by
Sandy Tritt
Pacing is a
tool writers have to control the speed in which a story reads. Lush,
descriptive segments slow the pace, giving readers a breather. Rapid-fire
dialogue speeds the pace, leaving the reader breathless. It is up to the writer
to decide when the pace needs quickened and when it should be put in slow gear.
Perhaps the
easiest way to judge is to ask questions as you read. Do you start drifting?
You need action. Is the conversation or action moving too quickly? You need
narrative to even out the pacing. Beware, though, not to use repetition to slow
your pace. Instead, find new things to say or new things to focus on. For
example, during a highly emotional scene that is moving too quickly, allow the
character to study a picture on the wall or watch children playing nearby. Or
allow him to remember a conversation from the past. Or focus on one of his
other senses, such as the smells or sounds in the background. This can add
depth and an emotional layer, as well as slowing the pace.
We can also
slow the pace of a chapter or even the entire manuscript by adding more
description, more exposition (background information) and more internal
dialogue (character thoughts).
Let’s look
at an example:
Ray walked the mile from the hospital
to Bob’s Sunoco. He found Gary in the bay, changing the oil on a pale blue
Cadillac. He kicked his brother’s feet until Gary rolled from beneath the car.
“We gotta talk.”
“I
get off at three.”
“Now.”
“What’s
up?”
“Let’s
walk.”
Gary
followed Ray outside and toward town. “What did the doctor say about Mom?”
“He
put her in the hospital.”
“Why?”
“He
got the tests back.”
“And?”
“What
did the doctor say?” Gary repeated.
“She’s
got cancer.”
Gary
stopped walking. “Cancer?”
“Something about a mass in her brain.”
“Does she need surgery? Does she have to take
chemo? Or radiation?”
“He
says there ain’t nothing they can do. He says it’s too late.”
“Too late? Too late for what?”
“Dr.
Brown says . . .” Ray rubbed his head. “He says it’s too late. He says she
ain’t coming home.”
“What’re
we gonna do?” he said.
“About
what?”
Gary
took a new pack of Marlboros from his pocket and tapped it against his palm.
“The boys.”
“I
guess we gotta pick them up from school and fix them something to eat.”
“I
don’t mean now,” Gary said, opening the cigarettes. “Until they’re grown.
Who’ll take care of them?”
“Mom
will.”
“You
okay?”
Ray
scratched the five-day-old stubble on his chin. “They made a mistake. We just
gotta find Dad and get this all straightened out. Dad will know what to do.”
Gary
lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled.
This is an
important scene, filled with kinetic emotion. Yet, it passes so quickly we
don’t feel the full impact of it. This is where we need to slow the pacing
down. To do this, we add two things: internal dialogue and description. In our
rewrite, I will put the internal dialogue in
red and
the added descriptive passages in
purple. See
how slowing the pace adds power to the words:
Ray
walked the mile from the hospital to Bob’s Sunoco. He found Gary in the bay,
changing the oil on a pale blue Cadillac. He kicked his brother’s feet until
Gary rolled from beneath the car. “We gotta talk.”
“I
get off at three.”
“Now.”
Gary
stood and wiped his hands on an oily rag. “What’s up?”
“Let’s
walk.” Ray feared his brain was going to explode. Too
much was going on, too many things were changing. He’d read the front page of
the newspaper over and over while waiting in the doctor’s office. The Apollo 7
astronauts were heading home after eleven days in space. President Johnson was
negotiating for the release of fourteen North Vietnamese POW’s. And Jackie
Kennedy, the dead President’s wife, was marrying
a Greek billionaire the very next day. He didn’t even know if it was legal for
the President’s widow to marry a foreigner.
Gary
followed Ray outside and toward town. “What did the doctor say about Mom?”
“He
put her in the hospital.”
Colorful leaves swirled around their ankles, the drier
ones crunching under their heavy steps. Gary kicked them out of his way.
“Why?”
“He
got the tests back.”
“And?”
A young mother, her sweater flapping in the wind, pushed
a baby carriage over the uneven sidewalk with one hand and pulled a stubborn
toddler with the other. Ray stepped into the street to let her pass.
“What
did the doctor say?” Gary repeated.
“She’s
got cancer.”
Gary
stopped walking. “Cancer?”
Ray
slowed down until Gary caught up. “Something about a mass in her brain.”
Gary
was quiet for a long time, then spoke softly. “Does she need surgery? Does she
have to take chemo? Or radiation?”
“He
says there ain’t nothing they can do. He says it’s too late.” Ray remembered that part very well. He’d argued with Dr.
Brown, insisting there had to be something. She had three young boys who needed
her.
“Too
late? Too late for what?”
“Dr.
Brown says . . .” Ray rubbed his head. “He says it’s too late. He says she
ain’t coming home.”
They walked slower, silently, past the library and into the
park. Pre-schoolers played on the swings and slide, laughing and shouting.
Gary leaned
against an oak tree, his dirty gray jumpsuit blending into the trunk.
“What’re we gonna do?” he said.
“About
what?”
Gary
took a new pack of Marlboros from his pocket and tapped it against his palm.
“The boys.”
“I
guess we gotta pick them up from school and fix them something to eat.”
“I
don’t mean now,” Gary said, opening the cigarettes. “Until they’re grown.
Who’ll take care of them?”
“Mom
will.”
“You
okay?”
Ray
scratched the five-day-old stubble on his chin. “They made a mistake. We just
gotta find Dad and get this all straightened out. Dad will know what to do.”
Gary
lit a cigarette and slowly exhaled.
Ray watched the smoke disappear into the October-blue sky. A
foreigner. Two hundred million people in the United States and the President’s
widow was going to marry a foreigner. No wonder the world was so damned screwed
up.
Likewise,
to speed the pace, omit everything except for the direct action or dialogue.
Ignore descriptions, ignore reactions, ignore anything other than the bare
necessities. This is necessary when the action is more important than character
reflection. Let’s look at the following example, in which Gary and Ray are
trying to repair a barn roof destroyed in a storm when the storm comes around
again. Gary slips on the wet roof and is now on the steep slope of the roof,
his weight partially held by a fragile drainpipe below. Ray is able to extend
one hand, which Gary has grabbed onto. David is trying to reposition the ladder
so Gary can climb down. Here’s how NOT to do it:
“Can you reach the ladder with your foot?” Ray asked. He
wondered how long it would be until the drainpipe gave way.
“If I move it,” Gary said, “I won’t have anything to hold
onto.”
“Just me.” Ray’s
arm ached from holding Gary’s weight. He hoped David had seen what was going on
and would try to move the ladder. Someone had to do something. Otherwise, Gary
would fall.
“I don’t trust you that much,” Gary said.
“Looks like you ain’t got much choice.” The rain still
fell. Ray looked at the sky. Dark clouds hovered even lower. The rain was there
to stay.
The ladder vibrated again.
“Shit,” Ray whispered. “I wish they’d stop shaking that
thing.” It made him nervous. Surely David knew that shaking the ladder also
shook the gutter. And any little movement added pressure to it. It could snap
at any time.
“I wish they’d stack up some hay underneath me.”
“Hell, as much rain as we’ve got today, you’d just land
in the mud. Ain’t gonna get much softer than that.” The mud had to be deep. But
still, he knew it was a long fall and Gary would most likely break some bones
or worse. He remembered when he’d broken his leg in tenth grade. It was so
difficult trying to get around the school on crutches and it seemed that his
leg itched all the time. He’d stuck an unbent clothes hanger under the cast to
scratch his leg.
“You trying to tell me to jump?”
“Nah. You’d probably pull me down with you.” Ray knew
Gary wouldn’t really do that. But he also knew Gary was still angry with him
for spending the money on the drum set.
“I’d damn sure try.”
“Let me have your foot,” David’s voice said.
“No,” Gary answered.
The roof shimmered in the rain. If the situation had been
different, it would even have been beautiful.
“I’m right underneath you,” David said. “If you lift your
left foot, I’ll put it on the rung.”
“Shit,” Gary said. “I’m trusting Ray to hold me and you
to guide me. I might as well jump.”
“Or apologize for being such an ass all the time.”
Ray smiled. David had a point. All the boys had taken
Ray’s side of the argument. Except maybe for Joey, who hadn’t said anything.
But then, Joey never did talk much.
“I’ll jump first.”
It’s
difficult to be too worried about Gary with all the internal dialogue muddying
the situation. Let’s look at how cutting all the internal dialogue and
description adds immediacy and excitement to this scene:
“Can you reach the ladder with your foot?”
“If I move it,” Gary said, “I won’t have anything to hold
onto.”
“Just me.” Ray’s
arm ached from holding Gary’s weight.
“I don’t trust you that much,” Gary said.
“Looks like you ain’t got much choice.”
The ladder vibrated again.
“Shit,” Ray whispered. “I wish they’d stop shaking that
thing.”
“I wish they’d stack up some hay underneath me.”
“Hell, as much rain as we’ve got today, you’d just land
in the mud. Ain’t gonna get much softer than that.”
“You trying to tell me to jump?”
“Nah. You’d probably pull me down with you.”
“I’d damn sure try.”
“Let me have your foot,” David’s voice said.
“No,” Gary answered.
“I’m right underneath you,” David said. “If you lift your
left foot, I’ll put it on the rung.”
“Shit,” Gary said. “I’m trusting Ray to hold me and you
to guide me. I might as well jump.”
“Or apologize for being such an ass all the time.”
“I’ll jump first.”
Reading our
prose aloud is perhaps the best way to judge the pace. Listen as you read and
consider if the action is happening too fast or not fast enough. And remember,
there is never one right answer. The pace of your story is just one more
element that contributes to your unique writing style. Experiment, study,
write. But in the end, use your own judgment.
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