Flashback!

[a problem solved]

[originally published 11 February 2025]

FAQ

Q. What do I do about flashbacks when I’m already writing in the past tense? I can’t keep doing had, had, had, had, over and over again, can I?

A. Well, you can, but you needn’t.

Here’s a little trick that I stumbled upon years ago, either in a moment of desperate innovation and invention or because some other, more experienced copy editor had whispered it to me in a dark alley late one night:

Begin your flashback with the prose equivalent of what in a 1940s noir would be swirling mist, perhaps a backward-spinning hourglass, and Max Steiner pulling out the literal stops¹ and sawing away at his strings, that is to say, in brief:

Earlier that evening . . .

Lay out a few standard-issue past-perfect sentences:

Lefty had been brooding over a bowl of chowder in his favorite down-at-heel² Brooklyn dive. The shuffling waiter had, as always, neglected to bring him any oyster crackers. . . .

When you think no one’s paying attention, clip a couple of had thises and had thats to discreet ’ds:

Lefty had seriously considered yanking the wizened waiter’s face into the tepid soup, but he’d thought better of it. What good would it do?, he’d mused. All he’d end up with is a tableful of diced potato and celery. And no oyster crackers.

Then slip into the simple past tense.

Disgusted with himself, with Brooklyn, with life, Lefty stalked out, not forgetting to leave a solid 20 percent tip. After all, he was no monster.

Then you’re good to go, with the simple past tense, till the end of the flashback, which hopefully runs to the end of the chapter or at least to a convenient spacebreak.

Problem solved.

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The Fine Print

Thank you all for being here, and thank you, especially, to subscribers, and especially especially to paying subscribers. I quote my friend the superb Connie Schultz: “You don’t have to pay to read my writing. I understand that not everyone can do so, and I am grateful to those of you who do because you make it possible for me to keep writing.”

Sallie would be grateful too, if I could even find her.

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Today’s cover painting: Philippe de Champagne (1602–74),³ Still Life with a Skull (detail), c. 1671

1. I think that many people forget (or perhaps have never known?) that the phrase “pulling out the stops” derives from the actual action of actually pulling out the actual stops—the sound-controlling stop knobs—on an actual pipe organ. If you pull out all the stops, you’re making a great racket.

(You know that “turning over a new leaf” refers to the pages of a book and not to tree product, right?)

2. Flashback! to first hearing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” in 1979 or so (the Julie Covington concept album version, natch), and my formative encounter with the phrase “down at heel” (“couldn’t stay all my life down at heel”), which, not recognizing it at all (it’s not a phrase one runs into much on Long Island, at least not since Jay Gatsby bought the swimming pool, as it were), I decided was “down that hill,” because of course one would long to be up that hill rather than down that hill, no?

I figured it out. Eventually.

Also, let’s look at varying Yank and Brit uses for phrases about heels and being down them.

First the Yanks:

Then the Brits:

I love this stuff.

P.S. Somehow I either already knew or was able to quickly infer the meaning of “at sixes and sevens with you” and was also able to precociously decide that “dressed up to the nines / at sixes and sevens with you” is trying awfully hard, Tim.

3. En dash alert!