The Beauty of a Quiet Book

One of the beauties of a quiet book is that life unfolds more slowly in its pages, unlike the rush of plot-driven adventure novels, which are so popular in the minds of editors and agents these days (and in readers’ minds, too, I suppose) because of that rush.

Quiet stories tend to explore a character’s inner world rather than build a fast-paced action plot that can feel like a rapidly shifting maze or a series of bigger (or smaller) hoops through which a character has to jump.

A quiet book may not have much in the way of a plot, and it may examine characters who don't seem to have many flaws or who lack a significant problem altogether, which means that the story may lack sufficient conflict for some readers to stay interested in what happens next.

And yet ... a quiet book can give readers an opportunity to savor the richness and natural rhythms of life, as well as its mysteries, in much the same way sitting on the edge of a still lake or calm sea can offer moments of true insights into the mysteries of life surrounding us.

These thoughts about quiet books were prompted by Patricia MacLachlan's The Poet’s Dog, which I found the other day while browsing through the shelves of our local library. 

One of the mysteries that MacLachlan, the Newberry Medal winning author of Sarah, Plain and Tall and a host of other books, explores in The Poet’s Dog is a what if question: what if a dog could understand language and speak in order to be understood? (MacLachlan performs this same magic trick in Waiting for the Magic, another middle grade reader with more than one dog that can understand and speak English.)

Maybe this idea—that dogs can speak and understand English—is what makes The Poet’s Dog more than a “quiet” book, I don't know. Maybe it even gives it a step up into fantasy. But however you might want to label it, it’s a book as much about the value of words—and how words have the power to connect us to one another, human to human as well as human to animal—as it is about plot and character.

MacClachlan moves her readers inside the thoughts of each of her characters (even if one of the characters is a dog), and I suspect readers are able to hear these thoughts precisely because of the “quietness” of the story.

And maybe that’s another reason why I love quiet stories. In quiet stories you can hear the inner voices of the characters as clearly as you can hear your own. By opening a window into her characters’ interior worlds, MacLachlan gives readers a chance to savor this inside-out view in ways that are impossible when the story rushes by like an out-of-control roller coaster.

Time seems to slow down in quiet stories, and I treasure the chance to slow down, to take my time reading each word, turning details of the story over on the tip of my tongue without feeling rushed or forced to go faster than the pace that I feel comfortable with.

Yes, I admit there are times when I enjoy fast-paced, action-adventure stories and the roller-coaster feeling of falling and rising and falling again so quickly that the world is a blur of pure fear.

But it’s inevitably the quiet stories that take me deeper into life’s mysteries. Or maybe it’s just that quiet stories give me a chance to simply sit with the mystery of life.

At the heart of The Poet's Dog is the mystery of how human beings and animals recover from loss—a dog’s recovery from grief, a child’s recovery from fear, a mother and father’s recovery of their lost children.

It’s a story about restoring balance to the world, about waiting out a storm—whether that storm forms from the weather or grief or loss—and finding faith that life will regain its balance.

It’s also a story about passing on values of kindness, of courage, of hope and trust.

Editors, agents, and teachers may disagree, but I believe the world needs more “quiet” stories that give young readers space to think and to dream, stories that let us pause and appreciate what’s right in front of us, that help us learn how to live in the moment.

The Beauty of Language

 As I was reading two books this past month—Diane Ackerman’s The Zookeeper’s Wife: A War Story and Susan Orlean’s Rin Tin Tin: The Life and The Legend, I was struck by the beauty of the language—so stunning at times that it shook me out of the spell of the story to admire the author’s skill with words.

I’m still enjoying each book, but now I’m wondering if such beauty, when overwhelming the reader to the point of interfering with the flow of the narrative, serves the story or the author.

What I’m asking, I guess, is how an author knows when his or her love of language might become a tad self-indulgent, a form of expression serving his or her own passions and interests rather than serving the reader’s main interest: the story.

It’s a delicate balancing game that an author needs to play, a game that leads to a point where the beauty of the language and the pulse of the story are melded together to hold the reader’s attention until the very last page of the book.

If the beauty of the language becomes too beautiful, too stunning, much like a blinding glare in your eyes while driving, the reader will have to pull over to the side of the road, so to speak.

And if the pace of the story slows or stops, the reader will have to wait and wonder when the traffic will begin moving again.

Without that balance between the two—beauty and pacing--the author will lose the reader.

Below are two examples of beautiful—dare I say stunning—prose, the first from Ackerman’s book, the second from Orlean’s. I’d like to invite you to read both examples and, as you read, ask yourself the following questions:

1) Am I conscious of the language as I read these sentences?

2) Does the language pull me deeper into the story or distract me from the story?

3) Does the language propel me further along or does it encourage me to pause and admire the language itself?

The first is an excerpt from Diane Ackerman’s The Zookeeper’s Wife: A War Story:

Each morning, when zoo dawn arrived, a starling gushed a medley of stolen songs, distant wrens cranked up a few arpeggios, and cuckoos called monotonously like clocks stuck on the hour. Suddenly, the gibbons began whooping bugle calls so crazy loud that the wolves and hunting dogs started howling, the hyenas gibbering, the lions roaring, the ravens croaking, the peacocks screeching, the rhino snorting, the foxes yelping, the hippos braying. Next the gibbons shifted into duets, with the males adding soft squealing sounds between their whoops and the females bellowing streams of long notes in their “great call.” The zoo hosted several mated pairs, and gibbon couples yodel formal songs complete with overture, codas, interludes, duets, and solos.

And this excerpt from Susan Orlean’s Rin Tin Tin: The Life and the Legend:

The road to Flirey rose and dipped along a ridge, the soft fields falling away in every direction, the huge churches perched here and there, looming and gloomy and dark. Just outside of Toul I passed a hippie couple walking on the shoulder of the road carrying a million bags and packs and baskets and boxes—they looked more like a parade float than actual people. A raggedy dog ambled along with them; hard to tell what he was at first, but when I glanced back at them in my rearview mirror, I could see that the dog had the high forehead and erect ears of a German shepherd. A minute after I passed the hippie couple, I slowed for a leathery old farmer walking with his dog. It was also a German shepherd, glossy and muscular, lashing the farmer’s legs with his thick tail as they strode along. 

I knew that seeing these dogs was merely coincidence—that since I’d begun thinking about Rin Tin Tin, I was seeing him everywhere, and this after so many years of feeling like I never saw Germany shepherds anymore. It was as if the sheer force of thinking about the dog had made him materialize, as if I had been seeding the clouds with memories of Rin Tin Tin until it rained.

As you compare these examples, ask yourself if the authors have used language in a way that helps you see the world, and then consider trying your own experiment with language:

1) Imagine that you are visiting a zoo. How would you describe it? Would you follow Ackerman’s lead? Why or why not?

2) Now imagine that you are visiting a new place. How would you describe it? Would you follow Orlean’s lead? Why or why not?

The next time that you review your work-in-progress, notice the beauty of your language… and ask yourself if the language pulls you into the story or merely serves as a billboard along the way saying: “Stop! Admire me!”

For more on using language in compelling ways, visit:

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2012/10/15/a-short-defense-of-literary-excess/

http://theadvancededit.com/academic-writing/purple-prose-what-it-is-and-how-to-avoid-it/