Lessons in Bad Writing: Frank Herbert’s 𝘋𝘶𝘯𝘦
Frank Herbert is long dead so I’m not worried about insulting him, though there are legions of fans who will probably leap to his defense without even reading this essay. So let me preface this by saying if you so love Herbert or Dune that you’re unwilling to acknowledge its flaws, you can keep your comments to yourself. I’m not interested in them.
I recently watched the latest film incarnation directed by Denis Villeneuve. The film is excellent, but when describing it to my son I realized I’ve lived with the story for so long (for decades, since I was a teenager), I forgot how complex the setting is. So to refresh my memory I reread the book, and in so doing rediscovered how tedious Herbert’s writing is. When I last read it, I was young, naive, inexperienced and untrained as a writer. I didn’t have the faculties or tools to recognize bad writing. But now, in my old age, I’m well-equipped, and I can judge with confidence Herbert was a bad writer.
Now before the heads of Dune fanatics start exploding, let me clarify: it’s an amazing story. The setting, character development and plot are top notch. Even much of Herbert’s prose is tight and well written. The guy had all the chops a good writer needs — but he undercut them all with his egregious abuse of telling rather than showing.
(If you haven’t read my essay “Practical Advice to Improve Your Storytelling,” the most common trap of telling is narrating character thoughts, especially when writing in third person.)
Dune’s first couple chapters work quite well. There is some telling, but it’s so minor I happily excused it. The narration is very much focused on action and dialogue, which is to say very visual. It’s easy to see scenes in the mind’s eye.
But a few chapters in and I was ready to burn the book. The further I read, the more Herbert narrated character thoughts. The almost constant interruption of narrative quickly became annoying. Even in scenes of dialogue — where characters’ voices could be used to convey their thoughts — Herbert nonetheless explains his characters’ minds.
Take, for instance, this dinner scene. I’ve lined through the offending text. Read once in original form, then read it again and skip the stricken text to see how removing it would improve Herbert’s prose.
Kynes directed a speculative look at Jessica, gave a subtle hand signal to Tuek.
The smuggler lurched to his feet, lifted his flagon. “I’ll give you a toast,” he said. “To young Paul Atreides, still a lad by his looks, but a man by his actions.”
W̶h̶y̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶r̶u̶d̶e̶?̶ ̶J̶e̶s̶s̶i̶c̶a̶ ̶a̶s̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶h̶e̶r̶s̶e̶l̶f̶.̶
The banker stared now at Kynes, and Jessica saw terror return to the agent’s face.
People began responding all around the table.
W̶h̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶K̶y̶n̶e̶s̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶d̶s̶,̶ ̶p̶e̶o̶p̶l̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶l̶l̶o̶w̶ ̶,̶ ̶J̶e̶s̶s̶i̶c̶a̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶l̶d̶ ̶u̶s̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶i̶d̶e̶s̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶P̶a̶u̶l̶.̶ ̶W̶h̶a̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶c̶r̶e̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶p̶o̶w̶e̶r̶?̶ ̶I̶t̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶J̶u̶d̶g̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶C̶h̶a̶n̶g̶e̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶a̶t̶’̶s̶ ̶t̶e̶m̶p̶o̶r̶a̶r̶y̶.̶ ̶A̶n̶d̶ ̶c̶e̶r̶t̶a̶i̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶b̶e̶c̶a̶u̶s̶e̶ ̶h̶e̶’̶s̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶i̶v̶i̶l̶ ̶s̶e̶r̶v̶a̶n̶t̶.̶
She removed her hand from the crysknife hilt, lifted her flagon to Kynes, who responded in kind.
Only Paul and the banker — (S̶o̶o̶-̶S̶o̶o̶!̶ ̶W̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶i̶d̶i̶o̶t̶i̶c̶ ̶n̶i̶c̶k̶n̶a̶m̶e̶!̶ ̶J̶e̶s̶s̶i̶c̶a̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶.̶) — remained empty-handed. The banker’s attention stayed fixed on Kynes. Paul stared at his plate.
I̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶n̶d̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶c̶o̶r̶r̶e̶c̶t̶l̶y̶ ̶,̶ ̶P̶a̶u̶l̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶.̶ ̶W̶h̶y̶ ̶d̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶i̶n̶t̶e̶r̶f̶e̶r̶e̶?̶ ̶H̶e̶ ̶g̶l̶a̶n̶c̶e̶d̶ ̶c̶o̶v̶e̶r̶t̶l̶y̶ ̶a̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶l̶e̶ ̶g̶u̶e̶s̶t̶s̶ ̶n̶e̶a̶r̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶.̶ ̶P̶r̶e̶p̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶v̶i̶o̶l̶e̶n̶c̶e̶?̶ ̶F̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶w̶h̶o̶m̶?̶ ̶C̶e̶r̶t̶a̶i̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶b̶a̶n̶k̶e̶r̶ ̶f̶e̶l̶l̶o̶w̶.̶
Halleck stirred, spoke as though to no one in particular, directing his words over the heads of the guests across from him: “In our society, people shouldn’t be quick to take offense. It’s frequently suicidal.” He looked at the stillsuit manufacturer’s daughter beside him. “Don’t you think so, miss?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Indeed I do,” She said. “There’s too much violence. It makes me sick. And lots of times no offense is meant, but people die anyway. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Indeed it doesn’t,” Halleck said.
Jessica saw the near perfection of the girl’s act, r̶e̶a̶l̶i̶z̶e̶d̶:̶ ̶T̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶e̶m̶p̶t̶y̶-̶h̶e̶a̶d̶e̶d̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶f̶e̶m̶a̶l̶e̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶ ̶e̶m̶p̶t̶y̶-̶h̶e̶a̶d̶e̶d̶ ̶l̶i̶t̶t̶l̶e̶ ̶f̶e̶m̶a̶l̶e̶ ̶.̶ ̶S̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶w̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶p̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶r̶e̶a̶t̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶u̶n̶d̶e̶r̶s̶t̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶H̶a̶l̶l̶e̶c̶k̶,̶ ̶t̶o̶o̶,̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶d̶e̶t̶e̶c̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶y̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶p̶l̶a̶n̶n̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶P̶a̶u̶l̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶s̶e̶x̶.̶ ̶J̶e̶s̶s̶i̶c̶a̶ ̶r̶e̶l̶a̶x̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶H̶e̶r̶ ̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶ ̶p̶r̶o̶b̶a̶b̶l̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶-̶ ̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶i̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶h̶a̶d̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶l̶o̶o̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶o̶b̶v̶i̶o̶u̶s̶ ̶g̶a̶m̶b̶i̶t̶.̶
Kynes spoke to the banker: “Isn’t another apology in order?”
The banker turned a sickly grin toward Jessica, said: “My Lady, I fear I’ve overindulged in your wines. You serve potent drink at table, and I’m not accustomed to it.”
Jessica heard the venom beneath his tone, spoke sweetly: “When strangers meet, great allowance should be made for differences of custom and training.”
“Thank you, my Lady,” he said.
The dark-haired companion of the stillsuit manufacturer leaned toward Jessica, said: “The Duke spoke of our being secure here. I do hope that doesn’t mean more fighting.”
S̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶ ̶d̶i̶r̶e̶c̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶d̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶v̶e̶r̶s̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶ ̶,̶ ̶J̶e̶s̶s̶i̶c̶a̶ ̶t̶h̶o̶u̶g̶h̶t̶.̶
If you haven’t read the book, this example is like a single grain of sand on the vast desert planet of Herbert’s narrative. He uses this technique everywhere, and it fast becomes insufferable. It’s obtrusive. It interrupts and disrupts the narrative flow. It bogs down the story to explain things that in most cases one infers from the scene.
I marvel over the fact that an editor approved Herbert’s version of Dune for print. It’s not like “show vs. tell” was a new idea in the 1960s. I’ve never traced the teaching to its origin, but it’s been recognized by writers as a best practice since at least the 1800s. Given the ingenuity of Herbert’s concepts, perhaps that’s what made the editor give it so extreme a pass.
Anyway, in summary I hope you can see what I mean.
I was inspired to write this essay not only after rereading the novel, but because I’ve recently seen essays by other supposedly professional writers proclaiming it’s okay to ignore the “show, don’t tell” rule. I’m not being snarky; those writers might be professionals, I have no idea.
There’s no other way for me to say it: that’s HORRIBLE advice. It justifies laziness of mind and excuses bad habits that will weaken your writing and hurt you throughout your writing career, if you manage to have one. Maybe you’ll be like Herbert, luck into an editor who excuses it and end up making millions purely on the brilliance of your ideas, but that’s like a kid getting on a bus to Hollywood expecting to become a movie star. It could happen, but even if you’re talented, it’s naïve to think it will.
Writing — especially writing well — requires rigor, in both thought and practice. Don’t give yourself excuses to ignore important lessons, and definitely don’t accept excuses offered to you by others, even if they are professionals.
The purpose of writing isn’t just to communicate; it’s also to exercise and train your mind. Writing is work. You have to put in effort. If you dismiss lessons that guide your mind toward effort, you may as well be that naïve kid on a bus to Hollywood.
