The same way a movie producer translates the words into moving picture, I feel that as a writer, it is my personal responsibility to translate the visuals of the world into words, even if I am my only audience. I also think that when I offer an explanation, I need to be descriptive to be clear and avoid misinterpretation. I am, admittedly, better at this on paper than I am verbally.
My DH tells me nearly every day that I use too many words when I verbally relate a story and that the writer in me is taking over. It never fails to irritate him that I find it difficult to answer a question yes or no. I always feel the need to explain, and it is simply not black or white as he would have it. Life is conditional! Conditions exist! There is far more to life than his tunnel-visioned black or white. How monotonous would day and night be without the gloriously varied transitions that are sunrise and sunset? My gray areas in between my husband’s black and white are not gray at all. They are rich and colorful and varied. I’m not just cold. My fingertips are icy. My toes are going numb. I have a deep rooted chill that I just cannot shake. It has come to the point where he will preface a question with “This is a yes or no answer…”
Ron, with his own lack of color would say, “Man, I don’t feel good…” I would then ask, “What’s wrong?” and he would say, “I don’t feel good.” Didn’t we just cover that part? Exactly what does “don’t feel good” mean? Does it mean you’re lumpy and scratchy to the touch? Does it mean you’re cold and slimy? Does it mean that if I embraced you, your sharp and awkward angles would spoil the experience?
The other morning, I drove to work through a fog that felt like evil itself had blown its breath over the Tri-state. The cars ahead of me were increasingly less visible as they left me alone to fend for myself in the blindness. Meanwhile, the daytime running lights behind me were disembodied eyes following me in the mist, awaiting their moment to overtake me. Hoards of evil minions raced along unseen in the median waiting for some unfortunate traveler to pull over onto the shoulder. The mist swirled and licked at my G6 as it sliced smoothly through the gray.
My husband would say, “Man, it’s foggy out here!” And I would answer, “It sure is.” HE is not my audience. He doesn’t understand or appreciate the eyes of a writer and how we interpret the world. It’s not just our oak tree; it’s my beloved young oak that just bore acorns for the first time this summer. It’s not just my stepdaughter’s car; it’s that money pit Ashley drives that has eaten up our vacation fund. It’s not just my job; it’s my mundane, bill-paying, stomach-filling occupation.
I recently opened an e-book to a story that began with “Once upon a time there was a house next to a bridge…” I was thinking, SERIOUSLY? It then went on to tell the story in a fact-finding way. This might have been a good book somewhere along the way, but I didn’t make it past page two, and on the e-reader you can see pages one and two at the same time!
It is my job as a writer and storyteller to paint the mental picture for my reader and allow them to become involved even if only as a spectator. My story should unfold in the movie theater of their mind, not just on the pages of the book. If I can do this well while telling a good, well-paced story, my readers will return.
