Writing for effect: descriptions

The reader of a novel wants the narrative to create a very specific effect: he wants to be taken away from the real world he sits in. She wants to feel and see and do things she would never do. Readers want to experience the world of the novel.

That's your task: to create an experience. It is not to tell a story. It is to cause a certain reaction in your reader's mind. A suspension of disbelief, a connection to the life of a character. Characters, I believe, are the key to and core of creating an experience for the reader.

This relates to the old saw, "show, don't tell." As I've ranted about before, telling is the mere delivery of information. A newspaper does that. A novel, for the most part, should be delivering a character's experience.

Description is a key element of every novel, every scene. Scenes need to be set (described) so the reader has a context within which to experience what the character experiences. It's needed to show action, of course. In a novel, descriptions shouldn't be simple photographs of what the character sees. Oh, they can be and often are, but snapshots don't create an experience. They are telling, they are information, they are not emotion, they are not experience.

So here's how I like to see description happen -- from within the character's point of view. It should be colored by the character's emotions, needs, beliefs, and desires. Let's explore. The exact same scene, as seen by two different characters, should be a very different experience.

For example, how about a mailroom in a large corporation? The snapshot approach:

In a gray room with flourescent lights, a rack of empty pigeonholes for sorting mail sits along one wall. Next to them sits a wheeled delivery cart. Next to the pigeonholes is a desk with a computer on it, an empty, worn swivel chair waiting.

Maybe you "saw" some of those things, but they are mere objects, simple things. Now let's describe that same setting through the filters of a couple of characters.

Jeff is a middle-aged man. He works in the mailroom, sorting the mail, delivering it with a little cart. He packages shipments and sends them out. He has been in this same job for fifteen years, and knows he'll never advance. His scene:

Jeff switched on the mailroom light. The fluorescents glared at him the way they had for fifteen years, and the gray walls radiated depression. The rack of pigeonholes for sorting mail along one wall stared at him, each empty hole like his life. The delivery cart stood ready to cause the daily pain in his hip when he trudged through the offices, delivering mail to people who didn't even see him, like he was furniture.

On his desk the computer waited to be turned on -- no, they said "booted up," didn't they -- its programs lurking, waiting to trip him up again when he tries to set up a shipment. He sat in his beat-up swivel chair and a small sense of comfort came from the squeak when he tilted back and the way the worn cushions conformed to his body.

Okay, that's the mailroom as Jeff sees it. Next in is Jinny, the new twenty-something in the mailroom.

Jinny burst through the mailroom door and was disappointed yet again to see Jeff already there. One of these days she'd beat him there and do the setup. He hadn't even turned on the computer yet. She reached past him, slumped as usual in that crummy old chair of his -- why didn't he requisition something decent -- and flicked on the computer. When break came and he went out for a smoke she'd surf her favorite blogs.

The gray walls under the soft fluorescent light soothed her headache. The racks of pigeonholes wait for her to fill their mouths with the mail that helped the company function. The delivery cart stood ready -- maybe today she'd ask Jeff to be the one that wheeled it through the cubicles, saying hi, meeting people. Even though she'd only been here a month, the mailroom felt like an old friend.

What about action? While action can be more strictly limited to just the visual, there are still opportunities to create experience if you're coming at it via the character's point of view.

First, the camera only:

Morticia leaned forward and sank her fangs into Frank's neck. Blood rushed into her mouth and dribbled down his neck. He moaned and writhed, but she pinned him to the wall and continued to drink his essence.

So how is this action from Morticia's point of view?

Morticia leaned forward. The scent of Frank's blood, pulsing just below the skin of his neck, aroused her. Her fangs lengthened and she sank them into a vein. The sweetness of blood washed over her tongue and poured down her throat. His moan aroused her further, and when he writhed within her grip, power rushed through her body and she pinned him to the wall, drinking in the smell of his fear and relishing the rich taste of his essence.

Do you think Frank's experience of the very same action will feel the same as Morticia's? Maybe not.

Frank shrank back when Mortica leaned forward, panic pounding in his mind. Oh, God, she had fangs, and they grew as he watched. She struck and twin points of pain pierced his neck. Hot liquid trickled down his neck -- his blood? A moan crawled out of his throat and he writhed, pushing with all his strength to escape. As if he were a child, she jammed him against the wall with terrifying power.

Now, I'm not claiming that the above examples are great writing -- hey, I just pulled them out of the air. But I do think that the technique illustrated is valid -- no, vital -- to creating an experience for your reader.

Your thoughts?

For what it's worth.

Ray

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© 2006 Ray Rhamey