"Be precise!"
"Write with precision!
"Show! Don't tell!"
Since the early 1900s, emerging writers sweated blood to obey commands like these, to find le mot juste and shear their prose of unnecessary words (swearing by whatever definition of "unnecessary" was currently in vogue). By the end of World War II, precision had become the de facto standard for journalism and business—supposedly the ultimate watermark of effective writing. Finally (and sadly), it seeped under the foundation of creative writing.
The problem is not precision, per se. The problem is that we have ceased to question what precision means. We seize upon and pass along simplistic writing slogans, and because we have little or no understanding of the tenet behind the slogan, we plod down the rows hoed before us, our eyes focused on the ground.
Indeed, there is hardly a book on writing that does not in some form endorse, reinforce, and even bludgeon us with its definition of precision. In the ubiquitous "little book" by Strunk & White, The Elements of Style, the sixteenth principle of composition says, "Use definite, specific, concrete language....deal in particulars and report the details that matter." In Style and Statement, by Corbett and Connors, we hear that "A precise word is a word shorn of all superfluous and irrelevant notions, a word that signifies neither more nor less than we intend to say." In his book, {keys} to Great Writing, Stephen Wilbers devotes an entire chapter to precision, including the oft-heard advice: "Don't tell the reader; show the reader."
Well, advice is a dangerous thing, especially when offered as a cure-all—or worse, wielded as a bludgeon. Not that precision is a bad thing! Not at all! Consider the "iceberg theory of fiction," as defined by Ernest Hemingway, one of the greatest writers of precision of the twentieth century. Writing only shows what's above the surface; what lies below is more seductive, even dangerous, to the reader than what they are reading. However, modern writing has become so besotted with concrete imagery and detailed—nay, make that graphic!—descriptions that allusion is all but extinct. Most writers have forgotten the power of allusion, of how to evoke strong emotions so they rise in the reader's gorge and swell until he must stop and breathe deeply before plunging back into the written work before him.
In part, allusion fell victim to cinema, where the "reader" need only watch. Dramatic pauses became a trick of the camera; suspense became a fractional moment of brilliant color; time jumps became a blur and fade. Technology in cinema has brought the show-don't-tell precept to such high standards that the written word cannot pass the bar.
At least, not in the same way.
The written word has always faced the challenge of creating colorful, detailed, emotionally-laden images using simple little black marks on the page. However, too many of us now strive to duplicate cinema rather than harness the unique relationship between the reader and the written word. Where cinema directs images at the "reader," writing should pull images from the reader. We should trigger an emotional response—not by telling them how and what to feel, but by seducing them into tapping into their own fears, guilt, joy, etc. Seduction elicits a stronger response from the reader than anything we force on them.
By interpreting "be precise" to mean "be explicit," writers do manage to bind the readers to their images—pixel by pixel by colorful pixel—but there is danger here. When the writer delves into her private fears and brings them to the page in such minute detail, she risks losing the reader. She loses the chance to create a heightened awareness in the reader; it is no longer visceral. Remember: the image so intensely personal to the writer might not be so for the reader. What frightens me might not frighten you—or at least not as much. What makes me cry, might make you shrug; what sends me into the arms of my lover, might leave you cold. Yes, there are common experiences that create common emotions; the trick is knowing how much to say to unholster the reader's strongest emotions.
This is where we should target our readers with the power of allusion. Say it precisely, but indirectly. Yes, this sounds like a paradox, but it's not. Allusion relates emotions—joy, fear, anger, sadness, grief, amusement, sexual arousal, guilt—but it does so by seducing the reader into digging up his deepest fears, his highest joys, his strongest needs. Look again at Strunk & White's definition: "Use definite, specific, concrete language....deal in particulars and report the details that matter" [my emphasis]. When we are highly selective about which details we include, we center the reader precisely where we wish, but he quickly realizes the image is incomplete and reaches internally for that which means the most to him.
For example, we are so fond of forensically describing a murder, but when we use allusion, the reader is engaged actively in the scene, rather than passively watching. In describing a murder, we might allude to its intensity by saying "...and the cat licked the brains off the wall." A gruesome detail, but highly selective. In this short phrase, the writer has alluded to a murder, but immediately the reader supplies a wealth of detail culled from their experiences, such as the texture of the wall (odds are the reader creates a light-colored wall—all the better to see the blood, my dear), the spatter of blood, the sludge of brains, the position of the corpse. Of course, the questions remain: who was killed and why and how? That is up to the writer to resolve, but to do so by seducing the reader into reading proactively.
When writers allow cinema to dictate imagery, they pile onto the page a sagging burden of detail. Precision does not mean the writer must describe every pixel of the image in her mind; the skilled writer selects her pixels carefully, targeting the reader's attention, but seducing him into experiencing it. The key here is "carefully." An oft-repeated adage for writers now is to "leave it up to the reader." If you leave too much up to the reader, they lock the hammer on their emotions; if you say too much, they also fail to engage. Careful selection is more erotic, because you ask the reader to provide his feelings.
When George Orwell wrote about Burma—his observations of the people and their customs and their countryside—few had yet seen this mysterious land. Out of necessity, he created detailed images for his readers, but again, by carefully selecting details to draw our attention to specific images, and thus leaving us to imagine the remainder. For example, in "Shooting An Elephant," he wrote: In a job like that you see the dirty work of an Empire at close quarters. The wretched prisoners huddling in the stinking cages of the lock-ups, the grey, cowed faces of the long-term convicts, the scarred buttocks of the men who had been Bogged with bamboos... Ask yourself what details did he leave to your imagination? and how do these details pertain to what you fear or loathe?
In The Great Gatsby when Fitzgerald wrote of an affluent American social circle, he wrote that Music came from my neighbor's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens, men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings, the champagne, and the stars. Faulkner selected significant details to direct the reader's attention to specific pieces of the image, leaving the reader to engage their senses for what he chose not to say.
So why do I say "the eroticism of allusion?" All emotion is erotic, visceral, immediate, and overwhelming. We seduce the reader to anger, to tears, to laughter, to arousal. Readers do not need to know the thread count on the sheets, if you elected to show her hair moving, as if a dark flood waxed and waned against the paleness under them.
So the next time you find yourself struggling to be precise—to cut adverbs, reduce adjectives, use strong verbs—ask yourself precisely what you are struggling with. More than likely it's the compulsion to describe every detail, rather than select the significant. Remember, we should entice the reader, not smother him.
