Words belong to books; there’s no need to spare them.
And we all agree on that.
A medium-length novel, let’s say between fifty and a hundred thousand words, can tell even a complex story well, choosing to emphasize certain aspects over others, to describe, explain, deepen, instruct, and evoke emotion. But are we sure all these words are used in the best possible way?
Are we certain that selfishness, narcissism, and sometimes the frustration of the author do not shape the story?
Sometimes, they do.
I read a lot, and in doing so, I often come across writers (many, to be honest) who tend to explain everything, who particularly love putting every single thought of the protagonists into words (the so-called stream of consciousness), without allowing the reader to simply grasp it.
It’s an approach to writing that I do not love—in fact, I’d say that it almost always sets the stage for that inevitable drowsiness, the one that surprises you with the book slipping onto your lap and the bookmark irretrievably lost between the pages.
This happens to me because I believe that readers deserve respect, that they are intelligent enough and sufficiently engaged in the story to perceive, for example, the chemistry between two lovers without the writer having to spell out every single thought, every minor doubt, and every fleeting sensation.
Take Diego and Alice, for example. They’ve just met and are about to share a night of passion. He (already head over heels, like overcooked pasta left in boiling water for twenty minutes) thinks about not revealing his excitement too much, about not embarrassing himself due to his messy house, about the many clues to his profession scattered around. In the end (because in books and films it can never go otherwise), they make love, followed by satisfaction and that wonderful post-coital tranquility that comes in such moments.
Now, certain writers—who are not exactly my reference points—would put it down like this:
“He invited her in. He was anxious. He didn’t want to expose his adolescent enthusiasm, his all-too-obvious excitement crawling under his skin. He thought about doing something different, something that might make Alice believe that he, so accustomed to women, their whims, and the discovery of all those wonderful hidden buttons that made them docile, knew how to control his senses. Love, the kind made between the sheets, would come later, slowly.
He watched the fish swimming in the aquarium. The idea that she might get impatient and end up jumping on him convinced him to focus on them. He grabbed the fish food and sprinkled it in bits into the tank. He remembered his mother doing the same after wiping her hands on her apron and how his father watched her when she did. As the flakes floated on the water, reflecting the purple glow of the lamp, he suddenly thought that Alice might be offended, that turning his back to her was bad manners, and that the wallet in his jeans pocket was probably ruining his nice butt—and everyone knows how much women appreciate a nice butt.
He could hear her breathing, and the atmosphere became polluted with embarrassment. He remembered that he hadn’t made his bed that morning, that he had cycled for half an hour, and that his sweaty clothes hadn’t been washed—something that could ruin the moment. Sometimes, it’s a tiny, insignificant detail that ruins the poetry.
And then they began making love—at first with some squeaky gears, then with the oil of passion lubricating the driest cogs. He thought he didn’t deserve that girl, so beautiful, so passionate.
She was perfect.
He tried to recall others just as beautiful, but none came to mind. He convinced himself that overthinking would sap precious energy from where it mattered most, and he wanted to last, to stay in the moment, to punch a ticket to paradise, to withstand the seismic event that was shaking him to his very core… He concluded that he didn’t deserve her, but in the end, his pleasure erased all doubts.
As the moment unfolded, as that fragment of life projected itself before his eyes like fireworks on an August night, memories of disappointments, failures, and days wasted in anger came rushing back.
All reset, rewound like an old cassette tape with a film recorded from television.
All it took was the soft, warm, and tender Alice—the most beautiful girl in town—who, on that ordinary day at the beginning of an ordinary summer in an ordinary year of an ordinary century, had crossed his path to show him the way to happiness. Overwhelmed by a storm of emotions and tossed by the immense waves of joy, he finally wept.”
Beautiful, I like it. After all, I just wrote it. :) Certainly, it’s not my style. It’s a forced exercise I undertook to demonstrate that verbose writing ultimately reveals its limitations—and sometimes, it confuses.
When I wrote that scene for real in my novel One Night to Stay Alive, I put it down exactly like this:
“He invited her in and fed the fish in the aquarium; a 150-liter tank with half a dozen angelfish, four pairs of kissing gouramis, and a busy crew of bottom feeders, all immersed in an atmosphere suspended between violet and blue.
He felt a little ashamed of his unmade bed, of the pair of sweaty socks forgotten at the foot of the exercise bike, and especially of those cat carriers stacked like a tower in the corner of the room.
He got lost in Alice’s big, dark eyes, which she knew how to fill with passion, and then, when desire loosened the brakes, he admired the velvety skin and perfect proportions of that body, down to its most hidden details. His intention to resist was soon shattered by the seismic upheaval unleashed upon him.
He was so happy he struggled to hold back tears.”
As you can see, I prefer concise writing.
And for action scenes? For violence?
The same principle applies. In the genre I write, action-packed and violent scenes are quite frequent. In my thriller The Sixth Destination, for example, I developed the idea of a sniper missing his target like this:
“The wind she felt brushing her back was caused by the passage of a full metal jacket bullet.
After making a small hole in the window glass, it took a fraction of a second to graze her spine, split Cinzia’s head open like a melon, and rip through the boss’s guts, sending him staggering backward until he collapsed onto the photocopier still in operation. Silvia, the girl who had spent the last ten minutes loading one sheet at a time into the machine, heard the thud of the bullet ending its run at 830 meters per second, shattering the mechanisms. And she didn’t understand.
She didn’t understand because, from the corner of her eye, she had glimpsed a red stain replacing her colleague’s head, and she didn’t understand why the boss lay on the floor, doubled over and convulsing. When, along with a piece of her elbow, she saw a large bloodstain on the wall, she finally understood what was causing the excruciating pain in her arm.
It was the second shot.”
Here, no one is thinking. Only instinct, fear, and blood.
Yet, I swear, there are books where a similar scene would be used as an excuse to insert a philosophical reflection or, worse, a recycled aphorism.
So I insist: words belong to books, but let’s not take advantage of them. The reader does not deserve to endure our narcissism at the wrong moment, nor should they have to focus on reading as if competing in the world chess championship.
As I see it, writing is music. Every instrument must follow the rhythm, respect the tempo, and know when to fall silent. There are crescendos, decrescendos, and pauses. The writer has the privilege of possessing a symphony (the story), the best musicians (their talent), and the conductor’s baton to ensure a flawless execution. I would call that humility.
