BadTime Stories — Nobody Move by Denis Johnson (Part II)
“That’s how you write fiction.” Also how you write soap.
Isn’t there something secretly classy about writing II instead of 2. The Romans had it. And all the kings knew it. And the Czars too.
King Louise II.
Not King Louise 2. Like a fuckin sequel to Lion King you never think about paying to watch.
Anyways.
Things have gone heavily towards heavy-handed action in Nobody Move.
Everybody is moving. Dead bodies too. Not by themselves, thank Lord, this is not Stephen King.
But not without the grace of subtle dialogue in between.
Jimmy Luntz and the stunner went to bed one more time — if you were waiting for that.
Besides, Mr. Johnson shows why he is a class act.
In fact, I have got a theory for good fiction and good storytelling. And it’s the same for good reality too. And I hope people like Tana French, Ruth Ware, and Gillian Flynn had this often enough to make me consider reading another word of theirs one more time (maybe on a Billboard).
So here is the theory:
- Cut out all bullshit. Entirely.
- Make the subtle evident and the evident subtle.
There’s great art for you right there.
Don’t tell me your protagonist smoked his 11th cigarette in last 2 hours and so he’s constantly stressed and yet a badass. ‘Cause you just made him sound like a dumbass. Like one of those stupid European modern-day authors who try to write good detective fiction and end up writing worse things than Granny Agatha.
Now Granny worked coz she kept it simple. Didn’t pretend to be a writer. Just a puzzler. Here’s A, B, C, find D. Ah, got you again motherfuckers, there’s no D, ’cause D is actually C and B never existed. That’s Christie in a nutshell. Murder with the Alphabet, you could call that. Nice little children playbooks.
But these modern age women of culture who feel proud to bring in unapologetic sex into their females, stupid atmospheric bullshit about family crimes, and sell more books than Denis ever did ’cause 90 percent of the world resonates its dumb head in cretinic adoration for them. That’s how you write fiction.
Also how you write soap. Fuckheads.
So then, instead of telling me it’s your hard-to-believe, hardboiled detective’s 11th cigarette of the last 2 hours, tell me his ashtray is up to brim already or something, and I’d probably consider him tough enough.
But you won’t do that. And keep running on with your Guest List bullshit.
Look at Jimmy Luntz and how he reacts to the sound of death at midnight, how he struggles to feel his body in adrenaline, how he hugs his shotgun slouched under a bed instead of being up like a man ready for action — and you’ll know what cutting bullshit is.
Then, look how he casually throws a shovel at Sally Fuck’s face before accusing him of snitching and how he sees the same shovel thrown at him in slow-mo before it hits him, and you’ll know how subtleties work.
Fuckheads.
More on the art of subtle in the 3rd edition.
