Matt Bell argues that the most powerful engine in fiction isn't always plot or character arc, but the deliberate, rhythmic repetition of noun phrases. In a craft essay that reads less like a manual and more like a masterclass in attention, Bell demonstrates how repeating a name or a description can transform a static scene into a propulsive force, turning grammar into a tool for emotional resonance.
The Anatomy of Insistence
Bell begins by grounding his theory in the personal, noting that he is often addressed by his full name, "Matt Bell," even by close friends and students. He suggests this atypical habit mirrors his literary preference: "But maybe it's also why I've always been attracted to the use of repeated noun phrases in fiction, especially when they're used effectively as building blocks for meaningful pattern making and other sorts of literary effects." This personal anecdote isn't just a warm-up; it frames the entire essay as an exploration of identity and insistence. By treating the noun phrase as a recurring character, Bell posits that repetition creates a "propulsive force" that can carry a narrative forward even when the action is minimal.
To illustrate this, Bell turns to his own early work, "The Collectors," a story about the discovery of the Collyer brothers' bodies. He employs a "brute-force approach" where the name "William Baker" initiates nearly every sentence. "William Baker breaks a second-story window," "William Baker peers into the darkness," "William Baker climbs through the window." The effect is overwhelming, mimicking the claustrophobic, relentless nature of the hoarders' home. Bell admits this is a raw technique: "the pattern never breaks!" Yet, he argues that this unyielding rhythm gives "insistent solidity to these historical men for whom I'd otherwise found few details to draw upon." The repetition forces the reader to inhabit the singular, grinding reality of the character's experience, stripping away the distance between the reader and the scene.
This a brute-force approach to repetition, using the anaphora of the noun phrase "William Baker" to generate a kind of a propulsive force.
Critics of this method might argue that such rigid repetition risks becoming monotonous or gimmicky, distracting from the narrative rather than enhancing it. However, Bell's analysis suggests that the power lies precisely in the tension between the repetitive structure and the evolving content within it.
The Art of the Slant Rhyme
Moving from his own work to that of Robert Lopez, Bell introduces a more nuanced application of the technique. In Lopez's story "One of My Daughters is Called Resnick," the repetition is not exact but rather a "slant rhyme approach." Bell highlights how Lopez stitches the narrative together using phrases like "the bruised parts of a banana" and "long curly hair and pretty polished toes." These phrases appear obsessively in the first half, establishing a tone of paranoia and fixation, before shifting in the second half to new repetitions like "that gut love connection."
Bell observes that this shift is crucial: "For me, this shift creates a sense of progression at the level of language—a poetic progression, perhaps, as opposed to plot progression—and therefore satisfies the basic need of a story to include (and be completed by) change." The argument here is sophisticated; Bell contends that change in fiction doesn't always require a new event, but can occur through the evolution of language itself. By varying the repeated elements, Lopez allows the story to move from a state of warning to a state of delusional intimacy without needing a traditional plot twist.
This approach challenges the conventional wisdom that repetition must be exact to be effective. Instead, Bell suggests that the variation within the repetition is where the emotional truth often hides. As he notes regarding Lopez's work, the author "uses a variety of repeated noun phrases to stitch his short tale together, propelling the story by tone more than by plot, building his narrator's interior life through obsessive, iterative repetitions."
Interiority in the Ring
Finally, Bell examines Rita Bullwinkel's novel Headshot, which follows eight female boxers in a Las Vegas tournament. Here, the repetition of full names serves a different purpose: it grounds the reader in the interiority of characters who are often defined by their physicality. Bell points out that Bullwinkel repeats names like "Andi Taylor" to anchor the reader before diving into fragmented memories and fears. "Andi Taylor is pumping her hands together," followed immediately by a cascade of thoughts about a child she failed to save.
Bell praises how Bullwinkel pairs these noun phrase repetitions with variations in verb phrases to create a sense of psychological pressure. He notes, "You can see here how Bullwinkel also uses the repetition of the noun phrase 'Andi Taylor' to set up other repetitions... providing a kind of poetic closure to the novel's opening fragment." The repetition of the name acts as a rhythmic anchor, allowing the narrative to spiral into complex trauma and back again without losing coherence. It is a technique that respects the reader's intelligence, trusting them to find the pattern and the meaning within the noise.
The plot question holding Headshot together—which of the eight women will win the boxing tournament?—is more scaffold than story, providing a structure through which Bullwinkel can explore the interior lives of her boxers.
Bottom Line
Matt Bell's essay is a compelling reminder that the mechanics of grammar are not merely rules to be followed, but tools to be wielded for emotional effect. The strongest part of his argument is the demonstration that repetition, when varied and intentional, can generate a narrative momentum that plot alone cannot achieve. The biggest vulnerability for writers attempting this is the risk of monotony; without the careful modulation Bell identifies in Lopez and Bullwinkel, the technique can easily devolve into a stylistic tic. Readers and writers alike should watch for how the repetition of a single phrase can shift the entire emotional weight of a scene, turning a simple description into a haunting refrain.