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Technique

Adding flavor to your writing

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This entry is part 4 of 10 in the series Writing the senses

Taste is a tough sense to convey in writing. It’s generally going to be confined to two basic usages: a character eating and a character tasting fear/blood/etc. Latter is a sensation that can be very powerful as a visceral response—unless it’s overused. Generally, it’s remembered fairly well.

For the first example, we don’t want to spend too much time describing something we’re all familiar with. The taste of chicken? You’re probably better focusing on the spices or side dishes.

However, when a character is tasting something new and unfamiliar to them and your audience (chilled monkey brains!), describing that taste can help them experience this new food along with your character.

Taste testing your writing
Although taste is tricky to convey in writing, there are a number of ways to convey taste effectively in writing.

  • Expand your flavor vocabulary. Sour, salty, bitter, sweet and spicy are a good start—but they’re awfully generic. That doesn’t mean we should hop straight to just naming garam masala or vegemite as the flavor, either. There’s a whole spectrum of common flavors out there—smoky, lemony, nutty, yeasty, buttery—that can serve as references.
  • Use familiar references. Again, don’t just name an obscure flavor and hope your readers will get it. Some might, but if it’s important enough to name, it’s important enough to help your readers experience, right?
  • Expand your actual palette. Take a cooking or tasting class, or host a tasting party of your own—cheese is usually a good place to start, since you can get several varieties in almost any grocery store. Invite over some friends, taste the cheeses, take notes and compare.
  • Actually eat the food you’re describing. Even if it’s a familiar food, you might pick up on something to bring out your character or scene better with another taste.
  • Remember texture. Like I said yesterday, texture is an important part of an eating experience. (And hey, temperature can be, too. Cold pizza vs. hot, anyone?)
  • Consider the character. If this is a restaurant, what would s/he order? Why? (I like to use real restaurant menus as starting points, but you don’t have to.) Also, think about your character’s culture—was she raised on collard greens and KFC or colcannon and Abrakebabra? What flavors do they like, and is their flavor vocabulary, and how can you make sure that translates well to your audience?
  • Empower emotions. Is there something about these flavors that triggers a memory or other reaction from the character? Does s/he like or dislike this taste?

Also, take into account your setting and genre. Culinary cozies, for example, will probably feature far more taste than fast-paced thrillers—unless those thrillers take place at Le Cordon Bleu.

What do you think? How do you convey taste in your writing?

Photo by Mike Burns

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Technique

A touching story

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This entry is part 3 of 10 in the series Writing the senses

So sight and even sound are the easy senses. We remember to include those all by ourselves usually. But then there’s this big gap where we almost completely neglect the other three senses. Most of us realize we don’t use taste and smell very often—but we rarely think about how often we use texture, touch and tactile senses.

And no, the character just touching stuff doesn’t count.

So much of our perception of the physical world comes from our physical interaction with it. Touch encompasses texture, pressure, temperature, weight, consistency and more. To really flesh out the physical world of the story, don’t forget touch!

Including touch

  • Close your eyes and put yourself in your character’s shoes in this scene. Not just emotionally—physically. (Ooh, suede.) What does s/he touch, pick up or handle in this space? How does it feel—rough/smooth, heavy/light, wet/dry, squishy/solid, hot/cold? Make a list of all these sensations, especially for anything of particular importance.
  • Reverse engineer: think about textures that will evoke moods or character attributes. Close your eyes and imagine feeling happy/sad/ennui/etc.—just the feeling. What kind of materials and sensations do you want to surround yourself with? Keep a list, and look for ways to work those in.
  • Link up with emotions: remember to tap into the POV character’s mental state. Does it color how he or she perceives or interprets things? Does her new sweater feel a little too warm when he’s around? Does sweat creep down his collar as he waits in the sun?
  • Link up with taste: texture is a huge part of an eating experience. If you’ve remembered taste, or have your characters eating, enrich that taste experience with texture from the creamy smoothness of vanilla frozen custard to the satisfying crunch of a crispy cookie.
  • Select: sift through all the tactile information in the scene and pick the most important ones. Our brains do this automatically—quick, what do the insides of your shoes (or the floor under your feet) feel like? If you concentrate on that sensation, you can identify it, but most of the tactile (and other sensory) information we deal with every day we filter out. If we didn’t, we’d be overwhelmed before we got out of bed.

As with all senses, we have to be careful not to go overboard, and to change up which senses we’re using—too much of any one sense isn’t realistic, either. However, as with sight, a lot of tactile senses aren’t quite as “offensive” as other senses, because they do ground us so well in the story.

What do you think? Do you remember to include textures? How else do you include textures in your writing?

Photo by Agustín Ruin

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Technique

Sound is golden

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This entry is part 2 of 10 in the series Writing the senses

Sound is generally the second easiest for us to remember to include. Little sound cues from knocking at the door, to a ringing phone to church bells to footsteps provide transitions and introduce characters. Technically, dialogue is a sound, but I think readers seldom process it that way (and that’s probably good), unless we specifically call attention to the way a line of dialogue is delivered.

Of course, we don’t want to use too much sound—especially not if we bring sound to the forefront as with the above (and even more so if we do this more than once in a scene). While sight will be used in pretty much every scene (even if we don’t need description), sound probably won’t play quite as prominent a role.

Hearing the scene
Sound generally doesn’t ground us as strongly as sight does, but it can still enhance a sense of setting and scene. Here are some tricks I use to focus on the sound in a scene:

  • Close your eyes. What are the background noises in this setting (traffic, natural, people, etc.)? Does the character notice them—or would s/he notice if they disappeared?
  • Look for missed opportunities to set the stage with sound. What sounds are (fairly) unique to this setting, that could help to ground your characters and readers and convey a sense of place?
  • Don’t neglect the dialogue. Are there any lines of dialogue that need a little help conveying their full meaning or emotional impact? (Yes, make sure the dialogue is as strong as possible on its own first, but if it’s still not enough—or if the words contradict the speaker’s meaning—add to the tone.)
  • Closely related: Read the scene aloud for cadence. Does the rhythm of the words sound natural, and does it fit the scene?

Silence is golden
Don’t neglect silence as a part of sound. Whether it’s an awkward pause in a conversation or the still that falls over forest birds when a predator is near, silence can convey as much meaning as sound, if used properly.

What do you think? How do you use sound in your scenes?

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Technique

Seeing is believing

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This entry is part 1 of 10 in the series Writing the senses

Using the five senses is an important way to draw readers into your work and help them experience the character’s reality—but writing those senses can be a challenge. So this week we’re going to look at including the five senses in our writing.

I’m starting with sight because I think it’s the most obvious sense we include in writing. Whenever we describe setting or a character, we’re using sight. Our characters’ expressions, body language and movements can be part of sight (though not always).

The challenges of sight
Just because sight is obvious doesn’t mean it’s always easy. As with all description (and all senses), the trick is to slip in that description without slowing the story.

For characters and settings, focus on active and revealing details. “She had dark blonde hair, green eyes, regular features and lots of freckles,” is such a generic description that it almost asks us to forget it immediately. But if we describe her with active verbs (when possible—going overboard is distracting), and focus on characteristics that make her unique, our descriptions—and our characters—will be more memorable and vivid. It may take more words, and you may only convey one or two features, but readers will have a better sense of the character.

Seeing the scene
Focusing on those active and revealing details—or inventing them—can be the hardest part of conveying the sense of sight. Here are some things I’ve done to try to use sight to its fullest in my scenes:

  • Decide what kind of “mood” you want in this setting or scene. The same setting can be home to several scenes of different moods, or it can have a pervasive mood that dominates all its scenes.
  • Consider the characters. What would the POV character notice because of his/her occupation, personality and interests? If it’s another character’s home or other personal space, what kind of furnishings would they use? What are the characters’ emotional states during this scene? Is this the character’s first encounter with this setting or person, or are they so familiar they hardly notice appearances anymore? (Also think of the character’s height—a short, timid character will see a tall fireplace differently than a tall or bold one.)
  • Brainstorm details that would fit that mood or person. Think of more than you think you’ll need. Feel free to close your eyes and place yourself in that place—or better yet, in your character’s shoes.
  • Choose the strongest images and those that best convey the mood or one or more characters. I think three is a good number to shoot for, but depending on the length of the scene and how much you want to
  • Weave them in throughout the scene. Don’t plop them all in the first paragraph of the scene in static description: “She walked in the room. The fireplace stood tall by the imported damask drapes. The Persian rug was a little faded. The wingback chairs were mauve.” Skip, skip, skip.
  • Use not just adjectives and adverbs, but nouns and verbs to convey the POV character’s perception and emotional state, as well as the mood of the scene (again). “The imposing fireplace stood tall . . .” tells us about the room; “The fireplace loomed over me,” lets us experience the character’s reality.

Seeing 20/20
And of course, since sight covers body language and movement, it’s important that those kinds of actions are clear. Time, distance and impartial eyes are usually the best ways to help these things.

What do you think? How do you focus on including sight in your scenes?

Photo by Nicki Dugan

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Works

First page blogfest

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Today (Apr 2) is my birthday! I may or may not be around, but I thought it would be fun (and, okay, easy) to participate in another blogfest today, sharing my first page.

Of course, I’ve shared the first page to Saints and Spies a bunch of times—and I used to have the first seven pages here on the site. (What the heck, I’ll post them again for a little while—like I said, it’s my birthday!)

This is a pretty rough draft—I’ve only shown it to one beta reader—but here’s the first page of the book I’m calling Saints and Agents.

Surveillance. Special Agent Zach Saint shifted against the hard gray upholstery. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes of sitting in the car, staring at nothing—and then the pair stepped out of the building down the block. The target. He reached for the keys in the ignition. “Eyes on.”

Next to him, Special Agent Xavier Cason peered through his camera’s viewfinder. “Isn’t that your . . . Molly?”

Zach grabbed binoculars and followed Xavier’s line of sight. Green coat, dark curls, tall. She stopped, dismayed, and turned back to the target couple. mock cover for Saints and AgentsThough she wasn’t “his” anymore, it was definitely Molly.

After she’d abruptly dumped him six months ago, Zach knew he’d probably run into Molly again. But he didn’t think the first time would be on the job—and especially not while she was talking to suspected terrorists.

“You drive.” Zach reached for the door handle.

Xavier caught Zach’s sleeve without taking his eyes from his camera. “Do not approach, Z.”

“She’s three months out of Quantico—I can’t just leave her out there.” He knocked X’s hand away and stepped out of the car into the sharp cold. He needed a cover.

He paused at the street vendor on the corner to buy two pretzels—and buy himself one more minute to come up with an identity, someone with a right to cut in on their conversation.

The target couple was too busy chatting to notice his approach. “So,” said Grace, “are ya seein’ anyone, Molly love?”

Zach slung an arm around Molly’s shoulders. He finally settled on a cover—deep South. “Here ya go, darlin,” he drawled.

Molly looked up at him with her deep blue eyes and only hesitated a moment before smiling and accepting one of his pretzels. Good recovery.

Zach offered the target couple his now-free hand. “Jason Tolliver. Molly’s fiancé.”

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Works

Alternate Version Blogfest

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The writing blogosphere seems to be on a blogfest kick, and since the first one up is the Alternate Version Blogfest hosted by Livia Blackburne, I just had to join in. In honor of April Fool’s day, we’re posting the original and “alternate” versions of scenes from our works—and you know how I love to do that.

This is from an old MS (beyond repair, sadly). In this, Margaux is working with her ex-boyfriend, Fredrick, to pull off what she thought was a practical joke. Once things go badly (chapter 2), he ships her off to stay with her parents for a week while he irons out the mess. At her parents’, she sees a news report about a pair of scam artists who cheated little old ladies out of their life savings.

Original:

“I’ve always thought that [police] sketch looked like Sherry,” her father commented after a moment.

Margaux looked at the screen—it did look like her old friend, although it bore the name “Maryanne Walters.” Then the image changed, showing the police sketch of the accomplice.

It was Fredrick.

Chapter 3

Was that even possible?

Margaux shut her bedroom door behind her. Sure, it was possible–they’d met while Margaux and Fredrick dated–but it just didn’t make any sense.

Margaux sank onto her bed.

Her shock (which is always hard to convey, of course), wasn’t explicit enough for at least one of my CPs. So I wrote the alternate version:

It was Fredrick. Fredrick? FREDRICK?! Margaux rent her socks, writhing on the floor in the agony of her own poor choices. Her father looked at her as though she were crazy–and she must be, she MUST be, for how else could she have so foolishly involved herself with Fredrick again when he was, as is abundantly clear from the character sketch, a lie and a cheat and a scoundrel and a murderer?

Margaux threw the television set across the room, taking out her frustrations with herself on the messenger. The medium is the message, after all, just as Marshall McLuhan had said in 1964, just ten short years before this scene unfolded.

“Margaux,” began her father in a warning tone. Margaux cut him off with a look that made it clear she was prepared to strangle him with her socks to silence his censure. If she hadn’t just rent them into small pieces of knit fabric, of course.

I’m so happy with this alternate version. It really clears up a number of issues this CP had—I obviously needed constant reminders that this story was set 30+ years ago, and after only ten pages, this CP already knew my characters better than I did. One of the many ways I learned about how to be such a helpful CP myself!

(My second choice: rewrite the opening to the MS I’m revising right now to have the heroine flirting with the hero over her priest’s dead body. I think that’ll really draw the readers in and make them feel for her, don’t you?)

Feel free to join in—or to add more ways I could push the alternate version even further over the top!

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Technique

Diction, distance and—singing?

I haven’t formally studied singing, but I know several people who have (including my dad, who studied voice throughout my childhood). From what little I do know, diction is a very important aspect of a vocal performance. And what a coincidence, diction (word choice) is very important in writing, too.

In singing, of course, diction means pronunciation and enunciation. When we speak, we often mumble or speak very rapidly, eliding many sounds, and we can still convey our meaning (or most of it). While singing, you have to put more effort into clearly pronouncing the sounds, or you’ll never get the message across. Singing is a stylized form of speech—you manipulate the length and the pitch to add more meaning and emotion (and beauty).

There are some general rules for “good” diction in singing—some of them more widely-accepted than others. For example, holding out the vowels, not the letters (cf. country-western singing, or many Asian styles) is used in most styles of singing. Yes, some vowels are just dang ugly to hear extended over several beats.

But I’ve also been instructed to roll an ‘r’ (and say “Amerrrica or Amedica the Beautiful”), and to avoid such-and-such a vowel (I hope that accurately portrays the esteem I have for that rule) and always sing X instead.

While slavishly following those rules might make your music teacher happy, some of those rules will make actually make it more difficult for most listeners (we untrained masses) to understand the words and appreciate the music (change the vowel in bid or bud, for example—people won’t know what you’re saying). And highly stylized (or just flat out trying-too-hard) diction in writing can actually make it more difficult for readers to understand what we’re trying to say.

I had this problem with a pretty good book I read recently—sometimes the diction flowed beautifully, using stunning new imagery that was still perfect. Other times, however, it seemed like the diction was trying so hard, the author was right there belting out, “Look at me, I can build a simile!”

But that didn’t get his message across—it made me stop reading and shake my head. What was he trying to say?

While writing, you do have to put more thought and care into choosing your words than you would in dashing off an email or writing a research paper. But like in singing, trying too hard can distance your audience instead of drawing them in with your art and your message.

What do you think? How does diction call attention to itself in writing? How can you tell if you’ve “gone too far”?

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Technique

Learning from the hands of the masters

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Last night, I happened to catch a show that included a brief trip to the Académie Julian. The documentary was retracing the footsteps of some Americans who studied art there. (The Académie no longer exists, because it merged with ESAG Penninghen in 1968, but they still offer classes in the same buildings.)

The administrator they interviewed, an older man well-versed in school history, took the interviewer to the studios where her subjects would have studied in the 1890s, and explained how classes were conducted. The masters here actually corrected their students’ art on right on the canvas. As the administrator pointed out, this was a far more effective way of learning than just sitting listening to lectures—they got to see how to change what they were doing to get something better.

I think this is probably one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed taking Margie Lawson‘s live class on Empowering Character Emotions so much—while the lectures I’ve read are overwhelmingly informative and have really changed the way I look at writing characters’ emotions, the hands-on help from the instructor might make the biggest difference. She helps us fine-tune our writing (albeit in small samples) to add just the right amount of power.

No, there’s no one instructor that you can follow to guarantee publication (unless that instructor works for a publishing company that’s offering you a contract along with that guidance 😉 ), but learning from the hands of the masters—and getting their hands on my work—helps me see more of what my work could be.

What do you think? When do you find hands-on most helpful?

Photo by Andrew Crummy

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