The Accordion Effect

A novel (with the possible exception of some experimental form) chronicles the unrolling of fictional

events over time. But unlike the real world, where we have to live each instant as it comes, like it or not,

the time within our story is not relentless clockwork. It’s rather more like an accordion: it expands and

contracts as we, the author, need it to, the better to propel the plot and keep the reader engaged. Imagine if

we had to read a book unfolding in real time—it could take years of our life, even centuries!

The accordion effect

Instead, time in the novel is like an accordion: it can shrink or expand at our authorial bidding. The rule of

thumb is to show in detail parts that are more important and summarize those that are not. But this can be

trickier than it sounds, and requires a sort of instinct. Fortunately, this can be developed. And an editor

will spot infractions immediately. You’ve probably sensed in books you’ve read places where the old

accordion was squeezing out when it should have squeezed in. Those are the place we tend to skip over.

Squeezing in

This is all about trusting your reader to pick things up without hammering them home. Too much

description of unimportant things or people? Yes, it’s possible. Remember Chekhov’s dictum that if you

depict a gun on the mantel it had better turn out to be critical to the story. Long-winded monologues? Get

on with the good stuff. Repetition of (reported) conversations in order to inform another character of what

was said? You may need to pull out the pruning shears, because the reader already knows all that. Pet

phrases, little truths you really want the reader to understand, even tags and beats that keep turning up and

up until they’re redundant—squeeze in, fellow writers. Shrink them down or remove altogether. Readers

are smart; they tend to get things on the first bounce. Especially in a novel that covers a long period of

time, you’re going to have to hit the high spots and leave out the rest.

Squeezing out

On the other hand, it’s possible to be too laconic. Situations and relationships need sufficient explanation

or they lose their punch and leave the reader nonplussed—unless they are part of a mystery to be

revealed. Long dialogues with insufficient beats and tags may make readers wonder what the speaker

means. It’s like email: without seeing your interlocutor’s face, you’re not always sure whether they are

annoyed, snide, sincere, happy, or ambivalent. Think of all the ways a person might say, “Oh, that’s

nice.” Cue the emojis! But in a novel, we don’t have the luxury of little pictures, so tell us. Important

scenes of confrontation, discovery, battle, suspense need to be developed deeply. Actions vital to the plot

tend to be more important than reflections, except possibly in literary novels. Lingering lovingly on the

pivotal moments of your story will let readers know that this information is important, and it will satisfy

their desire to be immersed in your emotional world. Squeeze out.

Let the polka begin!

I hope that helps to see how the contracting or expanding of time in our stories contributes to a tight but

rich whole. Tell everything you need to, but nothing you don’t need to. Some moments are more

important than others, so don’t lavish the same detail on everything. Some conversations can be “told” in

summary, others need to be “shown” before our eyes. In and out, like an accordion.