Susan Rivers's Blog - Posts Tagged "mudbound"
Just a Sprinkle, Please -- Too Much Exposition Spoils the Stew
I will wrap up this series about the five purposes of dialogue in fiction with the last, and in some ways, the most elusive element of story-telling: exposition. How an author controls the sharing of information crucial to the reader's experience of the story and his or her understanding of the characters' roles in that story is critical.
Sometimes exposition can be directly expressed in dialogue, but in my opinion, the mark of a seasoned writer is one who is confident enough to use exposition sparingly, sprinkling it lightly into the mix as one seasons a stew, and not throwing handfuls of information at the reader that call attention through the artificiality of their delivery. (Like when the climax in a mystery novel, the key scene between the sleuth and the murderer, bogs down in a surfeit of exposition about who-did-what-when, or even worse, an explication of railroad timetables. At that point, all the air is let out of the scene, and, ultimately, the mystery. If you're a fan of the mystery genre, you recognize the kind of 'Big Scene Fail' I'm talking about…)
Here's a key point to keep in mind about exposition: some details about your principal characters might never be known, and that will be all right. Where they grew up, who was their first grade teacher, how many siblings do they have, what was their first job? Given the story being told, only a few key facts about the characters' lives might be relevant. And other facts, the characters may intentionally be concealing.
The rest can be inferred by your reader. Less is more when it comes to exposition, especially when it is conveyed in dialogue. Allow me to demonstrate how NOT to use exposition: "Oh Cedric, it's a beautiful autumn day in 1885 and I'm so glad we're seeing Paris for the first time as a couple"… "Yes Geraldine, it's too bad my father disowned me on the eve of our wedding but once I find a back-room card-game we'll soon have enough money to stay at the Ritz for our honeymoon."
Instead of turning your characters into mouthpieces for the story, let exposition take a backseat to what's happening between characters, working essential information into dialogue as seems natural for the events and the people involved. In other words, let much of the exposition come out in sub-text, the meaning and attitudes conveyed by means of implication. (See my earlier post on Sub-text for a fuller exploration of this important dialogue tool.)
An example of how this is done expertly in a modern novel is Hilary Jordan's masterwork, Mudbound, which was made into a film for Netflix in 2017. This exploration of racial difficulties set against the impoverished landscape of the Mississippi Delta in the post-WWII era is told in multiple first-person narratives. The dialogue is freighted with the emotional stances each narrator maintains in a particular relationship, with most of these relationships being fragile and problematic.
In one scene in the novel, a white land appraiser turned farmer, Henry McAllan, is forced to go to the house of his tenants, the Jacksons, and persuade Hap's wife Florence to come back with him to his own home. His two daughters have come down with whooping cough, which often killed children in the days before a vaccine was discovered (this is 1946 or '47). His wife Laura, who didn't want to leave Memphis and come down to the delta to be a farmer's wife, is furious with Henry and terrified that her children will die if they aren't treated by a proper doctor. On his way to town to fetch the physician, however, Henry discovers that the bridge has been washed out by a storm, and he's forced to turn around.
Remembering that Florence Jackson is a midwife and treats some of the African-Americans in the community with folk medicine, he drives in desperation to the Jackson's house. The dialogue that follows, told through Henry's point-of-view, teaches us some important aspects of the situation between the inhabitants of this troubled world: Henry, although new to farming, believes wholly in his superiority as the landowner and as a white man, but he is forced to adjust this estimation when confronted with Florence's own considerable pride and her commitment to her own children. The relationship is complicated by the fact that Henry needs Florence badly, and can offer her very little. It is not an easy conversation they share. Both are compelled to be circumspect: Henry because his pride will not allow him to plead for assistance from a black woman, and Florence, because in resisting McAllan it would be reckless for her to risk insulting him. As they engage with one another, we witness the balance of power shifting on the farm.
When Henry knocks on their door, Florence answers it and tells him that Hap is out in the mule shed. Henry says:
"Actually, I came to see you. My little girls, they’re three and five, they've taken sick with whooping cough. I can't get to town because the bridge is washed out, and my wife…"
"When they start the whooping?"
"This afternoon."
She shook her head. "They still catching then. I can give you some remedies to take em but I can't go with you."
"I'll pay you," I said.
"I wouldn't be able to come home for three or four days at least. And then who gone look after my own family, and my mothers?"
I'm asking you," I said.
This exchange is followed by Henry's 1st-person account of his uncomfortable awareness, as he "locked eyes with her," of Florence's powerful will and spirit, "a deep-running fierceness that was almost warrior-like." He sees Florence's daughter standing behind her in the kitchen, and notices that the girl is watching them, waiting "like I was, for her mother's answer."
"I got to ask Hap," Florence said finally.
The girl ducked her head…and I knew that Florence was lying. The decision was hers to make, not Hap's, and she'd just made it.
"Please," I said. "My wife is afraid."
… If she said no, I wouldn't ask her again. I wouldn't stoop to beg a ni***r for help. If she said no --
All right then," she said. "wait here while I get my things."
(Jordan, p. 80-81)
Isn't that strong? And effective? Go easy with the exposition in your dialogue, being guided by what's essential, and avoiding extraneous information. Your reader will be glad you did.
Jordan, Hillary. Mudbound. Chapel Hill, North Carolina.Algonquin Books, 2008.
Sometimes exposition can be directly expressed in dialogue, but in my opinion, the mark of a seasoned writer is one who is confident enough to use exposition sparingly, sprinkling it lightly into the mix as one seasons a stew, and not throwing handfuls of information at the reader that call attention through the artificiality of their delivery. (Like when the climax in a mystery novel, the key scene between the sleuth and the murderer, bogs down in a surfeit of exposition about who-did-what-when, or even worse, an explication of railroad timetables. At that point, all the air is let out of the scene, and, ultimately, the mystery. If you're a fan of the mystery genre, you recognize the kind of 'Big Scene Fail' I'm talking about…)
Here's a key point to keep in mind about exposition: some details about your principal characters might never be known, and that will be all right. Where they grew up, who was their first grade teacher, how many siblings do they have, what was their first job? Given the story being told, only a few key facts about the characters' lives might be relevant. And other facts, the characters may intentionally be concealing.
The rest can be inferred by your reader. Less is more when it comes to exposition, especially when it is conveyed in dialogue. Allow me to demonstrate how NOT to use exposition: "Oh Cedric, it's a beautiful autumn day in 1885 and I'm so glad we're seeing Paris for the first time as a couple"… "Yes Geraldine, it's too bad my father disowned me on the eve of our wedding but once I find a back-room card-game we'll soon have enough money to stay at the Ritz for our honeymoon."
Instead of turning your characters into mouthpieces for the story, let exposition take a backseat to what's happening between characters, working essential information into dialogue as seems natural for the events and the people involved. In other words, let much of the exposition come out in sub-text, the meaning and attitudes conveyed by means of implication. (See my earlier post on Sub-text for a fuller exploration of this important dialogue tool.)
An example of how this is done expertly in a modern novel is Hilary Jordan's masterwork, Mudbound, which was made into a film for Netflix in 2017. This exploration of racial difficulties set against the impoverished landscape of the Mississippi Delta in the post-WWII era is told in multiple first-person narratives. The dialogue is freighted with the emotional stances each narrator maintains in a particular relationship, with most of these relationships being fragile and problematic.
In one scene in the novel, a white land appraiser turned farmer, Henry McAllan, is forced to go to the house of his tenants, the Jacksons, and persuade Hap's wife Florence to come back with him to his own home. His two daughters have come down with whooping cough, which often killed children in the days before a vaccine was discovered (this is 1946 or '47). His wife Laura, who didn't want to leave Memphis and come down to the delta to be a farmer's wife, is furious with Henry and terrified that her children will die if they aren't treated by a proper doctor. On his way to town to fetch the physician, however, Henry discovers that the bridge has been washed out by a storm, and he's forced to turn around.
Remembering that Florence Jackson is a midwife and treats some of the African-Americans in the community with folk medicine, he drives in desperation to the Jackson's house. The dialogue that follows, told through Henry's point-of-view, teaches us some important aspects of the situation between the inhabitants of this troubled world: Henry, although new to farming, believes wholly in his superiority as the landowner and as a white man, but he is forced to adjust this estimation when confronted with Florence's own considerable pride and her commitment to her own children. The relationship is complicated by the fact that Henry needs Florence badly, and can offer her very little. It is not an easy conversation they share. Both are compelled to be circumspect: Henry because his pride will not allow him to plead for assistance from a black woman, and Florence, because in resisting McAllan it would be reckless for her to risk insulting him. As they engage with one another, we witness the balance of power shifting on the farm.
When Henry knocks on their door, Florence answers it and tells him that Hap is out in the mule shed. Henry says:
"Actually, I came to see you. My little girls, they’re three and five, they've taken sick with whooping cough. I can't get to town because the bridge is washed out, and my wife…"
"When they start the whooping?"
"This afternoon."
She shook her head. "They still catching then. I can give you some remedies to take em but I can't go with you."
"I'll pay you," I said.
"I wouldn't be able to come home for three or four days at least. And then who gone look after my own family, and my mothers?"
I'm asking you," I said.
This exchange is followed by Henry's 1st-person account of his uncomfortable awareness, as he "locked eyes with her," of Florence's powerful will and spirit, "a deep-running fierceness that was almost warrior-like." He sees Florence's daughter standing behind her in the kitchen, and notices that the girl is watching them, waiting "like I was, for her mother's answer."
"I got to ask Hap," Florence said finally.
The girl ducked her head…and I knew that Florence was lying. The decision was hers to make, not Hap's, and she'd just made it.
"Please," I said. "My wife is afraid."
… If she said no, I wouldn't ask her again. I wouldn't stoop to beg a ni***r for help. If she said no --
All right then," she said. "wait here while I get my things."
(Jordan, p. 80-81)
Isn't that strong? And effective? Go easy with the exposition in your dialogue, being guided by what's essential, and avoiding extraneous information. Your reader will be glad you did.
Jordan, Hillary. Mudbound. Chapel Hill, North Carolina.Algonquin Books, 2008.
