The Less Said, The Better - how the omission of key information can create a great story
Originally featured on the Tandem Collective blog
I never thought I’d start a blog piece with a Ronan Keating lyric, but then again, I never thought I’d be writing blogs for a living, so here goes.
You say it best when you say nothing at all.*
A group of Readalongers recently devoured the novel Chrysalis, by Anna Metcalfe. Chrysalis is split into three sections, each one told from the perspective of a different person who has a fascination with a fourth and central character who is never named. We never hear directly from this character. This drove many of us to the point of a minor breakdown. We wondered why we felt like we needed to know where she got the audacity? How dare she not need anyone? Is our revulsion actually envy? Our DM group was aflame with discussions about how the author’s decision to omit the name of the main character and to refuse us any insights into her point of view made us all the more immersed in the book - the omission of information added, it didn’t subtract. We loved the book. And that got me thinking.
In personal relationships, a silence in place of an answer can speak volumes. When a politician evades a question, you know something exists that is being hidden - a fact, an opinion, a secret. When we are given a blank, we often fill it in. The absence of information is information in its own right; its impact is dependent on how that information isn’t delivered.
One such example in fiction which has stuck with me in recent years is that of Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason. The central character, Martha, is diagnosed with what is presumed to be a mental health or psychiatric condition which is shown only as a double dash. I inserted my own diagnosis - ADHD - into this small space, while friends inserted theirs - depression, psychosis, anxiety, OCD. They all fit perfectly, despite the fact that those different conditions should, in theory, present themselves in very different ways. And so, all of us were brought together in sameness, just by a simple act of omission. I thought it was a very beautiful thing, and it’s one of my favourite books ever because of those little dashes. It’s also extremely funny. It is just very, very good, please go and read it if you haven’t already.
A member of the Chrysalis DM group suggested the novel Is This Love by C.E. Riley as a similarly evasive yet immersive read. J's wife has left, and J is trying to understand why. How could someone you loved so much, who claimed to love you once, just walk away? How could they send divorce papers accusing you of terrible things, when all you've ever done is tried to make them happy? Narrated by J in the days, weeks and months after the marriage collapses, and interspersed with the departed wife's diary entries, Is This Love? is an addictive, deeply unsettling, and provocative novel of deception and betrayal, and passion turned to pain. As the story unfolds, and each character's version of events undermines the other, all our assumptions about victimhood, agency, love and control are challenged - for we never know J's gender. If we did, would it change our minds about who was telling the truth? Cue another mini breakdown as we examine our own gender and social biases. Why are we like this?!
In Different For Boys, Patrick Ness’ poignant LGBTQ+ story which explores sexuality and masculinity, many words are blacked out - words which could be deemed inappropriate, and swear words. Our minds fill in the blanks with words from our own experiences, generations and dialects, and it’s incredibly effective both in avoiding offence (not that the blanks stopped the book from being banned - more on that here) and in protecting the book against ageing, with terms changing as swiftly as they do.
Moving away from books (don't worry, we will get right back to them - this is Tandem, after all) to take a look at the cinematic world, the exclusion of information normally deemed as quite important has been used in a number of different - but hugely successful - films. In Kill Bill, we see The Bridge’s revenge mission against her former lover and boss. Initially, she is part of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad under the code name Black Mamba. After Bill attempts to assassinate her on her wedding day, she becomes known as The Bride. After that, her name is mentioned, but it is always bleeped out. It’s only when she escapes being buried alive and makes her way out of her own grave that we, the viewers, are allowed to know her by her own name; Beatrix Kiddo. This little titbit of information gives us such an intimate link with the woman who we have watched slaughter her way through a few hours of cinematic delight by this point; it signifies empowerment and her release from the grips of Bill and those who have wronged her; a rebirth as her own true self.
Many horror and thriller films in recent years have used the removal of one or more of our senses to terrify us, with A Quiet Place, Bird Box, Don’t Breathe, The Village and Hush springing to mind (want more horror content? Click me!) In all those moments of nothingness - of silence, or darkness, in particular - we experience sheer terror. We wait for whatever is coming to do whatever it’s going to do. Our brains horrify us with a thousand possibilities and versions of what is about to happen. It’s the pauses that get us. A director who can time absolutely nothing happening to perfection is a good director, and an author who can captivate us by not writing words is truly an excellent author.
*Depending on your age, you might know this as a Keith Whitley lyric, or you might not even know who Ronan Keating is; in which case, congratulations on your flawless skin and non-sore back.