The part that intrigued me was where he took her to NYC. The basis of his critique of her work was that her characters were not quite rounded enough; there was no sense of place or who they actually were inside. Her descriptions of the city and of the characters were less than developed. The point was that she needed to experience NYC and actually see the sights, smell the smells, and so on. I believe this is true and it made me think of my own writing. How we should write what we know. If we, as writers don’t know a subject or an area we have to be descriptive enough to not let that show. One of his lines from the movie is that as a writer, really, all you are is an observer of life, of every detail.
I like that. It makes me think of myself, and of course it will, since this is my blog, my writing, my words, thoughts and feelings. I observe people always. I don’t watch for a fashion or judgement sense, but I do catch things people wear, how they stand, facial expressions, body language, and so on. I do observe a room, and not always for the plain or simple of it; I observe it for a feeling, a mood, or an atmosphere. Light is big to me, either natural in the woods and how trees can dapple in the sunshine, or sometimes I am intrigued by the shadows on the wall as the sun slants through a window blind at a certain angle. Light evokes a mood, almost pensive, waiting for something. A ceiling fan might evoke a certain sentiment of calm as it quietly spins overhead, sometimes silent, sometimes with a rhythmic, barely perceptible tick, tick, tick. That is how it is when I am in nature. I love to walk in the woods, sit by the seashore, sit on a rock, to watch a waterfall tumble down. I love to watch the sun as it sparkles in the waves, for patterns it might create; I watch waves roll in and out, crash, or just jingle like small bells through rocks as it often does in the Gulf of Mexico. The boom, crash of waves meeting rocks on the Pacific coast, or in the northeast in Maine. I love to watch snow fall reflected in street lamps through a darkened village. The diamond dust that sparkles on snow or waves, reflections of light that seem to come from the stars themselves.
I agree, these kind of details make the stories that capture me, so it is truly something to remember as I try to advance into more of a writing force. I am fairly descriptive, and I can be very wordy, but I think it takes more than that. The character in the story asked the woman to close her eyes and describe what she smelled. She said NYC smelled different than she’d imagined. She, of course, had heard of roasted chestnuts being sold on the street, but it was more than that. She said she could smell the rich, meaty, warm chestnut aroma, but more, she could smell a woman’s expensive perfume lingering in the air. She could catch the scent that the sidewalk vents push up from underground, near the subway entrances – I forget what she said, but if I were to imagine it, it would be an almost electrical smell, faintly of exhaust from car motors, slightly stale, the cooler night air pressing down trying to wash away the city scents. It is all about description.
The room I am in right now. I can hear the faint click of the air conditioner as it just switched off. The ceiling fan over my head presses cool air toward me, it’s blades stirring the air and brushing across my hands and wrists on the keyboard, causing a strand of stray hair near my face to dance a ticklish little distraction which my hand keeps reaching to tuck away behind my left ear. Outside I can hear faint, far-off traffic sounds from the interstate a mile away. They are so ingrained in my psyche I barely can hear them and have to listen hard with eyes closed. Closer, crickets sing in the trees and shrubs, their continual whir rising and falling sometimes, then fading away for a few moments. The light in here is dim; the natural light filtering in through, reflecting off the white painted walls. Sunlight enters the surrounding windows, and it is subdued, yet reflective enough to let me know it still shines through the white layer of clouds, building toward thunderstorms later today. The temporary paper shade in the window of this room is permanently drawn until I finish having the window blinds replaced with wooden slats, but it offers a golden glow casting shadows from the panes of the window frames. From the next room, the refrigerator hums its steady hum to itself as it keeps the food inside at a continual cool, refreshing temperature. It is hot outside and heavy with humidity; the air has weight, and although the moss I can see from here in the trees behind the house sways slightly, there is little breeze to stir or cool the air. The house smells familiar to me. It is a combination of the coffee smell lingering in the air from this morning’s pot, from the slight leftover smell of the stick of incense I burned last night. The quiet in here almost has a faint scent as well. The quiet calm scent of the essential oils I use liberally; lemongrass, lavender, cedar wood today. There is the nearly fecund scent of the air sliding in from the slightly ajar sliding glass door to the porch; it is heavy, wet, filled with humidity. It is not bad right now, but the promise of rain fills the air.
It takes some work, and it takes a lot of observation of all the senses. It took a long time and a lot of editing to write that description of my here and now. I am up to the challenge however. I am glad for that movie last night, and for that reminder to be aware; that writers really do have to be voyeurs in order to catch the finest, most important, nearly trivial detail in order to set mood or tone. Every day there is something new to learn or to remember. The gift of our senses is such a treasure; I am glad for the reminder to not take mine for granted.
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