How to Describe Driving into an Alleyway in New York City: Or, Teasing Out the “Telling Details”

In the course of my work as an editor, I am frequently reminded of a quote from Matthew 7:13, “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the way that leads to life, and only a few find it.”

As a point of style, I find this instruction has applications in many different contexts. But the meaning remains the same. The “narrow gate” is the specific, while the generic, or the general, is the “wide and broad gate.” The “life” the author finds through the narrow gate is “good writing.” This, and perhaps the Kingdom of Heaven too, can be found through precision.

If the goal of the study of fiction, as a practitioner, is to gain the ability to conjure believable worlds, then the key is specificity and precision. In other words, the instant your reader finds a flaw in the logic of your world, is the instant they stop believing in your story. This is the instant that you’ve lost them to their myriad other entertainment options.

So, I often find myself returning to a familiar note, “[Insert author’s name here] must strive to be as specific as possible in your writing.” Part of what I mean by this is that authors must use the world they have constructed to tell their story. In other words, authors must tease out telling details from what they already have. Doing so will unveil new and exciting possibilities for their story. 

Consider how one author I worked with began a chapter.

“Tony pulled up in his car at the rear alley to his café, when he saw Alfonse sitting in his ’64 Pontiac GTO a few yards further down. Tony waved. Alfonse folded up a newspaper and turned the interior light and ignition off, stepping out onto the alley. Tony turned his headlights off, leaving just the moon to light Alfonse’s way and keep them company. Getting out of the car, Tony walked over to Alfonse and gave him a hug… Tony opened the rear entry door and motioned for Alfonse to follow him inside. He began switching on the lights and taking the stools down off the tables.” 

These two childhood friends—Tony (a bartender) and Alfonse (a mafioso)—then have a discussion about money, which escalates into violence. By the end of the scene, Tony is on the floor, beaten down and whimpering. He does not have the money he owes. Alfonse then delivers a stern warning and, “… stepped away and shouldered the door open, crashing out onto the street.” 

There the chapter ends. All well and good, eh? Not quite. So, what’s wrong here?

Note that at the beginning of the scene, Alfonse has parked in the alley behind the cafe. At the end of the scene, he leaves out of the front door. So, is Alfonse just abandoning his car in the alley? Does he not need his car? 

Furthermore, if Alfonse has parked such that Tony can also pull into the alley, doesn’t that imply Alfonse’s car is essentially “trapped” (alleyways being notoriously narrow, etc.)? In other words, wouldn’t Tony have to move his car for Alfonse to get out? (This is to say nothing of the fact, I’m guessing, that it’s illegal to park in alleyways in NYC. Indeed, parking in the city is notoriously irritating. People have written entire books about it! See Calvin Trillin's wonderful—and delightfully specific—novella, Tepper Isn’t Going Out.)

This kind of quibbling may sound ridiculous, but it really isn’t. Leaning into the specific not only improves the story, but is in fact the quality a story consists of. Do not allow flaws in the spell your fiction seeks to cast come from a lack of rigor, as was done here. Tease out the telling details and possibilities from the world you have already created. The specific detail that results from this “teasing” helps “sell” the reality of a story. In other words, it makes your readers believe that what you write is actually happening. 

Let’s apply this logic to the section in question. Consider that after he’s been beaten up by Alfonse, Tony is then forced, by Alfonse, to return to his car, and back up down the alley in order to let him pass. Imagine his humiliation, now compounded. Instead of being left alone to tend his wounds, Tony must do this favor for Alfonse; he is allowed no rest. Far more than a generic “beating,” the image of Tony backing up to let Alfonse pass emphasizes what the author wishes to express, which is that Tony has been humiliated.

I suppose, alternatively, Alfonse could be so overwhelmed by having to beat up his friend, that he leaves the bar without picking up his car. But then he must either return to get it—setting up another potential interesting scene—or the author must comment on his confused state of mind. In either case, more detail must be teased out. As originally written, the reader is left wanting.

*****

Often I find that these details are not “teased out” because the author does not wish to address difficult subjects. Earlier in the same book, there is a line that I’m sure the author had intended as a throwaway. Here Tony is taking his father, Martin, to see his mother in the hospital.

Martin got out of the car [at the hospital entrance]. Seeing his parents’ health decline as it had recently, Tony thought it important that they spend as much time together as possible. He drove over to the car park, and drove around for a few minutes before settling on one of the many available spots.

Here, the second sentence (“Tony thought it important…”) doesn’t make sense, considering that Tony then drives around an essentially empty car park, “for a few minutes.” It’s a bit odd to dawdle in such a fashion in the parking lot if there are “many available spots,” eh? Really, it seems like Tony is avoiding going into the hospital and seeing his parents, which is the exact opposite of what was just expressed.

Like his main character, instead of lingering on the interesting and relatable inner struggle between knowing what is the right thing to do, and not wanting to do it, the author simply avoids the difficulty altogether. 

Humans are complex animals. Walt Whitman put this brilliantly when he wrote, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large. I contain multitudes).” We read literature to commune in the complexity of our shared humanity, in order to feel less alone, even when we’re reading for entertainment or edification. We don’t want simplicity, because we don’t see that in ourselves.

As a writer, a major part of the work before you is to create complex characters, the kind that audiences love, and love to hate. As you get to know your characters better, you will find that your plot will change in small but meaningful ways. Allow this to happen.