Repetition Repeated

 

Repetition is a good way to memorize or remember things. In both music and literature, it can also emphasize important features, create suspense, or heighten expectation. But too much of it becomes counterproductive.

I enjoy a good hymn even though the musical structure of each stanza is the same, and that also goes for hymns that have a chorus that repeats after every verse. But part of my enjoyment comes from keying in on the elements that aren’t repetitive, such as the different words in each stanza. I don’t enjoy contemporary music that simply repeats the same words and melody over and over. Repetition that is overdone tends to lose its impact.

Literature works the same way. Some repetition can be valuable, but too much simply bores me to death.

We all have different music and reading tastes, and not everybody feels the same way about repetition. Still, every writer should be aware of the effect his or her literary devices have on the reader.

Redeeming Love by Francine Rivers is one of the most boring books I have ever read. That’s my opinion, but the reviews say that many other readers don’t agree with me.

The premise of Redeeming Love is taken from the Bible book of Hosea, which says that no one is beyond redemption. In Hosea, God tells the prophet to marry a prostitute. After she leaves him for another man, God tells Hosea to go after her and bring her back home. There is repetition in that Hosea finds and marries Gomer once and then finds her again to redeem her, but the entire book of Hosea is eleven pages in my ESV Bible and it takes less than three of them to cover the story of Hosea and Gomer. The rest is dedicated to where the story points—to God’s desire to redeem Israel and Judah.

Francine Rivers’ Redeeming Love, on the other hand, takes almost 500 pages to tell the story. I realize that good Biblical fiction enhances the story to develop the characters, setting, and plot, and if the book had been 300 pages, I might have been okay with it. Unfortunately, Redeeming Love tells an extremely repetitive story about an insipid heroine who goes through the same thing over and over again and doesn’t learn her lesson until the very end.

Repetition can aid memory or highlight important lessons, but there comes a point where it becomes counterproductive. The only lesson I got from Redeeming Love is to not read anything else by Francine Rivers.

And that’s not the lesson she intended to teach.

What Did You Say?

 

Another one of my pet peeves is when a writer uses foreign terms and dialogue that doesn’t enhance the story.  

I’m not opposed to using some foreign language in a novel. In fact, my recently completed manuscript Not the Enemy uses a limited amount of German dialogue. I had two rules for using it, however. First, it was purposefully designed to enhance rather than detract from the story. Second, the reader must be able to understand the meaning without having to check with secondary sources.

In Not the Enemy, the German words and phrases are spoken by a grandmother who refuses to learn English. Their use provides insight into both the grandmother and her very American granddaughter. I was also careful to provide the necessary context clues and to limit the amount and the length of that dialogue. (Since it is a children’s book, however, I also cheated slightly by putting a glossary at the end.)

The author I’m going to use to show the wrong way to do it is probably not the best example because of the era she wrote in, but it’s the one I most recently suffered through. If it wasn’t a classic by a well-known writer, I probably wouldn’t have finished it.

I’m talking about Villette by Charlotte Brontë. The book begins in England and has an English heroine, but most of the novel is set in a fictional French-speaking European city. The story is written in the first person and is narrated mostly in English, but occasionally it includes long sections of French dialogue. Since most of the French is narrated in English, there seems to be no good reason for the occasional lapse into French.

Obviously, I don’t know Charlotte Brontë’s motivation in using so much French in Villette, so I might be misjudging her. And in her defense, in that era many of her middle- and upper-class readers would have been taught at least some French. Still, I’m sure some wouldn’t have known the language.

My experience with Villette was especially painful since I was listening to it as an audio book and it wouldn’t have been easy to simply skip over the passages. Skipping over them in the physical version wouldn’t have resolved the problem anyway, since there were few context clues and I would have wondered what I was missing.

Either way, the use of a foreign language is another device that should be used carefully to ensure that it doesn’t detract from the story.

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To make the graphic at the top of this page, I used Google Translate to translate “What did you say?” from English to French.

Don't Be a Show-off

 

It bothers me when authors feel the need to show off their superior knowledge. Even good ones can fall into this trap, though.

One of my holiday reads was A Christmas Party by Georgette Heyer. I enjoy her light murder mysteries when I am in the mood for something that doesn’t require much thought. So I was disappointed when I read this:

When a leaden sky heralded the advent of snow, he began to talk about old-fashioned Christmases, and to liken Lexham Manor to Dingley Dell.

In point of fact, there was no more resemblance between the two houses than between Mr. Wardle and Nathaniel Herriard.

Georgette Heyer used that as a lead-in to describe Lexham Manor, which was the setting for her story. I understood the allusion only because I had recently listened to Charles Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers as an audio book. Since I have only read about half of Dickens’ works, I could easily have missed the reference. I image that many of Heyer’s readers would have had no idea that Dingley Dell was a country manor owned by Mr. Wardle in The Pickwick Papers. Fortunately, Heyer’s use of literary allusions was minimal and easy to overlook.

I’m not saying that a writer should never refer to something a less-well-read reader doesn’t know about. I often have my characters reading the books they would have read during their period of history, but I do it to show the characters as readers and use only the titles since the content of the book is irrelevant. Or, if it is relevant, I give the reader enough information to understand my use without having to research it.

Hidden or double meanings can even be fun at time, but allusions that some readers will miss work if—and only if—they don’t interrupt the flow and the surface story is interesting without them. Disney handles this issue well. Its animated films are filled with adult humor that children won’t get, but that doesn’t matter because the story is also told at a child’s level. If my enjoyment would depend on specialized knowledge or Mensa-level thinking, however, it isn’t the book for me.

If you want to infuse your manuscripts with allusions that show how smart you are, make sure they work on an everyday level as well.

Because it isn’t very smart to write a story nobody wants to read.

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The illustration at the top of this page is “Christmas Eve at Mr. Wardle’s” by Hablot Knight Browne (known as Phiz) drawn for The Pickwick Papers in 1836. It is in the public domain because of its age.  

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.