THE SINCEREST FORM OF FLATTERY

by John M. Floyd

As writers, we know we have a “voice.” I don’t mean a set of opinions that need to be heard, I mean a fingerprint of style and content that identifies each of us. Or at least identifies our work. It consists of many things (structure, rhythm, imagery, pacing, etc.), and it’s rarely something we’re conscious of, as we write. It’s just a natural result of putting words on paper.

With that in mind, is it advisable — or even acceptable — for us to study the work of others, and attempt to learn and use their techniques? Does that interfere with, or in any way dilute, the voice that is so uniquely our own? My answer to that is simple: of course we should try to learn from those we admire, and incorporate their “secrets.” How else can a writer (or any artist or craftsman) expect to improve? Be assured, our voices — the words we use and the way we fit them together — will remain our own; we’re not plagiarizing, here. And the writers from whom we borrow (steal?) won’t mind a bit. Imitation, in this case, can be a good thing.

What, then, are some of the hints and tips we can get from reading other authors? What are the things they do particularly well? Here are a few observations:

Charles Dickens — Characterization. Every time I read Dickens I’m amazed at the way he defined his characters. Too much description can backfire, but his approach always seemed to work, and his creations will live forever.

Ray Bradbury — Settings. Like Frank Kafka, James Rollins, and many others, Bradbury loved placing his stories in magical and unforgettable locations. This isn’t possible in every case, but when it is it’s a plus.

Ernest Hemingway — Simple, direct style. I’ve heard that academics never use a short word when they can use a longer one instead. Hemingway did just the opposite, and to good effect.

Stephen King — The “everyman” protagonist. One reason I think so many of us relate to King’s fiction is his ability to spin gripping tales about average, ordinary people — or at least they’re ordinary when we first meet them. What a great way to get readers to identify with, and root for, a character.

Elmore Leonard — Dialogue. Many writers do a good job of writing the way people “really” speak — George V. Higgins, Dick Francis, Joe Lansdale, Robert B. Parker, and Richard Price come to mind — but Leonard is widely considered to be the master. And I believe the best way to learn to write great dialogue is to carefully read those who write great dialogue.

James Lee Burke — Descriptions of scenes and places. One of the pleasures of a JLB novel or short story is his presentation of multicolored sunsets or moss-covered courtyards or shaded bayous. In addition, his use of this as a pacing mechanism should be informative to all of us.

Herman Melville — Symbolism and poetry in prose. Moby Dick, for instance, contains vivid examples of the use of meter, rhythm, and alliteration. I’m not good at this, and will probably never be, but I admire it nonetheless.

Janet Evanovich — “Visual” writing. In addition to humor and characterization, this lady is wonderful with action verbs. People in Stephanie Plum novels never merely “walk” into a room; they stomp in or blast in or charge in. Drivers wrench open their doors and squeeze themselves into seats; diners wolf down their food.

James A. Michener — Historical research. Much of this was due to the subject matter he chose, but the depth and extent of that knowledge made his novels unique. And educational.

Pat Conroy — Elegance of language. Conroy, Proulx, Cheever, Faulkner and many other “literary” authors amaze me with the seemingly-effortless beauty and sophistication of their prose. This is more appropriate to some stories than to others, but when it happens it can heighten both the enjoyment and the meaning of a piece of fiction.

O. Henry — Surprise endings. This became a trademark of his, and I still love the thrill of anticipation when I read one of his short stories. Some say twist endings have fallen out of fashion, but in genre fiction I think they’re still alive and thriving.

James Patterson — Short chapters. Enough said. I did a column about this a few weeks ago.

Michael Crichton — Fiction based on scientific fact. Dinosaur DNA, deep-sea exploration, artificial intelligence, etc. To his credit, this was always presented as supportive information only — he never allowed it to stand in the way of the story.

Nelson DeMille — Humor in otherwise serious fiction. I think he’s probably the best at this technique. It requires a special talent, and makes an already good story even more fun to read.

Harlan Coben — Plot twists. These are not so much the O. Henry kind; Coben’s reversals happen not only at the end but throughout his novels. I try hard to do that in my own stories.

Ian Fleming — Details. This ranged from exotic locations to food and drink and fashion. I still remember Bond’s favorite brand of cigarettes and his Sea Island shirts. This is another of those techniques that can be overused (shaken and stirred?), but Fleming did it well.

Almost all well-known authors — Fitzgerald, O’Connor, Wharton, McMurtry, Burroughs, Wolfe, Ritchie, Maugham, Welty, Rowling, Poe, Chandler, Doyle, Finney, Christie, Salinger, the list is endless — are worthy mentors to those of us who want to learn and thus improve our writing. Comb through their work, discover their secrets, then go and do likewise.

That kind of studying can be fun.