Hidden Puzzles

I enjoy books where the characters have to solve puzzles as part of the plot. This includes middle-grade children’s books such as The Westing Game by Ellen Raskin, The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart, and Escape from Mr. Lemoncello’s Library by Chris Grabenbstein. But it really annoys me when I’m expected to solve a puzzle on my own without any help from the characters.

It isn’t that I don’t like puzzles. On the contrary, putting together jigsaw puzzles and solving crosswords are among my favorite pastimes. What I don’t like is when I’m reading a book and a puzzle takes me out of the story.

I recently read The Christmas Murder Game by Alexandra Benedict. The guests at a country house have been invited to solve twelve days of riddles, many of which are based on family experiences that are unknown to the reader. That means the reader can’t solve the riddles but must wait for one of the characters to announce the solution.

That’s not what annoyed me, however. No, I was annoyed by the puzzles that the author wove into the text but not the story. Looking for those answers would have been a distraction that would have ruined the book for me. Fortunately, they were hidden well enough that they didn’t create any bumps in the story, so I simply ignored them.

But I’ll never understand why an author would choose to use a device that takes readers out of the story.

 

Down with Info Dumps

 

Morocco has beautiful countryside, but the sight is marred by the litter dumped along the roads.¹ To mangle a well-known cliché, you can’t see the landscape for the trash. Information dumps in fiction work the same way, distracting you from the story.

An info dump is just what it sounds like. A writer takes everything in a character’s background and dumps it into the story all at once. It usually happens in the first chapter, but not always.

I recently finished a Christian novel by a writer who seemed to believe that info dumps were expected. Or maybe she was just too lazy to do it the right way. She isn’t well-known and you aren’t likely to read her anyway, so I won’t embarrass her by using her name.

The first chapter was dominated by an info dump about the female protagonist’s life. While most of it was important to the novel, we didn’t need to know it right away. In fact, dumping it in the first chapter took away some of the suspense the author could have used to her advantage. Both the first chapter and the book as a whole would have been much better if she had woven the background in where it fit with the story.

The second chapter, while not as bad, also contained an info dump, this time about the male protagonist’s life, and not all of it was necessary to the story. On the positive side, she did weave his trouble-making propensities as a boy in later where it fit.

If I hadn’t had other reasons for reading the book, I would have put it down after the first chapter. Or maybe I would have given her the benefit of the doubt and waited until I came across the second info dump, but I wouldn’t have finished it.

Info dumps are a good way to ruin an interesting plot. For one thing, they bore a reader who hasn’t gotten into the story yet. For another, they eliminate suspense. And they can be avoided by waiting and weaving the information into the story when it becomes necessary for the reader to know those particular facts. For example, if your character feels guilty for abandoning her children when they were young, you can show the guilt without the cause and let people know she has a secret without letting them in on it. Then, when she unexpectedly meets her daughter, the information can be gradually revealed or, if it makes for greater tension, can be revealed all at once. But you don’t have to do it in Chapter 1 if she doesn’t meet her daughter until Chapter 12.

No author does herself or himself a favor by telling too much about her characters too soon.

__________

¹ I took the photograph on a recent trip to Morocco.

Get a Clue

 

On New Year’s Eve, Roland and I watched a movie loosely based on the board game “Clue.” I won’t go into the reasons why we chose it, but it was a bad choice.

Filler is one of my pet peeves. That’s when a writer (usually of a book, but in this case of a movie) throws in extra material to lengthen a book (or a movie) even though it doesn’t add to the story. That’s often the sign of a lazy writer, although sometimes it is simply the sign of an amateur.

The movie “Clue” drove me crazy because the principal character kept running around and reenacting parts of the crimes (multiple murders) to show us how they could have been done. There were simpler, less annoying, ways to show it, but they wouldn’t have been as long. As it was, I was so annoyed that if it had been a book I would have put it down. The author got away with it only because it was a movie and I knew the agony wouldn’t last much longer.

That doesn’t mean that a writer can’t attempt to make a story longer. In fact, sometimes it needs filling out just as an emaciated person needs to put on weight. But the additional material must be a seamless part of the story, flowing with and enhancing it. That takes work and creativity, which are the lazy writer’s enemies. For me, it’s a challenge that give me an adrenaline rush.

Next week I’ll talk about info dumps.

Reading as a Reader

 

Over the years, I’ve attended a number of writers’ conferences and read many books on how to write fiction. Usually I agree with the advice that the presenters and authors give, but not always. One piece of advice that I do NOT agree with is this: read with an eye to discovering what the writer does right or wrong. If I had time to read a book again right after the first read, I suppose I would be okay with doing that on the second read, but I have too many books on my reading list to read any of them twice.

Why do I disagree with the advice on a first read?

I read for two main reasons: research and pleasure, and sometimes a book (such as a diary or journal) provides both. If I’m reading for research, I’m interested in the facts or the situations or the emotions that are portrayed, and how well the book is written is often irrelevant. If I’m reading for pleasure, I don’t want to get distracted by analyzing the writing. Because that’s what it is: a distraction that takes me away from the story.

That doesn’t mean I never notice the author’s skill or use of particular writing devices. Sometimes I do, especially if the devices are themselves a distraction that pulls me out of the story. I’m going to use my next few blog posts to highlight some of these devices that I would classify as pet peeves. As a reader, you will probably agree with me, and if you’re a writer, I hope you will get the message and avoid using them.

Next week I’ll talk about obvious filler.

Finding Names by the Side of the Road

 

Roland and I went to Raleigh, North Carolina, over the holidays to celebrate Christmas with our children. On the way there and back, we drove by Mount Airy and Pilot Mountain. That’s Pilot Mountain in the photo.

For those of you who don’t know, Mount Airy, North Carolina, was Andy Griffith’s childhood home and the inspiration for the fictional town of Mayberry on the Andy Griffith Show. Mt. Pilot was the fictional county seat on that same show. It’s obvious where the name of the county seat came from, and apparently the name of the town came from Mayberry, Virginia, just across the state line.

Not all names are that easy to come up with when writing a story. Still, I have noticed that road trips provide me with a great resource. When Roland is driving, I read the exit signs and write the town names in a notebook for later use. Sometimes they are common names like Monroe, but at other times they are more unusual, such as Gallipolis or Litchfield.

Since I write historical fiction, I often use real locations. It would be hard to write about the Great Chicago Fire or the siege of Vicksburg without setting those stories in Chicago or Vicksburg, respectively. But when I’m writing about something that happened throughout the U.S., or at least in a relatively large area, I may create a fictional town to give me more flexibility in the layout, shops, and general characteristics of the setting. In that case, I look at the names on my list and consider using one, but I do a Google search to ensure that the state I am locating it in doesn’t have a town by that name. Since I collect names from all over the country, I can usually find something that works.

That’s a secondary use of my list, though. I primarily use it for surnames. Most of my characters have last names that I pulled from my list of towns, such as Girard or Morton or Waldon.

But whether I use the names for characters or locations, interstate exit signs can be a great resource.

Come Quickly

 

It has been a busy week traveling to North Carolina and celebrating Christmas with our children and their spouses. So I’m going to take the lazy way out and reprint a blog post from January 6, 2020. The first paragraph refers to 2020, but the link is still good.

Come Quickly

During Advent, my church choir sang “E’en So, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come” by Paul Manz. Then, when I was visiting my brother in Nashville, his church choir sang the same anthem. It’s a beautiful song and fun to sing. Here is a link to a YouTube performance posted by the publisher. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qjtMJxtoooI

Even though it is no longer Advent, the song works at any time. Based on Revelation 22, it is a plea for Jesus to come quickly.

According to an old saying, “Red sky at night, sailors delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.”¹ This saying has scientific validity and is also Biblical. In Matthew 16:2-3, Jesus says, “When evening comes, you say, ‘It will be fair weather, for the sky is red,’ and in the morning, ‘Today it will be stormy, for the sky is red and overcast.’ You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky, but you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” (NIV)

Just as a red sunset indicates that the next day will be pleasant, so the Second Coming ushers in a wonderful new world for those who trust in Jesus.

As the new year begins, we don’t know what it has in store for us. But regardless of whether it is filled with good experiences, with heartbreak, or with some of each, Christians find their hope in the Resurrection and the Second Coming. When Christ comes, those who trust in Him will know only joy.

Paul Manz ends his song this way, with words that paraphrase Revelation 22:5.

E’en so, Lord Jesus, quickly come,

And night shall be no more;

They need no light nor lamp nor sun,

For Christ will be their All!

Come quickly, Lord Jesus.

__________

¹ According to The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (Fifth Edition), the original 14^th century saying was “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight; red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.” But as a former sailor, I’m more familiar with the other version.

"Why the Chimes Rang"

 

My Christmas present to you is a story by Raymond MacDonald Alden. I previously printed it on my blog on December 22, 2014.

Why the Chimes Rang

by Raymond MacDonald Alden

            There was once, in a faraway country where few people have ever traveled, a wonderful church. It stood on a high hill in the midst of a great city; and every Sunday, as well as sacred days like Christmas, thousands of people climbed the hill to its great archways, looking like lines of ants all moving in the same direction.

            When you came to the building itself, you found stone columns and dark passages, and a grand entrance leading to the main room of the church. This room was so long that one standing in the doorway could scarecly see the other end, where the choir stood by the marble altar. In the farthest corner was the organ; and this organ was so loud, that sometimes when it played, the people for miles around closed their shutters and prepared for a great thunderstorm. Altogether, no such chuch as this was ever seen before, especially when it was lighted up for some festival, and crowded with people, young and old. But the strangest thing about the whole building was the wonderful chime of bells.

            At one corner of the church was a great gray tower, with ivy growing over it as far as one could see. I say as far as one could see, because the tower was quite great enough to fit the great church, and it rose so far into the sky that it was only in very fair weather that any one claimed to be able to see the top. Even then one could not be certain that it was in sight. Up, and up, and up climbed the ivy; and, as the men who built the church had been dead for hundreds of years, every one had forgotten how high the tower was supposed to be.

            Now all the people knew that at the top of the tower was a chime of Christmas bells. They had hung there ever since the church had been built, and were the most beautiful bells in the world. Some thought it was because a great musician had cast them in their place; others said it was because of the great height, which reached up where the air was clearest and purest: however that might be, no one who had ever heard the chimes denied that they were the sweetest in the world. Some described them as sounding like angels far up in the sky; others, as sounding like strange winds singing through the trees.

            But the fact was that no one had heard them for years and years. There was an old man living not far from the church, who said that his mother had spoken of hearing them when she was a little girl, and he was the only one who was sure of as much as that. They were Christmas chimes, you see, and were not meant to be played by men or on common days. It was the custom on Christmas Eve for all the people to bring to the church their offerings to the Christ-child; and when the greatest and best offering was laid on the altar, there used to come sounding through the music of the choir the Christmas chimes far up in the tower. Some said that the wind rang them, and others that they were so high that the angels could set them swinging. But for many long years they had never been heard. It was said that people had been growing less careful of their gifts for the Christ-child, and that no offering was brought, great enough to deserve the music of the chimes.

            Every Christmas Eve the rich people still crowded to the altar, each one trying to bring some better gift than any other, without giving anything that he wanted for himself, and the church was crowded with those who thought that perhaps the wonderful bells might be heard again. But although the service was splendid, and the offerings plenty, only the roar of the wind could be heard, far up in the stone tower.

            Now, a number of miles from the city, in a little country village, where nothing could be seen of the great church but glimpses of the tower when the weather was fine, lived a boy named Pedro, and his little brother. They knew very little about the Christmas chimes, but they had heard of the service in the church on Christmas Eve, and had a secret plan, which they had often talked over when by themselves, to go see the beautiful celebration.

            “Nobody can guess, Little Brother,” Pedro would say, “all the fine things there are to see and hear; and I have even heard it said that the Christ-child sometimes comes down to bless the service. What if we could see Him?”

            The day before Christmas was bitterly cold, with a few lonely snowflakes flying in the air, and a hard white crust on the ground. Sure enough, Pedro and Little Brother were able to slip quietly away early in the afternoon; and although the walking was hard in the frosty air, before nightfall they had trudged so far, hand in hand, that they saw the lights of the big city just ahead of them. Indeed, they were about to enter one of the great gates in the wall that surrounded it, when they saw something dark on the snow near their path, and stepped aside to look at it.

            It was a poor woman, who had fallen just outside the city, too sick and tired to get in where she might have found shelter. The soft snow made of a drift a sort of a pillow for her, and she would soon be so sound asleep, in the wintry air, that no one could ever waken her again. All this Pedro saw in a moment, and he knelt down beside her and tried to rouse her, even tugging at her arm a little, as though he would have tried to carry her away. He turned her face toward him, so he could rub some of the snow on it, and when he had looked at her silently for a moment he stood up again, and said:

            “It’s no use, Little Brother. You will have to go on alone.”

            “Alone?” cried little Brother. “And you not see the festival?”

            “No,” said Pedro, and he could not keep back a bit of a choking sound in his throat. “See this poor woman? Her face looks like the Madonna in the chapel window, and she will freeze to death if nobody cares for her. Every one has gone to the church now, but when you come back you can bring some one to help her. I will rub her to keep her from freezing, and perhaps get her to eat the bun that is left in my pocket.”

            “But I can not bear to leave you, and go on alone,” said Little Brother.

            “Both of us need not miss the service,” said Pedro, “and it had better be I than you. You can easily find your way to the church; and you must see and hear everything twice, Little Brother—once for you and once for me. I am sure the Christ-child must know how I should love to come with you and worship Him; and oh! if you get a chance, Little Brother, to slip up to the altar without getting in any one’s way, take this little piece of silver of mine, and lay it down for my offering, when no one is looking. Do not forget where you have left me, and forgive me for not going with you.”

            In this way he hurried Little Brother off to the city, and winked hard to keep back the tears, as he heard the crunching footsteps sounding farther and farther away in the twilight. It was pretty hard to lose the music and splendor of the Christmas celebration that he had been planning for so long, and spend the time instead in that lonely place in the snow.

            The great church was a wonderful place that night. Every one said that it had never looked so bright and beautiful before. When the organ played and the thousands of people sang, the walls shook with the sound, and little Pedro, away outside the city wall, felt the earth tremble around him.

            At the close of the service came the procession with the offerings to be laid on the altar. Rich men and great men marched proudly up to lay down their gifts to the Christ-child. Some brought wonderful jewels, some baskets of gold so heavy they could scarcely carry them down the aisle. A great writer laid down a book that he had been making for years and years. And last of all walked the king of the country, hoping with all the rest to win for himself the chime of the Christmas bells. There went a great murmur through the church, as the people saw the king take from his head the royal crown, all set with precious stones and lay it gleaming on the altar, as his offering to the holy Child. “Surely,” everyone said, “we shall hear the bells now, for nothing like this has ever happened before.”

            But still only the cold old wind was heard in the tower, and the people shook their heads; and some of them said, as they had before, that they never really believed the story of the chimes, and doubted if they ever rang at all.

            The procession was over, and the choir began the closing hymn. Suddenly the organist stopped playing as though he had been shot, and every one looked at the old minister, who was standing by the altar, holding up his hand for silence. Not a sound could be heard from any one in the church, but as all the people strained their ears to listen, there came distinctly, swinging through the air, the sound of the chimes in the tower. So far away, and yet so clear the music seemed—so much sweeter were the notes than anything that had ever been heard before, rising and falling away up there in the sky, that the people in the church sat there for a moment as still as though something held each of them by the shoulders. Then they all stood up together and stared at the altar, to see what great gift had awakened the long-silent bells.

            But all that the nearest of them saw was the childish figure of Little Brother, who had crept softly down the aisle when no one was looking, and had laid Pedro’s little piece of silver on the altar.

__________

Why the Chimes Rang was first published in 1909, and the picture at the top of this post is one of the original illustrations by Mayo Bunker. Both the story and the illustration are in the public domain because of their age.