Stylin’

I’ve been doing this writing thing professionally for about fifteen years or so at this point, written 20 novels so far and a handful of short stories.  I am, however, constantly reminded that there are always things I’m still learning.  A recent post by Steve Buchheit (here and here) reminded me of one of my more recent learning experiences.  To a certain extent, I’ve always known about “style.”  That little quality of wordsmithery that means you’ll never confuse a story by Hemingway for one by Lovecraft. (Has anyone done a Hemingway Mythos story? If they have they get 10,000 geek points.)

Anyhoo, my novels, up to around Dragons of the Cuyahoga, were never written with “style” in mind beyond making sure the tone of the text wasn’t at odds with the subject matter.  That worked out pretty well, as I’m pretty good at visualizing the POV of my characters enough that the rhythm, word choice, and sentence structure follows.  However, it was all pretty much seat of the pants type stuff.

Recently I worked on a burst of short stories, not my normal mode, and working with the short form gave me an opportunity to experiment with style and language far more than I’d normally be comfortable with in a novel.  Let me give you some examples.

First, from Raven, a sample of my default voice early on:

I trudged through a growing snowstorm to the front of the motel and entered the manager’s office. The woman behind the counter was easily sixty-five, wore thick glasses, and hair the color of FD&C Red #5. She glanced up at me, then went back to reading the book in her lap.

I walked up to the desk and cleared my throat.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a bored voice.

Now, for the sake of some contrast, here’s a bit from my story “The Historian’s Apprentice”:

Unquestionably, I have been thought mad. The story I relate begins in the lowest gaol in Thalassus, the place where the mad were confined. The gaol itself existed under the surface of Thalassus, its asylum levels deeper still, and the level of my cell, deepest of all. The gaol was known as the Protectory, a name much older than its function. I was sent there as a madwoman because of an indiscretion.

I lived as a courtesan within one of the minor houses serving the Monad. The house, whose name I long ago decided to forget, was only a short distance from the Monad’s curtain wall. The greater part of the house’s clientele came from the lower parts of the civil autocracy. Most were men whose rank wasn’t sufficient to achieve satisfaction through the services offered within the Monad.

And another change of pace from, “The Enigma of the Serbian Scientist”:

Inspector Lestrade of the Special Branch met us in a private room at Scotland Yard. “Mr. Helms, Doctor Wilson.” He shook our hands and smiled. “Something about this case made me think I’d see you two come round. Not to disappoint you, but this is not one of your intricate enigmas, a veritable dearth of intrigue and mystery. Only a mundane case of murder, despite the character of the players.”
Helms nodded. “I am afraid, Inspector Lestrade, that there may be more to this than a simple confession.”

“A confession?” I remarked.

Lestrade’s expression of surprise was matched by my own. “We haven’t announced this to the press, but yes, we have a confession. How did you—”

“And I believe your suspect is a Mr. Nikola Tesla, with whom I would like to speak.”

Lestrade was speechless for a moment, but I could see in his eyes the realization that Helms had indeed seen something in the case that he did not. “Well, Mr. Helms,” he said, “I quite respect your opinion in matters like these and I will say I am rarely sorry when I’ve allowed you to review the evidence in a case. I’ll arrange an interview for you. Would you please wait here?”

This one is a bit more subtle than the “Historian’s Apprentice” but still required an extreme focus on every single sentence in the story. It is not a job for the faint of heart, which is why I think it took me 15 years before I could write Lilly’s Song. The style of that book is subtly different from most everything I’ve written before, as I’m trying to write with some verisimilitude about a period far and away from our current language.

Eight days after the carnage at Johnsburg Castle, Sergeant Günter Sejod had the dubious honor of greeting a full company of fresh soldiers, secular knights, squires, turcopoles and various men-at-arms— all led by seven armored men bearing white mantles over their shoulders, displaying the black cross of the Order of the Hospital of St. Mary of the Germans at Jerusalem.

Günter had expected the Landkomtur to return with some dramatic gesture on behalf of the Order. Christian charity aside, he couldn’t help but picture it involving his head parting company with his shoulders.

The historical terms aside, the book is completely modern English, no thee or thou, no archaic spellings and so on. Still, I believe I’ve managed to capture the period with the rhythm, sentence structure and word choice.