was not expected to know every word in a book. That was why God invented dictionaries.
In reading I encountered wonderful words like zeitgeist and Schadenfreude and discovered the Foreign Words and Phrases part of the dictionary. I also learned that some foreign words and phrases weren’t there. I learned to infer from context. I also eventually realized that my inferential powers could get meanings one hundred percent backwards. When The Eiger Sanction came out (1975), I thought for sure since it was a Clint Eastwood movie that a sanction must be a bad thing.
Now as a writer, I consider the dilemma from the other side of the page: Should a writer adopt my mother’s attitude, “If you don’t know what that means, look it up?” or should an author explain words and situations? How many context clues should be planted?
Recently I had the rewarding experience of working with an online critique group through the Guppies, a sub-group of Sisters in Crime. Black Beans & Venom, my mystery in progress, is set in Cuba, so many Spanish words and phrases are used. How much should I explain guayabera beyond that its loose fit allows my villain to stick a pillow under it and the big pockets are good for hiding stuff? Readers and writers alike know that too much description makes the action drag.
Another member of the critique group introduced a character in her book with an Hispanic surname, blonde hair and blue eyes. I liked this play against stereotype. I have lived in California since 1972 and have met many rubios. However, a member of the critique group from the Midwest, a good writer and astute reader, was pulled from the story by this seemingly discordant detail.
There are ways the writer could deal with this. She could, for example, have the protagonist note the unusual combination of Hispanic surname and fair features, although as a long-time Californian, the protagonist probably would not think anything of the combo. The writer could explain the occurrence. The writer could change the character to conform to the reader’s preconceived notions.
I didn’t like any of these options. Blame it on my mother. She ingrained in me that learning is part of reading. It is okay for the mind to leave a story and wonder. My choice in the above situation was for the writer to confront the reader with the anomaly of a fair Hispanic character and to let the reader grapple with the information—even if it pulled her out of the story.
I am probably in the minority on this dilemma. What is your über comment?
Since she knew the word, or so I assumed, I was irked when she pointed at our fifty-pound Funk & Wagnall’s. Why couldn’t she just tell me the meaning?
This annoying habit of hers instilled in me an enduring lesson. Her response implied that I was not expected to know every word in a book. That was why God invented dictionaries.
In reading I encountered wonderful words like zeitgeist and Schadenfreude and discovered the Foreign Words and Phrases part of the dictionary. I also learned that some foreign words and phrases weren’t there. I learned to infer from context. I also eventually realized that my inferential powers could get meanings one hundred percent backwards. When The Eiger Sanction came out (1975), I thought for sure since it was a Clint Eastwood movie that a sanction must be a bad thing.
Now as a writer, I consider the dilemma from the other side of the page: Should a writer adopt my mother’s attitude, “If you don’t know what that means, look it up?” or should an author explain words and situations? How many context clues should be planted?
Recently I had the rewarding experience of working with an online critique group through the Guppies, a sub-group of Sisters in Crime. Black Beans & Venom, my mystery in progress, is set in Cuba, so many Spanish words and phrases are used. How much should I explain guayabera beyond that its loose fit allows my villain to stick a pillow under it and the big pockets are good for hiding stuff? Readers and writers alike know that too much description makes the action drag.
Another member of the critique group introduced a character in her book with an Hispanic surname, blonde hair and blue eyes. I liked this play against stereotype. I have lived in California since 1972 and have met many rubios. However, a member of the critique group from the Midwest, a good writer and astute reader, was pulled from the story by this seemingly discordant detail.
There are ways the writer could deal with this. She could, for example, have the protagonist note the unusual combination of Hispanic surname and fair features, although as a long-time Californian, the protagonist probably would not think anything of the combo. The writer could explain the occurrence. The writer could change the character to conform to the reader’s preconceived notions.
I didn’t like any of these options. Blame it on my mother. She ingrained in me that learning is part of reading. It is okay for the mind to leave a story and wonder. My choice in the above situation was for the writer to confront the reader with the anomaly of a fair Hispanic character and to let the reader grapple with the information—even if it pulled her out of the story.
I am probably in the minority on this dilemma. What is your über comment?
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