Words Left Unsaid

One of the best things I’ve read thus far this month is The Moon is Down by John Steinbeck. It was published in 1942 and very blatantly draws parallels to what was occurring in Europe during WWII. While it was, in its day, a piece of propaganda, it’s still a relevant look at humanity today. Here’s one of the ways I think Steinbeck—not just in this specific work of his but in others, as well—achieves that.

As a writer, you’re often told not to think about the reader, when you’re writing. You’re told to write for yourself, write the story you want to read, etc. Yet, you have to keep in mind that there’s an unspoken agreement happening between writer and reader from the first sentence you put down. It has to do with information distribution.

I, as the writer, can see everything about my story and characters, whether or not I create the words for it. By the time I finish a manuscript, I fully understand, beyond necessity, character motivations, backstories, trauma, and everything that informs how they appear in my story and what drives their choices or responses. Not every detail is going to be relevant to the plot you’re weaving together, so you must decide what must be included and what to omit.

Readers, then, get what you decide they should have. But here’s another thing, as a writer, you should keep in mind about your audience: Readers are smart. You do not have to deliver messages and meaning in big, obvious ways. So, you have to give enough to help them make sense of what’s transpiring yet not too much so as to detract from the work their brain already knows how to do, in terms of formulating hunches or connecting behavioral dots or plugging in what they understand about the human experience. 

The art of omission is absolutely that—an art. Because you definitely don’t want to leave out important material that changes the whole perception of a character or impact of an event. You’ll have doubts that, if you don’t put in a certain sentence, the foreshadowing will get lost or the subtext will be missed. 

It’s so crucial to not shy away from this, though, just because it is a delicate balance. Sometimes what is left off the page or what goes unsaid, when done right, is more effective in my reader-brain than if I’d read the words spelling it out for me. The unseen or unstated then take on a previously unfelt presence. It lingers in the mind longer or with more intention because you have to apply critical thinking skills and surmise and be an active participant in the story. 

This is one of the skills John Steinbeck had an excellent grasp on, and you see it in many of his pieces. If you’ve ever read Of Mice and Men, you should know what I’m talking about because that ending? That’s one of the best examples I can think of, when it comes to the art of omitting. We don’t have to see exactly how things conclude for George and Lennie to still allow our imaginations to fill in the gap. To feel that emotional punch. To see the ripple effects of the point of action that, at first glance, may come across as abbreviated or cut-off. 

But it’s not cut-off, when we’re still thinking about it after we’ve reached the last page.

This may just be a personal preference, maybe it’s a hot-take, I’m not sure, but I believe this: If a book wraps up so nicely with all the bows tied and there are no lingering threads, it’s let me down. Don’t get me wrong; I want a satisfying ending. A satisfying ending, to me, is just one that still leaves me wondering. Not about everything and not, necessarily, about the central plot.

I don’t want to see that everything’s all rainbow and sunshine and happily-ever-after. The main character(s) should have achieved something by the end, whether it was what they wanted from the beginning or we saw it evolve, as the plot progressed and their arc played out. Achievement should not come cost-free. There is always going to be a sacrifice made, small scale or big, and, in the end, that should sit with us. 

The ending of my first ever manuscript comes to mind, which was my undergrad thesis novel. In it, my main character’s family, by the end, is broken in some major ways and yet, in other ways, there’s been important healing. I wanted to leave readers with that sense, so that’s what I envisioned my very last paragraph, specifically, encompassing.

When I submitted my first draft to my advisor, she returned it with lots of great feedback, and one of her critiques was to cut the very last line of the very last paragraph. I didn’t ask her about it, at that point, and I kept it in my second draft because I liked it. Then, when I got feedback on the second draft weeks later, she, again, wanted me to cut that same, final line.

So, I finally asked her about it. I pointed out that she’d left the same comment the first time around, and it was kind of funny because she didn’t remember that yet it made her double-down on her opinion. 

And her opinion was that keeping that specific line, by the time it’s delivered, was redundant. What it was communicating to the reader was unnecessary because the reader would already know it, having read everything that’d taken place before that. It would be like hitting them over the head with a lesson they’d already learned.

Obviously, that’s excellent feedback, and I cut that sentence—and just leaving out that one line gives the ending the closure it required while letting the reader comprehend the significance of the final glimpse of the main character. A reader who’s been paying attention, who’s been following along, is more likely to resonate with that type of ending and experience a book’s ripple effects long after they’ve closed the cover because it’s like an invitation of sorts. It’s an invitation for you to stay engaged and not have to be spoonfed information or presented with everything delicately, perfectly, tied up.

This doesn’t just apply to endings—though endings are so important I had to chat about that a bit; if you can’t land the plane, you’re in trouble—and so we circle back to Steinbeck and The Moon Is Down. Because he applies his skill of omission, he extends so many moments of engaged, critical imagination to readers, all throughout this little story.

Let me provide a bit more context. The last thing I wish to do is spoil it, though, so don’t worry about that.

As I mentioned at the top, this book is depicting a snapshot from a time of war, specifically meant to mirror WWII. I believe, actually, it was meant to make people think of Germany’s occupation of Norway. So, right from the very first page, you’re seeing a small, quiet town being invaded. Immediate conflict with the two, opposing groups—townspeople vs. invaders—defined. Resistance is sparked, and that’s why there’s a story at all. Because these people will not so easily or peacefully accept that their home is no longer their own.

With resistance comes harsh responses, but Steinbeck never lets you see violence play out in his words. It’s one of the things he chooses to let happen off the page—and so even more in the reader’s mind.

Do we agree on this: When left to its own devices, my imagination can way over-deliver on just how frightening or harrowing something can be. It’s like when we see a shadow in the night or hear a strange noise and our minds jump to a dozen unsettling ideas of what it could possibly be, and then we turn on a light or go and investigate only to discover an ordinary thing. A branch scratching against a window pane. Leaves skittering across the sidewalk. It’s not the darkness nor the sound that’s scary; it’s the not knowing and, therefore, feeling unprepared or vulnerable.

Or, also, in the case of this Steinbeck example, it’s staring down this approaching plot point and thinking, as a reader, How are they going to stop this? What are the options for avoiding this outcome? and then starting the next chapter, understanding the plot point played out, and feeling the emotion that comes with the realization that, It’s too late now. This character doesn’t get options; they get finality. 

In a way, though you understand this is a story of war and you know what’s happening, a character you’ve been getting to know is suddenly gone. With no fanfare. With no last words of closure. Without you getting to see their final moment. You just know their absence and the implications of it. 

All the omission works so well because what Steinbeck has been giving his readers all along are glimpses of every character’s humanity. Even with some of the invaders. We get inner-thoughts and contradictions and tenacity and sorrow. He must make his characters take on such body and fullness so that way we know so well what their loss means. And not just their physical loss but that their chance at redemption and freedom have been forfeit, too.

An important aspect of what you leave unsaid, that I’ve gathered from Steinbeck’s example, is that you, again, have your reader in mind and know what you want their thoughts to be lingering on. You can’t control that, once your book is out and in someone else’s hands, so you shape your words in a way that guides your reader to these messages, motifs, and meanings. 

And readers—who are thinking critically and engaged with your work—are going to appreciate that so much. It’s like a mental treasure hunt, in a way. They’re following the clues you’re laying down, making inferences when necessary, and tapping into a deeper level of story. If you’re using the skill of omission right, they won’t be miffed that you skipped over a scene or didn’t explicitly spell out what a certain character said or did. 

I think, at risk of throwing out another hot take here, that we may be in an age of literature where too many readers expect stories where everything is handed to them. Where comprehension skills don’t necessarily have to be tapped into. Where metaphors, subtlety, or brevity aren’t always viewed as tools that enrich a story. Then again I’m not sure if literature, by definition, is the right word to describe the type of stories the readers I’m referring to are picking up. Too judgemental?

Anyway, I can’t recommend Steinbeck enough, as a great example of how to wield the craft, for many different reasons and especially for learning the art of omission. East of Eden is buzzy right now because of the recently-released mini-series adaptation, but consider checking out other titles in his bibliography. Don’t get me wrong, East of Eden is a wonderful novel with so much to examine and take away; I’m just not 100% convinced that’s the piece of his to dive into first, if you’ve yet to read anything by him. 

The Moon Is Down might be that book for you. It’s less than 200 pages and can be read in one sitting. In fact, if you have the time, I recommend going that route. It’s the best way to experience the momentum of a story that starts to feel more and more like a runaway train accident that you have hope can be prevented while also squeezing your eyes shut to brace against what may or may not be inevitable.

If you have thoughts on this book or Steinbeck, in general, I’d love to hear them. He’s one of my favorite authors, someone in the “Classic” category who rarely lets me down, and I intend to make a study of all his work for the rest of my writing life.