On Saturdays, we at the Write Practice become contrarians. During the week, we talk about lots of helpful and important things to practice in your writing. On Saturdays, we do the opposite.
It's not that we want you to do things that are unhelpful and unimportant. We just believe sometimes you have to break the best practices to find out what the best practices are.
The Strongest Form of Characterization
Today, we're going to revisit Monday's post, The Strongest Form of Characterization.
Orson Scott Card says action is the strongest form of characterization. We form opinions of people based on what they do. If Fred shoots someone, we're going to think Fred is violent and may have issues controlling his anger. A character is as a character does.
This made me wonder, if action is the strongest form of characterization, then what's the weakest? Here's Orson Scott Card on the subject:
Far too many writers—especially beginners—think that a physical description of a character is characterization. If they have a woman stand in front of a mirror and comb her long brown hair with the comb delicately balanced in her slender fingers as she looks into her own flashing brown eyes, such writers think they've done the job. [Such] matters as hair color, complexion, eye color, length of the fingers, size of the breasts, or hairiness of the body—those are usually pretty trivial, unless there's something exceptional about them.
Photo by Katie Tegtmeyer
So Orson says the most obvious parts of your character are actually the least important.
Physical description is boring.
Beauty is only skin deep and should stay that way (ugliness, too).
Don't dwell on the body.
Today, though, we break rules. Today, we're only concerned with the most trivial physical characteristics. Today, the least important form of characterization, physical description, is the most important.
PRACTICE
Just like Monday's exercise, your main character is at a party. Describe your character's physical features and the features of everyone else there.
Write for fifteen minutes. Post your response in the comments when you're finished.
And if you post, make sure to comment on a few other posts by others.
Enjoy!
Great post. Unfortunately I don’t have 15 minutes right now but wanted to let you know that I appreciate your post.
Thanks for commenting, Grace. Don’t worry about it. I understand people are busy. Hope you have more time next time.
Great post. Unfortunately I don’t have 15 minutes right now but wanted to let you know that I appreciate your post.
Thanks for commenting, Grace. Don’t worry about it. I understand people are busy. Hope you have more time next time.
I’m putting my makeup on so Trent and I can spend the evening with his sisters and their friends. I’m in front of my antique full length mirror that somehow makes me slow down and brush intricate shadows into the creases of the lids of my eyes.
This mirror’s presence in my life defies all logic. Three years ago, my dad stumbled upon it in an unnamed warehouse while on a trip to Europe, and had it shipped to Dayton. Completely impractical, his decision to make it mine. Don’t worry; I was sure to tell him so. But between you and me, I can never stop admiring the detailed carving in its cherry wood frame. Or the way it stakes its claim in my open air studio apartment. When Dad came to visit a few months after its arrival, he decided it should not lean against the wall; it needed a compelling, permanent place. So he arranged for it to hang suspended in space. Some days I wonder how long the tiny-link chain will sustain its 19th century weight.
So I’m standing before this remarkable mirror. The crimson rays of the setting sun creep into my west wing window, casting their final glow for the day. I’m putting my makeup on. My new little black dress hangs over my high back burgundy velvet chair beside me, awaiting its inaugural unveiling.
Trent lets himself in and starts a monologue, rambling about what he sees. His eyes take him to the place where the hardwood floor planks meet the base of my feet:
Elegant toes, high arches, ankles that deserve the bling he gave me for Christmas last year.
My long slender legs, with just enough calf muscle to affirm that I am on my feet in the lab all day.
A waist that is perfect for his hands to trace during our solitary salsa dance sessions.
Breasts, with their subtle spill over the edges of my black lace bra.
My crazy curls, for once allowed to live free as they frame my serious face.
I have stumbled upon a truly crazy man. Put down my glass of chardonnay, turn off the Ella Fitzgerald tunes, and let’s go get this party done.
Maybe he’s crazy. Or maybe this mirror just casts a spell on us all.
the more bits of this character you reveal, the more I’m drawn into her story. the details are intriguing.
You’re a natural story teller, Kati. There isn’t much to work with here. A woman getting ready for a party, but somehow you make it sparky and fun. I like the mirror. I like Trent’s monologue more.
One thing, you can write these kinds of lines in your draft, but don’t settle for them in editing, “Maybe he’s crazy. Or maybe this mirror just casts a spell on us all.” This would be fine if you slipped it subtly in the middle of the passage, but you don’t need that cute little bow of summary on your great scene.
This line, though, is fun, “I have stumbled upon a truly crazy man.” And for some reason, like I said, I just love Trent’s description. Something about a character interacting with another with their sense of sight is intriguing to me. Maybe because after that first impression, people don’t really spend very much time looking at each other (or at least men don’t–or maybe it’s just me).
hey thanks so much for the feedback! i feel empowered and ready to tackle more. thanks for keeping your eye out for gift-wrap snaffoo’s…sometimes strangely, they’re easy to miss!!
I like this a lot! Love the atmosphere. I can feel the room. I really like the description of wood; not just the mirror’s frame but the floor. Naked feet on hardwood floor planks is a powerful and clear image.
It’s true what Joe says: although the physical description of her is certainly sensual, it is the least interesting thing about this piece. There’s a sense of being put upon by parents’ authority. The final line takes it to yet another place. I could read much more of this.
Okay. Yes, all this exposition, as required by this exercise. Yet. I feel the story that lies behind the exposition. Kati Lane, we are storytellers. Even when we’re meant to write dull and boring we can’t. I’m intrigued, again.
I’m putting my makeup on so Trent and I can spend the evening with his sisters and their friends. I’m in front of my antique full length mirror that somehow makes me slow down and brush intricate shadows into the creases of the lids of my eyes.
This mirror’s presence in my life defies all logic. Three years ago, my dad stumbled upon it in an unnamed warehouse while on a trip to Europe, and had it shipped to Dayton. Completely impractical, his decision to make it mine. Don’t worry; I was sure to tell him so. But between you and me, I can never stop admiring the detailed carving in its cherry wood frame. Or the way it stakes its claim in my open air studio apartment. When Dad came to visit a few months after its arrival, he decided it should not lean against the wall; it needed a compelling, permanent place. So he arranged for it to hang suspended in space. Some days I wonder how long the tiny-link chain will sustain its 19th century weight.
So I’m standing before this remarkable mirror. The crimson rays of the setting sun creep into my west wing window, casting their final glow for the day. I’m putting my makeup on. My new little black dress hangs over my high back burgundy velvet chair beside me, awaiting its inaugural unveiling.
Trent walks into the room and starts a monologue about what he sees. His eyes take him to the place where the hardwood floor planks meet the base of my feet.
Elegant toes, high arches, ankles that deserve the bling he gave me for Christmas last year.
My long slender legs, with just enough calf muscle to affirm that I am on my feet in the lab all day.
A waist that is perfect for his hands to trace during our solitary salsa dance sessions.
Breasts, with their subtle spill over the edges of my black lace bra.
My crazy curls, for once allowed to live free as they frame my serious face.
I have stumbled upon a truly crazy man. Put down your glass of chardonnay, turn off the Ella Fitzgerald tunes, and let’s go get this party done.
Maybe he’s crazy. Or maybe this mirror just casts a spell on us all.
the more bits of this character you reveal, the more I’m drawn into her story. the details are intriguing.
You’re a natural story teller, Kati. There isn’t much to work with here. A woman getting ready for a party, but somehow you make it sparky and fun. I like the mirror. I like Trent’s monologue more.
One thing, you can write these kinds of lines in your draft, but don’t settle for them in editing, “Maybe he’s crazy. Or maybe this mirror just casts a spell on us all.” This would be fine if you slipped it subtly in the middle of the passage, but you don’t need that cute little bow of summary on your great scene.
This line, though, is fun, “I have stumbled upon a truly crazy man.” And for some reason, like I said, I just love Trent’s description. Something about a character interacting with another with their sense of sight is intriguing to me. Maybe because after that first impression, people don’t really spend very much time looking at each other (or at least men don’t–or maybe it’s just me).
hey thanks so much for the feedback! i feel empowered and ready to tackle more. thanks for keeping your eye out for gift-wrap snaffoo’s…sometimes strangely, they’re easy to miss!!
“This,” he points back to the picture of himself and the older man, “is Chú Hai, my English tutor for many years. Nowadays, in Ho Chi Minh City, he’s better known as General Anh, Chairman of the Institute for the Study of Foreign Relations. He used to be a journalist for an American magazine. Now he’s a high party official.”
“He was my boss, you might say …” his courage deserts him.
Nina peers at the picture more closely. It’s an open face. A little pensive. Not what she would expect of a spymaster who becomes a high-ranking party member. But, this isn’t really the point of Thong showing her the two photographs. It’s the uncanny physical resemblance between the tutor and Thong that he wants her to notice. In the photograph, she sees that they both have the tanned skin of South Vietnamese from the Delta, the same slim muscular build. The older man’s stance is more relaxed, his hands open on the belt of his trousers, while both of Thong’s fists are clenched close against his belt buckle, pulling his suit jacket together. Thong’s face is hidden, but the tutor’s is not. She sees that the tutor’s eyes are different from the ones she knows so well. They’re softer and more open, not shrouded like Thong’s; his expression is thoughtful, without Thong’s sullenness.
She turns to the other picture of Thong’s father, the one of the fair skinned broad shouldered man squatting with his roosters. His wide mouth opened in laughter, reveals large cigarette stained teeth. He’s good looking in a soldierly way very different from Thong’s and the tutor’s fine boned scholar’s features. He has a square jaw, very thick eyebrows, large eyes with wrinkles at both the outer and inner corners, as if he’s spent a lot of time squinting to see out to a horizon beyond. His hands, stroking the rooster, are large, the fingers solid with square tips.
Nina looks again at the picture of Thong and the tutor. She examines the tutor’s face carefully. She sees the widow’s peak that begins slightly off-center of his forehead. His salt and pepper hair standing stiff and wild as if an impatient hand has run through it. She puts her finger on Thong’s forehead, at the point slightly to the left where his hair line dips down to meet skin. She runs her fingers through his rough hair, now streaked grey, and cups both hands around Thong’s pointed chin.
“But how?” she asks.
You always post the deepest scenes, Audrey. I never know whether you have re-appropriated them from your novels because they are so detailed, the characters so vivid, and their actions so complicated. There is a veil over your writing, whether it’s from the cultural difference or your wellspring of characters or mad skill or all of the above, but it’s a veil I want to lift off to get to the inner workings of your stories. They fascinate me with their quirks.
The actual descriptions are boring, but only because I find physical descriptions like these to be confusing and difficult to visualize.
However, your use of the photographs to transition into the description was quite clever. I was impressed.
“This,” he points back to the picture of himself and the older man, “is Chú Hai, my English tutor for many years. Nowadays, in Ho Chi Minh City, he’s better known as General Anh, Chairman of the Institute for the Study of Foreign Relations. He used to be a journalist for an American magazine. Now he’s a high party official.”
“He was my boss, you might say …” his courage deserts him.
Nina peers at the picture more closely. It’s an open face. A little pensive. Not what she would expect of a spymaster who becomes a high-ranking party member. But, this isn’t really the point of Thong showing her the two photographs. It’s the uncanny physical resemblance between the tutor and Thong that he wants her to notice. In the photograph, she sees that they both have the tanned skin of South Vietnamese from the Delta, the same slim muscular build. The older man’s stance is more relaxed, his hands open on the belt of his trousers, while both of Thong’s fists are clenched close against his belt buckle, pulling his suit jacket together. Thong’s face is hidden, but the tutor’s is not. She sees that the tutor’s eyes are different from the ones she knows so well. They’re softer and more open, not shrouded like Thong’s; his expression is thoughtful, without Thong’s sullenness.
She turns to the other picture of Thong’s father, the one of the fair skinned broad shouldered man squatting with his roosters. His wide mouth opened in laughter, reveals large cigarette stained teeth. He’s good looking in a soldierly way very different from Thong’s and the tutor’s fine boned scholar’s features. He has a square jaw, very thick eyebrows, large eyes with wrinkles at both the outer and inner corners, as if he’s spent a lot of time squinting to see out to a horizon beyond. His hands, stroking the rooster, are large, the fingers solid with square tips.
Nina looks again at the picture of Thong and the tutor. She examines the tutor’s face carefully. She sees the widow’s peak that begins slightly off-center of his forehead. His salt and pepper hair standing stiff and wild as if an impatient hand has run through it. She puts her finger on Thong’s forehead, at the point slightly to the left where his hair line dips down to meet skin. She runs her fingers through his rough hair, now streaked grey, and cups both hands around Thong’s pointed chin.
“But how?” she asks.
You always post the deepest scenes, Audrey. I never know whether you have re-appropriated them from your novels because they are so detailed, the characters so vivid, and their actions so complicated. There is a veil over your writing, whether it’s from the cultural difference or your wellspring of characters or mad skill or all of the above, but it’s a veil I want to lift off to get to the inner workings of your stories. They fascinate me with their quirks.
The actual descriptions are boring, but only because I find physical descriptions like these to be confusing and difficult to visualize.
However, your use of the photographs to transition into the description was quite clever. I was impressed.
Oscar looks the part, but doesn’t deliver. He appears to be your average hipster roaming the streets of New York City; matted dark hair covered up with a stocking cap, even in the heat of August, dark bushy eyebrows shading brooding eyes, and a few days stubble ironically well groomed. Yes, he looks the part, but when you get into a conversation with him, you sense something’s not quite right.
My psychologist friend would say he’s “on the spectrum,” meaning he’s got some form of social retardation related to autism. Basically, he’s a loner. And with good reason. No one can stand being around him for longer than five minutes. He’s constantly trying to compete in conversation; whether in volume or content, he always has to “one-up” the other person.
Oscar is a walking cliche’. Which in itself is ironic, since hipsters tend to avoid anything that smells like a cliche’. In all his projected self-confidence, he epitomizes insecurity. He’s the poster child for Poseurs, inc.
Good to see a deeper side of Oscar here, although that’s your big mistake. You’re supposed to give a shallow side of Oscar, not deliver the goods of his deepest character. Somehow you pulled it off beautifully though. By comparing his physcial features to his motives (not to mention mental health) you gave us an intriguing summary of a character. I love to hate Oscar already, and if this came early in the book, wouldn’t be able to wait for him to cause havoc.
Interesting character, this Oscar. I wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for him and to be patient with his brusque behavior… is it self-absorption, insecurity, some sort of dysfunction, or something more sinister?
You have me curious… and i want to know more!
Oscar looks the part, but doesn’t deliver. He appears to be your average hipster roaming the streets of New York City; matted dark hair covered up with a stocking cap, even in the heat of August, dark bushy eyebrows shading brooding eyes, and a few days stubble ironically well groomed. Yes, he looks the part, but when you get into a conversation with him, you sense something’s not quite right.
My psychologist friend would say he’s “on the spectrum,” meaning he’s got some form of social retardation related to autism. Basically, he’s a loner. And with good reason. No one can stand being around him for longer than five minutes. He’s constantly trying to compete in conversation; whether in volume or content, he always has to “one-up” the other person.
Oscar is a walking cliche’. Which in itself is ironic, since hipsters tend to avoid anything that smells like a cliche’. In all his projected self-confidence, he epitomizes insecurity. He’s the poster child for Poseurs, inc.
Good to see a deeper side of Oscar here, although that’s your big mistake. You’re supposed to give a shallow side of Oscar, not deliver the goods of his deepest character. Somehow you pulled it off beautifully though. By comparing his physcial features to his motives (not to mention mental health) you gave us an intriguing summary of a character. I love to hate Oscar already, and if this came early in the book, wouldn’t be able to wait for him to cause havoc.
Interesting character, this Oscar. I wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for him and to be patient with his brusque behavior… is it self-absorption, insecurity, some sort of dysfunction, or something more sinister?
You have me curious… and i want to know more!
I watched amused as she sashayed her way across the floor.
Her short blonde pixie cut perfectly framed her still beautiful face . Her dazzling emerald eyes, still radiant with hope for castles she had built on air. So full of life.
A smile danced flirtatiously about the corner of luscious ruby-painted lips while just below lay suspended a sparkling sapphire edged with diamonds that nestled contentedly between barely-covered breasts. I knew she wore it to symbol ize her never-ending search for joy and faith.
Rumi intentionally drew the gaze of every male eye in her midst with the mesmerizing melody of her movement. She earnd a few lascivious leers and at least half as many sanctimonious scowls from disapproving ladies who promptly placed protective hands on the arms of their gents in an effort to stake their claim.
Her little black dress squeezed silicone gel sweet rolls, just enough to titillate. And the hem of the skirt was set so hazardously high, that she drew lustful gazes the full length of her gams. Her strappy sandals were fastened playfully around bare ankles causing women wearing cankles to cross them insecurely.
They did not see what I saw. Her ravenous soul crying out to be fed. The torment of waiting for a fairy tale ending and the perfect prince to whisk her away. I knew she still believed in a marvellous magic that rarely marvelled when she was awake.
She welcomed me warmly with a huge hug and congenial kisses, one on each cheek.
“Annie! I am so glad you’re here!
I smiled, unable to resist her sincerity. And I felt the magic that mysteriously fuelled our odd friendship. So different, yet somehow kindred.
“Let’s see what trouble we can get up to tonight, shall we?” She twinkled at me mischievously. And arms linked we cut a path through the crowd.
Two friends who saw in each other, what nobody else could see.
Ha! I think that’s even better because you show why they are friends. I would only use the alliteration or the oversized analogies though if it were to be part of a larger story submitted somewhere. Sentences two and three are fragments. That is a device that people use sometimes too, but you probably need to just overuse one thing is you are going to do some kind of satire. You could go to duotrope (not sure of the link right now) and look for some places to submit it when you are finished.
Thanks Marianne. I am never sure whether we are to put the free type in as is or edit and then submit.
I think I carried on with this story as I intend for it to be part of something better… pieces of it slowly coming together.
I have a propensity to under-punctuate and over-alliterate so I expect there will be much editing. Right now… I’m just practicing and getting things down on paper. I’ll keep the useful stuff, and ditch the rest. Still exploring. Thank you for taking a look. I really appreciate it. : )
I enjoyed reading it Shelly. Good luck. I think you’re on the right track.
I watched amused as she sashayed her way across the floor.
Her short blonde pixie cut perfectly framed her still beautiful face . Her dazzling emerald eyes, still radiant with hope for castles she had built on air. So full of life.
A smile danced flirtatiously about the corner of luscious ruby-stained lips while just beneath lay suspended a sapphire, I knew she wore to symbol ize her never-ending search for joy and faith.
Rumi intentionally drew the gaze of every male eye in her midst with the mesmerizing melody of her movement. She earnd a few lascivious leers and at least half as many sanctimonious scowls from disapproving ladies who promptly placed protective hands on the arms of their gents in an effort to stake their claim.
Her little black dress squeezed silicone gel sweet rolls, just enough to titillate. And the hem of the skirt was set so hazardously high, that she drew lustful gazes the full length of her gams. Her strappy sandals were fastened playfully around bare ankles causing women wearing cankles to cross them insecurely.
They did not see what I saw. Her ravenous soul crying out to be fed. The torment of waiting for a fairy tale ending and the perfect prince to whisk her away. I knew she still believed in a marvellous magic that rarely marvelled when she was awake.
She welcomed me warmly with a huge hug and congenial kisses, one on each cheek.
“Annie! I am so glad you’re here!
I smiled, unable to resist her sweet sincerity. And I felt the magic that mysteriously fuelled our odd friendship. so different, yet somehow kindred.
“Let’s see what trouble we can get up to tonight, shall we?” She twinkled at me mischievously. And arms linked we cut a path through the crowd.
Two friends who saw in each other, what nobody else could see.
Ha! I think that’s even better because you show why they are friends. I would only use the alliteration or the oversized analogies though if it were to be part of a larger story submitted somewhere. Sentences two and three are fragments. That is a device that people use sometimes too, but you probably need to just overuse one thing is you are going to do some kind of satire. You could go to duotrope (not sure of the link right now) and look for some places to submit it when you are finished.
Thanks Marianne. I am never sure whether we are to put the free type in as is or edit and then submit.
I think I carried on with this story as I intend for it to be part of something better… pieces of it slowly coming together.
I have a propensity to under-punctuate and over-alliterate so I expect there will be much editing. Right now… I’m just practicing and getting things down on paper. I’ll keep the useful stuff, and ditch the rest. Still exploring. Thank you for taking a look. I really appreciate it. : )
I enjoyed reading it Shelly. Good luck. I think you’re on the right track.
Conner Wellington III is short and slightly overweight for his stature. At this party he made himself up to look like a very gory Frankenstein, oozing fake purplish blood from the stitches around his wrist, neck, and forehead. He used a gray colored paste to cover his hands, face, and neck. He uses only high end makeup, the kind Hollywood makeup artists’ use for big budget movies.
Underneath the makeup he likes to keep his skin tanned, the color of a well done rotisserie chicken. At 35 he’s lucky he hasn’t developed skin cancer. His facial features are bunched up in the middle of his round face. He has a tall forehead and a long chin.
There were one hundred people at the party but Conner keeps his eyes on only three – Sophia Gomez, Roger Hewlett, and Rosemarie Montini.
Sophia is a petite woman also in her early thirties. She has dark black hair and dark eyes that appear to be all irises and no pupil. She wears very natural makeup that helps accentuate her beauty. She has a classic hour glass figure and likes wearing high heeled shoes to add a few inches to her height. Sophia carries herself with an air of conceit, and always manages to turn heads of men and women alike.
Roger Hewlett is Sophia’s business partner and some say more than that. He turned forty a few months ago and decided to shave his head completely instead of sporting a crown of gray hair. He keeps his bald head shiny and moisturized. He has brown eyes that always seem to be smiling. Roger’s nose and ears are a little fleshy but well proportioned and fit his face well. He’s tall and fit. He wears custom tailored suits and custom handmade shoes. All this fuss over his appearance could border on the feminine, but Roger is too macho to ever be mistaken for anything other than a full blooded male specimen.
Rosemarie Montini has short curly black hair that jiggles on top of a square face. She is in her sixties and has crows-feet around her eyes, and nice laugh lines around her mouth. She wears dark framed eye glasses. She has olive toned skin and never wears makeup. Rosemarie has an easy, non-conscious classiness about her.
Conner Wellington III is short and slightly overweight for his stature. At this party he made himself up to look like a very gory Frankenstein, oozing fake purplish blood from the stitches around his wrist, neck, and forehead. He used a gray colored paste to cover his hands, face, and neck. He uses only high end makeup, the kind Hollywood makeup artists’ use for big budget movies.
Underneath the makeup he likes to keep his skin tanned, the color of a well done rotisserie chicken. At 35 he’s lucky he hasn’t developed skin cancer. His facial features are bunched up in the middle of his round face. He has a tall forehead and a long chin.
There were one hundred people at the party but Conner keeps his eyes on only three – Sophia Gomez, Roger Hewlett, and Rosemarie Montini.
Sophia is a petite woman also in her early thirties. She has dark black hair and dark eyes that appear to be all irises and no pupil. She wears very natural makeup that helps accentuate her beauty. She has a classic hour glass figure and likes wearing high heeled shoes to add a few inches to her height. Sophia carries herself with an air of conceit, and always manages to turn heads of men and women alike.
Roger Hewlett is Sophia’s business partner and some say more than that. He turned forty a few months ago and decided to shave his head completely instead of sporting a crown of gray hair. He keeps his bald head shiny and moisturized. He has brown eyes that always seem to be smiling. Roger’s nose and ears are a little fleshy but well proportioned and fit his face well. He’s tall and fit. He wears custom tailored suits and custom handmade shoes. All this fuss over his appearance could border on the feminine, but Roger is too macho to ever be mistaken for anything other than a full blooded male specimen.
Rosemarie Montini has short curly black hair that jiggles on top of a square face. She is in her sixties and has crows-feet around her eyes, and nice laugh lines around her mouth. She wears dark framed eye glasses. She has olive toned skin and never wears makeup. Rosemarie has an easy, non-conscious classiness about her.
One breath of wind, and he’d be gone,
she thought as she looked at the frail man gripping a full glass of
wine. He had a twitch in his feet, that let loose every now and
then, and after it did, he’d tap his feet irritated, as if berating
them. His wrinkle lines crept not only over his face, but all the
way through his hands, and gangly legs,and appeared as grooves all over his body. His back was bent over like a question mark. His flappy,
folded neck, moving like a jack-in-the-box, supported a full head of
hair, the colour of blood. Macy understood why nobody was talking
to him.
Macy didn’t like this guy for a couple
of reasons – but they all pointed to the fact that he was weak and
strange. His blood red shock of hair was in contrast to the long
pieces of blonde hair she pulled straight every morning. She had
spent hours in etiquette school, making sure all of her was as
straight and strong as it could possibly be. She felt contempt for
anyone who didn’t have a strong set of feet firmly on the ground,
just like hers. Her refined nails would never be seen gripping
anything, let alone a glass of wine. Macy never understood people
who failed to see that their appearance mattered.
Every part of her face was perfected by
some product or other. This was New York. This is what you did.
You never let yourself go, and if you did, then spare other people
the sight. Macy looked away from the man. Those wrinkles would give
her nightmares. Her legs were slathered with lotion daily, the kind
on the top shelves, and they looked young and plump, ready for
anything. Her neck hardly ever moved, poised above everybody else in
the room. She had long since ditched her abhorrence of her height
and used it for her own advantages.
One breath of wind, and he’d be gone,
she thought as she looked at the frail man gripping a full glass of
wine. He had a twitch in his feet, that let loose every now and
then, and after it did, he’d tap his feet irritated, as if berating
them. His wrinkle lines crept not only over his face, but all the
way through his hands, and gangly legs,and appeared as grooves all over his body. His back was bent over like a question mark. His flappy,
folded neck, moving like a jack-in-the-box, supported a full head of
hair, the colour of blood. Macy understood why nobody was talking
to him.
Macy didn’t like this guy for a couple
of reasons – but they all pointed to the fact that he was weak and
strange. His blood red shock of hair was in contrast to the long
pieces of blonde hair she pulled straight every morning. She had
spent hours in etiquette school, making sure all of her was as
straight and strong as it could possibly be. She felt contempt for
anyone who didn’t have a strong set of feet firmly on the ground,
just like hers. Her refined nails would never be seen gripping
anything, let alone a glass of wine. Macy never understood people
who failed to see that their appearance mattered.
Every part of her face was perfected by
some product or other. This was New York. This is what you did.
You never let yourself go, and if you did, then spare other people
the sight. Macy looked away from the man. Those wrinkles would give
her nightmares. Her legs were slathered with lotion daily, the kind
on the top shelves, and they looked young and plump, ready for
anything. Her neck hardly ever moved, poised above everybody else in
the room. She had long since ditched her abhorrence of her height
and used it for her own advantages.
I shivered into the colossal room, and was engulfed by the crowd of lunatics around me. I couldn’t see my way through the chaos. I tried to hide my long, gut wrenching scar from the other’s, but a elegant man noticed me. His beady eyes inspect my long,string like hands. Another lady, Miss Harp I presume, give me the most ghastly look, so I returned it. Her pink coat made her look like a snowman, although she thought it was trendy. Her short, golden,hair, shone on the back of her head; a disgusting look. I guess I’m no better, with my ravenous curly hair. I checked my watch on my hair infested wrist, the time-3.00am. I Wheeled over to the exit, but my wheelchair got stuck in the dusty carpets! My compact eyes browsed over the carpet’s, and when I finally realised that I was stuck, I bellowed a mighty roar for help. A short, stubby man waddled over on his peg leg, and relieved me. However before I could thank him I was amazed to see before me…
I shivered into the colossal room, and was engulfed by the crowd of lunatics around me. I couldn’t see my way through the chaos. I tried to hide my long, gut wrenching scar from the other’s, but a elegant man noticed me. His beady eyes inspect my long,string like hands. Another lady, Miss Harp I presume, give me the most ghastly look, so I returned it. Her pink coat made her look like a snowman, although she thought it was trendy. Her short, golden,hair, shone on the back of her head; a disgusting look. I guess I’m no better, with my ravenous curly hair. I checked my watch on my hair infested wrist, the time-3.00am. I Wheeled over to the exit, but my wheelchair got stuck in the dusty carpets! My compact eyes browsed over the carpet’s, and when I finally realised that I was stuck, I bellowed a mighty roar for help. A short, stubby man waddled over on his peg leg, and relieved me. However before I could thank him I was amazed to see before me…
It’s never easy having conversations with a mirror if you’re me, even if that mirror is a spoon. Okay, well maybe the spoon made my face a little weirder than normal, but today was an ugly day. Girls, you know what I’m talking about. When you wake up to realize you overslept and in turn, so did your effort into getting ready. Not to mention your self esteem. Don’t get me wrong, i’m usually all rah rah rah about natural beauty and accepting your body, but when you’re at the most important dinner party of your life with the most gorgeous people in the world, it’s hard not to feel a little like a lock ness monster. My gown was the ugliest shade of green, the kind that makes you want to puke. I was stuck wearing it because I overslept so what does my evil maid do? She picks the one dress out of closet that she knows I despise, so here I am siting in a dress that hugs me in all the wrong places. As for hair, I had no time to straighten it, so I’m stuck looking like a lion with curls flying every which way. I mistakenly chose green sparkly eye shadow thinking it would emphasize my aqua eyes, but instead I look like a twelve year old who used a crayon instead of a mac palate. I don’t think any amount of princess-like etiquette would impress prince chandler now, and what a shame! Perfection was prince chandlers name, and now I would never get to know him.
It’s never easy having conversations with a mirror if you’re me, even if that mirror is a spoon. Okay, well maybe the spoon made my face a little weirder than normal, but today was an ugly day. Girls, you know what I’m talking about. When you wake up to realize you overslept and in turn, so did your effort into getting ready. Not to mention your self esteem. Don’t get me wrong, i’m usually all rah rah rah about natural beauty and accepting your body, but when you’re at the most important dinner party of your life with the most gorgeous people in the world, it’s hard not to feel a little like a lock ness monster. My gown was the ugliest shade of green, the kind that makes you want to puke. I was stuck wearing it because I overslept so what does my evil maid do? She picks the one dress out of closet that she knows I despise, so here I am siting in a dress that hugs me in all the wrong places. As for hair, I had no time to straighten it, so I’m stuck looking like a lion with curls flying every which way. I mistakenly chose green sparkly eye shadow thinking it would emphasize my aqua eyes, but instead I look like a twelve year old who used a crayon instead of a mac palate. I don’t think any amount of princess-like etiquette would impress prince chandler now, and what a shame! Perfection was prince chandlers name, and now I would never get to know him.
Genni stared at herself in the cracked mirror, lightly touching her sunken-in face. She was waiting for her friend Amanda to come out of the bathroom stall so that way they could do their ritualistic bump together before they went back out into the club.
“Damn, Amanda, I’ve really lost a lot of weight. Look at these craters! Thank God Bernie loves me for me.” Being a meth-head Genni’s body really lacked luster. Her skin always had a gray tinge to it and her jaw bone was drastically prominent. She had craters all over her face and arms because she always had the itchies and her face was so sunken in one could eat cereal out her cheek. Half of her teeth were missing and the ones that remained were black and rotted.
“Genni when are you getting those veneers? I’ve been thinking about getting a set so I stop leaving teeth everywhere. With all this extra doe I can actually afford them! And people say prostitution doesn’t pay!” Amanda looked just like her friend. Her hair was dry and brittle and instead of black and shiny it was dull and a faded black color. Both girls powdered their noses and reapplied their bright red lipstick. Their eyes were played up with extended liquid eyeliner and a different neon eye shadow every night. They checked themselves in the floor-length mirror, fishnets and heels in tact, then they both bent over the toilet paper dispenser and bumped their way back up to cloud four.
Genni stared at herself in the cracked mirror, lightly touching her sunken-in face. She was waiting for her friend Amanda to come out of the bathroom stall so that way they could do their ritualistic bump together before they went back out into the club.
“Damn, Amanda, I’ve really lost a lot of weight. Look at these craters! Thank God Bernie loves me for me.” Being a meth-head Genni’s body really lacked luster. Her skin always had a gray tinge to it and her jaw bone was drastically prominent. She had craters all over her face and arms because she always had the itchies and her face was so sunken in one could eat cereal out her cheek. Half of her teeth were missing and the ones that remained were black and rotted.
“Genni when are you getting those veneers? I’ve been thinking about getting a set so I stop leaving teeth everywhere. With all this extra doe I can actually afford them! And people say prostitution doesn’t pay!” Amanda looked just like her friend. Her hair was dry and brittle and instead of black and shiny it was dull and a faded black color. Both girls powdered their noses and reapplied their bright red lipstick. Their eyes were played up with extended liquid eyeliner and a different neon eye shadow every night. They checked themselves in the floor-length mirror, fishnets and heels in tact, then they both bent over the toilet paper dispenser and bumped their way back up to cloud four.
I try not to make a character’s Physical description be effected by there atsmophere opr there life thus making Physical description somewhat important.
I walked inside the enormous room filled with teenagers. They all were drinking and laughing too loudly to my liking. Was I the only teen there who had no idea what music was that?
“It´s a simple extraction,” explained I to myself while trying to focus were on earth were Tom and my brother. I sighted moving a hand through my hear. Hate that nervous tick.
“Hey! Jake!” called a voice behind me – it was my brother. I hoped he knew how this was going to happen, he always knew about this jobs. However his stormy black eyes were telling me how wrong I was. “They are here too,” murmured him, “Tom is trying to find here, then you are on. Okay?” I just nodded. This was going to be harder than I expected. That theory proved me right when I saw her, the main object of the extraction. She was a wallflower for sure, standing not long away against the wall, looking at the floor with her bushy reddish hair blurring her view. I looked around to see where was Tom, and his red hair gave him away on the stairs. So I decided to move towards her, not minding my brother´s protests.
“Iaen?” Laura said, leaning her head on her pale hand. Her green eyes were intense and insecure as she stared at the young teen’s back.
Iaen looked up from under the sink, where he had been checking for pans. “Yeah?” he said, straightening up.
“Is it safe?” she whispered, drawing the blanket closer around herself.
Iaen looked her straight in the eye. “Yes.”
Laura smiled softly. “Good.” Her eyes flickered shut.
Iaen checked the fire, and put the pot with the three cans-worth of soup (which he had found in the cabinet) on it. He then crossed to Laura.
“To bed for you.” he teased gently, ushering her from the rickety old chair. Laura groaned, but did as Iaen said, flopping down on the nearest bed, a worn mattress Iaen had scavenged from an abandoned bedroom.
Iaen sat in her vacated chair, wrapping the last blanket around himself. He was shivering, and could feel beads of water dripping from his hair down his neck. He leaned back, watching the soup and Laura, and trying to warm up.
Once the soup was done, Iaen managed to convince Laura to drink some. He was a little worried, because she seemed to be a bit delirious.
“Are you okay?” he asked her as she lay back down, her golden, limp hair sprawled across the tattered pillow. “Or are you just falling asleep?”
“Yeah.” Laura mumbled, turning her face into the pillow. “You have really pretty eyes, you know? They are brown, almost black, but they are so warm…but they are so old. I’ve seen a lot of old eyes before, but yours are different. They are stronger and….I’m tired.” She yawned and her voice began to trail off. “It was your eyes that made me trust you. When you found me…thank you…”
Iaen froze, staring at the girl who was sleeping in front of him. His long, pale fingers reached up to touch his face.
Thank you? His eyes were beautiful and warm? No one had ever told him that he was beautiful anywhere, much less his eyes, which reminded everyone too much of his father.
No one had ever thanked him either.
“‘Night, Laura.” Iaen said in a slightly shaking voice. Laura didn’t react, beyond snuggling further into the mountain of blankets.
Iaen drew his knees up to his skinny chest, unable to believe that anyone could think he was handsome or that he was worth thanking. It went against everything he had been through in his short life. He had always been rejected, for himself, and for his father.
After several minutes, Iaen slowly climbed out of his chair and walked to the bathroom, where he knew there was a broken mirror.
His feet made almost no sound as he padded out of the main room. He walked into the bathroom and lit a candle.
His angular face was lit up in the warm flame, and shadows dramatized his face. He didn’t look fully human- his face and cheekbones too pointed, his pale skin accented. His eyes only had a trace of brown in them in this lighting, and he could see the sadness in his eyes, the maturity that didn’t belong there.
His hair was past his shoulders, and his bangs were starting to cover his eyes. His hair was barely distinguishable in the blackness.
Had anyone seen him in that moment, they would have thought that he looked like an elven prince, graceful and beautiful. That was what Iaen was: beautiful. Not handsome, not cute.
But Iaen didn’t see this. All he saw was Death’s child, unwanted and feared, through no fault of his own. He saw the paleness of his skin, the shadows under his eyes, the blue tint in his lips from the cold. He didn’t think he was beautiful.
So Iaen left the room, banked the fire, and crawled into his bed beside Laura. His heart was finally opening up and being healed by the little eight year old next to him, and in the years to come, she would lead him out of the darkness and into the light.
Wow.
Naia walked into the party, the busy party that she would rather be away from. She had her light golden brown hair up in her usual braided chignon style, a cheep plastic clip in her hair. It was a blue color and was all glitter but she always wore it, her sister made it for her. She also wore a dress that Martha forced her into. It was a nice shade of purple, vibrant and made her blue hazel eyes pop. The dress had a sweetheart neckline and a normal bodice as bodices went. Around the waist was a strap, it was very thick and accented the flowing skirt that went to her knees. On her feet were the sparkly heels that Martha convinced her to put on.
Martha wore a similar dress, only her’s was a dark blue that accented her dark skin and a bit puffier in the skirt. She also wore a black fur shawl with a gem that held the two sides together. Her black hair was in the normal spiky bob but she also wore a sparkly headband that matched her black flats that held a single gem on their tips.
The Doctor? He wore his signature outfit. He had his brown suit with blue stripes on. His undershirt was a collared white one and he wore his maroon tie with light purple accents. He also had his long light brown jacket one that went to his ankles, just before his tanned converse that were commonly mistaken for sandshoes. His brown hair was the same as it always was, spiked up with sideburns.
“Frida Swansen,” She says, to the tall, black-haired man at the door, as his intelligent brown eyes drift over her heart-shaped face, and equally arresting blue eyes under a heap of golden curls. A string of silver diamonds around her neck glitter as brightly as the greed in his eyes. The man is of average build, and his hair spectacularly combed over a well-cut face, but with a fantastic set of sideburns, like his eyebrows cloned themselves and attached themselves to the side of his face.
“Ms. Swansen?” She turns to see another young woman, with red hair, obviously dyed, and lipstick stained teeth. Her hands, like those of a possessive pigeon clutch her bag, and her jaw juts aggressively out, ahead of her body, and if you measured the angle at her waist, you would find it’s probably ninety degrees.
Well at least this party is at a decent hotel this time. Better here than in another boring, plain conference room. I like the buffet table, which is always better than just some cookies and coffee. I sure hope no one saw me driving up in my 1992 Toyota Corolla. I hope wearing the red tie will not say the I’m a “power guy”, or hope no one notices my cheap suit, but I’m sure the “money bag” people will. The rich always seem to notice the kind of suit you wear to these things, they notice, then ignore you, like you are not worth their time. I’m hoping my red tie says, “confident”.
I sure hope I can drum up some business this time. Going to these networking parties is always a challenge. To coin a phrase, it’s like Forrest Gump said, when you open a box of chocolate, “You never know whatcha gonna get”. As I look around I do not notice anyone I’ve met before at these network marketing events. I’m hoping the $20 cover charge is going to be worth it, the food looks yummmy!! As I look around, it always seems I see the same kind of people, some singles, some couples, and always the same kinda groups, the good looking, the average, the not so good looking. Maybe I’ll meet some hot lady this time, although I really need the business.
Stand straight up, smile and, and walk the room.
You always know the power people..well sometimes not. There’s one now, both great looking, the confidence just oozing out of them, commanding attention, high energy, engaging with great smiles, I always say “dentist made smiles” . They probably drive a Beamer, Audi or some euro car. I’m standing tall, smiling, and I’m looking good, even had my ponytail fixed by my next door neighbor, she is always trying to fix my look. I want to have confidence as I walk around. Mmmm, this is yummy punch, I wonder what is is. I look good, lets see wear I can fit in today. I’m glad I know what I’m talking about and not trying to just say stuff just to be heard.
Why do we get into these business clicks of people. The good looking single guys with ties all together, then you’ve got the “hot” chicks all together checking out the “hot” guys. The average people like me seem to always be the most friendly, either near the bar, or the buffet….oh, there they are, the buffet table my next destination. I’ll get some lunch and survey the room for the contractors, they always seem to be without the ties, plaid shirts, corduroy casual jackets, those are the guys I want to talk to.
Why is this hot looking lady smiling at me? Long black hair, great legs, slim, what a smile! Wow, she’s walking towards me…hmm. “Hi” how are you she ask’s (I’m thinking really good now), what do you do for a living? She ask’s, “you’ve got a nice tie”. “Thank you, great red dress you have on”. I quickly say “umm.. red tie, red dress, we match” I confidently state. “I’m a kitchen designer, what about you? What do you do? “I’m a interior designer” she says back with this big smile on her face. “Well, it seems we are in a similar fields” with a big smile on my face. This day keeps getting better and better. “I’m Candice” she says, “hello Candice” “I’m Jefferey, Jeffery Manners, nice to meet you”. “Do you come to these very often?” she ask’s. “Sometimes, this one seemed like it would be a good opportunity to meet some people out of my area, and expand my territory a bit”. “Oh, where are you from?” ‘I’m from the Central valley, towards Modesto”. “And you? Where are you from?” “San Ramon” she says as she stares into my eyes. I stare right back into her beautiful green eyes and say, “we are not that far apart, maybe we can collaborate with each other” as my mind is actually thinking nothing about business at the moment, no work business anyways. “Are you looking to expand your business?” I ask….
This is also my 1st time visiting this site. Kati’s is my favourite post so far.
Her sable hair was thick, and unmanageable. Her dark eyes often stuck: to a clock, the moon, the patterns of cream in her coffee. She had marks under her tired eyes, like bruises from battling sleep. Her face was pale and speckled with acne, an unattractive mix of white, red, and shadows.
She never stopped moving. Even now, holding her baby brother and watching the drops of coffee fall, she was moving. Her foot tapped and she swayed slowly to the music in her head.
Everything about her was slim and rather long. She was tall for her age, and skinny without trying. Rose had never been too keen on exercise for the sake of exercise. But reading? She was very good at that. Her fingers often moved like they were still clinging to pages, tapping and rubbing against each other. Her hands curled like they were still wrapped around a book.
On Katia’s wineglass was a red, curved stain: her cherry red lip gloss. she fingered her lips, and found that the redness had splashed wildly down to her chin.
Katia took a embroidered napkin and wiped herself; it had been only a few seconds, yet the glittering guests at the ambassador’s party could have seen her. Katia had never seen such an arrangement: the women with their frocks as light as champagne foam, each to their own colour, brand and feel, all with hairs done up in oddly-shaped buns; the men looking identical in black-and-white evening coats. She felt she was a sorry – a child by contrast, in prudish long dress and sleeves, who had just ruined her make-up.
She sat the whole time, because she couldn’t walk with heels this high. Fortunately, no one came up to her. She could sit and watch those stilettos pierce the floorboards, wondering why she’d consented to come. Parents were too persuasive.
But someone caught her eye: a woman brave enough to wear an unfashionable aquamarine necklace, and a long dress of a similar vague colour. She looked so tall she stood out to Katia from behind the throng of people. Katia could see the woman’s face, winking at her as heads went by.
The human mist cleared, and Katia saw that the woman had grown into the polished wood of the wall, and emblazoned herself with an old-gold frame. She was at peace, and stared unblinkingly at the only person who didn’t ignore her.
Her thick rimmed glasses framed her brown eyes as she stood gazing the participants of the party. Her floral dress hung on her thin frame. Her watch hung loose on her skinny arms. A yellow belt hugged around her thin waist.
She looked at the time. Her tanned arms looked even darker in the low light of the room. A very pale and fat man stood on the punching bowl. He was sweating. His skin was very oily. His pony shirt stretched thin to accommodate his fat bulgy body. It was still 30 minutes too early.
The door slammed open. In came a rather tall man and nicely built man. He had jet black hair. His eyes were kinda grey or kinda blue. Her glasses shook as she stared at him. He passed by her without notice. Her nobby knees went weak.
He stopped by the punch bowl. His clothes fit his muscular form well. The fat man glared at him. He barely noticed him. His thick strong arms took a red plastic cup and he poured himself from the same bowl the fat pudgy man took his. He drank and his addam’s apple bobbled.
Others came. It was her friend. She came up at her and started to hug her. Compared to her, her friend had meat in her. She was flat, her friend wasn’t very big but it did catch some stares from the passing males. She was wearing a suit and tie that was made for female bodies. Her own floral dress looked like drag.
She was wearing stilletos. She was wearing rubber shoes. At least hers was pink. The stilletos were ugly green.
Her friend stopped yapping on and on and signaled for somebody to come over. She blinked. It was her brother. His curly blonde hair shone in the low light. He was paler than her. At least he didn’t have blue eyes. They were black but had a shade of gray.
He was wearing typical teenage wear. An ironic shirt. Jeans but they weren’t grey. Maybe long khaki pants. He was wearing rubber shoes. It was blue. She smiled.
He came up to her. Then he put her arm around her friend. Her glasses shook in the afternoon light. Her friend’s face turned very dark. She never noticed before but her friend had a really ugly mole under her left eye. Also her makeup was very poorly done. It didn’t match well with her skin tone. He didn’t know her brother had muscles. He smiled at her.
Her rimmed glasses framed her blinking eyes. She smiled back.
Wow! I am impress by your description! It was really suprising for me to see that you’ve did so well at this exercice. Not that I doubt your ability to do it, but I found it myself really hard only to describe things (or people)… Not to mention that we only had 15 minutes to write it. In any case, it’s well done in my point of view. Nice job! 🙂
your writing is amazing! i love the very many details to show whats going on and how the scene looks. but there is just this one thing. while i was reading i noticed how you would use he, him, her, and she a lot. maybe you could change those up some to make in more pulled in.
A woman about her twenties is sitting on a black and white chair in a corner at a party. She has beautiful long hair and long natural eyelashes. Her lips are full and the color of her eyes is unique: between yellow and green. Whenever she looks at a boy with those pretty eyes of her, he felt his heart melting.
That was usually true, but tonight, there was that guy. He is somekind feeling mistrustful about her, like something telling him to not approach her. He didn’t knew if it was in the way she walked -maybe too firmly- or in the way she haven’t moved of her chair for at least 15 minutes. When the girl finally moved toward him, he couldn’t help but thinking she was about to do something bad, but she only asked for a transparent drink called whiskey. When he finally thought he might be wrong about her after exchanging a few words with her, he found a strange glow in her eyes that made him shiver. In her gaze, he could see himself clearly: a guy, medium size, with messy blond hair and hazel eyes. He could almost see his freckles and his white skin too. It was like he was staring at predator eyes… And he was it’s prey.
Spending an evening in a high-class skyscraper is not Rebecca’s idea of a festive event. Coerced to embellish herself in a silky midnight gown, red wine stilettos, and diamond encrusted accessories piercing her ears, encircling her throat (like a pretty prison collar), and shackling her wrists.
She was never one for aesthetics or cosmetics, she was all utilitarian and about necessity. Her friends lament that she would let her amethyst eyes and milk-chocolate hair go to waste, with her hourglass figure hidden behind that ‘hideous’ yellowish jumpsuit when she’s working at the auto shop.
“You should become a supermodel.” They would protest.
“Yeah, and I should allow body altercation and go on a skeletal diet.” Was one of her nonce sarcastic response.
She’s only twenty-two years old, fresh out of college, and she’s happy being an aspiring mechanic. Not the first time she’s questioning her choice in friends.
“The girl in green” was all any of us could talk about. I mean, we’d seen plenty of pretty girls, by her? No… this was not just any beauty. It was internal, as well as external, almost inhuman.
Matt went up to her first, his big strong hands reaching for her small delicate one. She held a look of fear deep in her eyes, but as it came up, it transformed into anger and bravery. She was playing hard to get, now wasn’t she?
Mat was turned down, and came back to us sulking. Jake was next, then Peter. One by one all of us had taken a try, except me. I was last. The guys cheered me on, and I timidly walked up to her.
“Hi.” I said awkwardly, giving her a slight nod.
She raised one of her fine eyebrows. They were dark brown, like her eyes and hair. Her eyelashes were thickly layered and pure.
“Want to dance?,” I asked, trying again.
Then I had an idea.
“Voulez-vous danser?,” I asked her the same thing, only in French this time.
I figured since she hadn’t spoken to anyone, maybe she didn’t speak English.
That’s when something unexpected happened. She burst out laughing, her solemn face turning into a grin. Those eyes got a twinkle, and her laugh.
Oh that laugh. It was like wind chimes, tinkling joyously in the breeze.
I smiled, pleased with myself.
She responded, yes in French, “Oui.”
Her voice was silky, with a definite French accent.
Her hair was pulled into a strict bun at the base of her neck, but she took it out. That brown hair of hers was luxurious. It fell to her waist, and when she spun, it was like a twirling umbrella.
Her emerald dress sparkled in the light, lighting up the dance floor, and my life.
After a few dances with her, I went to get refreshments.
“The girl in the green dress” was officially my dance partner.