Hello, dear writing buddies!
How’s it going for you? This past weekend, I hosted the first WiR workshop for the library and met fifteen curious and engaged humans who wanted to write and think about worldbuilding together and it was So. Much. Fun. I also met Yalie Kamara at the Main library Friday to talk with her about her new gorgeous, tender, truth-telling, life-affirming, and playful poetry collection, BeSayDoo, for an upcoming library podcast. Did you know that the Cincy Main and Reading library locations have recording booths anyone with a library card can use for free?? The recording booths are in the Maker Space area and you just sign up for a time using your library card.
I’ll let you know when the podcast is live. Yalie shares a great writing exercise that inspired one of the poems in her book at the end of the podcast and it’s so good.
Prose in Moments of Crisis
Today I’m thinking about style and prose in moments of crisis. I’m often thinking about style, not as adornment, but word choice and sentences that are like a pair of boots with a lifetime warranty. I am, at heart, a stylist. A precise sentence makes my heart soar! I don’t talk about this too often because as one is starting or getting back into writing, sometimes you just need to get words on a page without thinking about how messy they are. I don’t want to put the added pressure on a writer to get to work on those sentences while they are also navigating just believing they have something to say.
But today I wanted to say a few things about the prose of dramatic moments in stories and essays. What happens to prose at the moment of crisis?
Learning from Jo Ann Beard’s essay “The Fourth State of Matter”
Let’s take a look at what happens to the prose when Jo Ann Beard learns that the place she works was the location of an active shooter situation, and she has not heard from her dear colleague. How do the sentences change? I’ve underlined places to notice in yellow. (I chose a section without any gruesome detail.)
Do you see how the prose highlighted in yellow are very short sentences, focused on who is doing what and when? “The phone rings,” is an entire sentence. Why? Well, I think a longer sentence would slow the pace down. A longer sentence would give the reader a bit of pause. A longer sentence would give some relief and crisis doesn’t offer relief. instead, in dramatic moments the sentences become logistical. The style flattens. The thoughts get shorter; the sentences condense.
3 Things to Consider Avoiding When Writing Intense Scenes
In Debra Gwartney’s essay, “When the Action is Hot, Write Cool” she names three things writers who create dramatic scenes of crisis do not do:
They do not use adverbs. All those adjectives describing verbs are gone. So one is not frantically struggling.
They do not narrate interior body sensations. The heart does not pound; the knees do not get weak.
There is no crying (in the characters, at least).
That perhaps sounds harsh—no crying?—but Gwartney asks: “Don’t we assume the tears?” We do. Tears in the character, that reaffirms the sentiment of the scene, unless it somehow counters the expected reaction (like if your character was crying watching the recycling being picked up, that might be curious), do not produce tears in the reader. Why? I think it’s because what brings tears is not tears, usually, but all of the particular things—the logistics—of the scene. Who does what when: that’s a narration of panic or crisis or drama. The magical thinking and loopiness and awareness of the body: that’s the writing of reflecting later.
Almost all I remember about a crisis in my life that happened in a hospital twelve years ago is the white rose taped to the door. That detail doesn’t make you cry, of course—you’d need to know what else was happening—but it is the specific thing a mind in shock, or panic, or crisis, fixates on. The body turns itself off in some ways. There are more important things to notice. In the moment: logistics and gesture. Who did what when.
A Writing Invitation
If you feel inclined, in your next writing session, try writing a scene that has something intense at its center. The scene might not be a dramatic moment, but waiting for the news about the crisis can also be that intense center. The application of these strategies applies to both the intense scene and the waiting and immediate aftermath. (I didn’t want to give you an intense trauma scene for this newsletter, but know that the same strategies apply!) Make your sentences very short at the point of crisis (or waiting for the news about a crisis). In place of wanting to narrate tears or bodily sensations with words like “butterflies” or “wringing in agony” describe who does what when and what the character notices outside of themselves. Who pours them a glass of water? Does the phone ring? What seemingly mundane detail do they fixate on? What is their white rose?
A Wish for You
Today and throughout the week, I’m sending you all the writing energy, like that of the crocuses and daffodils who, having lived underground in some smaller form throughout this winter, are now just beginning to emerge from the dirt here in Ohio.
love love love,
TS
P.S. A pdf of Gwartney’s essay for extra study is attached below:
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