Last week, half the U.S. was stuck in a polar vortex. Having worked in sustainability since 1998 and personally discussed climate change with some of the world’s top climate scientists, I’m severely tempted to go off on a tangent about how dangerously foolish all those “See? Global warming’s fake after all!” articles and comments spreading rampant on the Web are.
But I won’t.
Let’s talk about the weather. Most of us no doubt take it for granted… until it's in our face. The weather determines what we wear and how we drive, influences our experience of sporting events, field trips and beach picnics, and impacts an extraordinary number of insignificant aspects of life, such as crops and airline flights.
So what does weather have to do with writing? Nothing. And everything.
Photo by Luba Rasine-Ortoleva
Feel Nature in the Raw
Unlike much other data or information you might want in your narrative, weather is one thing you cannot simply research or vicariously live. Sure, you can watch a stormchaser video or your favorite weather channel, but if your work is going to express any climatic realism at all, you need to get out there and experience it.
Ever stood in the eye of a hurricane and watched the air turn green? Kayaked out on the open ocean only to have the benevolent heavens suddenly hurl hail at you? Watched horizontal lightning rip the skies open? Or sit on an Alpine peak watching the tops of clouds roll past you?
The next time you're caught by the weather, don't run for cover.* Stay put and feel. Feel it with your entire being.
I’m ridiculously, profoundly influenced by the weather around me, all the time. No matter what mood I’m in or the thoughts running through my mind, when I walk or drive through fog, my daily routine glazes over and I’m transported back to my homeland in Central Europe. Then there's Calle Luchana, the street of honey and gold that burned a permanent mark into my soul when I lived in Madrid. I've experienced other Calle Luchanas in other cities, but they're few: it has to be a certain wavelength of light and a certain gritty texture, a certain temperature and a certain humidity. It's not just any old afternoon on any old street. Then there's… just too much to expound upon here.
* Unless it really is a tornado.
Write With the Weather
Description of your protagonist's physical appearance? Check. Description of his/her car, house, garden, desk, other plot-relevant assets? Check. Description of background and other secondary scenery? Check. Characterization of the weather in your story? Uhmm…
Don't discount it. It might be the dullest possible way to start a conversation at a party, but weather can serve as a powerful element in your writing: it can be the atmospheric setting that gives a stretch of dialogue or an action scene that extra flavor; the catalyst for a plot point or conflict resolution; and yes, weather can even be the main character if you are so rained upon. Er, inclined.
Weather can also serve as simple inspiration, much like music whets your muse. I've written in all sorts of weather: in the sun, in the rain, foggy, clear, overcast, snow and storm.
Bottle up as many weather-related sensations as possible somewhere in your psyche for future creative use, especially those exceptional moments of nature's raw power. It's not every day you experience a hail storm, hurricane, or Arctic winds. As a self-respecting writer, you must be able to recall the bone-chilling details of a raging snowstorm while writing your next breakout novel in a hammock in the Caribbean. (Hopefully not the other way around.)
Write Despite the Weather
Take everything you just read in the previous section, and flip it. Let's say cloudy days really get you depressed. So uninspired are you that you drag yourself around all day, barely existing. Forget high creativity.
Or how about heat. Try having a coherent thought—nevermind well-structured writing—in ninety degrees at ninety-five percent humidity.
Never fear, the literary weatherman is here! Now, you too can be your own climate generator. Use that bottling technique I mentioned above and draw on your most powerful experiences with the elements no matter where or when you are. Like any other emotion, sentiment, or experience, make the atmospheric forces other humans take for granted an essential tool in your wordshop.
Of course, in certain instances you might need a little technological help… like a fan when the heat starts to melt your brain.
(Now, if you happen to be under the weather, like I was over the holidays, you really need to push through that “local” weather. I wrote about my little personal war on my web site.)
Finally, leverage the power of Nature to barrel through writer's block. It's amazing what a change of weather (e.g., light, temperature, humidity, pressure, etc.) can do for a word-weary writer's brain. Especially effective is contrast. For example, if you live in a sunny climate, you may find that those few cloudy days are actually incredibly romantic. Make the most of them! (Writing wise I mean!)
How does the weather change the way you write?
PRACTICE
Take one of your WIPs and review it from the point of view of the weather. Could your story use a little more atmosphere, a little more force of nature? See what happens when you introduce the weather to your narrative. Or, if you feel more like spinning an entirely new tale, write a scene with the weather as the centerpiece. Let your creative brilliance rain into the comments box below by sharing your practice with the community!
Excellent article and a topic I’ve been thinking about lately for my current WIP. I’m guilty of too much ideal weather and have just now made a note to spruce things up in my next draft. Thanks for the inspiring post!
Excellent. Spruce it up! And do share when you’re ready!
Hi Birgitte!
Great post! Weather seems to add a new depth to a story. Here is part of a current WIP about a lost dog. (Great photo attached to your post!)
He glanced into the woods before beginning the hike to his car. Trying to make the most of his shortened visit, he breathed in the scent of sequoia trees and damp earth and watched gold aspen leaves swirl in the breeze across his path. An ominous dark cloud had moved quickly from the Western sky and urged him to quicken his pace. An hour’s hike brought him to the clearing where his SUV was parked. Cold daggers of rain pierced the canopy of trees and slapped his face while he raised the rear door, threw in his backpack and jacket and huddled inside to finish a bag of peanuts. His brief rest was interrupted by a short, familiar bark.
Mark’s eyes traced the sound. On one side of the path the troubled dog sat on fallen pine needles, ears pointed in high alert, the wind driving a path through its long fur, the chain gone from around its neck. For several moments they simply stared at each other……..
I liked the part about the wind in the dog’s fur. Your piece makes me realise it will be hard for me to write about weather without breaking the rules of one of my other current challenges: to excise adjectives from my writing. Weather cries out to be described! Watch this space to see my attempt… and thansk for sharing. -Sef
Sef,
It’s actually really quite simple (sorry couldn’t help all those helping words! 😉 ). Weather, REAL weather that is, scoffs at adjectives. Adjectives are for little drizzles and summer breezes. Let’s have some good strong verbs in your stories. The weather moves, girates, ruptures and razes, spins you blind, paints the world a different color. Get it out there!
Hi Ruth,
Thanks for sharing this scene. Like “cold daggers of rain pierced the canopy of trees” although you don’t need “of trees” — given the context, “canopy” is pretty clear. Also not sure a dagger would slap a person’s face. Maybe sting?
Also like “the wind driving a path through its long fur”. But, rather than saying “the chain gone from around its neck” how about “the marks of a chain still lingering around its neck”.
I’d tighten up this piece in this way. Also, always look for the excessive words, the words you don’t need or that are repeating information. For example, you don’t need to tell us that the man glanced into the woods BEFORE the hike to his car. It’s stronger if your opening line focuses on that single action of looking. Establish that tension between this lone guy and the woods. The gathering storm that’s starting to mix in with the intense flavors of the earth and the trees. Never mind he’s about to get back to his car. Of course he will. Make the moment pop from the start.
Thanks Birgitte! So many good ideas! I never thought of including weather to compliment a story. Thanks for taking the time for so many excellent responses.
Thank you for your post. I had not thought of weather is such a way before now.
The thunder rolled in the distance building until it spilled across the sky. It gave a final explosive shudder before it settled into temporary silence. The rain fell on the pavement, each drop making its own individual note that blended into a whole that was the symphony of the storm. The storm roared its defiance. It could not be denied.
Storms provide such drama! It’s difficult to find appropriate words for thunder but I like “explosive shudder” and “roared its defiance”. I can appreciate that weather is the perfect backdrop for story, from softly falling snow, to screaming wind to benevolent sunbeams.
Thank you!
Tracey, a few suggestions to rephrase for greater impact:
In the distance, thunder rolled, billowing its wrath across the sky. An explosive shudder, then suspicious silence. Rain broke it, droplets bursting against the pavement with individual notes that coalesced into a deafening orchestra.
Something like that. Play with the phrasing, tempo, sentence structure, imagery.
“It could not be denied” just repeats “The storm roared its defiance”, so no need for it.
Thank you. I appreciate the feedback.
John Grisham’s books always let you know the weather as the characters move around. It struck me the first time I read them and every time I go back. For someone in the distant European north, hearing about the American South’s humidity and high temperatures makes the writing rather exotic.And Garrison Keillor talks evocatively about winter, and especially mud, in his Lake Wobegon series.
Thanks for the reminder that readers live in all parts of the world and explicit weather conditions tell the story as much as dialogue! Thanks for your input!
“It was a dark and stormy night.”
A classic! I always loved that one.
Haha! Good one! I was wondering when someone would post this.
In my current novel, an endless autumn season plays a metaphoric role:
It’s warm for late October. Mother Nature herself would appear to be discombobulated in the face of Kathlynn’s death sentence. Unseasonable weather, however pleasant it may be, instills a dread in people as if Biblical events are about to be unleashed upon them. But Conrad isn’t paying attention to the Weather Lady, isn’t watching television at all, no, he’s down at the Community Centre, on the treadmill, running, running as fast as he can, sweating, and dreading something else, something even more immediately pending than the specter of life without Kate. The revenue audit.
Hi PJ,
Somehow, this piece is a little too short for me to grasp it, to really get into it. And yet there’s enough to spike interest in further reading.
One sentence however, deflates the power of the story – the second one. “Mother Nature” is a cliché phrase I’d stay away from, “would appear to be” is too weak and uncertain, “discombobulated” is one of those awful bland and altogether excessively long words, and “in the face of ” doesn’t tell me what I want to know.
I’d suggest a much stronger, disturbing opening to this. A warm late October isn’t disturbing enough for what’s about to follow. Think on it… let me know what you come up with!
Excellent post, Birgitte, and a wonderful essay in your blog today concerning climate change. It’s nice to witness both common sense and articulate intelligence for a (no pun intended) change!
I’ve been reading a lot of James Lee Burke lately, and I’m really impressed by how he makes the surroundings, including the weather, become a very real character in his stories.
Johnny Vance stared upward, amazed by how the skies could become dark so quickly. The sleek one-man sailboat he’d named Victory still lurched forward, but the top of the mast seemed embedded in the blackness above, and he knew the wind could shift at any moment.
And then it stopped.
He was but a mile off the coast, but it might as well have been ten. The mainsail drooped into itself, and the boat seemed mired in the quicksand of the ocean, neither proceeding or falling back; it just sat. “Dead in the water,” he muttered. It was a phrase most sailors hated to even think about – it meant he was on his own, just like that. He needed to devise a way to secure his and his vessel’s safety, for the ocean could be a vindictive mistress and a deadly lover, he knew. As the first peals of thunder echoed off the rising waves, the bow suddenly crested a swell and hung suspended in empty air for a moment before crashing into the trough. The barometer bottomed out just as quickly, and Johnny felt the air thicken as it seemed to be vacuumed upward into the heavens, replaced by the pelting rain. This was going to be a rough one, he knew.
I really like this piece! The weather and the tide can take twist a fun, day-sailing experience into a nightmare! You wrote of it very well.
As a long-time sail-boat sailor, both catamarans and a 27′ Catalina, I have first-hand experience with being caught ‘in irons’ (as you put it, dead in the water.) and it can be a pretty hairy experience in ANY weather, especially in heavy seas.
Something similar to being in irons happened once when we had sailed our 18′ Hobie Cat outside the Gate toward the Farallon Islands and played for hours in the rough waters out there( referred to as the ‘potato patch’) then once the sun began to sink in the fog bank that hangs around out there, we decided to head back for the Berkeley Marina (where we’d launched from.) We were *with* the tide but didn’t anticipate being *against* the wind (classic case of back and fill) UGH!
I’ll never forget the sickening feeling of being pushed back to sea underneath the Golden Gate bridge as inky darkness fell. We ended up having to dock at the Presidio Yacht club and catch a ride across to Berkeley to pick up our van and boat trailer. An “adventure” for sure. One I hope never to repeat, but may try to use in a story at some point. Thanks for the great piece!
You’ve got me itching to get back on a sailboat Mer! I used to live on one, in Los Angeles. That was back in my screenwriting days… ah the life… so you’re in the Bay Area? So am I! Let me know if you’re down in the peninsula some time, would be great to have a coffee.
I’d love that, Birgitte! What part of the peninsula do you hail from? Funny how sailing gets into blood, isn’t it? We’ve had eleven boats through the years, but our favorites were always the sailboats.
Once a sailor, always a sailor…. 🙂 Email me and we’ll make it happen! info (at) birgitterasine.com
Nice. Nautical scenes are hard to do – so much happens all the time that the focus can be lost. This is nice though and you captured your character’s determination to beat his opponent. I agree that in some books the weather becomes a character in its own right, and a setting where this seems natural – the sea, or somewhere with a wide range of ever changing weather (hmmm, UK…) makes that choice a strong one. Thanks for sharing, -Sef
Thank you “Word Smith” — wish I knew your name to call you by but respect privacy. I just replied to Mer, above, on the topic of climate change… I appreciate that my newsletter resonated.
I love storms at sea, being an ocean kayaker and having been caught in quite some rough weather myself. The power of the sea is unmatched, and has inspired and terrified humanity since we learned to speak.
So about your story: I like this scene, but would recommend tightening the ropes in a few places. Your second sentence, for example, has three parts, connected by “but” and “and”. Somehow, it doesn’t flow. See if you can rephrase it, and chip away at unnecessary words like “seemed”. If you’re painting an image, don’t tiptoe around it. Just paint it. “the top of the mast stuck in the blackness above” or something like that. Also no need to say “he knew”, all you need is “the wind could shift at any moment,” as that implies Johnny is aware of it.
In the third paragraph you’ve got too much repetition — “..the boat was mired (get rid of “seemed”)”, “neither proceeding nor falling back”, “it just sat”, and “dead in the water” all say the same thing. Pick one, the best one, and it’ll be stronger.
Take out the instance of “he knew”.
Try to stay away from the passive voice in passages like this that you really want taut with tension. “seemed to be vacuumed”, “replaced by”, etc.
Thank you so much, Birgitte, for the critique. I will definitely work on these issues in my next piece.
~Bruce
Sounds great, Bruce. (But work on them in all your stories! 😉 )
Hi Brigitte, really good points about the weather (and climate change skeptics). My current WIP could probably be classified as being set in ‘weather’. It starts in a storm in the Southern ocean and moves to Antarctica (the heroine is a climate scientist). The hero is currently out on the ice, trapped in a storm. I’m lucky to have assistance from a great friend who is an Antarctic geologist, she’s been to the ice a few times so is keeping me real.
Lily, your story sounds great, good luck with it! Excellent also that you’re reaching out to your geologist friend, critical to do that kind of research for your stories. I’d love to read a synopsis whenever you have one ready.
The water had a film of ice, shaped right into the lip of the jug, before Dora cracked it with flinching knuckles and poured it into the basin.
Today it would be a relief to work in the Hygienic Steam Laundry. The boilers kept the room hot, even if the steam turned to wintry drops on the girls’ cheeks the moment they stepped outside to hang up the laundered sheets.
The bedclothes would turn stiff out there today, Dora thought. Great flat boards of linen, to be wrestled with in the yard, her shoes slipping on frozen mud, her own breath getting in the way of the work. The sun was no brighter than the burnished copper boilers and neither gave off the warmth Dora had missed ever since Quinton went away.
Sefton, not bad — but the full impact of your story is still just below the ice, as it were. The first sentence, especially the “shaped right into the lip of the jug” is a little confusing, makes me read it a few times to get the image. How about: “A film of ice rimmed the lip of the jug, gasping its last few frozen breaths at Dora as she cracked it and poured its captive water into the basin.”
This gives the water and the ice more character, as if there’s a struggle going on between the two before your character cracks the ice. No need really for “flinching knuckles”.
You can do the same thing in the second paragraph…. “The boilers managed to keep the room hot, but the steam they churned out snapped into wintry drops on the girls’ cheeks the moment they stepped outside to hang the laundered sheets.”
See how that injects drama and conflict into the action?
Thanks Birgitte. I could picture exactly the image I want – the weird shape of the piece of ice fit into the top of the jug, then Dora having to punch through before she pours it out – but found it hard to express. I take your point about using verbs to make the inanimate objects actors as well as the humans and create conflict.
This is one of those times when what I can see so clearly in my head doesn’t want to be pinpointed on the page….
Right, that’s the craft of the writer. Doesn’t always come easy. Don’t give up. Work on it. Talk a walk and think about it. Sleep on it. Use phrases and visuals you may not normally associate with ice, water, and jugs.
I enjoyed this post immensely, Birgitte. Climate change has had a polarizing effect in my marriage for several years now (rolling my eyes) but all that is a completely different conversation! Thanks for the reminder to incorporate weather into our writing. James Lee Burke (as someone else pointed out) is a master at this, each word of his descriptions do double-even triple-duty to make the weather, the light, the temperature as vivid as any human character. I feel transported to Louisiana, Montana, Texas, Mexico. Thanks for the great post!
Mer, so glad to hear it resonated. I know what you mean… climate change polarizes (no pun intended!!) like almost no other issue. In fact, I’ve had one person unsubscribe from my author’s newsletter because of it this morning!! (here’s what I wrote: http://www.birgitterasine.com/newsletters/muse-issue-seventeen-january-2014 )
I had an email exchange with the person to find out what exactly about it caused them to unsubscribe; clearly it pushed a lot of buttons. It’s unfortunate because this isn’t a political issue, and shouldn’t be a reason to stop communicating (or receiving newsletters). It’s a little too easy to leave the room, as it were, or resort to insults when you encounter a challenging viewpoint.
Thanks for your thoughts and mentioning James Burke — any particular work of his you’d recommend?
He’s quite prolific! His early books were literary fiction, then he began a successful career as a genre writer with three series:Dave Robicheaux, Hackberry Holland, and Billy Bob Holland. I guess I should point out that I’m not much of a genre reader (or writer) but his writing is something very special. I have several favorites, but I think a recent one, Creole Belle, is especially good, in my opinion, though he was criticized for POV violations! =)
(The first line: ““For the rest of the world, the season was still fall, marked by cool nights and the gold-green remnants of summer. For me, down in South Louisiana, in the Garden District of New Orleans, the wetlands that lay far beyond my hospital window had turned to winter…”) illustrates his ability to always brings weather, season, and light into his stories.)
An interesting side note about his writing career: He began writing quite early (in college) and published 3-4 books right away. Then suddenly, he couldn’t publish anything. For thirteen years. One book, The Last Get Back Boogie, was submitted 111 times over a nine year period. (It still holds the NY publishing industry record for rejections!) Then, upon publication by Louisiana State University press, was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, so go figure.
He may be an acquired taste for some, but he’s maintains his spot in my top ten favorites against stiff competition.
Thank you for the great writing post. I’m a newbie here; I’m not really sure if I did okay but here goes!
(This is just a fragment of my story)
I stood there, in the middle of the street, people going and coming, to and fro, walking and running and stopping and bicycling away and back, in perpetual motion even at pause. I reached my arms to the sky, the rain mercifully soaking my hair my face, my shirt, my hands, my shoulders, my eyebrows, my heart. The sky was swirling with different kinds of clouds, some light and wispy, others dark, heavy, threatening to burst like a water balloon. Flowers of black umbrellas twirled, all while I stood there,
holding my hands up to the sky, begging for more water in a sea of rain. I must look like a mad man, I thought. I snorted, a thin, white stream of breath coming out of my nostrils. Of course. I was a mad man.
My fingers started tingling with the cold, but I didn’t stop stopping. No one stopped me from stopping, anyways; they were too busy coming and going to wherever they were coming and going to see a man standing still in the middle of the rain.
What a spectacular city this is, not one person caring that a shabby-looking man is holding up his hands like Moses and willingly getting drenched, while an ocean of umbrellas desperately tries to avoid all water.
Hi Eugine,
Welcome! Nice to have you in our community.
I find this figment you’ve shared here poetic, fluid. It does need some massaging to make it into a work of art. Words are like paintbrushes: the stroke, the pressure, the color, the texture and thickness, all are qualities you can play with to create the image or emotion you seek.
See what happens when you take away some of the “crutch” words, repetitive words, and unnecessary punctuation: “I stood in the middle of the street, people coming and going, walking and running and skipping along with their children stopping to talk stopping to turn back or move out of another’s way, cycling in and out of their own standing obstacles weaving unsteady painting invisible paths on a pavement wiped smooth by the rain”
I took a few liberties here but see how that feels, play with it, give it more character, more life, don’t be afraid to get into the “people’s” heads and make the rain and the pavement more alive.
Then inject your protagonist into this rich soup of activity. But don’t say “the sky was swirling with different kinds of clouds.” Just take me immediately to the clouds, it’s obvious they’re different b/c you’re already describing them. Maybe whip up a mirror image of the heavens to what you just described below, on the street; “The sky swirled a million colors a million shades clouds heavy and dark light and airy moving circling and tumbling bubbling vaporous and streaking clear across, some stopping to puff smaller ones out of their way…”
One more thing. No matter who your protagonist is, give him/her dignity. Don’t have them “snort” unless there’s a very good and solid reason. That word instantly pulled me out of your story, and I was done. Broke the spell.
Also, since you’re new to the site, feel free to read through the others’ WIP posted here as well as my comments, since they tend to apply universally regardless of the story.
As I post this practice, I realize that I have only ONE line of dialogue! How’d I manage that?? But if I begin tinkering with it, it won’t be a practice, it will morph, right?
***
When Donnie’s friends asked her why she didn’t hunt/fish/sky-dive/mountain climb/”do” dirt bikes/snow-ski/scuba dive, Emily would look up from folding lawn-chair she sat in, placing a finger to mark her place in the inevitable book she was reading or notebook she was writing in, and smilingly point to her custom-printed tee-shirt: Professional Spectator. It worked for them: Donnie was a sporto– she watched. There had only ever been one exception to this arrangement.
Years before, sailing had been something that she enjoyed and enthusiastically participated in. Who’da thunk? She didn’t swim and knew nothing about the mechanics of it, but she loved the sea and that love had bolstered her determination to learn.
Emily enjoyed learning about tides and how to read the wind on the water, how to set the sails. She loved to play with high winds by sheeting in the sail tightly for maximum speed, leaning outward in the trapeze harness, the delicate balance of a catamaran flying across the water on one pontoon–there was nothing like it! Surely a cross between surfing and flying, she thought.
Donnie made sure they sailed with other Hobie people, and usually within the soothing crescent of Monterey Bay or the protection of San Francisco Bay, so Emily’s initial nervousness eventually disappeared and she gave herself completely over to the exhilarating sensations and stopped worrying. Donnie had never flipped the boat when she was crewing for him, though others in their fleet had done so.
Sometimes, just outside the Gate in San Francisco Bay, the water was so rough the swells as tall as their mast and inside the green water she glimpsed seaweed, fish, once even an octopus. The butterfly-wing colored sails of the other boats would disappear when they were in the troughs, then reappear as they scooted up and over top. It was easy to forget that winds and tides didn’t always consult on optimum safety conditions for sailors.
One golden late afternoon in October, everyone in their group beached their Cats and were peeling off their wet-suits, starting the process of unrigging their boats, having a beer, telling tales–when Donnie did a nose-count. John and Andrea Clevinger’s boat had not returned.
Anxiety rippled through their group like wind on the water’s surface, camaraderie being replaced with fear and worry. Several scanned the waters with binoculars, but the Clevinger’s distinctive Tequila Sunrise sails were nowhere to be seen. Donnie wasted no time in calling the Coast Guard. The sun slipped under the horizon, and from the beach, they could see the search lights of two vessels and a helicopter traversing the rough sea outside the Gate, another vessel searching the water inside the Bay. Hours went by and the fog turned into a chilled drizzle–some of them put their wetsuits back on for warmth, but nobody went home. Two junior officers had joined their group, asking questions: when and where were the couple last seen by members of their group? Outside the Gate? Inside the Bay? Had anyone noticed their boat tip over?
At that last question, Emily saw Donnie’s eyes flash. “Do you really think we’d have left them out there if we’d seen them go over?” he asked, voice flat with anger.
It was well after midnight, and some of them, mostly the ones with children, had been forced to go home. The Coast Guard made the decision to halt the search until daylight. Donnie refused to leave, he and Emily sleeping rough in the old van. One or two others stayed as well, sleeping in their cars. Emily tried not to think about the water temperature out there, but she couldn’t help it. It was never much more than 50° or so. The wetsuits would give them a few hours extra advantage, but could not prevent hypothermia.
The next morning, it didn’t take long for helicopter to spot the white pontoons of the turtled-Catamaran. The Clevinger’s Hobie was inside the Gate, but mast down in the water, the rough sea, fog and drizzle had made them impossible to spot at night. They found Andrea tied to the trampoline, dead from exposure and severe hypothermia. They never found John.
After that, Emily found that sailing’s shine dulled for her, the thrill had disappeared. She finally told Donnie that he would need to find someone else to crew for him, but it wasn’t long before he sold their Hobie Cat. His heart wasn’t in it anymore either. Donnie went on to other things, other hobbies and sports, but Emily didn’t. Now she wore her tee-shirt and watched.
Mer sorry for the delay in my comment on this, somehow I missed it. Strong scene here, enjoyed it. The one piece that rips me out of it is “Who’da thunk?”. Doesn’t match the voice of the piece.
You might want to play a little bit with the phrasing to avoid monotony. Sometimes, repetition creates symmetry but it can also create flatness. Most of your sentences start off with the main noun or an orienting phrase (where or when). Break it up. There are many ways to start a sentence. Keep in mind that just as in the overall narrative, the beginning and the end are powerful elements. The same goes for an individual sentence.
Hope this helps!
Thanks for the critique, Birgitte. I almost deleted this practice because it was so badly done. (Written at work, a few moments at a time between numerous interruptions.) I’m an admin asst to the Admissions department at a private, not-for-profit college and multi-task all the time, but should’ve known better than to do so while trying to “practice” writing! I’ll definitely keep your advice in mind. 🙂
Oh good heavens, if you wrote this while doing something else, all editing gloves are off. And hat off to you for trying!
Derek sat in his attic study, frigid fingers clutching a blanket that covered his layers of winter clothes. At his feet a little gas fire hissed bravely. “Fat lot of use you are,” he muttered as he stared at its puny little flame. He wriggled himself tighter into his cocoon.
It was midwinter. Outside, and inside. Looking at the wall mirror opposite he thought his face was turning darker. He fisted it a few times to keep the frostbite away. Why did I ever decide to move to this part of the world, he sighed, as his breath misted past his face.
Suddenly a rent appeared in the grey shroud that hung just a few feet above the roof. A shaft of sunlight poured into the dingy room.
Everything suddenly lit up, and took on colour – the brown ducks flew in formation on the wallpaper, the matte black of his laptop pulsed with warmth. He looked up at the transluscent blue patch of open sky. .
Leaping up he Instinctively threw off the layers that had isolated him. He breathed deeply, two or three times, before sinking back onto his chair. His fingers flew over the keys.
It wasn’t the cold that had induced writers block. It was the lack of light.
Coming from a warm climate he’d always taken the sun for granted.
He sat back for a minute, and opened his face to the golden orb that spun and pulsed in the little lake of blue. .
.
Hello,
Thank you for the post. I am new here and I would love to improve my writing. Here is a bit of a scene set in a world I am working on. Any advice is greatly appreciated.
She stared at the dust, avoiding the
piercing gaze of the afternoon sun. Heat crawled up her skin in
sickening waves and she wished the clamminess beneath
her robes a slow and painful death.
Lethargy slowed her movements, but she forced onward. The
bucket she carried toward her family’s goats sloshed uneasily, threatening to spill
its wealth on the desert floor.
Hi there and welcome! This sounds like fantasy or sci-fi, since you mention ” a world” you’re working on, is that right? Without more context or background it’s not easy to give the proper feedback, but given what you’ve shared, I’d say:
– if this is another world, how do you define “afternoon” here? Does heat here feel different than on Earth?
– i think you’re defining the tension between the character and the heat well, keep going in that vein. But rather than “wealth”, you might think about another word that would evoke the emotional significance of what I assume is water on this world — or is it perhaps another liquid that the people here need?
WOW – my husband will love you. He enjoys driving in blizzards, sitting outside while lightning comes perilously close to striking him and getting pelted by hails.
ME?
I urge him to drive me one block during mild rains in the winter because of my morbid fear of hydroplaning and/or sleety rains 😉
Guess I am in deep trouble, eh?
BRILLIANT post – out of curiosity, how long did it take for you to piece words together into a fun, flavorful and fabulous post *jealous* 😉 hehe
Much love
Kitto