This ain’t National Geographic
There is a moment in V.V. Ganeshananthan’s Brotherless Night when the first person protagonist declares: “Even now I do not wish to translate that word, kottiya. Must we explain each humiliation to be believed?” (pg. 113)
It’s a powerful moment in a powerful scene, but even out of context, the line is important for what it can teach us about craft. Writers who are not white sometimes struggle with this particular issue. How much of the culture/ language of the story should we translate? Can we assume the reader knows the definition of a salwar kameez? Must I explain that ammachi means maternal grandmother? That cousin brother is a male cousin and not, in any way, incestuous?
Authors, take heart. There’s a simple solution to all of this. Just assume no one will ever read your story. Write for an audience of one and let that one be you.
There are two good reasons for this approach. First, publication is ANGST-RIDDEN and something every author looks forward to with gritted teeth. The only part of the process you are sure to enjoy is the writing. So if you aren’t amusing yourself, what’s the point?
Second, it’s a fool’s errand to write with any particular audience in mind. Readers are special snowflakes, each with their own life experiences, culture, and ways of seeing the world. You are never going to be able to curate your work in such a way that each and every reader fully understands every word or undercurrent or moment of subtext or character motivation.
We’re writing fiction, not a National Geographic article. If you start defining every little thing, the pace will grind to a halt and that’ll be the end of the reader’s attention. Focus on the characters and the story. Include nothing that the characters would not themselves think. Forget the reader.
When editors italicize salwaar kameez or idiyappam, when publishing houses ask for glossaries, they are not only doing so for the benefit of an imagined reader, they are imagining a very specific reader. Guess what skin colour that reader has? Guess what language he speaks? Guess his gender (hahah. trick question). Guess his sexuality.
Readers are all kinds of people. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that good stories, told well, transcend cultures, borders, ethnicity, language, and time. Otherwise, how do you explain the enduring appeal of Shakespeare, Austen, Jesus’ parables, or Lord Buddha’s life story? Or the fact that I have been reading Tolstoy for decades and still only have the foggiest idea what a samovar is.
Lately, I’m noticing a sea change. Sugi Ganeshananthan’s novel, that I quoted above, came out this year and includes plenty of Tamil words, some translated, others not, none in unnecessary italics. Reema Patel’s Such Big Dreams - set in India and told from the perspective of a narrator for whom English is (at least) a third language - is full of words and slang that I assume are Hindi or possibly Marathi, none of it italicized, almost none of it explained. These authors know readers are intelligent.
Many of the words in Michael Crummey’s Galore are a mystery to me but it’s still one of my favourite books of all time. His writing is better for being true to the characters, for his commitment to their dialect. And listen, if Crummey’s not including a glossary for words like dunch and skerry and slut lamp, then neither am I, and neither should you.
