Writing popular fiction

better of the two.
    When describing a character's state of mind or reaction to story events, understatement is more effective than wordy scenes. For example, when showing a nervous character, a new writer may unnecessarily puff the description like this:
Joe Black wiped the perspiration from his forehead, wiped his trembling hand on his slacks. His car was parked a block down the street from Riccio's house, but there was still a chance he might be spotted in his stake out. He ran a finger around his collar, finally loosened the button at his throat and slipped off his tie. He kept clearing his throat when he didn't need to, and he had tapped out a dozen favorite tunes on the steering wheel before half an hour had passed.
    A better way to project this image might be:
His car was parked a block down the street from Riccio's home, but there was still a chance he might be spotted in his stake out. While he waited for Riccio to show, Black methodically shredded several paper handkerchiefs. He did not even realize that he was making a mess.
    One clue to a character's mental state, if properly developed, is more effective than a catalogue of his every movement.
    When describing a new setting as it first appears in a novel—a new street, house, hotel, room, bit of landscape-decide whether it warrants a lengthy description. If it is the focus of only one or two minor scenes, it does not deserve the same detailing as does the place where the climax and other important plot developments transpire. If, for example, a motel room in Chapter Three needs only a short description, don't treat it like this:
The hotel room depressed Joe Black. It measured twelve by eight feet, and it was made even smaller by the weak yellow light and the small, dirty window in the far wall. The only furniture was a swaybacked bed dressed in yellowed sheets and a battered chest of drawers with a cigarette scarred surface. The paint was spotted and peeling and discolored by too many years, too much cigarette smoke and too many sorrows absorbed from the tenants. The floor was covered with cracked, gray linoleum and stained with dozens of brands of spilled whiskey.
    More to the point and less of an interruption in the narrative flow is this version:
The hotel room depressed Joe Black. Small, shabby and poorly lighted, it was the sort of room to which a poor man brought a whore, where a junkie came to shoot up, or where a hopeless wino ended up when he went somewhere to drink himself to death.
    In less than half the words used in the first version, we've created the same atmosphere of poverty and despair. Economy of language is the most important stylistic goal.
    Erroneously, many new writers think fiction should be a mirror of reality. Actually, it should act as a sifter to
refine
reality until only the essence is before the reader. This is nowhere more evident than in fictional dialogue. In real life, conversation is often roundabout, filled with general commentary and polite rituals. In fiction, the characters must always get right to the point when they talk. For example, if one of your characters has been threatened by a psychotic killer and is sure his house is being watched at night, he would not approach a neighbor for confirmation
of his fears in this natural but extended manner:
Jack Moffet hesitated, then knocked on the Halseys' front door.
    In a moment, Bill Halsey answered the knock. "Why, Jack! How are you, you old sonofagun?"
    "Fine, fine," Moffet said, though he wasn't fine at all.
    "Come on in."
    Jack followed Halsey into the quiet of the front hallway and then to the living room where Lena Halsey was sitting in an easy chair reading the evening paper.
    "Look who's here, Lena," Bill said.
    "Jack! We haven't seen you in a couple of weeks."
    "Yes, I have been busy."
    "Sit down," Bill said.
    Jack took a seat.
    "Can I get you coffee or anything?" Lena asked.
    "No thanks," Jack said.
    "It's past coffee time," Bill said chuckling. "How about a drink?"
    "No, I—"
    "It's no trouble," Bill said. "I'm going to make myself something, so you might as well join me."
    "Scotch, then," Jack said. "On the rocks."
    When they had their drinks, Bill said. "Now, what brings you over here after two weeks of being a hermit?"
    "I have a problem," Jack said. "Maybe you can help me with it."
    And so on. Though a real life conversation would run something like this, it is not adequate for fiction. You must trim and get to the point:
Jack Moffet hesitated, then