One of the ten commandments of creative writing must certainly be Thou Shalt Not Use clichés. The difference with writing commandments, of course, is that there’s always an “except…”
Except, perhaps, in the case of the hated cliché, or nearly so.Which is a bit of a surprise, when you consider that a good argument can be made for the use of clichés in dialogue. After all, faithful dialogue should imitate how people really speak, yes?Well, no, according to the same experts. Be an artist, not a scrivener. A literary author delivers enhanced reality, not simply a playback tape.
Abjure ye then also dialect, if you would be well-regarded as an author. It may have been fine for Samuel Clemens, but we’ve moved on since Huck Finn. Reader sensibilities are too refined today, and would be offended by a faithful rendition of how people really speak.
The stock justification for invoking the “except” clause in the case of any of the Commandments is usually when “it advances the effect you are trying to achieve.” Only it appears that clichés are so painful to the purist’s ear that they represent an exception to the exception justification. So when, if ever, can a cliché be permissibly included in prose intended for consumption by those with advanced sensibilities? When indeed.
Last night I encountered just such a unicorn in The Constant Gardener, one of David Cornwell’s (John le Carré) better known novels of intrigue.For those who have not read him, Cornwell belongs to that upper echelon of novelists (Graham Greene is another) that are regarded as literary authors that happen to write genre fiction.
The scene of the crime is set by Sandy Woodrow, a British diplomat, accompanying Justin Quayle to identify the body of Quayle’s wife at the Nairobi morgue. At this point the reader is aware that Woodrow (married) was – is- secretly in love with Tessa, Quayle’s lovely, spirited young wife, and that prior to its removal to the morgue her body had been brutalized, and also locked in a car for 36 hours in the blinding summer heat of Kenya.
When the two are led to view the horrifically altered body, Quayle reacts with stoicism. But Woodrow is unmanned by the experience. Quayle progresses directly from confirming her identity to what must be done by way of funeral arrangements, but Woodrow is not up to the task:
“Well, I suppose that will have to depend a bit on the police,” said Woodrow gruffly and was barely in time to make it to a cracked hand basin, where he vomited his heart out while Justin the ever-courteous stood at his shoulder with his arm round him, murmuring condolences.
So there you have it – “vomited his heart out.” The exception to the exception to the exception is you may commit the cardinal sin of cliché if by doing so you can demonstrate how frightfully clever you really are. Now you know.
Interesting. You are of course right about the refined sensibilities of contemporary readers, but here I’ll add this: you should strive to make your characters sound different, because in reality no two people sound the same, do they? It can add a great deal of charm to the story, if the characters are written in such a fashion that one can recognize who is speaking without the “said X” at the end. And in this case, clichés are probably allowed as well. Nothing can set a character apart better than a popular turn of phrase, which the reader can easily visualize.
Great post!
Thanks, and I agree completely. I continue to use cliches where I think a character would use them. I’ve also found that giving characters distinctive voices is one of the more enjoyable parts of writing, besides making good sense. It’s nice when things line up that way.
Good post Andrew, and ‘for the record’, I agree with both you and Ramona. When I write my individual character profiles I make notes of a few words to remind me how they speak. I avoid dialect, having tried writing it; and tried reading it.
Thanks, Tom. I think one exception (exceptions again…) to the dialect rule is that if you’re talking about a “walk by” character who’s not going to deliver more than a line or two, it can be effective, especially in a light setting. The main problem with dialect, I think, is that it grows tiresome quickly.
Another rule I didn’t get into is the one that says that characters should speak in complete sentences instead of the way people really talk. Anyone who has ever read a verbatim transcript knows why – in print, real conversation sounds jumbled, and even hard to follow. I try and take a mid-line approach on this one by trying to make it sound more natural but not so much as to make it hard to follow.
I spend time culling clichés in my editing and I am constantly astonished at how many I find. Sometimes, I let them stand but usually only in dialogue but I do try and eradicate them
The dialect question is interesting. I’m currently editing a novel set on the West coast of Scotland and as my Scottish characters speak, I hear their accents and find my fingers typing exactly what they say, accent and all. What I’m wondering is whether, rather than writing dialect if I should alter the timbre of some voices with geographically specific vocabulary and word order. Any opinions gratefully considered.
I think that using local phraseology and turns of speech is an excellent idea. Here are some other tools I can think of to make the characters seem more real and authentic instead of using dialect:
– metaphors and similes that would have local rather than general meanings
– “passing the time of day” topics of local relevance, which could be anything from a market day to a local festival or agricultural subject
– topics or observations that someone in a different setting might make differently, such as “we’ll never get the hay in now” in comparison to “it looks like rain.”
– signaling differences in the tempo of life and relationships to nature (“the sun’s behind the mountain already; time we were heading home” rather than “it’s getting late”)
– having an outsider as a character who can make observations on the differences they see in comparison to where they’re from.
And you could still have a character encounter the occasional old crofter that introduces a wee bit of burr into his greeting.
Good luck! I’ll look forward to hearing more about your current work.
Interesting topic, Andy; plus nice comment thread.
My problem with so many of the rules is, they’re so often written by and for specific educational or financial classes of readers.
I think, as someone who learned English (though born and raised in Texas) starting in kindergarten (age 5), and who’s primary contact with people outside of writers and artists are working and middle class people from varied cultures, the rules are just guidelines.
Rules evolve, change, get stuck, and evolve again.
After all, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. 🙂
Thanks, Andy!
Thanks, Felipe. I was interested to see that le Carre’s characters regularly say something “adverbly” as well. Another current cardinal sin. It’s amazing that these folks have been able to have such successful careers despite their flagrant violations of the guardians of the slush pile gates.
My theory is, if the story is attractive enough for the times (which means luck is also involved) then bloopers and non-standard elements sometimes become “in” – why not 🙂
120,000 words, huh? Wow. Be interesting follow up!
Andrew–
It’s that “cracked hand basin” that, for me, legitimizes the cliché. But I have to say that vomiting his heart out is not quite the cliché that vomiting his guts out is. As for using clichés, developing certain kinds of characters positively demands the use of clichés. Show me a politician or an MBA grad or military type who doesn’t rely on clichés or acronyms, and I’ll show you something at odds with realism.
I agree – leaving cliches out of dialogue where the individual you are portraying would invariably use them would be downright silly. And yet an editor asked me to change such a cliche in my first book. I ignored the request.
That settles it 🙂 In my wip, I’ve a tween wanting to use a cliche and I haven’t yet “let” her. Time to let her be who she is 🙂 Thanks you guys!