As a little girl before my feet touched the floor in Chicago orchestra seats, I fell in love with Gershwin’s “Porgy and Bess,” that jazzy rhythmic music that was classical and southern and black all at the same time. I didn’t just hear it. I felt it.
With the birth of hip hop, I grew up listening to Chuck D and A Tribe Called Quest drop rhymes on the turntable. In my bedroom, I tried to mimic what I’d heard but my raps fell flat, and the jerky, awkward movement I passed off as dancing lacked rhythm.
Still, I must have absorbed rhythm because now when I read literature and write it, I recognize poetry, lyricism, and music in prose. When I sit at my keyboard to pen a novel, sometimes it’s a deliberate, painstaking process to create that rhythm on the page and other times, it flows as if it’s always been inside me.
The watercooler conversation on my job turned to books one day recently and my colleagues tried to recite the opening lines of their favorite books. Most struggled and failed to remember any but for one woman the words flowed like music. It was the opening of Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita:
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.
Not only do those words capture the disturbing essence of this character’s tortured and forbidden obsession, but they roll across your tongue like water. I’m convinced that’s what made the opening memorable for my colleague. In the next line, Nabokov breaks down this girl’s name into the rhythm of its syllables.
Lo-Lee-Ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
When I introduced four historic names off the top of my novel-in-progress, I played with their arrangement and read them aloud over and over again until the rhythm sounded and felt right.
I knew the ancestors were dancing somewhere, this night a love note to Harriet and Sojourner, W.E.B. and Booker T.
Jacqueline Woodson, one of my favorite authors, says she rewrites everything until she gets the rhythm and story right on the page. She tells her life story in Brown Girl Dreaming, a memoir of poems. Her mastery of that form influences her handling of prose in the novel Another Brooklyn, where there’s a cadence, a steady beat running as a current along the narrative. Here, the protagonist, August, and her brother watch life below their window.
The people passing beneath us were all beautiful in some way.
Beautifully thin. Beautifully obese. Beautifully Afroed or cornrowed or bald.
Beautifully dressed in bright African dashikis and bellbottom jeans, miniskirts and halters.
The words we string together and the way they bend into each other to make sentences reveal patterns and convey meaning. The rhythm and flow of this sentence in Ann Patchett’s Bel Canto leaves me breathless as the action intensifies.
Roxane saw them as the man with the gun saw them, Carmen saw Cesar, and Mr. Hosokawa saw Carmen and he scooped her from the space in front of him, the force of his arm hitting the side of her waist like a blow.
That’s a long sentence punctuated by only one comma and with the insistent repetition of the word “saw” you can feel the situation escalating as the characters hurtle toward something awful, something deadly. When you read that passage, you can almost hear the building of a long, dramatic crescendo in an opera.
How do we find the rhythm that is innate to the story we’re telling in the moment?
In many crime novels where the author wants the action to move at a fast clip, you’ll often notice a staccato beat with short, rapid-fire sentences. Conversely, a languid scene may beg for alto sax and longer sentences, a slower rhythm.
I try to place myself inside my story, living in the skin of my characters, so I can feel the rhythm of that moment and make the most authentic narrative choices. When I write a passage, I read it aloud as I type the words and then I read it again and again in the context of the larger story. Does it flow? Just as you recognize when the wrong musical note is played, you can hear when your narrative is off beat, too.
When you know your story intimately and you’re in rhythm with it, you get to freestyle a bit. Eschew structure and improvise on scenes sometimes. Play with the beats. You may surprise yourself with what you create on the page. Before I sit down to write, I’ll often read poetry or listen to music to get in sync with what it means to flow. There are plenty of days my rhythm is off and I need to fine-tune my sensibilities. But when it works, you have the opportunity to create something beautiful and harmonious.
How do you find the rhythm in your stories? Share examples of how rhythm has shaped your prose or that of your favorite authors.
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About Nancy Johnson
Nancy E. Johnson is a writer with an Emmy-nominated, award-winning television journalism background. Her stories often explore life’s complexities at the intersection of race and class. She was named runner-up for the 2018 James Jones First Novel Fellowship Award. Her work has appeared in O, The Oprah Magazine and has received support from the Hurston/Wright Foundation, Tin House Summer Novel Workshop, and Kimbilio Fiction. Also, Nancy served an advisory board member for Author Accelerator’s diversity scholarship program. When Nancy’s not writing, you can often find her exploring bookstores, festivals, and restaurants in her hometown of Chicago. Nancy is represented by Danielle Bukowski at Sterling Lord Literistic.
I too look for rhythm in my stories. I don’t always succeed but like you I find music helps. Key scenes are often written while listening to a piece that conjures up the image I’m trying to create.
Possibly a bit purple, I think there is a nice rhythm to the opening of my one and only published novel set in the time of plague.
‘It is said death rides a pale horse and that when he unsheathes his sword to manifold slaughter he falls on the unwary, for amid the common mortality of man, none perceive his coming.’
Thank you for the post. It inspires me to keep looking to create that rhythm in my current WIP.
Linnea, yes, there’s a beautiful cadence and rhythm to the opening line of your novel. I’ve found that “listening” to books on audio these days has helped me tremendously with writing for the ear.
Thanks for sharing!
Best,
Nancy
Thank you for a wonderful write.
Hi, Anjali. Thanks for reading!
Oh, you hit a subject I love like breathing. My two favorites:
Jodi Picoult – The Inner Circle:
“This is how it feels when you realize your child is missing: The pit of your stomach freezes fast, while your legs go to jelly.
There’s one single, blue-bass thud of your heart. The shape of her name, sharp as metal filings, gets caught between your teeth even as you try to force it out in a shout. Fear breathes like a monster into your ear: Where did I see her last? Would she have wandered away? Who could have taken her? And then, finally, your throat seals shut, as you swallow the fact that you’ve made a mistake you will never be able to fix.”
Sigh.
Then, the end of Robbins’ Jitterbug Perfume:
“Hold on to your divine blush, your innate rosy magic, or end up brown. Once you’re brown, you’ll find out you’re blue. As blue as indigo. And you know what that means.
Indigo. Indigoing. Indigone.”
Then my own dismal attempt:
Addiction sucks.
I should know. Papaw has his White Lightning. Nana has her Bingo-jones. My addiction has sad green eyes and my name tattooed across his left pec.
Laura Drake! Great to see you here. The examples you provided slay me. All, including yours, of course, get a Margie Lawson NYT seal of approval. :)
I’m now reading that Jodi Picoult example aloud to dissect how she achieved that flow. Some of it is word choice but it’s also how she arranged the words to have maximum tonal effect. Same with Robbins as he waxes poetic, playing with the word “indigo.”
I will return to all these examples as I write. Thank you!
Best,
Nancy
Hey Nancy – Interesting topic and examples. I’ve repeatedly had this spooky thing happen with writing and music. I always write (and edit) with music on, but more often than not I choose music with no lyrics as it’s a bit less likely to pull me out of immersion. Not always, though. Depends on my level of focus.
The spooky part is that, again and again, I am rewarded by a piece that perfectly suits the specific scene or section on which I’m working. The perfection can come by way of rhythm, or a succession of intervals, or octave change. But it’s often those things plus some lyrical aspect. And it often sneaks up on me.
The most recent example just happened a few weeks ago. I was doing a final read-through edit of my WIP, and came to a pre-battle scene. The scene features my two protagonists, and the setting is tense. One MC is even more worried than usual about the battle to come, due to his past failures and the expectations that weigh on him. He confesses to the other MC, and she proceeds to tell him to snap out of it – to “buck up.”
As this is happening, randomly a song by the Brooklyn power pop duo Sleigh Bells comes on, called And Saints. The song’s rhythm is brooding and intense, and the lyrics are brief, staccato phrases. The first chorus worms its way into my consciousness as I’m reading the scene: “Tear up, tear up; Gear up, gear up.” I let the music flow over me as I continue, and the second chorus hits as the battle is about to begin: “Cheer up, cheer up; Gear up, stand up.”
I’d always liked the song just fine, but had only heard it maybe a dozen times prior to the editing session. I bet I’ve played it thirty times since, and each time I hear something else that is eerily evocative of the scene. And each time I get a tingle – even a little goose-flesh.
I feel like the coincidence helped me to “feel” the scene as it should be felt – rhythmically and emotionally. It feels magical, like a reward from the muse. But then I know I’m a little more woo-woo about such things than most. It’s okay. I’m no less grateful. Just as I’m grateful for your lovely essay and reminders this morning.
Hi, Vaughn! Like you, I rarely listen to music with lyrics while I’m writing because it’s distracting. Usually, I’ll listen to a song or read a poem right before I sit down to my desk to begin writing.
Don’t worry, I’m woo-woo, too, and I love that a Sleigh Bells song helped you find the right rhythm for your pre-battle scene. It’s pure magic or divine intervention when that happens.
Thanks for sharing!
Best,
Nancy
It’s all about voice, right? Great article-will share with my writing students.
Carol, I’m glad my post resonated. I’m excited to know you’ll be sharing with your students.
Best,
Nancy
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” That’s one I’ve always loved and have often wondered how long it took Fitzgerald to get the line just right.
Nancy, I also read poetry in an attempt to feel the rhythm of my narrative. I have a tattered copy of Master Poems of the English Language that I keep nearby. I enjoyed your post!
S.K., hello! Yes, that last line from The Great Gatsby is a powerful one, the metaphor of boats in the water making it even more rhythmic.
Thanks for sharing.
Best,
Nancy
Hi Nancy, great post as always. Even your presentation is musical. In my story about abduction, I use stacatto to change the mood. Time has speeded up, but no one can control time. I’ve struggled with this section–still working on it. I believe the placement of one word against another becomes the music and the message.
They’re offering me water, a pill.
“Ella, we’re giving you five milligrams Valium.”
No, I have to drive–Sarah.
Starched sheets. My skin. But my child, Sarah–David has found you, found you.
Beep, beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep.
A fucking monitor.
Click, click, click.
IV pump—why? Magnesium? Morphine? Who cares. I’m going to die—Sarah.
Hi, Beth! Great to “see” you here as always. Staccato seems to be an appropriate choice for Ella in this moment where everything is scattered as she’s fighting the drug and trying to climb out of the fog to get to her daughter.
When the music and the message of the passage align, it’s beautiful and effective.
Thanks,
Nancy
Nancy, I love those opening paragraphs of Lolita as well. Here’s one of my favorites of flow, an oft-quoted passage from James Joyce’s “The Dead”:
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, on the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
There’s that repetition of the word “falling” that resonates, and I love the feeling of the line “Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.” Thanks for a nice post.
Hi, Tom! What a lovely passage you shared. Writers like James Joyce who are also poets seem to nail flow so well. There’s a real connection between poetry and prose, and it shows in this short story.
Thanks for sharing!
Best,
Nancy
Thank you, Tom–and of course thank you, Nancy.
As you say, Nancy, only by being immersed in one’s story is it possible for the writer to hear how the characters sound. Passages like those you quote, and this final blaze of glory at the end of one of Joyce’s best works serve to illustrate how the poetry of prose creates the special tone of authority we associate with the best writing.
I agree, Barry, that Joyce is a master of the craft and one to study, for sure.
Thanks for commenting.
Best,
Nancy
Thanks for this great post, Nancy. You underscore your well-illustrated points by writing with your own lovely rhythm.
Thanks so much, Julie. We’re both students of craft and know how fascinating it can be to dissect a piece of writing and learn from it.
I appreciate your comment!
Interesting topic, Nancy. I know that I read every line I write out loud, many times, and that always helps me get the rhythm right. Sometimes we write things that end up being rather hard to get our mouths around when we try to say them out loud. And that is always to me a sign that I need to work harder and (often) make the line simpler.
I know it’s not prose, but I have always been deeply in love with the rhythm of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. There is something almost Shakespearean in that rhythm.
Hi, Erin! Yes, reading out loud is so important. The ear picks up things that we miss on the page. I’ll have to check out the T.S. Eliot poem you recommended.
I’ll look forward to your critique of rhythm or lack thereof in my manuscript. :)