Whenever someone asks me what I do, I always say the same thing: “I'm a writer.” It's what we all say.
It's a simple statement, the typical one-word description of who we are and what we do. But for me, the word “writer,” by itself, just doesn't do it justice.
I looked up the dictionary definition of a writer. The one that seemed closest to what we do was this: “A person who writes books, stories, or articles as a job or regular occupation.” True? Yes. Basically, to the rest of the world, what we do? Yes.
But it still doesn't do it justice. Why?
Because we're much more than writers.
More Than Writers
We're more than transcribers or words processors. For the most passionate among us, we are way more than people who do it simply as a “job or regular occupation.” No. We live and breathe and taste and smell and feel every one of those words. Each syllable is a piece of our soul, our very personalities poured onto pages.
As a fiction writer, I know personally that writing stories is more than, well, writing stories. In fact, I would sooner liken what I do to acting than writing. That's right, we're more than writers.
Writers Are Actors
Think about it: What do actors do? They have to become the character they are acting, live the part, identify with their role. The best actors who pull it off flawlessly get Oscars for being so believable, so relatable, so good at acting like someone they're not. They are lauded for their ability to step out of their world and into another's, and the ability to pull their watchers in with them.
Isn't that what we do? Don't we stand in front of mirrors, practicing our lines? Don't we close our eyes and step into the world created at our fingertips, trying with everything we've got to become the character, and breathe so much life into them that our readers can practically see them? Aren't we actors?
We are. The only difference (and I'd say it's a big difference) between a writer and an actor is this: We're playing all the parts.
We're filling the shoes of every character, relating to each person, even if they're completely different from one another. We hop from character to character, scene to scene, situation to situation. And we've got to pull it off well if we ever hope to succeed.
Writers Are More Than Actors
In movie production, there are more than just actors. And when we write, we're playing more roles than simply acting.
We're the director. We decide how many ‘takes' are needed to get every scene right, positioning the characters and deciding where they're going next.
We're the screenwriters. We conceive the plot, and every one of the twists and turns that keep readers reading and watchers watching.
We're the camera. We bring scenes to life with description that has to be as good as if we were seeing it through a lens.
We are even the editors. We piece together scenes and shots, cutting unnecessary ones, adding ones where needed.
Much More Than Writing a Story
You see, we aren't just the ones writing the stories. We are the stories. We are solely responsible for bringing an alternate world into being, for creating a story, for crafting a masterpiece, and for filming our “movies.”
It's a pretty intense “occupation.” But that's why I say that it's more than a one-word description, more than a title, more than we let on. Yes, we could just say “writer,” and walk away. But as someone who crafts pages and pages of countless words for our occupations, I think we can do a little better than one word, right? 😉
Do you play any other roles as a writer? Let me know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Today, ditch the word “writer” and try one of these new titles instead. Take a scene from your work in progress, or imagine a new story about two young boys who discover a treasure, and write for fifteen minutes. Focus on being the actor, getting into the heads of all the characters, or the camera, describing scenes with vivid detail and drawing the reader/watcher in.
When you're done, share your practice in the comments. And if you share, don't forget to leave feedback for your fellow writers. Can you tell which title they chose to wear?
“Oh goes, it is nasty here. How could we possible move on?” said him.
A young boy holding a map. He is trying to understand where does the direction pointed. It is so unclear in the old map. There is another boy which is same age as the first boy following him and the back.
“Don’t complain again, you are the one who keep begging me to bring you here. I think we almost there. We just need to cross over the big rock over there.”
“Besides, can you please hold the lamp properly? I cant see clearly the map.”
The boy behind him trying to catch up his footstep and lift the lamp closer to the map in front another boy. They crossed the big rock.
“Then we need to turn left and then another left turn. Then we are there..” he smiled.
“Alright. I hope so.”
So, they passes the left turn and another left turn. The darkness begin to grow as they walk deeper.
“Then we need to turn right and then right. Then we are there..” he smiled again.
So, they passes the right turn and another right turn. The lamp is almost end its lifespan.
The boy holding the map stepped something! This is it!
“We are going to be rich! There treasure box is here!”
“Quickly open the treasure!! I cant walk!!”
The boy throw the map aside and going for the chest. This is the moment after 10 months for exploring. They finally discover it!
Once the boy opened the chest, darkness take over the lamp light.
The analogy to movie production hits the mark for me. It’s good to be reminded of the roles we play because in and through those roles we can more thoroughly bring a story to life. I also see myself as a critic of the work produced. I alternate between writing the criticism and responding to that same criticism. One other function I think writers play would be observer. Before any words hit the page, in fact before an idea is even hatched, we have to observe something that touches our hearts or souls or minds. Then we can begin.
After lunch I will take the 15 minute challenge.
Thanks for the article.
Jon
Yes, also the critic, and not in a bad way, but in the way an editor works. Things, like, “use a more active verb here,” or show what he’s feeling with a facial expression or gesture.” Maybe we are also our own writing coaches.
You’re right, Jonathan, and thank you for adding this. We are truly the critics of our own work and the observer of our stories, along with every other role that we play. I’m glad you could relate to the article!
This was a very helpful exercise. I began as if I was a director of a movie or a screenwriter and it totally drew me into seeing the story as it unfolded and the characters revealed themselves.
Camera moves thru the woods, some of it dense with scrub oak that other hikers would circumambulate.
Lens reveals three extended arms slashing, two with hatchets and one with a machete. Along with the cracking and chopping of the thick brush we hear the growling and guffawing of boys voices. Occasionally an utterance breaks with a screech exposing the rise and fall of testosterone and then peals of laughter erupt. Each boy is foraging a trail of his own.
The camera stops as the boys proceed and a fourth boy is seen hanging back, his hands over his ears. He wants to scream at them to stop and find an animal trail or some less invasive approach, but he can’t tell them the things he hears. They never take time to understand him and they already make jokes about what a fairy he is.
This morning when he joined them at the end of his driveway they laughed at his pitiful gear. He only brought a rope and a gallon water bottle.
“What ya gonna do, Peter, lasso a bear and then water board him?” Roger digs, grinning around at his friends, who laugh and nod their heads in camaraderie
Peter never knows how to respond to them. He has no snappy comebacks. He just grins at them and shrugs his shoulders, eager to be a part of the days adventure. His smiling face and muteness always seem to allay their fierceness. They each physically engage him with some form of roughhousing as his mother always called it. Roger slaps him on the back, Kenny punches his upper arm, and Marty says grabbing his neck and pulling their foreheads touch, “It’s okay, Tinkerbell, we’ll take care of you. We got all kinds of bushwhacking gear.” Then he winks, lifts up his t-shirt showing he’s got a pint of Jack Daniels tucked into his pants next to the sheathed machete that is hooked onto his belt loop.
Peter waits now until the cries of the brush ease away and his pals’ jovial hullabaloos dim as they enter into a clearing, Peter takes a deep breath and steps into the trail broken by the group’s leader, Marty, who is already shaving at least once a week. Peter exhales slowly with each step, his palms turned outward toward the scarred and broken bushes. When a soft whimpering assails his hyper sensitive ears and his right palm quivers, he drops to one knee, bends low and scans between the branches. The white dapples of a fawn glow about two strides away, and then he finds the creature’s terrified eyes blinking at him.
Interesting take on the prompt! Are these characters you came up with on the spot or have you worked with them before?
yes completely from the prompt these characters are, though I did raise one son and observed him and his buddies. Writers as social scientists observing the behaviors of the human species.
I realized while writing this piece (which yesterday I also edited into a complete story that i presented to my writing group last night and edited again this mornign) what an amazing amount of life informs my writing, including these articles, shows i watch on Netflix, peiople i know, relationships i have, comments of friends, essays I read in my favorite literary magazine THE SUN, and my writing group…as I write I am thinking of their critiques and what they might question.
Wow, you really did this well! It does give the impression of a camera filming the scene, with all senses in play, while still taking the stance of a writer, invoking backstory and thoughts. This is great!
Thank you…All from the great and new (to me) perspective you provided.
As I read your exercise, I kept thinking of one of my favorite books, Sometimes A Great Notion, by Ken Kesey. Your descriptions and no muss, no fuss, realistic dialogue grabbed hold of my imagination. I thank you for your feedback to me and I can see some of what you suggested in the way in which you create and write your own work.
This is a timely practice for me! My current story is in third person, which is something I haven’t done in awhile, and I’m getting used to being in the main character’s head again while using a less personal form of narration. Here’s a scene from said story. Reviews are always appreciated!
As Jaime reentered the room, the buzz of chatter stopped briefly. Ignoring this, Andy began a circuit of the walls, her arm looped through Jaime’s. “Let’s see – don’t need to introduce you to Hannah Greenberg, she’s on the Board of Education and talks about nothing else. Not Kyle Perkins, he’s insufferable, I only invited him because he makes canapés that are to die for. Ah!” Andy had apparently spotted someone good and was making a beeline for them, towing Jaime along. “Kate!”
A woman responded to Andy’s exclamation, turning to look. Jaime had never met Kate Zhang, but Andy had mentioned her before, and Jaime knew Kate was the youngest of Andy’s friends in Crown Hills, still in her thirties. She was Asian and petite. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and cat’s eye glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Over a silky sack dress, she wore a denim jacket. Jaime glanced downward. Converse sneakers. Before the interruption, Kate had been engaged in conversation with two people: an elderly white woman wearing a fuzzy knitted sweater even though it was a warm day, and a Latino man in his sixties wearing a summer suit. The three widened their circle to let Andy and Jaime in. “Jaime.” Andy’s tone said, Be nice, or else. “These are a few friends of mine. Everyone, this is Jaime Malcolm.”
Kate raised an amused eyebrow. “Our new boxing champion.”
The elderly woman tsked. “Don’t tease her, Kate.”
“I’m not teasing! You’ve got an impressive swing,” Kate told Jaime. “You should come kickboxing with me sometime.”
Jaime ran a hand over her dreadlocks uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I don’t box anymore. Doctor’s orders.” There was an awkward pause. Jaime realized they were all waiting for some kind of explanation. She, however, was not about to give them one.
Eventually they seemed to get the hint. The elderly woman smiled warmly at her. “It’s nice to finally meet you dearie. I’m Mabel Astor.” She spoke with an English accent. “Andy never stops talking about you. She tells us you’re a police detective?”
“I was. I’m recently retired.”
The man finally spoke up. “Where’d you work from?”
“NYPD. 6th precinct.”
The man grinned. “Nice.” He held out his hand. “I’m Detective Jose Garcia, but my friends call me the Suburban Avenger.” Jaime shook his hand as everyone else chuckled. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little young for retirement.”
Jesus Christ. These people were bringing up all the topics she didn’t want to talk about. “I thought it was about time for a change of pace.”
“Yeah? City crooks getting too fast for you?”
Jaime ground her teeth. “Sure. You could say that.”
If you hadn’t said it, I wouldn’t have thought that you didn’t write in 3rd person all the time. You did a good job keeping it in her POV, and I like the way the story sounds! Thanks for sharing.
Thanks for sharing this. POV is a personal struggle for me and I appreciate reading how others compose with a particular POV in mind. I drift, or so I am told, from one POV to another. This is my thorn in the side. Thanks for a good example of 3rd person.
I’ve taken a very different approach to my current WIP. I am a very visual person, and have always “played the reel” in my head as I’ve written (and edited) a scene. But with my latest project, I’ve approached writing as a gamer.
As a teenager in the 80’s, I enjoyed playing games with my friends. Role-playing games were extremely popular back then. Among my favorites were Dungeons & Dragons, Champions and Traveler. For my friends and I, the focus was always on creating an imaginative story. Stats and charts were part of the game, of course, but they were never allowed to get in the way of a good tale. (This was very different from the rules-heavy tabletop games I see so many people playing today.)
The players would start by creating a character. Since we could never be sure what the gamemaster would throw our way, we had to create characters whom we could envision in any circumstances. Time travel (both forward and back) and alternate dimensions were a possibility, and at least once we created a character from one game system and used him in an entirely different game. We knew we couldn’t just bumble around; we had to KNOW how our characters would act and react!
For my current WIP, I created Akiko. She came to me in a dream. She is apparently a mashup of Yui Mizuno and Zatoichi with some amnesia thrown in for good measure. (When gaming, we often included ambiguous or uncertain parts of the character’s background story. Sometimes we would even play these out in a gaming session and discover what they were.) I also gave her a flaw, of sorts: she will always help a person in need. This is a cardinal rule when writing for her.
Next, I looked at Akiko as if I were the gamemaster. Could I fill in some of her amnesia? What if she had a touch of The Who’s Tommy in her? What if she had chosen to be blind, had chosen to forget? Gradually I filled in the details of what exactly had happened to her. I also created a story arc for her. In my teenage gaming days, the gamemaster (all of us both “played” and “GMed.”) would usually think of some fun things to take a particular player character through. The GM would define points A, B, C, etc. If they came up in a particular adventure (gaming session), fine. If not, no one would ever know they had been planned in the first place. Sometimes one or more episodes were skipped, and sometimes they fell in a different order. So I planned these points for Akiko. I’ve planned eleven of them. One is the “inciting incident” and one is the “climax.” The others are fun ways to escalate the tension, but I can leave one or two out and not hurt the story at all.
Now that I know where her story is going “ALL” I have to do is 1) take her there and 2) throw every obstacle I can at her. I’ll be sure to include some needy people, to capitalize on her rather heroic flaw. Then, I’ll play it out as Akiko and have her triumph in the end (eventually). From here on in, it’s all about dramatic structure.
If you’ve never played a role-playing game, this may not make much sense to you. But it’s what I’ve been doing, and it is working for me.
That’s a really interesting way to go about it! I used to be into RPGs myself, though not so much these days. Your process for building Akiko sounds very thorough. Interesting to hear how you’ve put her together. I also tend to think of my characters as combinations different pieces of preexisting characters and real people. The main character of the story I’ve been playing around with of late is a mashup of Philip Marlowe, Inspector Morse, and my mother.
I’d definitely be interested in reading about that character. I honestly didn’t go about creating Akiko by mashing up celebrities and legendary heroes, but they were both in my mind at the time. As I lay down, I told myself I was going to dream about my character. The prompt worked, and I dreamed of Yui Mizuno fending off four adult attackers with some pretty awesome martial arts moves. As the last one went down, she turned, and I saw she was blind. I woke up excited. I wanted to read her story, or at least see the movie version. Then, as I came fully awake, I realized I would have to write it myself.
Bruce, I’ll be honest with you, I have never played role-playing games (I actually don’t play many games at all), so while I couldn’t relate to the analogy, I did recognize your method, and I love it. You have taken an extremely detailed and dedicated stance with your writing and character creating, and it seems to have left you with a great character and story. I love how you took something you’re very familiar with and applied it to your writing! This is a great way for writers who are also gamers to relate to their story. Thanks for sharing!
Here is where I traveled in the fifteen minutes allotted fro this exercise.
Response to Here’s What Writers Really Do
Umbagog Lake
As he had done for just about the last forty years, Ethan made his way to an old wooden cabin by the side of Umbagog Lake near the town of Errol, Maine. The town was as sleepy as ever with all 290 residents preparing for the short season in which some semblance of vitality came to town each year. Ethan and folks like him were drawn to kayak the headwaters of the Androscoggin River and to camp. The town of Errol was not on any tourist’s beaten path.
Errol was first settled in 1806 as a place that would become known as the town between nowhere and Upton. It would be generous to call the main road paved, as each winter took its toll on the two miles of macadam road designated as Road 2. The white center line had faded so completely that it disappeared as you went from one edge of town to the other. Potholes big enough to capture moose and washed out shoulders that could swallow a car in one large gulp of distracted driving kept the speed limit to about 15 mph. Two buildings were set off to the side of the road, the Bull Moose Restaurant and an old General Store which doubled or tripled as the bank and US Post Office. You could also buy live bait as well as hunting and fishing licenses all under the same roof. Weathered advertising signs were nailed to the General Store. Mystery oil products, Texaco gas, and various soft drinks accounted for many of the tin signs. Bags of ice and cold beer in quart bottles sat in a huge chest like refrigerator that had been placed on the floorboards of the store’s front porch just to the left of the door.
There were four residences along Road 2, but a casual observer would conclude those shacks had long been abandoned. Tar paper, tin roofs and weathered boards were the only testimony to past or present habitable conditions. Each of the four houses had two or more snowmobiles resting silently on struggling grass oases in hopes winter was over. Time would now be spent preparing the snowmobiles for summer storage.
There were some reminders of fields where hay, oats, and potatoes had once grown, and there was evidence that at one time, lumbering had been a thriving industry. But now, the sawmills were vacant and the fields a silent tribute to more prosperous times. If it weren’t for the Bull Moose Restaurant, commerce in town would not exist at all.
Ethan was now 45. He was a part-time lawyer in Portland Maine. The remainder of his time was spent trying to write the next great American novel. He first came to Errol with his family when he was 6 years old. His father was a writer who had spent every year of his life, from May to October in that cabin, a cabin only changed over the years by the addition of an indoor pump that brought water up from the underground acquifer of clear, fresh water. There was an old outhouse that had been equipped with a light bulb but no sink or vanity or mirror, just the one-hole seat and its cover.
The black flies had just hatched, tormenting all living creatures great and small and had now returned to who knows where for the remainder of their life cycle. It wasn’t cool and it certainly wasn’t hot. The breeze that swept off the lake in the morning and evening had a clean, clear smell. Up the hill that led from the back of the cabin were fields of wild blueberries. Where there were blueberries there were also bears. Over the years the bears became used to humans, walking side by side, picking blueberries.
These bears were black bears who scavenged the land fill, the dumpster behind the Bull Moose Restaurant, and of course, had their fill of blueberries. Most of the time, when the wind was just right, you smelled the bear before you heard it or saw it. Ethan had learned one rule when dealing with the bears; if a mother bear was with her cubs, stay away and never get between the cubs and their mother. It wasn’t the momma bear’s growl that got you or even the size of the beast when it stood on its hind legs that warned you to walk away. No, it was the speed at which momma bear would close the distance between her cubs and you. One minute there was safe distance, the next, that black freight train of a beast, was on you.
Well my fifteen minutes for this exercise are up. I have not had a chance to clean things up. I can see lots of ways to act as director, screenwriter, camera, editor and critic. Where might you like to see this go? Can you picture this or is it too vague to be of interest? I imagine something occurring at the Blue Moose or while kayaking. I can also imagine Ethan settling in to start his book. It would also be of interest to delve into what his 30 year old wife was doing back in Portland while he was, once again, spending the summer in the woods. What do you think
Not vague at all and I have never been to Maine, but your words stimulated my imagination with clear and precise images, from the cabins to the fields to the snowmobiles, to the town of Errol to the Bull Moose Restaurant and its diverse services. Loved a lot of you language here, like describing the potholes and the washed out shoulder that could swallow a car, and enjoyed the magical realism with the bears and humans walking side by side picking berries! appreciated the historical and ethological perspectives also. It would be fun to be a location scout for these venues for the movie this story will become.
I was intrigued by the narrator having a father who wrote What does the narrator do when he is NOT visiting this cabin and lake?
I’d like to see interactions at Bull Moose with a few of the 200+ locals.
Not interested in young wife back home, or the narrator settling in to write, unless of course he’s interrupted by a bear or a local, but I am sure this narrator could intrigue me into any directions with your creative mind guiding his storytelling
The narrator when he is not writing is a lawyer in Portland Maine. I made him thus so that perhaps one story line would be his fleeing Portland after a really bad case and how he could never really escape. But more to the point, I, too, thought about the Bull Moose Restaurant as the center of action. There are three distinct crowds, 5:30 am breakfast crowd, regular dinner time “crowd”, and then the bar, which starts jumping about 10 pm till closing. This should be fun. This exercise and this article are very helpful. Thanks for your feedback.
You really got the camera’s POV down in this practice. It was as if it was panning the setting, and all its details. My suggestion is that wherever you decide to take this, make some action. Turn this little town into the setting of a captivating plot, an adventure, a series of events, something unpredictable.
Yes that is the struggle right now. What will the action be? What story will I tell. Thank you for your feedback. I am happy that you got some sense of the scene.
Practice
“And what do you do, Jean?”
“Well, I’m a writer.”
“What kind of writer?”
I’ve got over apologising for myself and saying, ‘a very poor one.’ Now I say I’m a fiction writer. Fiction because I make things up in my head. I’m a liar. Nothing is true. I pull faces in the mirror. I play around with my voice and pretend I’m on the Mary-Rose speaking old English in a gruff Cornish voice: ‘Ahaa, me ‘earties,’ I say and wink at myself, holding a brown face flannel round my chin like a beard. I imagine what it’s like having a parrot on my shoulder and squawking, ‘Pieces of eight’ into my hearing aid along with the feed back.
I’m dying and planning my own funeral or I’m the widow in black – black fishnets if I’m trying something else. Just what do they feel like I wonder. Now I’m trying out a coffin and listening to thuds of earth landing on it. ‘Earth to earth. Ashes to ashes,’ I intone and pretend I’ve forgotten the words and running out of oxygen. But it’s OK because I’ve got a very special device implanted in my liver that will alert MI5 and they’ll come and rescue me. Or maybe they won’t. So what’s hell like? How do I feel dying like this, the smell of wood and shroud, earth and worms and the air running out? What’s it like to panic and not be able to move? What’s a black-out like.
Then I wonder what my widow is up to: is that bastard Jack looking after her? Yeah, you bet! Slimey bastard.
And so it goes on, and it hardly stops. And the foregoing is nothing on what a fiction writer is really like. But it’s the best I can do in 10 minutes. I’m going out. Had enough of today. ‘Night.
Wow, you really have the imagination of a fiction writer. Acting in front of the mirror, pretending we’re in such dire situations, becoming every character… either all writers do it, or you and I are strange ;). This is great, and perfectly illustrates what we do – so much more than writing!
Thanks for that, Reagan, Yes, but I’ve always been a bit peculiar like this, and I don’t suppose anything’s going to change. It’s all about accepting who and what you are and moving on, I think. And getting used to how odd I am.
Exactly, Jean. We’re writers; We were made this way. It’s not strange or odd or wrong, it’s who we are and who we’re meant to be. The mind of a writer (especially a fiction writer) is unique and wonderful. Don’t think of yourself as strange. I don’t view myself as strange, I view myself as a writer. That’s just who we are.
Great response to the question at hand. You have a lively imagination and I am assuming significant insight into the human condition. Best of luck as you write on..
I like this article! I shared it on Twitter and Facebook.
Thank you very much! The greatest feeling you can have as a writer is to know that it touched the reader 🙂 I’m so glad you liked it!
You are so welcome dear Reagan! Totally agree. Thanks for your kind reply!
The writer is an sculptor and a painter, too.
When you write, you leave a piece of your soul in your work.
I love that, Sandra. Yes, I feel as if a piece of my soul is in each of my stories. That’s a beautiful way of putting it!
Thanks, Reagan. I’m sure you have beautiful feelings and I think that you put the best of you in your work.
A writer is a person who knows the literary technics and following your characters along their way.
Just using your imagination 🙂 Love it!
A writer is a person who doesn’t want to ever stop learning.
A writer is someone who looks at an everyday situation and can see the life story of everyone involved, even strangers. Especially strangers.
A writer doesn’t see only what is presented to him: laughing at the same time everyone else does, tearing up when they do, becoming frightened when they do. He can see the possible truths.
A writer needs to grow up.
A writer needs to get a real job.
A writer never gives up.
A writer writes.
I am a writer.
I love it! This is perfect, and captures exactly who we are and what we do. Beautiful description.
My wife just brought me a page from a book written by Brian Andreas. The book is organized such that each page contains one sentence and a related sketch/drawing. She said that he was aiming to tell a whole story in one sentence. That got me thinking about the topic above (Here’s What Writers Really Do).
It occurred to me that Brian wasn’t telling a complete story in one sentence at all. What he was doing was releasing his readers’ imagination so that they could “write” a complete story from his one sentence. The sketch/drawing was for those who were visual rather than verbal learners. And maybe that is what writers really do – release the imagination of readers, drawing them in and inviting them to co-produce a story with the author as the story is read and digested. Yes, we are all the things that we have shared in the posts in this forum, but I think first and foremost we are magicians that create an illusion with our readers who work hard to comprehend that illusion.
Jon
The boys scramble down off the railroad track. Green foliage muffles the ground on either side. They crash into branches, trample over leaves, scrape elbows and faces and shoes. But they pay no heed. Ahead is a crumpled patch of leaves. It suggests there may be something there. That the boys are not alone.
As they near the crumpled patch one spots a flash of white. It is protruding from under a bush. The boys whisper, nudge each other. They trudge closer. The white resolves itself into the shape of a child’s sneaker. The taller boy lets out a yell.
“I think we’ve found it!” They push forward, eager now. They have trekked so far from home. Now they may be close to their prize.
The taller boy reaches the crumpled bush first. He extends a hand, pushes the leaves aside. Now the boys can see it. Attached to the sneaker is a foot that grows into a leg that grows into a boy. Or at least, what is left of a boy.
The boys smile at each other. They wrap grubby arms around each other’s shoulders. They hoot, catcalling and laughing into the silent woods. The shorter boy extracts a stained fragment of newspaper from his pocket. It is disintegrating from having endured so many miles in his trousers. He taps the headline, then claps a hand first on his chest, then on his best friend’s shoulder.
“Parker boy still missing: $1000 reward for information”.
*
Took ‘two young boys who discover a treasure’ in a rather different direction. Inspired by Stephen King’s ‘The Body’. I realise I tend to dwell too much in my characters’ heads and not enough on what their environment looks like, so in this exercise I tried to keep characters’ voices/thoughts to a minimum. Just describe their actions.
I found interpretations and thoughts still creeping in though. Eg ‘it suggests that there may be something there’, or ‘they push forward, eager now’. Any thoughts on how to balance describing actions/environment, and hearing characters’ voices?