Shannon Dittemore is the author of the Angel Eyes trilogy. She has an overactive imagination and a passion for truth. Her lifelong journey to combine the two is responsible for a stint at Portland Bible College, performances with local theater companies, and a love of all things literary. When she isn’t writing, she spends her days with her husband, Matt, imagining things unseen and chasing their two children around their home in Northern California. To connect with Shan, check out her website, FB, Twitter, Instagram, or Pinterest.
Welcome back to our Friday series on Writer Super Powers. Today we’re talking about the most relied upon of all the super powers: sight.
I could have started this series with sight, I suppose, but I wanted to ease my way into it because the truth is, we have a tendency to default to sight. When we set out to describe a person or a place, when we set out to show our readers something, we lean heavily on our vision. That’s not a bad thing, but I hope that by covering hearing, smelling, and tasting early on, you understand that all of our senses should be attuned to the world around us and that your writing will benefit if you give each of them their due attention on the page.
What the WRITER sees
If we’re going to approach vision as a superpower, let’s put ourselves in the shoes of a couple heroes (one super, one slightly less so) who have sharpened their gift of sight into a veritable weapon.
Let’s start with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock has a very specific way of looking at the world. When he searches a room (or a body!), he’s simultaneously trying to understand the how and the why behind what he sees. He once told Watson, “You see but you do not observe. The distinction is clear.”
Superman, on the other hand, has all sorts of special vision abilities. He has x-ray vision and heat vision and superhuman vision. With that last one there–superhuman vision–he can can see farther into the distance and with with more accuracy and detail than the rest of us.
Sherlock and Superman couldn’t be more different, but they share the ability to see in detail. An ability you have buried somewhere deep inside and must take pains to hone.
It is your job to set the scene for your audience and you must buy into Sherlock’s admonition up there–there is a distinction between seeing and observing. For most of us, observing doesn’t just happen. It takes practice. And this is where a journal just might come in handy. Carry it with you–to the doctor’s office and to lunch break, to the shopping mall and on the school bus. Wield your pen and practice observing. Scratch down details. Be specific.
Don’t write: The bus is hot today.
Write: Sweat gathers in the creases of the driver’s neck, dampens his collar. He drags a hand through a mop of graying hair, taps the steering wheel impatiently as I pass. His fingernails are black–crumbs from the pulverized cookie spilling from his torn shirt pocket.
Will you fill your fictions with every detail you observe? No, you won’t. But making an effort to see the small things, the intricate things–making an effort to write them down–will help you form a very healthy habit: including detail in your stories. Details make for an authentic and credible read. Details transport the reader.
What the CHARACTER sees
How you describe what your character sees is crucial to the success of your story. No two characters will observe a scene in exactly the same way. Their goals, desires, relationships, backstories, heritage and mental state all play a part in what your characters are seeing at any given time.
A twenty year old spy who has been sitting quietly for hours, waiting for his mark to enter a room will notice vastly more about the scene than a six year old sprinting through with a lollipop in hand. Your observations must be true to the character.
Restraint is important here. I’ve just spent a bunch of time telling you that detail is important. And it is. Vitally. But you must resist the urge to simply tell the reader what things look like. Your keen observational skills must be sifted through the filter in your characters’ heads. Show the reader details, but only details that your narrator would notice. Practice, friends. It’s the only way forward here.
What the READER sees
With each of the other senses we’ve covered, I’ve encouraged you to tap into memories and nostalgia, to remember that sense descriptions dredge up things for a reader, intentional or not.
And while I wouldn’t want you to discard that advice altogether when you’re focusing on sight, your writing will suffer if you assume the reader can see what you see.
I run into this a lot when I’m working with young students. I’ll start a story with a phrase like, “You know how horrendous it is driving in city traffic, right?”
When they stare blankly back, I’m reminded that they couldn’t possibly know what it’s like to drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. They’ve never driven, for crying out loud. And even if they’ve been in the car while a parent navigated the kind of scene I’m describing, they haven’t experienced it as a driver. They need me to paint the picture. They need to see what the driver sees.
When an author can take a common sight and transform it into something compulsively readable, you know they’ve struck something true, they’ve found their voice. This too takes a considerable amount of practice: weaving detail and voice together in such a way that moves the story forward and does not overwhelm the other. It’s an essential skill that you can only perfect by observing and then writing.
Make a habit of carrying some blank pages with you. A pen. Remind yourself that there’s a difference between seeing and observing.
And when you get caught staring, when someone asks, “What you looking at?” tell them they’ll have to buy the novel to find out.