Easiest way I know? Provide a stand-out "container" for that scene.
I came across this same advice in nonfiction writer, Malcolm Gladwell's, preface to What the Dog Saw and Other Adventures. Talk about potentially dry material--Gladwell definitely qualifies there. But his uncanny ability to present this stuff in an engaging way never fails to elicit my admiration. Here's what he wrote about his method:
"Good writing does not succeed or fail on the strength of its ability to persuade, It succeeds or fails on the strength of its ability to engage you, to make you think, to give you a glimpse into someone else's head--even if in the end you conclude that someone else's head is not a place you'd really like to be."
So that's the question: engagement. How does the writer bring a reader into what they must write about? Especially when it's at either end of the emotional spectrum?
Container, the environment of your scene, is the key. Well-crafted container delivers more emotion than plot, characters, topic, structure, or all of these combined. It's counter-intuitive, I agree. You would think that good plot, exciting action, would create more engagement, more emotional response.
They are essential, yes. Good plot creates momentum. It drives the story forward. As does action, its offspring. But container is what makes us feel the gut punch of a story's meaning.
Without container, I've learned that plot is just a series of events, like a newspaper report.
Why else would I, as a reader, become so engaged in the healing of a crime-ridden neighborhood, the comeback of Hush Puppy Shoes, and other examples from Gladwell's book, The Tipping Point? I don't care about Hush Puppies. Really. But I did when he talked about them.
On the other end of the tough-material spectrum is a favorite favorite memoir, Never Let Me Down by Susan Miller. Miller's father was a well-respected jazz musician who hung out with the likes of George Handy and Stan Getz. But he was also a heroin addict, and her life was terribly affected by this.
Heroin addiction is not on my list of fun things to read about. But I was totally engrossed in her story because of her expert use of container.
One memorable scene: her father takes his young daughter on a subway ride. He gleefully whispers to her that he's just dropped acid. The young girl is aware that her father might at any moment decide the train car is a tomb and try to jump off. What can she do? Not much. She just has to ride out the ride.
Miller chooses to present the emotion of this tough moment via intense sensory details. Here are a few from just one paragraph:
1. physical setting (being on a speeding subway train, watching the night flash by outside the grimy windows)
2. use of the five senses (screech of train wheels, whisper of her father's voice against her ear)
3. physical sensations (the rocking of a train causing nausea, felt in the body)
4. word choice ("screech" and "whisper" echo the sounds of jazz being played--Miller's overall container for the essay)
5. paragraph length and flow (a series of clauses, separated by commas, giving the impression of movement and jerkiness while on the subway train.
It's an astonishing container.
The subject may repulse you, as Gladwell's topics may bore you, but if the container is there, well depicted, you will have a response. You will likely be engaged, despite your reaction. When I teach Miller's scene in classes, writers are often surprised at how much it affects them.
It is because of her extraordinary "container," the living environment of her story.
Here's a writing exercise I use to liven up dead spots in my writing--those with either too little or too much emotion.
Choose such a place in your own work--a paragraph or a page. Reread the list of container tools that Miller uses. Choose one and Insert it into your own scene. Then try another.
This takes letting go of your preferences as a writer and being willing to see your work from the reader's view. Not always easy.
In the end, ask yourself the question: Does more emotion come through?
I came across this same advice in nonfiction writer, Malcolm Gladwell's, preface to What the Dog Saw and Other Adventures. Talk about potentially dry material--Gladwell definitely qualifies there. But his uncanny ability to present this stuff in an engaging way never fails to elicit my admiration. Here's what he wrote about his method:
"Good writing does not succeed or fail on the strength of its ability to persuade, It succeeds or fails on the strength of its ability to engage you, to make you think, to give you a glimpse into someone else's head--even if in the end you conclude that someone else's head is not a place you'd really like to be."
So that's the question: engagement. How does the writer bring a reader into what they must write about? Especially when it's at either end of the emotional spectrum?
Container, the environment of your scene, is the key. Well-crafted container delivers more emotion than plot, characters, topic, structure, or all of these combined. It's counter-intuitive, I agree. You would think that good plot, exciting action, would create more engagement, more emotional response.
They are essential, yes. Good plot creates momentum. It drives the story forward. As does action, its offspring. But container is what makes us feel the gut punch of a story's meaning.
Without container, I've learned that plot is just a series of events, like a newspaper report.
Why else would I, as a reader, become so engaged in the healing of a crime-ridden neighborhood, the comeback of Hush Puppy Shoes, and other examples from Gladwell's book, The Tipping Point? I don't care about Hush Puppies. Really. But I did when he talked about them.
On the other end of the tough-material spectrum is a favorite favorite memoir, Never Let Me Down by Susan Miller. Miller's father was a well-respected jazz musician who hung out with the likes of George Handy and Stan Getz. But he was also a heroin addict, and her life was terribly affected by this.
Heroin addiction is not on my list of fun things to read about. But I was totally engrossed in her story because of her expert use of container.
One memorable scene: her father takes his young daughter on a subway ride. He gleefully whispers to her that he's just dropped acid. The young girl is aware that her father might at any moment decide the train car is a tomb and try to jump off. What can she do? Not much. She just has to ride out the ride.
Miller chooses to present the emotion of this tough moment via intense sensory details. Here are a few from just one paragraph:
1. physical setting (being on a speeding subway train, watching the night flash by outside the grimy windows)
2. use of the five senses (screech of train wheels, whisper of her father's voice against her ear)
3. physical sensations (the rocking of a train causing nausea, felt in the body)
4. word choice ("screech" and "whisper" echo the sounds of jazz being played--Miller's overall container for the essay)
5. paragraph length and flow (a series of clauses, separated by commas, giving the impression of movement and jerkiness while on the subway train.
It's an astonishing container.
The subject may repulse you, as Gladwell's topics may bore you, but if the container is there, well depicted, you will have a response. You will likely be engaged, despite your reaction. When I teach Miller's scene in classes, writers are often surprised at how much it affects them.
It is because of her extraordinary "container," the living environment of her story.
Here's a writing exercise I use to liven up dead spots in my writing--those with either too little or too much emotion.
Choose such a place in your own work--a paragraph or a page. Reread the list of container tools that Miller uses. Choose one and Insert it into your own scene. Then try another.
This takes letting go of your preferences as a writer and being willing to see your work from the reader's view. Not always easy.
In the end, ask yourself the question: Does more emotion come through?
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