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Writing Prompt: Focus on the Details

I was back with my friends at the retirement center this last weekend. What a gift, to sit at the table and listen to their stories. Some of these folks are new to writing, others more experienced. But, what I’ve learned is that no matter how much time we’ve spent working at the craft, we can all use practice filling in the details of a story.

“A lot of people [have had] an experience that other people might want to read about. But this is not the same as “being a writer.” Or, to put it in a more sinister way: everyone can dig a hole in a cemetery, but not everyone is a grave-digger.”
~Margaret Atwood, in Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing

Regardless of our differences in age or in life circumstances, there are certain experiences through which we all connect: falling in love, falling out of love; our first taste of independence; the death of a parent; the loss of a friendship; the day we noticed how grown up our children had become. And, while anyone can tell a story revolving around these connections, what we, as writers, most want is to tell the story well enough so that it lingers in the readers mind long after they’ve reached “The end.”

This is where details fit in. Lisa Cron, in Wired for Story, says, “A story takes a general situation, idea, or premise and personifies it via the very specific.” It’s in the specifics where the story comes alive with images and readers become emotionally connected. A great example is Carolyn Miller’s piece, “Afternoons”, found in the August 2012 issue of The Sun Magazine. Here’s a teaser:

The dinner (lunch) dishes had already been washed and put away, and the leftovers – fried chicken, mashed potatoes, milk gravy, peas or green beans or corn or tomatoes from my father’s garden – were in the refrigerator, protected by plastic covers held on with elastic, waiting to be eaten cold at supper. The rooms were filled with the smells of food. The only sounds were those of the house slowly settling around us….

Rich details. Details that were not tossed into the story without serious consideration. We experience the world in three dimensions, but we each tune in to the specifics of our day or of an event that have meaning for us as individuals. We see, hear, smell, feel, absorb details that help us define and interpret the world. Think about those kinds of details when you sit down to write this month.

The Prompt.

Choose one:

  1. “Yesterday’s coffee.” (via The Writer Magazine)
  2. “It came in waves.” (via Patricia McNair’s Journal resolution ~ a daily prompt)
  3. “The lie.”

As you approach the prompt….

Keep in mind what specifics you, as a person (or your main character, if you are writing fiction) notice. Use one to three of the questions* below to guide your writing:

  1. About how old are you?
  2. What is to your left?
  3. What is to your right?
  4. Is anyone else in the image?
  5. Why are you there?
  6. Is there anyone who just left or who may be coming?
  7. What are some of the sounds in the image?
  8. What does the air smell like?

* these questions originate from a writing exercise given by Ariel Gore.

Just for today, don’t worry about writing well. Just write.

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* opening photo credit: kakisky on Morguefile.com
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Elizabeth Dudak on saying the words, “I am a Writer”

Today, I welcome Elizabeth Dudak, who is the author of What the Heck, Dec?!, a novel released by Orange Hat Publishing last March. Elizabeth shares on that moment of awareness and admission known to every closet wordsmith: the moment we finally say, out loud, “I am a writer.”

Thank you Christi, for this opportunity to be a guest blogger. I am humbled and honored.

It is still odd for me to talk about writing so openly, but it is getting easier. When I first started telling people what I am, what I do, the word writer came out of me like a foreign language. I coughed up the word, sometimes choked on it. For a long time, I felt using the word writer to describe me was pretentious. It was like I was trying to call myself a supermodel. Ernest Hemingway and Jane Austen were writers. Stephen King and Nora Roberts are writers. Me? I was Elizabeth Dudak – a wife, a mother, an employee and a writer hobbyist. Sure, I acknowledged writing columns for local newspapers. And I wasn’t shy to mention a published magazine article here and a widely circulated poem there. I took continuing education and online classes to learn about dialogue, character development, description and plots…something writers do. But a writer? Or, gulp, an author? Those were my dream descriptions of me and for some reason; I couldn’t apply them to my waking world.

As I neared the age fifty, I grew tired of just dreaming about being a writer. Sure, it was fun to imagine, but at some point I needed to wake up and make my reality. I had fewer years ahead of me than I did in back of me, thus I needed to quit thinking and start doing. It would be difficult to put myself and my words out there, yet living in regret would be torture.

In July of 2011, I had a lunch date with a friend of mine. She is one of those friends I don’t see too often, but when I do, we jump right into deep and fulfilling subjects of life. Who the current real housewife is of whatever godforsaken city never seems to enter our discussions. We are concerned more about life’s purpose and meaning. Sure, it can be exhausted but afterwards, I always feel like the world is a doable place.

During the course of our conversation on this particular July day, I discussed with my friend of the writing passion that burned inside me. I told her about the hours I spent bringing to life characters, settings, plots and dialogue. My words exploded out of me as I talked about my waking hours being invaded by my writing world and my need – my strong, overwhelming need – to release them into my laptop. I explained all the stories that already crowded my computer’s memory. And I admitted to my discomfort of being called a writer as I regurgitated wisdom a professor once dispersed to me – a wisdom that was finally sinking in….three years later. This professor told me, “If you write, you are a writer.” Finally, I looked at my friend and said… only it was more like a desperate question…. “Perhaps I am a writer?”

A comfortable silence fell between us as it often happens when we talk. We were both taking in what I had just finished spewing. After a few more minutes of quiet contemplation, my friend looked at me and said “Well, you have a choice. Your words can stay in your laptop, or they can go out into the universe for others to enjoy.” This was my writer’s eureka moment. I repeated the words slowly to myself not caring how I looked in a crowded restaurant. She was right. I could stay a laptop writer, or I could become a real, authentic writer. I could take the risk of letting everyone see my words, which I believe is the definition of an author – – a writer who, driven by her passion, takes a leap of faith and present her words to the universe.

Flash ahead ten months, and many, many, MANY rejection letters later, and I am at a book signing….my own book signing…with my publisher… my own publisher, Orange Hat. The words in my novel, the story of Marti Karnawski and Declan Reed, are out of my laptop and onto pages sandwiched between a vibrant yellow back and a front cover. The title, What the Heck, Dec?!, is in green and purple on the cover. And there, in blue lettering, above the titles, is the name of the author…the writer….Elizabeth Dudak. It is my name. Now, I can finally admit…without a cough or hiccup…I am a writer.

Elizabeth Dudak lives in a tiny suburb outside of Chicago, with her husband, Peter; children, Leah and Matthew; mutt, Jordan; and mini-zoo of critters. She was born and raised on the South Side of Chicago where she learned the love of writing and reading from her English-teacher father and bookworm mother. She has written opinion-oriented columns for local newspapers for over four years, and in her blog, Write Where I Belong, she writes on the ramblings of her active mind. What the Heck, Dec?! is Elizabeth’s first novel, and it is proof that she subscribes to the first rule of writing, which is to write what you know.

About the book:
Marti Karnawski is waiting in the front office of Noteah Middle School trying to land first her teaching position, not a man. Yet one casual glance at Declan Reed – the school’s droolicious social worker with bad boy looks and cocky attitude – and she can’t help but fall head over in heels in crush. The fact he returns her interest, despite the other woman on his arm, poses a problem. Marti spent a lifetime trying to forgive a philandering father and understanding a mother in constant denial. She will not be the other woman – not even for one Declan Reed. Now all she has to do is convince her heart.

What the Heck, Dec?! is available for purchase through Barnes and Noble, and through Amazon.

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Writer Incognito: Researching on the Road

That’s me, about the walk down the road to Fayette, the historic town site in Upper Michigan, and embark on some research. Fayette is a good six hours from my home in Milwaukee, so I had to wait until we went on vacation near enough to the site before I could steal away for the day and work. I packed a lunch, lathered on the sunblock, loaded up my writing utensils (notebook, pencil, camera) and mapped out my course.

With trees on either side of me and spotty cell service above, I spent the drive thinking through questions that lingered after my last visit too long ago, and I hoped I’d learn new information inspiring enough to push me through the remaining bit of my first draft. While at Fayette, I learned plenty: about the town in the late 19th century, about the depth of my self-doubt, and about researching in broad daylight under the hot sun in the middle of tourists.

Leave your sandwich in the car.

My timing was off a bit, as far as when I arrived in Fayette. It was too early to eat my lunch, but I knew I’d get hungry in the middle of walking around. The site isn’t so huge that I couldn’t hike back to the car and grab my lunch, but I was eager to get outside and move forward and not so eager to turn back in the middle of research. So, I opted to carry my sandwich with me, figuring I’d eat later when I couldn’t stand it any more.

What I couldn’t stand any more was my sandwich overheating and perspiring inside the plastic baggy. Nor could I bear to look at its sad state, wilting around the form of the rock I placed it on in order to snap another photo. Finally, even though I wasn’t starving, I sat down on a bench and gobbled it up, if only to rid myself of the weight and the guilt.

The lesson: eat before you exit the car, hungry or not. Nobody likes a sad sandwich.

Accept that tourists may view you as maybe important but mostly…odd.

I was the only person on site with a notebook that day, and all my scribbling got me some attention. In one building, I feverishly took notes on the iron smelting process, studying the placards with great intent. Someone approached me, then, and asked me a question about the process, because surely I knew. I stumbled through an answer and shrugged a few times. Then, in lieu of admitting outright that I was writing a novel, I blubbered, “It’s all so interesting, isn’t it?” Adding a maniacal laugh at the end. They responded in silence, turned around slowly, and walked away. As any good writer will, I immediately went into doubt mode, worrying that I’d just revealed myself as some sort of fake. That person will never read my book, I thought. Who am I to think I can manage this who novel business anyway? Then, I remembered: I’m not writing a book about the iron smelting process; I’m writing a book about the effects of an industry on the land and the people. And, maybe that person won’t be one of my readers. Perhaps he really did think me off kilter. What writer isn’t off kilter?

The lesson: don’t get too caught up in minute details. And, there’s nothing wrong with odd as long as it translates into a good story.

Pack an extra pencil in your pocket.

I put on some miles that day, and not just because I walked from building to building. I kept my pencil clipped to my notebook, but I still managed to drop my pencil twice. Once I had to high-step through grass and weeds to find it. Lucky for me, my pencil was bright blue and thus easy to spot. But, there’s nothing worse than backtracking when you see the sun moving toward the horizon. Unless you’re still walking around with a soggy sandwich. Yes. That’s worse.

The lesson: don’t trust your notebook to hold tight to your writing utensil.

Take photos of everything.

I must have turned my camera on and off a thousand times, foregoing any artistic eye and snap, snap, snapping away. I didn’t care, though. Some details do matter.

Like the peeling wallpaper in a kitchen, which was only spotted by standing on my tiptoes at the back of a boarded up house, peeking through one window left unblocked. I risked a close encounter with a mean looking spider for this shot. I don’t even know if it’s the original wallpaper, but I couldn’t resist.

My bulletin board soon will be full of photos of random shots, some with me shadowed in the background or mirrored in the glare of the window, record of a good day researching.

The lesson: talk nice to the spiders.

Even though my time in Fayette was short, I thought about the novel for every day after. Being surrounded by the landscape of the area was enough to feed my muse. I took notes during the small-town Fourth of July parade, on beach at Lake Superior, while riding a two-gauge train through the forest on our way to Tahquamenon Falls. I clicked the button on the camera any time we passed an interesting grove of trees or a patch of lumbered land. Now that I’m home, I’ll be pushing through to the end of this draft and using all those photos and notes for a serious rewrite.

Good times.

What do you do when you research on the road? How do you manage your sandwich?

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