Silence, Too, Is Golden

Much can be said in praise of silence (is that a contradiction in terms?). There are at least two kinds of golden silence that can add to the power of our writing, just as the “space between the notes” is the silent power of music. You can probably think of more, but here are a few of my reflections.

Silence of the characters

We all work hard to make dialogue lifelike and pithy. Sometimes the trailing thoughts of real-life speech don’t translate well to the page, and we have to compact, which can leave the impression of a hurried, breathless exchange of words. That’s not realistic either most of the time, especially where something shocking or terrible or overwhelmingly joyous is being transmitted—in short, any of those strong emotions that add so much to one’s novel. Because our reaction to powerful emotional stimulus is often silence—we are left literally speechless. Thus, silence can be the first stunned reaction. It can be reflective silence, when a character receives information that requires her to ponder or sift through the words her interlocutor has spoken. It can be a timid or fearful silence of someone who is of inferior social standing or retiring by nature. It can be the angry swallow-down-your-words kind of silence, when someone wants to say something but realizes they’d better not. There are other kinds too, but I’m sure you get the picture. Those silences speak as eloquently as the words. What says “shock” like leaving a character gaping in silence? What says “controlled fury” like a boiling face… and compressed lips? So, vary the flow of spoken words with some patches of meaningful silence, and you’ll see how much drama it can add. We can group all these types as “silence of the characters.” Here are a few examples:

The men settled themselves in comfortable silence.

(X) said nothing for a moment then asked, “Did I understand …

(X) was silent, his face frozen. Then he said with a bitter twist of the lips, “But you do, (Y).

Silence of the author

Yep, that’s the next one. All the things you don’t write. This is something poets know automatically, because they work in such a compact medium, where emotions and impressions are often suggested rather than spelled out. This doesn’t mean you have to write as sparely as Hemingway, just avoid resaying what has been hinted at. Consider this giving your readers credit for following along pretty knowingly. Avoid repeating descriptions you’ve already given of characters, for example—this one can really creep up on us, because we picture Mary having big blue eyes every time we think of her. But after one mention, readers know that very well. 

Most important of all, know when to stop the story. Is that epilogue really needed, or is it the beginning of another book? I think here of the opera, Boris Godunov. The original version killed off Boris and then ended with the prophetic lament of the Holy Fool. It was a good scene. But how much better was the second version, where the last thing you see is Boris lying dead, while the gloomy chords swell! The music tells you the future is bringing nothing good.

Silence of the Lambs

Just kidding. I will now lapse into silence and let you think about this yourselves.