Playing With Mood

"Show, don't tell," is great for scenes, less so for mood.

When I say "mood," I don't mean "emotion," for which "show" works wonderfully well for drawing the reader into what a character is feeling.

I'm referring to something subtle and somewhat intangible, a sense the reader discerns, that something wonderful or not is about to happen.

How do I create it? I play with a combination of techniques.

I show, I tell.

I fiddle with expressing the tone with similes and metaphors to the extent of thickly spreading cheese over the prose.

I move synonyms around like chess pieces.

I mold and squeeze together all of the above, like a baker kneads bread.

In the midst of this muck, the aura I wish to convey emerges.

When I can define this undefinable, I whip out the shears and start pruning and cutting every piece that doesn't contribute to the atmosphere.

First drafts, you see, aren't always straightforward. Sometimes they're a jumbled, disorganized mess of impressions. It's the author's job to make order from this chaos.

That's called writing.

Choose Your Words Wisely: More on Show, Not Tell

First, an update on yesterday's blog.

Several people let me know the link to the BryonySeries blog is broken. It's not broken, but we ARE having trouble with the mobile site. Switching to a desktop view on one's phone fixes it until we can haggle it out (again) with GoDaddy.

That link again is www.bryonyseries.com.

Onward to show, not tell.

All writing by its very nature is "tell." Crafting a story that immerses a reader takes refinement of skill, practice, manipulation of words, practice, plenty of self-editing, and practice.

Straight "show," even if the writer uses an abundance of words and lays off the adjectives and adverbs, will actually sound like "tell."

The way an author makes a story come alive has much in common with writing dialogue.

Just as writing dialogue the way people naturally speak it makes it sound unnatural, so writing straight show makes a story seem like a collection of dull facts.

Rather, think in terms of when to present information in the form of a scene or as a summary.

And then play, play, play with the wording until the prose leaps off the page and sparks the reader's imagination.

White Space: Beyond Show and Tell

"Show, don't tell," authors often hear, while another camp counters with, "You must have a good balance between show and tell."

I've shared my thoughts in past blogs (links below).

Visual artists know the concept of "white space" (also referred to as negative space), the area around the illustration in a design or painting to highlight the depiction or give reset to the eyes. In music, silence is often called white space. In publishing, it's the unmarked parts of pages. In acting, it's the dramatic pauses, the non-movements that underscore the speaking and motions.

It's effective in writing, too, especially for underscoring, tension, foreshadowing, and strong emotion. It's the moment when all action, talking, and even thinking cease.

Here's a couple of somewhat similar examples from Before the Blood:

No sooner had the carriage door closed when John said, "I'm not playing for Jacob King."

Kellen seized John by the throat, shoved him against the cushions, and hissed, "You'll do as you're told!"

John pried his fingers between his neck and Kellen's steel grasp.

"Kill me." John's strangled voice was firm. "I'm not playing."

Exasperated at this latest defiance, Kellen let go and threw up his hands. John, gasping, loosed his collar and rubbed life back into his neck.

Did dog owners have this trouble?

"Humor me, John," Kellen said in a tone that clearly conveyed he didn't find this recent objection humorous. "Why not?"

"I won't play for my father's associates."

Abbott King again!

God damn it! Think, Kellen, think.

Ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder, ponder.

"John, I'm hurt you could even think it. Playing for your father's associates? The idea!"

Still rubbing, but breathing normally now, John looked at Kellen with curious surprise.

"You told Jacob King..."

"...that you would play for his daughter, Agnes. Jacob's solution was tomorrow night's dinner party. Can I help that Jacob King frolics in the same toy room as your father?"

John said nothing. Feeling triumphant, Kellen switched to wheedling.

"You wouldn't disappoint such a lovely young lady, the beloved fiancee of your good friend, would you?"

"Agnes is indeed lovely," John said quietly, "a rare soul, angelic and pure."

"Well, there you have it..."

"She doesn't deserve what she's getting."'

"She doesn't deserve a concert by the celebrated and internationally acclaimed John Simons?"

John leaned against the cushions and closed his eyes. "I'll play."

It was a quiet ride back to the Savoy. 

(Before the Blood, Kellen's Story, Chapter 9: The Suite Life)

Soon, they were settled near the fire in Lawrence's private parlor.

            "Albert and I usually stay in New York through the holidays. The distraction soaks up my inevitable pining for former days. But this year, I don't know, Nephew, this year, I wanted to spend that time with you."

            "Yes, Uncle."

            Lawrence remained erect, but his face over the tea cup looked troubled. "You don't understand, do you?"

            "Forgive my ignorance, Uncle. I do not."

            "Have you never celebrated Christmas or the turning of the year?"

            "Celebrate?"

            Lawrence turned pale. He sipped and then softly said, "Louise loved holidays."

            Holidays?

            Henry's hands shook so hard he had to set down the tea cup and willed the trembling to stop. His innards churned with bitter anger.

            He knew holidays: the changing of the decor in shop windows. Any day Henry's stomach didn't growl with hunger, and his lungs worked as they ought was a holiday.

            Celebrate?

             Sure they celebrated, any time Harold stole pickles and other delights from Mrs. Variola's store.

            He dug his nails into the chair's arms, so great was the urge to shout those words. He wanted to shatter the rich little girl image of his mother his uncle persisted in keeping, a beautiful little girl Henry never met.    

            But Lawrence look so distressed with his quivering lips and crumpled face that Henry, despite his own heartache, couldn't bring himself to do it.

            Silently, they finished their tea.

(Before the Blood, Henry's Story, Chapter 6: Haute Coutre)

For more on show and tell, check out these links:

http://bryonyseries.blogspot.com/2015/06/some-show-dont-tell-misconceptions.html

http://bryonyseries.blogspot.com/2015/02/show-some-emotion.html

http://bryonyseries.blogspot.com/2014/12/is-your-show-working-one-quick-trick.html

It's My Life

So coming back to actually WRITING a blog after a few weeks of Christian memory lane, I've realized there's not much else to tell. I probably live one of the most (to outsiders) boringest life on the planet.

I pray, exercise, list to music spend time with family and a few close friends, write and edit features, clean house, run errands when I have a vehicle, and write fiction. That's really it.

In true writerly fashion, I "show" vs. "tell" those things, which is where the real satisfaction lies.

As for the writing itself, it's an interesting life because I get to hear all the interesting things real (and imaginary) people are doing and then share those stories with those that wish to read them.

The End

Some "Show Don't Tell" Misconceptions

Writers hear it all the time. "Show, don't tell," the maxim says. But what really does it mean?

It doesn't mean that the entire story is comprised of scenes. That tires the reader, makes it difficult to discern what's important, and may be as dull as straight exposition.

It doesn't mean all dialogue is external. Your protagonist can ruminate, too.

It doesn't mean exposition is forbidden.

It doesn't mean lack of description.

So what DOES it mean?

It means creating a blend of the above, to artfully use your words to unfold the story.

It's like opening a gift.

Let your reader hold it in his hand and try to guess what's inside

Let him slowly peel away the outer wrapping, lift up the flaps, and pull aside wrapping.

You, the author, control how much information your reader gets at one time.

You, the author, control how fast your reader gets that information, and when.

You, the author, are in control.

SHOW Some Emotion...

...through dialogue, action, beats, and light touches of internal monologue.

A possible reader flipping through your book should be able to discern the feelings of characters in any given scene, even without knowing who they are and the nature of the scene.

How? I'll show you from six random passages in Visage.


John’s car was parked outside the house with its engine running. Melissa slid inside, glared at Cornell, and said, “You better have a good explanation for this.”

Cornell pulled away from the curb. “I already gave you one."

“You haven’t given me a thing. Where are we going?”

“Thornton.”

“In the middle of the night? Let me out!”

“Don’t you want to see John? He said you like to watch.”

His statement took her breath away. “We’re really going to see John?”

“Yup.”

“Is he okay?"

“You be the judge of it.”

“John asked for me?”

“Sort of.”

("Visage," Chapter 30: Last Rights)



"How could you?” Melissa whispered. “Oh, John, how could you?”

“Melissa, he would have died.”

“He did die!”

“But it’s a happy death. He’s as ruthless as he always deluded himself to be.”

Melissa bolted up right. “Promise me you won’t do it again!”

“Melissa, I can’t.…”

“Promise it! No, swear it John! You can take all the blood you need from me, once a day, ten times a day, if that’s what it takes to keep you human. But no more animals, no more ruining innocent lives, no more turning people into vampires, no more....”

She thought about Derek, but fresh, feverish tears stopped up her flow of words. John once again pushed her head onto his chest.

“All right, Melissa,” John said in a weary voice, “I promise. No blood except yours. Unless..."

John’s arm relaxed, and Melissa felt its grip on her loosen.

“Unless what?”

“Unless nothing. Let’s get some sleep. I can’t think anymore.”

("Visage," Chapter 23: No Holds Barred)



The dial tone beep beep beeped in Melissa’s ear. Deep in thought, she returned to the living room. Darlene placed her magazine on the end table and looked hard at Melissa.

“Melissa, it’s time we talked.”

“You know, Mom, I’m really not in the mood for conversation.”

Darlene raised her voice. “I don’t care if you are or not. A week ago, you show up late at night and give us no explanation for it. Twice, by my count, a doctor calls the house. I want to know what’s going on.”

With a sigh, Melissa dropped onto the couch. “I’m not sure I even know.”

“Then let’s start at the beginning. Why did you leave home?”

She hesitated, considering her words before she uttered them. Melissa did not wish to mention John’s termination from Jenson College until she could confirm it. The insinuation had, after all, come from Jill.

“Because, I think,” Melissa said slowly as she assembled her answer, “John is doing some things that are not good.”

“Like what things?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what makes you think John’s in trouble? Is he sick?”

“I think so.”

“Melissa, you’re going to have to level with me if you expect Steve and me to help you and John-Peter.”

Jumping to her feet, Melissa threw up her arms.

("Visage," Chapter 25: Surrendering to Fate)



Melissa’s heart nearly stopped at John’s unexpected touch. Before she could respond, John took her hand and started toward Katie’s driveway. “Let’s go.”

“Go...where?”

“I’d like a tour of Munsonville.”

“Now? This late?” Melissa grew uneasy and thought of her friends waiting inside for her. What if this man was John Simons? What if he wasn’t? “Can’t we go tomorrow?”

“I have a seminar in Thornton, remember?”

Melissa hesitated. Was it safe? Yet, how could she miss this chance with John? 

“Um, let me tell someone I’m leaving.”

“Why? They’ll never miss us. Munsonville can’t be that big.”

“It’s one short street.”

“Well then.”

Melissa relented and allowed John to lead her as he staggered across Katie’s driveway and down the hill of Blue Gill Road toward Main Street. The only gleam brightening the velvet night was the occasional living room lamp. Strangely, despite the chilly air, Melissa no longer felt cold. The warmth of John’s hand crept up her arm and radiated throughout her entire body until desire for John, whoever he was, filled her being. She dared not look at him.

They had reached the deserted Main Street. Hand in hand, they walked down one side and then back, with Melissa pointing out the various buildings.

“This is the grocery store. That’s Dalton’s Dry Goods; Ann’s dad owns that one. There’s Sue’s Diner, which Jack’s family runs, and where, believe it or not, the food’s really good.”

John winked at her. “Too bad I’m not staying another day. You owe me a meal, as I recall.”

Melissa blushed, glad this time for the darkness. Was John joking, or was he planning to officially see her again? He was here, now, so didn’t that mean....?

Stop, Melissa told herself. Remember your promise. This time doesn’t count. You didn’t know he was coming to Munsonville. Stick to the facts. John asked for a tour, not a lifetime commitment.

“There’s the library. Inside is a painting of John Simons that looks just like you.”

“How amusing.”

Something in John’s inflection jarred her. He was staring down at her as John Simons had the night he first kissed her, on the balcony at Albert Brumfeldt’s home, after Melissa had panicked at the malevolent beings sharing her dream. She looked up at Professor Simotes. He was John Simons, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?

“That big red brick building on the end is the school.” Melissa hoped her voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “All twelve grades are under one roof. That’s where I had the English teacher that inspired me to become one, too.”

“Your reason for attending Jenson.”

“Yes, well, I had won a contest that led to receiving a full scholarship.”

Melissa knew she was babbling, but luckily John wasn’t paying attention. Still holding her hand, he led Melissa over the bike trail and past the row of fishing cottages to the edge of Lake Munson. The murky water licked the shore with gentle, easy waves.

John leaned forward for a closer look. “I hear the fishing’s good.”

“It is. So are the leeches. We had a science teacher once bring a jarful to class. He collected them right from this lake.”

They continued in silence along the path. At the woods, John immediately tightened his hold and increased his pace. 

("Visage," Chapter 5: Under the Stars)



Just then, John Simotes and Brenda Garboldi entered the alley. Both wore jeans, and they held hands. John’s striped, collared shirt was slightly unbuttoned; Brenda’s hair was pulled back with a thick, tortoise-shelled barrette, making her look as young as the college girls. Melissa scowled before she realized she was doing it. Why were they here?

Of course, Melissa remembered. As a music professor, John supported the fundraiser. Naturally, he would bring his fiancé. She ducked her head before he could see her, grabbed the ball from Julie, and then scurried back to her seat. By experimenting with her standing position and craning her neck, Melissa obtained a clear view of them.

Julie snapped her fingers before Melissa’s eyes. “Quit daydreaming. Practice bowling has begun.”

“I can bomb without practicing.”

“Don’t be so negative, sheesh.”

That stung, but Melissa still managed only a listless roll. The ball veered straight to the gutter. Discouraged, Melissa plopped on a chair and watched the others knock down pin after pin. They made it look so easy.

She did no better the rest of the game. Between turns, Melissa watched lane eleven with growing resentment. Every time her teacher knocked over a single pin, John high fived her, or even worse, kissed her. Miss Garboldi looked thinner than Melissa, too.

“Hey, Melissa, you got a hundred,” Julie cried, beaming. “That’s not bad for the first game.”

Julie could afford to be generous. She had scored one hundred and fifty three. Then Melissa noticed Julie’s excitement at Melissa’s score, so Melissa resolved to concentrate much harder on game two, for Julie’s sake. However, between rolls, Melissa’s eyes strayed back to Professor Simotes and Miss Garboldi. Why did they have to handle each other so much? By turns, John cradled Miss Garboldi’s waist, draped an arm over her shoulder, or perched her on his lap. Melissa’s stomach began to hurt.

“They’re acting like a bunch of kids,” Melissa said, then caught herself. She hadn’t intended to say it aloud.

“Who is?” Julie picked up a rag and wiped her ball.

“Professor Simotes and Miss Garboldi.”

Julie peered down the alley. “So what? They’re in love. I’ve seen more action in the TV lounge on Friday nights. Come on, Melissa you’re up. Tenth frame.”

("Visage," Chapter 4: Outdated)



She returned to the front desk, gave Johnny a polite, “Good evening,” and rapidly stamped his cards. Melissa noticed both books pertained to advanced music theory.

As Melissa slid a due date slip into the front pocket of the second book, Johnny placed his hand on hers. A flushing warmth flowed through her at his touch. All thought froze; every heartbeat hammered out a single syllable, John. Melissa forgot about Mr. Schmidt, Pat, the cartful of books, and her promises to forsake the Bryony fantasies. Nothing else mattered. John had made contact with her.

“So I turn you down for dinner, and you give me the cold shoulder,” he said in a low voice.

The question only partly jolted Melissa into reality. She looked back at Mr. Schmidt, but he was ruffling through papers. Despite the cantering in her chest and trembling lips, she coldly met Johnny’s keen eyes and asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

He smothered a smile. “Yes,” he said, “for now.” 

Johnny picked up his book and sauntered to the door.

("Visage," Chapter 3: In the Shadow of Bryony)

Is Your "Show" Working? One Quick Trick

Ask someone who knows nothing about your work-in-progress to read a portion, oh, let's say about a thousand words or so. Tell him nothing about the plot, the people involved, the story's premise. Just hand off an excerpt.

Can that person picture the setting and discern the time period? Can he visualize your characters, get a feel for their personalities, their ages, their physical appearances (This one might not be exact depending upon what portion of the story you share, but your reader should be able to make reasonable guesses) and their relationships with each other? 

Yes? Good job!

No? Back to the writing board...