The gently falling snow brought back his childhood; the short winter days and the long, cold nights. Cuddling into your blanket cozy and safe, without a care. Is that how she would feel later? After the dishes were done, after the window over the kitchen sink had become fog-free and after the dog—the goddamned dog, God, how he hated dogs—was sound asleep. He’d do him, too, maybe. Goddamned dog.
The falling snow resembled a white, flowing veil over her pink-cheeked, round face, the features like tiny afterthoughts. But no, that wasn’t quite true. She was a beauty, this one. Not like the others.
“Jake? Got some scraps, pal.”
He moved closer, twenty feet, maybe, the snow near his knees now, like slogging through oatmeal. The snowy veil parted a little. Sure, a beauty, looking out now, seeing nothing, certainly not what he could see. He could smile if he liked. She wouldn’t see that. He could whip out his knife. She wouldn’t see that. She looked left, right. Hair to her waist, as dark as pitch. Face as white as paper.
“Hey, Jake? Leftover meatloaf, buddy.”
Gone now. Looking for the dog, probably. He felt his heart thump with the parting, the not knowing. Back again. A sigh of relief. Scrubbing, scrubbing. Next, the study and the red book. Short stories, he thought.
He turned to the left a little; the study light went on. Ten seconds and he was there. Feet cold, almost numb, hands, too. Mittens would have been better than gloves. The red book, sure, the red book. Seen through an inch slit in the heavy drapes. Face to the glass now. Taking that chance. She’d have to turn to see him. Worth it, though. Worth that chance.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked up, straight ahead, toward the fireplace.
He didn’t budge.
He smiled.
She turned.
The above passage is an example of how to create mood by utilizing crisp, no nonsense sentences. The POV, obviously is the killer’s. (He’s got a knife—doesn’t even like dogs).
Beginning writers sometimes try to create mood through the use of language; adjectives, adverbs, flowery phrasing. They can be useful, but when you’re trying to grab the reader, you have to remember two things—the setting and the POV. The POV in the above passage (The camera) is very close—and it’s third person limited. We have become this character. We are thinking like he might think—like he is, in fact, thinking. Goddamned dog. Short stories. We see the victim doing her dishes, we hear her talk to her dog. We are the antagonist. So we’re interested. It’s edgy and it’s in your face, and when you’re trying to write something like this, that’s where you want to be.
Okay, let’s throw in some language that doesn’t belong.
The gently falling snow, like soap flakes, brought his childhood back to him. He remembered the short winter days and those incredibly long, cold nights. Sometimes it got below zero. He also remembered how he would cuddle into his blanket and that he would feel safe and cozy, without a care. He wondered if that was how she would feel later when her dishes were done, and after the window over the kitchen sink had become fog-free and after the dog—he had always hated dogs–was sleeping. Perhaps he should kill him, too, maybe. The goddamned dog.
The falling snow was very similar to a white, flowing veil that covered her face. She had a pink-cheeked, round face. The features were like tiny afterthoughts. But no, that wasn’t quite true, he thought. She was a beauty, this one. She wasn’t like the others that he had killed.
“Jake? Got some scraps, pal,” she yelled to her dog.
He moved closer to the window, perhaps twenty feet away. The snowy veil parted a little. Yes, she was a beauty. She was looking out now, but she could see nothing. Certainly not what he could see. He could even smile if he felt like it. He was sure she wouldn’t see that. He could probably whip out his knife, which was secured in its leather sheath, suspended beneath his belt. She probably wouldn’t see that either.
She looked to the left and then the right. She had hair to her waist, and it was as dark as pitch. Her face was as white as paper. “Hey, Jake? Leftover meatloaf, buddy.”
And then, suddenly, she was gone. He believed she was looking for the dog. He felt his heart thump with the parting. She came back again, and started scrubbing. He sighed a sigh of relief.
Next, he knew, she would go into the study and read the red book. Short stories, he thought.
He turned a little as the study light went on. Ten seconds later he was there. His feet were cold, as were his hands. She was reading the red book. He could see it through an inch slit in the heavy, velvet drapes. He pressed his face to the glass. It was a chance he was willing to take. Still, she would have to turn to see him. It was worth it. Worth the chance.
“Hi,” he said, amazed at how his voice carried.
She looked up, in the direction of the fireplace.
He wondered if he should move, but he didn’t.
He smiled.
She turned.
What we have to remember is that people who read can fill in the blanks.
She looked left, right. Hair to her waist, as dark as pitch. Face as white as paper. “Hey, Jake? Leftover meatloaf, buddy.”
She looked to the left and then the right. She had hair to her waist, and it was as dark as pitch. Her face was as white as paper. “Hey, Jake? Leftover meatloaf, buddy.”
The above passages, although saying the same thing, create entirely different moods. The first is tension-filled and holds promise of later thrills. The second, with the camera pulled back, with the character at a distance, is flat and uninteresting.
To some this may seem like a shortcut. Well, it is. And isn’t it great that literary progress can be had with short cuts. Once we realize they’re available. The trick, of course, is to become the character, to analyze how he or she is thinking, will think, and has been thinking. (Bet you thought I was going to say thunk).
All of us who write novels or plan to, wonder how in the world we’ll string all those words together to create our masterpiece. And it is certainly a valid concern. But once we get those 40,000 – whatever words strung together, how many of them should be cut? Filling up space with needless dialogue and empty phrasing is not going to get the job done. We cannot think of word count, we have to think of the story and the characters. We have to let those elements write our story, and believe me, they will.
Point of View. I covered that a little in a previous article. I touched on it here, citing camera closeness. A good exercise, one I give students, is to write a scene from both sides. Using the above scene, write it from the intended victim’s POV. The dynamics, of course, will be entirely different. But also remember that if you eventually like what you’ve written and intend to use it to start a novel, think of the poor reader who’s fallen in love with a character you just might bump off in the next five pages. Still, it’s a great exercise. And play with camera angle, too. You don’t always have to be up close and personal.
Clichés should, of course, be avoided. But there is one that you should print out in Sans Comic Bold, 34 point and paste to your wall. KISS (Keep it simple, stupid). Both in content and plot.
Examples:
Gone now. Looking for the dog, probably. He felt his heart thump with the parting, the not knowing. Back again. A sigh of relief. Scrubbing, scrubbing. Next, the study and the red book. Short stories, he thought.
Always remember that we are communicators. And if we can communicate something with one grunt instead of two, use the one. And in that regard, let me propose a caveat: I forget who said, “A first draft is always shit,” but he or she knew what they were talking about. It’s up to you to sift through the crap and find the golden nuggets. We don’t accomplish meaningful economy of words without first throwing a whole bunch of words onto the page. Allow yourself that—that’s the writer’s side of the brain doing the work. Then you can go in and figure out which words belong and which don’t.
Till the next time…
SMACK.
Originally published in Writer Online
T. Lucien Wright has published five novels, short stories and nonfiction and he has taught the craft of writing to people of all ages for the last thirteen years. Until recently, he was the Director of Adult Education at Writers & Books, a not for profit literary organization in Rochester and he has lectured at all levels, grade school, high school and college. He’s working on a novel about Vietnam, simply entiled, ‘Nam. He lives in Rochester with his wife of 35 years, two aged dogs, and four cantankerous cats.
