[bookclub] Prose style in 'Losing Your Grip'

[Nick Montfort <nickmontfort@my-deja.com>]

This is a rather lengthy and detailed discussion of the writing
in Losing Your Grip, this month's IF Book Club selection. It's
focused on a small amount of text in the first fit, in the belief
that close reading is important and that the very beginning of a
work is a critical part.

Discussion on r.a.i-f is largely about programming and issues of
puzzle and interactivity design. This makes sense, given that
these are issues specific to IF. The writing in IF is very
important, however. IF can be viewed as primarily a reading and
writing experience -- the player or interactor reads the text
that is presented and writes something (short) in reply,
continuing a sort of written conversation. From this perspective,
the quality of prose is a work is a fundamental issue. From any
perspective, it is an important aspect of IF.

Even the best works of IF feature some slipshod writing. Infocom
games are no exception. Showing off Nord and Bert to some writers
yesterday, we spotted a glaring grammatical error, very early on,
that no proofreader should have let pass. It's not just better
proofreading that's needed, though. Many aspects of good writing
apply across genres and forms. Then there are elements of
traditional prose style that apply particularly to IF, and others
that may be more of less native to the form. Without detailed
critiques of writing, it will be difficult to advance the state
of the IF writing art.

My attempt here is to call attention to things I liked about the
writing in Losing Your Grip, and constructively suggest (for
those writing works now and in the future) how to improve on
things I saw as problematic. I'm not going to mince words
regarding the many problems I did see in the writing. That said,
Losing Your Grip is an excellent and ambitious work of IF from
many perspectives -- if I didn't like some things about it, I
wouldn't bother critiquing it. So I hope my criticisms don't
offend the author. They are intended to open a constructive
discussion on writing in IF in general, to benefit all IF authors
-- myself and Steven Granade included. Because of my goal of
engaging authors in discussion about creating IF, I'm
crossposting to r.a.i-f.

There are glimpses of excellence in the writing, but --
particularly when compared to the elaborate puzzle craft and
overall structural innovations -- it is very rough. To begin
looking at specifics: One sentence of description from the
first interlude illustrates the potential that Granade's
writing has, and how that potential isn't realized: "To your
left, monitors softly wheep in response to signals from the
leads attached to you."

The word "wheep," and the idea that medical monitors wheep in
response to electrical signals, is wonderful. This combination of
onomatopoeia and metaphor could have been developed further,
though. Syntactically, the sentence is cumbersome, with too many
short prepositional phrases shoved together. And of course there
is no way to know, perceptually, for an observer to know that
signals are traveling along the leads -- except by reference to
the wheeping of the monitors. This line of description could have
become something like "Electrical leads run from you to boxy
beige monitors nearby. Signals are no doubt traveling invisibly
along the leads, for green lines undulate on the glass eyes of
the monitors. They wheep with each pulse." Or it could become
something better. As is, it's just a difficult sentence with the
beginnings of a nice idea.

The incipit -- by which I mean the first few sentences that
appear, previous to the first prompt -- is compelling.

>Rain and mud.
>
>Those are your first solid memories. Rain pouring down on
>your head, filling your eyes. Mud beneath your feet,
>filling your shoes. Other details slowly filter in. The trees
>surrounding you. The leaden skies above. The chill wind
>cutting through your clothes with ease.
>
>Shelter would be a good beginning.
>
>[Banner]
>
>Fit the First: Replevin
>
>"Rain rain on my face/It hasn't stopped raining for days"
>                            -- Jars of Clay
>
>[First Room Description]

The text, although not highly polished, provokes curiosity, while
at the same time creating a very visceral sense of the main
character's surroundings. It is appropriately "objective," in a
certain sense: Although closely tied to the main character's
perceptions, it doesn't describe how the main character felt or
try to get inside that character's mind, past the senses. It
describes what is sensed and lets those perceptions speak for
themselves, evoking the emotional state of the character
indirectly. With that in mind, it seems that "Shelter would be a
good beginning" is some odd sort of authorial advice to the
player that doesn't really fit in. Isn't the suggestion obvious,
also? The epigraph doesn't fit, either, although it does add some
sense of duration to the opening.

Early on, there is throw-away prose that doesn't describe, set
the mood, or mention objects in the surroundings. For instance:

>Muddy Field
>   Once the field might have been covered in grass. Now the
>grass is but a memory. Mud covers the ground in its place, fed
>by the constant rain.

Although brief, this muddy description is muddled. The first
sentence says that grass might or might not have been here in the
past. Then the second and third sentences say that grass was in
fact here, contradicting the first. Whose memory was the grass?
How is it evident that grass was here? Why mention the absent
grass at all? Admittedly, such commentary does contribute to an
atmosphere of loss. But, aside from being confused, it strays
from the earlier objective voice. A simple barren plain of mud
evokes emotion appropriately, in this case.

>>examine the head
>Other than being buried in mud to his chin, the head is
>reassuringly normal. His hair and mustache are a matted brown,
>perhaps from genetics, perhaps from mud. Rivulets of water run
>down his creased face.

In this case, a little less of an objective voice is called for.
The main character is examining the head for a reason -- there's
some reason for this action within the context of the narrative.
Determining the reason for every possible action is difficult,
but it's a challenge IF authors should try to face.

If a head in the mud addresses you familiarly, why examine it? To
see if it's wet? To see what color its hair is? The obvious and
critical question that isn't answered by this text is whether or
not the main character *recognizes* the head. (The incipit to
Rod Smith's Breakers, Broderbund/Synapse 1986, achieves added
power and mystery by answering this question, mentioning that the
apparition of a golden face is vaguely familiar in the course of
describing it.) From the response, one presumes he (or she, at
this point the gender of the main character hasn't been revealed
and "examine me" doesn't explain) doesn't, but it's not certain.
If the issue of familiarity has to be dodged for story reasons,
the text could at least indicate that it is "strangely familiar."
"Perhaps from genetics" is a poor cluster of words, not redeemed
by the clever parallel phrase following it. If the hair color is
mentioned, why not the color of the eyes? ("Examine hair" isn't
implemented, which is fine, although a "you don't need to refer
to hair" would be nice.) The face is creased, but why? Is it an
extremely old face, or a young one worn from rough outside work?
The detail of the ears turning red after the main character
attempts to pull the head out of the mud is nice. There's another
thing the main character would care very much to know: What
expression is on that face? (The expression is also described in
the incipit to Breakers.) The "examine head" response doesn't
say, but fortunately the text which appears each turn answers
that question very well as an appropriately bewildering monologue
is delivered.

>Cramped Office
>   Shadows crowd the room, strengthened by the unlit ceiling
>light which is canted at a strange angle. A scarred mahogany
>desk is crammed into one corner of the room, facing the
>doorway and the clock above it. The room is small enough that
>the light switch beside the door is within arms reach of the
>desk.

Here there's a good sense of claustrophobia, provided by the
description of what is present and how it is placed. But there's
still much room for improvement in these cramped phrases.
"Crammed" could be profitably left out; the crammed condition of
the place would still be evident. The personified shadows
wouldn't, as personalities, be "strengthened" by the lack of
light. A lack doesn't really strengthen anyone or anything. They
could be, for instance, "emboldened." The phrase "unlit ceiling
light ... canted at a strange angle" sounds more unwieldy than
the fixture, unfortunately. Something like "the skewed fixture
above is dark" would work better. "Within arms reach" is
redundant -- "within reach" works fine. Finally, "small enough"
doesn't need to be said explicitly.

Other writing problems that crop up are very widespread in IF.
The interior place descriptions give the sense of being at a
vertex on a graph, not in a building, because compass directions
are mentioned with unnecessary frequency.

Rather than go on (and into other fits), I'll ask if there is
anyone else who sees writing issues like these as real and
important, and deserving of greatly heightened attention? Is my
suggestion of a more objective voice -- sensitive to the
narrative purpose of the player's actions -- appropriate?

I'm hopeful that it will be fruitful to look at the writing in
specific works like Losing Your Grip in this way, and to focus
on important questions about writing by using the example of
texts in successful IF works.

-Nick M.


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