:: La Méthode Beckett, In A Way.

We've all been there. We read a good book, a great book, even, by an author whose style absolutely fascinates us. And then we head back to our own writing, and there it is, sometimes long before we notice it: the sentences we craft are wrought after the fashion of what we have been reading, or at least attempting to be so.

It happened to me more than once, most notably and noticeably while reading Annie Proulx's Shipping News, a book I adore and one that is written in a truly unique and characteristic style. So taken was I with Ms Proulx's prose that when I next handed a passage of the manuscript I was working on at the time to my wife, she immediately commented: "You're trying to write like Annie Proulx now?" Ooops.

Now, of course there's no shame in being influenced by the best, or one's betters. But first of all it should happen in a more subtle way than trying to imitate their syntactic devices, and secondly, it should not happen unconsciously. That's just scary. And for one such as I, who is still working to find and establish my own voice, the thought of speaking in someone else's before I've discovered my own is flat-out terrifying.

It is even possible for one's very own style to get in the way of clear expression. Samuel Beckett originally wrote many of his books in French, a language he knew well but not as well as his native English (or so he claimed: Beckett's French was decent enough for most of these 'first attempts' to still make it into print—before they were published in English). Ever keen on eliminating "style" from his works, Beckett felt that writing in a foreign language and then translating back word for word into English helped purge his prose of stylistic contrivances. In other words, this ingenious approach was meant to prevent Beckett from writing too much like Beckett.

I've occasionally applied this method to tricky passages where I felt I couldn't get to the heart of what I wanted to say without burying it under pretty sentences, and with good success. While writing entire books in a language in which I don't feel extremely proficient is another matter, it occurred to me that the linguistic sidestep might be helpful in my reading practices. I consider myself fortunate (and have studied really, really hard) to be able to read just about anything I like in French. So I devour loads of books written in French, getting the literary nourishment I crave, still learning a lot about plot and characterization—not to mention improving my French—while remaining reasonably sure that what I read will not resurface in what I write, at least not stylistically.

If you are learning another language, reading is obviously a great way to get to know some foreign literature while improving your language skills. If you happen to also be a writer and find that the style of authors you admire has a tendency to wind up in your own work, reading in a language other than the one you write in can also help you deal with the threat of what we shall call, for want of a better term, involuntary imitation. Perhaps you'll even want to try the "Beckett Method" now and then and write a page or two in another language, and translate it back. The results will surprise you.

Far be it from me to advocate no longer reading in the primary language we write in, of course. We need to keep up with the tools of our trade and besides, some books are simply too good to pass up. But when I start writing "under the influence" of some other author's potent English style, I know just what to do... I head back to Proust to clear my mind. Or clutter it, perhaps. Either can be inspirational.

:: Foreign Languages In Fiction

I enjoy learning languages. Aside from English and my native German, I know a few others to varying degrees. Naturally, this frequently leads to the temptation to use them in my writing. What writer hasn't slipped the odd foreign phrase into a character's mouth on occasion? There's nothing wrong with a German character—especially if the story is set in a German-speaking country—greeting someone with a hearty "Guten Tag," and few English readers are unaware that the French hail one another with a melodious "Bonsoir" in the evening. I think this is great for flavor, but one shouldn't overdo it. For one thing, it can get silly. Yes, your story may be set in Tokyo, and yes, your characters may actually be speaking Japanese and not the fluent English of your dialogue anymore than those myriad aliens in Star Trek did—but there are only so many Arigato's and Sayonara's you can sprinkle in there before it starts to smack of contrivance. After all, when I spend time with my American friends I don't pepper my (English) conversation with exclamations of "Danke schön" and "Mein Gott!"

But I'm thinking of another potential problem with foreign languages in fiction writing. I remember, years ago when I was a student at UCLA, attending a lengthy talk by an Italian professor. The man himself spoke English well and delivered his paper in that language, but at one point he launched into a lengthy quotation in French. When the passage was over, he looked up and asked his audience: "I assume every one here knows French."

It's true, you know, what people say about assuming.

Don't make that mistake. Now, you may go muttering something about how it might well behoove American audiences to become more proficient in the languages spoken in the world out there, but do you want your readers to have a good time or do you want to show them up for not knowing that "Fakt Yo" actually means "That's a fact" in Czech?

This doesn't mean you shouldn't have anything but English in dialogue exchanged between characters of different nationalities. After all, it's great for a bit of authentic atmosphere. Just don't be like the above-mentioned professor and assume everyone knows what you're talking about. Let your readers in on the joke, or the mystery. Ideally, you'll put them in the same shoes as your protagonist or point-of-view character. The heroine of my first novel, Frostworks, is a Czech emigré named Milena who has been living in France for years. Milena speaks the language well, but every now and then she is still confounded by a turn of speech, an idiom, or simply the peculiar name of an unfamiliar dish. I let the reader learn the meaning of these things with her, sharing her puzzlement, her interest, and her eventual enlightenment—who hasn't had that experience, after all? It creates a bond with the character as well as a bit of authenticity. And most of the time, I have the speaker who used the unknown term offer an explanation before she is asked for it—or before my readers think I assume they should know, or don't care if they don't.

It's common courtesy, after all.