Writer Super Power #5: Feeling

Hearing     Smelling     Tasting     Seeing

Last week, we spoke about the power of sight. We talked about the difference between seeing and observing. It’s an important distinction, and as you work on describing what you observe in the world around you, pay close attention to texture and weight and temperature. Pay close attention to the way things feel to the touch.

I have a mildly unhealthy infatuation with old buildings and there are plenty in Northern California to visit. Disused gold mines with the owner’s cottage still in place, re-purposed saloons, wind-battered lighthouses, and the cell block of Alcatraz Island. 

I’m the girl who drags her hand down every wall, the girl who wants to tuck these places away in her skin so she can carry them with her, recall them later. My brother-in-law nearly falls over every time I do it–he’s afraid of germs, you see–but I wouldn’t stop myself if I could. 

I want to know what things feel like. Their texture tells a story. A story of place and time. A story of era. A story of atmosphere. That old mine I mentioned up there–every structure on the property was built out of waste rock pulled from the mine itself. The deeper they dug, the more rock they had. Every knobby, sun-heated stone is a part of that story. And though I could perhaps describe what I see, what I imagine it might feel like, there is something magical in the transferring of first-hand knowledge. It rings true to a reader.

What about those cozy pajama pants you wear? Or the chenille throw blanket draped across your auntie’s couch? What about the wax that seared your lip when you leaned too close to the birthday candle? How did those things feel? Not just to your skin–though that’s of great importance–but how did they make you feel? 

A chenille blanket draped over the arm of a couch sets quite a different tone than a hard plastic chair with metal legs scraping across a tile floor. We’ve tucked away touch memories and these descriptors bring them to the surface of our mind and they fill the page with atmosphere.

In my first book, Angel Eyes, Brielle feels cold. It’s a result of the fear that has a hold on her, and it stays with her for quite some time. The hardship came when, as an author, I found myself in need of more words to describe a sensation she feels again and again. I wanted to avoid being repetitive, but it was important for the reader to know that this fear, this cold, was a constant for Brielle. 

To remedy the problem, I began to focus on the obstacles the cold caused for her and the lengths she went to to stay warm. I worked to put her in different situations so I could show how uncomfortable she was instead of relying solely on the reader’s own relationship to words like cold and frigid.

I gave her lambskin gloves to wear and a cable-knit scarf that she wraps around her face. I did everything I could to SHOW the reader this girl is trying to feel warm and safe. Her efforts aren’t good enough, of course–she needs a different kind of comfort–but fleece gloves and knit scarves and fuzzy beanies are visual and textural representations of a need inside Brielle. They’re items with a distinct touch that many readers can identify with.

Which brings us, one last time, to . . .

My mom, like all the best moms, tells stories over and over. Many of them are about my dad and his lack of fashion sense. Don’t feel sorry for him. He’s very aware and is usually the first to laugh at himself. 

One of my favorite stories is the one she tells about his leisure suit. I’m sure I’ll get the details wrong, so I won’t even try, but the image I’m left with is a 20 year old version of my father arriving for a night out on the town in a baby blue leisure suit, his jacket tucked into his trousers. Every time my mother tells the story, she can’t finish it without blurting, “It was polyester, for crying out loud!”

Nowadays, I can easily visualize what she’s talking about. I even know what a polyester leisure suit feels like under my fingers. But when I was young, my fabric vocabulary was seriously lacking and I came to believe that polyester must be avoided at all costs. It was hideous, to be sure. For crying out loud!

It’s all frame of reference, isn’t it? I’ve encouraged a fair amount of drawing on nostalgia as we write from our senses, but keeping your target audience in mind is of great importance. Finding the words to describe how polyester feels against your skin might not always be necessary, but creating a sensory experience for your reader is. Touch should be a part of that. And adjectives, though valuable, will only take you so far. 

Readers need context and scope and corresponding action. The texture and weight and purpose of an object must be shown. For example:

My feet cause me so much trouble. There’s something very Fred Flintstone about them. I can’t wear sneakers for long periods of time without losing a toenail and while I can jam a thumbtack in my big toe and feel very little, the push and shove of shoe leather is enough to have my toes screaming “Violence!” My ankles don’t help things, sitting crooked on my heel and though I’m not at all a shoe person, I will gladly chop off your hand if you hide my slippers.

Now, it’s your turn to free-write. Don’t worry about editing or grammar. Just write. 

You ready? You have five minutes: