Before I get into descriptive writing, I feel compelled (don't ask me why) to tell you about something that's driving me nuts. See, I've recently changed my daily routine. I now go to the gym much earlier than I used to. I get there a bit past 7 a.m., which puts me home and writing by 9:15.
I like it. It works for me. In fact, I've been averaging more than 2,000 words a day this week on the new novel. For me, that's an astounding amount of work to get done each day, since I tend to write very precise first drafts. Mainly because I hate rewriting.
But every day this week when I arrived at the gym, there was this older woman leaving at the exact same time. I passed her every day, right at the front door to the health club. And like I do to everyone, I smile and say hi. And each time, she glares at me, rolls her eyes and makes that certain sheesh sound that people make when something or someone repels them. As though I'm some kind of child molester or circus freak or something.
WTF?
Now I have no idea why a 65-year-old woman sheeshing me and rolling her eyes is making me so goddamned crazy, but it is. So today, I decided I would glare at her first, roll my eyes and sheesh her. So I did. And what did she do? She sheeshed me back even louder. I mean, it was more a hiss than a sheesh. In fact, it was almost a frickin' growl!
I think I'm going to stay in my car until I see her waddle out. I'm not saying she frightens me or anything, but damn. That's one scary old lady.
Anyhoo.
What I really wanted to talk about today is descriptive writing, the kind of evocative prose that stays with you forever.
I was thinking about this while in the steam room this morning at the gym (well, sure, I was also thinking about the crazy lady). I was thinking of certain passages, in both books and songs, that I still remember, that still stay with me, years later.
For example: Back in the 1980s, an English writer named John Gardner was commissioned to write several James Bond novels by the estate of the original author, Ian Fleming. (Interesting fun fact: the MC in my new novel is named Ian as my way of honoring Sir Ian Fleming). Now Gardner was no Ian Fleming, of course, but he did have a certain lyrical, descriptive way of writing that has always stuck with me.
I distinctly remember one passage, although I can't remember which book it's from, in which Gardner described Bond as such (I'm forced to paraphrase here):
Tall and elegant with a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes, Bond slipped into a pair of comfortably worn leather moccasins, no socks, pulled on some soft pressed blue jeans and a blue chambray shirt. He rolled his sleeves tightly, precisely to his elbows. He strapped on a black-leather Rolex with a gleaming, beveled glass face. Gardner then goes from this rather elegant physical description to that of Bond, now fully formed in my mind, reaching into a dresser drawer and pulling out a sleek black Walther PPK handgun. He tells us how heavy it is, how it feels cold and oily in his hands, and how he slowly and carefully screws the silencer on it before heading off to a breakfast of kippers, freshly squeezed orange juice and Earl Grey tea.
Bravo. I never, ever forgot that couple of paragraphs of character description. I can't even tell you exactly why, just that it has is stayed with me for 25 years. To this day, when I drink Earl Grey tea (and I do, often), I think of James Bond. If only I knew what a kipper was ...
Well-written phrases in rock songs have also struck a chord with me over the years. I love a clever, well-turned lyric.
Some examples:
Elton John in Saturday Night is Alright for Fighting (written by Bernie Taupin):
My sister looks cute in her braces and boots
A handful of grease in her hair
To me, that never fails to conjure a cute punk-rock girl from the 1970s. Always.
How about Bruce Springsteen in Thunder Road?:
Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table.
But you only want the ones
That you can't get.
Amen brother. Amen.
Or Elvis Costello (I don't recall the song, just the lyric):
I wish you luck
with a capital F
Don't you wish you had written that? I know I do.
Back to literature (and I used that term loosely; you'll see why). Here's me, trying to use descriptive language to describe my beloved Wrigley Field in my new novel. Beware, this is a rough first draft that I wrote just this afternoon:
Wrigley Field stood empty, since the Cubs were in St. Louis for a three-game series. But the team’s absence didn’t prevent a gaggle of tourists from milling about outside the venerable old stadium, mugging for cell phone pictures and peering in through the many peepholes in the crumbling outfield walls. Wrigley had always reminded Ian of an elegant old whore—way past her prime, but with just enough class left to seal the deal.
I like it. It works for me. In fact, I've been averaging more than 2,000 words a day this week on the new novel. For me, that's an astounding amount of work to get done each day, since I tend to write very precise first drafts. Mainly because I hate rewriting.
But every day this week when I arrived at the gym, there was this older woman leaving at the exact same time. I passed her every day, right at the front door to the health club. And like I do to everyone, I smile and say hi. And each time, she glares at me, rolls her eyes and makes that certain sheesh sound that people make when something or someone repels them. As though I'm some kind of child molester or circus freak or something.
WTF?
Now I have no idea why a 65-year-old woman sheeshing me and rolling her eyes is making me so goddamned crazy, but it is. So today, I decided I would glare at her first, roll my eyes and sheesh her. So I did. And what did she do? She sheeshed me back even louder. I mean, it was more a hiss than a sheesh. In fact, it was almost a frickin' growl!
I think I'm going to stay in my car until I see her waddle out. I'm not saying she frightens me or anything, but damn. That's one scary old lady.
Anyhoo.
What I really wanted to talk about today is descriptive writing, the kind of evocative prose that stays with you forever.
I was thinking about this while in the steam room this morning at the gym (well, sure, I was also thinking about the crazy lady). I was thinking of certain passages, in both books and songs, that I still remember, that still stay with me, years later.
For example: Back in the 1980s, an English writer named John Gardner was commissioned to write several James Bond novels by the estate of the original author, Ian Fleming. (Interesting fun fact: the MC in my new novel is named Ian as my way of honoring Sir Ian Fleming). Now Gardner was no Ian Fleming, of course, but he did have a certain lyrical, descriptive way of writing that has always stuck with me.
I distinctly remember one passage, although I can't remember which book it's from, in which Gardner described Bond as such (I'm forced to paraphrase here):
Tall and elegant with a shock of black hair and piercing blue eyes, Bond slipped into a pair of comfortably worn leather moccasins, no socks, pulled on some soft pressed blue jeans and a blue chambray shirt. He rolled his sleeves tightly, precisely to his elbows. He strapped on a black-leather Rolex with a gleaming, beveled glass face. Gardner then goes from this rather elegant physical description to that of Bond, now fully formed in my mind, reaching into a dresser drawer and pulling out a sleek black Walther PPK handgun. He tells us how heavy it is, how it feels cold and oily in his hands, and how he slowly and carefully screws the silencer on it before heading off to a breakfast of kippers, freshly squeezed orange juice and Earl Grey tea.
Bravo. I never, ever forgot that couple of paragraphs of character description. I can't even tell you exactly why, just that it has is stayed with me for 25 years. To this day, when I drink Earl Grey tea (and I do, often), I think of James Bond. If only I knew what a kipper was ...
Well-written phrases in rock songs have also struck a chord with me over the years. I love a clever, well-turned lyric.
Some examples:
Elton John in Saturday Night is Alright for Fighting (written by Bernie Taupin):
My sister looks cute in her braces and boots
A handful of grease in her hair
To me, that never fails to conjure a cute punk-rock girl from the 1970s. Always.
How about Bruce Springsteen in Thunder Road?:
You can hide 'neath your covers
And study your pain
Make crosses from your lovers
Throw roses in the rain
Waste your summer praying in vain
For a saviour to rise from these streets
Oh baby, that's some writing there. I could pick a thousand samples from Springsteen that never fail to trip my trigger.
Want to make Terry cry? Play Desperado by the Eagles:
Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table.
But you only want the ones
That you can't get.
Amen brother. Amen.
Or Elvis Costello (I don't recall the song, just the lyric):
I wish you luck
with a capital F
Don't you wish you had written that? I know I do.
Back to literature (and I used that term loosely; you'll see why). Here's me, trying to use descriptive language to describe my beloved Wrigley Field in my new novel. Beware, this is a rough first draft that I wrote just this afternoon:
Wrigley Field stood empty, since the Cubs were in St. Louis for a three-game series. But the team’s absence didn’t prevent a gaggle of tourists from milling about outside the venerable old stadium, mugging for cell phone pictures and peering in through the many peepholes in the crumbling outfield walls. Wrigley had always reminded Ian of an elegant old whore—way past her prime, but with just enough class left to seal the deal.
Now my writing skills are certainly not on par with those I cited above, but I am proud to point out the scarcity of adverbs in the above paragraph. Hey, I'm working at it. So how about you? Are there any passages in books or song lyrics that you've never forgotten, no matter how much times passes? I know I'll think of thousand more the second I hit the publish button. Have a great weekend. We'll meet right here on Sunday night.
