An Overwhelming Abundance of Detail
Ditch the Spray-and-Pray Mentality to Become Chekhov’s Sniper
“Well, I can drive that loader. I have a Class 2 rating.”
—Ellen Ripley (Aliens)
Today I’m cordially inviting you to talk with Shelf Life about a dramatic principle commonly known as Chekhov’s Gun. Or, as I affectionately call it, the Rule of Ripley’s Exosuit Power Loader. Otherwise known as the principle or law of conserving detail in your storytelling, whether that is playwriting, screenwriting, or prose writing.
You heard right: I have issued you an invitation to a conservation conversation. I said what I said. You can’t unread it.
Note: Today’s article contains spoilers but only for media published from 1898-1986 so outside those years you should be fine.
Once upon a time there was a handsome young Russian writer named Anton Chekhov. In his short two-score-and-four years on the planet he wrote more than a dozen plays (this is a safe space so you can admit you only know Uncle Vanya and no one will judge you), a novel, hundreds of short stories (I’ve read several but remember none), a handful of novellas, and a metric ton of letters. Somehow in spite of all that output he is best remembered today not for his writing but for his gun.
In his letters Chekhov wrote about the gun and I don’t mean once. This guy kept going on about it like CF with the Kindness Equilibrium Theory. He would just write a letter about it to anybody who would listen. There are several records of him writing essentially the same thing, to wit:
“If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don't put it there.”
That’s just one example. He said it a bunch of different ways. He clearly wanted to be remembered for this and not for The Cherry Orchard so don’t feel bad if you don’t know what that is.
I think most everybody understands what this means at least superficially so I won’t waste a lot of words explaining. I will clarify that while Chekhov’s Gun is a type of foreshadowing, it’s not synonymous with foreshadowing. There’s lots of other types. What Chekhov was saying is this: Do not put any element into your story unless it absolutely, positively has to be in there for you to tell the story.
You might be wondering how Catherine will spin out at least 1200 more words on this topic to make it worth your time to read if that’s all there is to it. That’s not all there is to it. There’s so much more.
Two-Way Street
First of all, proceed from the understanding that Chehov’s Gun works in two directions. What Chekhov said was: If you don’t need the detail then don’t put it in at all. But the converse of that we may infer: If you need the detail, then, for the love of dog don’t leave it out. Seems obvious? It’s not always obvious.
This touches on three other dramatic principles slash literary devices: the deus ex machina; the MacGuffin; and the red herring.
If you need somebody to fire a gun in the third act, then you’d better have shown the reader that gun in the first act. If a gun suddenly materializes from somebody’s pocket right when it’s needed, that’s a deus ex machina—you couldn’t solve the problem with the elements that were already in your story so you had to bring something unlikely or unexpected in at the last second, like a stagehand lowering Zeus down from the rafters on a pulley to zap the bad guy with lightning (literally: god from the machine).
A MacGuffin is an object that moves your plot forward and motivates your characters but has no inherent importance itself—like the titular Maltese Falcon, the Heart of the Ocean, and whatever was in Marcellus Wallace’s briefcase. If you want to employ a MacGuffin then, like Chekhov’s Gun, it needs to be in the story from the start. You can’t just drop it in at the moment it’s needed. What’s the difference between Chekhov’s Gun and a MacGuffin? The gun has importance in itself; it does something. If a gun is hanging on the wall over the door, and is mentioned several times, and motivates the characters through fear of it but they don’t actually use it—then it’s a MacGuffin. Chekhov takes no responsibility for that particular gun. He does not approve.
A red herring is a detail that you deliberately place in your story to throw the reader off track. Key word: deliberately. If you do not know how to employ this device well, then you shouldn’t deploy it at all. It’s frustrating for readers when a stray detail leads them somewhere and appears to be either an important clue or a red herring but really is only an errant thought that the writer included for no reason. Readers can tell the difference. Don’t throw details into your story willy-nilly and then claim they are red herrings when a reader calls out your gratuitousness.
Greatest Movie of All Time
Aside from the Kindness Equilibrium Theory, the other thing that nobody has ever successfully gotten me to shut up about is Aliens (1986). Alien (1979) was incredible and groundbreaking. I am a big Alien fan. And Alien Versus Predator (2004) has its own idiosyncratic charm that I appreciate and admire. As for Alien3 (1992)—look, don’t talk to me about Alien3.
Anyway, none of them holds a candle to Aliens in terms of sheer 1980s action-movie perfection. Ripley comes back better and badder than the first time. Bishop and Vasquez are unforgettable. There’s impressive queer representation and acceptance (for the 1980s). Stellar portrayal of every single woman as a competent warrior and survivor. The orange tabby. The tension that only relents for one single second, which is when Ripley strolls into the cargo bay looking for something to do because she’s bored and offers to sling cargo around with the big yellow power loader.
The loader is the pistol on the wall in this scenario, that’s nothing you don’t already know. It has to appear here, in an early and quiet part of the film, so that when Ripley shows up with it in act 3 you’re not blindsided and wondering where it came from and how she knew to use it. But that is not the only gun in the scene. In fewer than 90 seconds, James Cameron throws a whole slew of crucial details at you that you’ll use later and does it so stealthily that they blend in seamlessly and don’t cause you to suspect them of being anything more than what they appear.
There is so much going on in this scene that if you aren’t paying close attention you might miss critical information like:
In a blink-and-miss moment, Sgt Apone yells at Cpl Ferro for taking too long to weld the cargo bay airlock shut. The airlock in the middle of the cargo bay floor is just as important to the final act as the loader.
Ripley, a civilian, is more capable at piloting the loader than Pvt Spunkmeyer, even though he has received military training to do it.
All of the marines wrote Ripley off in the prior scene (her briefing on the events of Alien) as a useless member of the expedition, but Sgt Apone and Cpl Hicks see her competence with the loader and revise their opinions. Lt Gorman, who has wandered off to do something else, is notably absent.
It’s so carefully executed that this isn’t even the first mention of the cargo loader. Burke tried to goad Ripley into coming on the expedition in the first place by disparaging her demotion to cargo loader way back on Gateway Station.
The critical thing is that you probably don’t notice James Cameron planting Chekhov’s Gun. He hides what he’s doing behind a reasonable explanation for showing you the loader: “I’m not planting the loader now (in Act 2) to use it later (in Act 3). I mentioned it in Act 1 so I can show it to you here (in Act 2), to demonstrate Ripley’s competence and give you an explanation for why Apone and Hicks, alone among the Colonial Marines, respect and trust her.” When it shows up for the third time in Act 3, you’re neither wondering where it came from nor were you especially expecting to see it again.
Sometimes I get this obnoxious feeling when I’m reading a book: Someone finds a cache of medication in a drawer they shouldn’t have been poking into and I inwardly groan “okay well those are coming back later when we need to knock somebody out.” Chekhov’s Sleeping Pills. A compelling character is introduced early on, disappears for most of the story, but continues to be mentioned by other characters until the punch of their return is telegraphed miles away? Chekhov’s Gunman. Did the writer make a point to note that the point-of-view character heard some seemingly unimportant detail on the news while drinking their morning coffee? That’s Chekhov’s Newspaper and it’s 100% coming back to haunt you later. These are examples of what you don’t want to do.
With contributions from Chekhov and Cameron we have the master rules for placing elements into a story:
If you need an element late in your story, you have to introduce it early in the story.
If you don’t need an element later in your story, you shouldn’t introduce it at all.
When you introduce the element, don’t bring it in haphazardly just for the sake of introducing it; give it an alibi for being included.
So what does that mean for your writing? How can you make sure that the details you put in are the right ones?
Describe Discriminately
When you’re using descriptive language, there’s a couple of quick and easy rules of thumb you can use to avoid bogging down in unnecessary detail.
First, you only need to describe things in detail if they are out of the ordinary. You don’t need to describe things that are ordinary. Don’t waste language on describing a vehicle unless it’s special in some way, and then only use as much detail as you need to describe what makes it different from any other vehicle. Don’t spend a paragraph lavishly describing the physical properties of a car unless you’re writing the new Fast and Furious installment. Does the reader need to know that it’s a rustbucket, a jalopy, a hoopty? Then drop one detail to let the reader know. A character might think about the texture of rust under her fingertips or joke to another character that she hopes she won’t need a tetanus shot just to get a ride to school. Better yet, have her conceal something through a tear in the seat’s vinyl shell—something she’ll need to retrieve later.
When it comes to your characters, I’ve got a forthcoming Shelf Life on the dos and don’ts of describing them specifically but if you find yourself rhapsodizing on somebody’s eyes, you should probably stop and lean on the delete key. When is it actually useful to describe somebody’s eyes? Consider what it means for a vampire’s eyes to be amber versus red in Twilight, or why it mattered that Harry Potter had his mother’s eyes. Bella Swan and Hermione Granger had brown eyes. I can’t remember if they were chocolate brown or chestnut brown or hazelnut brown or whether they were limpid pools or if they hid secret depths. Nobody cares. Just give one standout detail about a character’s appearance—so that your reader can easily distinguish that character from others—and move on.
Every detail you include in your story is a promise to your reader that you have to fulfill later on. You’re asking the reader to note and remember the detail for later use. Do not impose upon your reader more than you have to, because if you don’t fulfill the promise they’ll be disappointed.
I read The Secret History by Donna Tartt recently and there’s a scene in which a secretive group toasts one another with the phrase “live forever.” I was really disappointed when this turned out to be neither (a) a clue to the plot opening up to supernatural possibilities like the pursuit of immortality; nor (b) a red herring for same. It was just a throwaway line. Never followed up on. Never mentioned again. Don’t include those types of details unless you want to disappoint your reader.
Don’t Kid Yourself
Finally, you need to take a hard line with yourself when you evaluate the details you include. Lots of writers convince themselves that every detail they want to include is important because it illuminates some facet of a character’s personality. My character catches the same train to work every morning, never misses it, never catches an earlier or a later train. Is this because:
She sees the same person on the train every single morning until the day she doesn’t? Or
She’s routine-driven and meticulous and that’s an important part of her personality?
As a writer, you might feel that these are equally good reasons to include the detail, but flip it around and consider them as a reader. Which bullet is more compelling? Which bullet makes you interested to read more? Don’t include details just to demonstrate aspects of your character’s personality. Find a detail that demonstrates an aspect of your character’s personality that also is material to telling the story. Include that one. Make your details do double duty for your story.
TL;DR: Details, like scorpion peppers, can be dangerous in quantity. Use them with caution, use them sparingly—and make sure you know what you’re doing before you start throwing them in your food.
Please join me in wishing a very happy birthday to devoted Shelf Life fan Catherine’s Mom this weekend! I have no idea what’s coming your way next week in Shelf Life because I am really far behind in all aspects of life right now. Whatever it is, I promise it’ll be on time and it won’t be any worse than the terrible content you’re already accustomed to. Stay tuned and I’ll get something on the table for you by Tuesday. Thanks always for reading.
PS—The Shelf Life homepage has just launched and I’d love for you to check it out and let me know what you think. All the Shelf Life resources you could ever want, all in one place.
If you have questions that you'd like to see answered in Shelf Life, ideas for topics that you'd like to explore, or feedback on the newsletter, please feel free to contact me. I would love to hear from you.
For more information about who I am, what I do, and, most important, what my dog looks like, please visit my website.
After you have read a few posts, if you find that you're enjoying Shelf Life, please recommend it to your word-oriented friends.
Catherine's Mom, also a Ripley devotee, really liked this article. I especially appreciated the point about picking details that pull the reader in rather than just supplying background.