Make A Scene (8 page)

Mood Objects

Some objects are used to symbolize the narrator's feelings and do not play an important role in the plot; thus they can be considered mood objects. They add to the tone of a narrative and deepen our understanding of a character's feelings.

For example, in his novel
So Long, See You Tomorrow,
William Maxwell uses a multitude of mood objects in the narrative. The narrator in this novel, now an adult, is writing his memoirs in relation to a murder that took place in his small hometown, and he describes his childhood home just after his mother's death:

I have never been inside it since that day, when a great many objects that I remember and would like to be reunited with disappeared without a trace: Victorian walnut sofas and chairs that my fingers had absently traced every knob and scroll of, mahogany tables, worn Oriental rugs, gilt mirrors, pictures, big square books full of photographs that I knew by heart.

These objects in and of themselves do not bear any one particular meaning to the narrator; rather, they add up to a feeling of familiarity, of comfort which he lost when his mother died. The fact that they are very quickly sketched, and lumped together in a list, so that no single item stands out as more important than another, tells us that no specific object is important. Though the reader gets a quick picture of the knobs and scrolls of the mahogany table, these details are passed over just as quickly for the "worn Oriental rugs."

The closest this narrator can come to admitting that he missed his mother is to miss the objects he associated with her. While these details certainly add texture to the scene, they are merely representative, placed to call attention to the feelings and memories they elicit in the narrator.

When you describe objects clumped together like this, remember that you're setting mood more than imbuing an object with symbolic power. This is why it's important to notice how much description you give to any one object. If you want an object to be innocuous, just background dressing, then be brief about it. If you want an object to mean something inside your narrative, then it needs to stand alone, or be given more attention than other objects, as described next.

Significant Objects

Significant objects, on the other hand, should call a certain amount of attention to themselves. What makes an object significant? When it directly affects plot or character development. Let's take a careful look at each type to get a better feel for what makes each unique and meaningful.

Plot-Significant Objects

There are obvious significant objects, such as evidence sought by police in mystery plots, stolen heirlooms, lost Egyptian tombs, and buried treasure, that change your plot once they are introduced or found in a scene.

If your story is about the search for a holy artifact, then it's safe to assume that whichever scenes the object turns up in will involve some sort of drama, danger, or other conflict. Also, whether the protagonist or the antagonist has the artifact is likely to sway the course of your plot. You may in fact tease the reader with a significant object and have it turn up in every scene, but continue to elude those who want it most.

In J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series of books, the significant object is merely a tiny ring, but it holds the power to corrupt good people and ultimately destroys anyone who possesses it for too long. Every time that ring turns up in a scene, everyone's attention is focused on it—character's and the reader's alike—and the balance of power continues to shift as the ring works its diabolical magic on everyone it touches. That's a powerfully significant object, and one that continues to shape the course of the plot from start to finish.

A plot-significant object does not need to be quite as weighty as one that holds the balance between good and evil, but it should have a direct link to your plot. It might be a murder weapon, a stolen piece of jewelry, or an item that incriminates a character for adultery.

Character-Significant Objects

Objects have value to people for sometimes very bizarre and personal reasons. A person cherishes a ratty old jacket because of its sentimental power. People collect items that have meaning only to themselves—figurines, dolls, coins—to satisfy an emotional need in a material form, or for purposes of greed, or to feel safe. People also have talismans—objects that hold religious or spiritual meaning and help them feel loved or lucky.

Character-significant objects do not need to change the course of your plot, but they do need to be described in enough detail that the reader understands their value or importance to the character. If a character always kisses a medallion of St. Christopher before he travels, this will reinforce in the reader's mind that this object means something to him. You might even find it useful to write the scene of when he first obtained this object, and how it became significant to him.

While these objects are indeed important, you can introduce them without a great deal of description so long as you effectively demonstrate a character's relationship to the item.

Avoiding Vague Objects

Would your protagonist buy a "vehicle," or a white Toyota Corolla? If someone opened his cabinets, would he find "aspirin," or Advil? Does your character own a "parrot," or a rainbow macaw? The difference is, of course, in the specifics.

It's very important to avoid the vague. If you lead the reader into a "building," she will wonder if it is a bank, an embassy, or a hotel, and this is already too many options for her to have to hold in mind; it's your job to be the tour guide, remember. If your protagonist carries a gun, the reader deserves to know if it's a tiny derringer or a semi-automatic rifle. What you want the reader to wonder about is what happens next, not where the characters are and what can be seen. If you were a painter and you made some loose charcoal sketches, then displayed your work and told people, "some green paint will go here, and some blue there, and probably a little yellow here," they would have absolutely no idea of the painting you intended to make. So try to avoid making that same mistake in your writing. Be clear and visual.

Your objects are opportunities to reveal information about your characters. Objects are the physical manifestations of characters' personalities and moods. Since you can't spend too much of the text in narrative summary describing a character's personality without losing the reader's attention, these props serve to convey information on the character's behalf.

Tim O'Brien, award-winning author of the short story "The Things They Carried," about Vietnam soldiers, uses objects as if they are biographies of each person.

Norman Bowker carried a diary. Rat Kiley carried comic books. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, carried an illustrated New Testament that had been presented to him by his father, who taught Sunday school in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As a hedge against bad times, however, Kiowa also carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man, his grandfather's old hunting hatchet.

In order to use objects properly, you have to get to know your characters, and in order to do that, you need to ask yourself a series of important questions about who your characters are. What do they love or hate, collect or throw away? What do they like to see around them in their house? Are they art snobs or philistines? These, and many others, are questions that only you can answer.

Remember that great characters and the wild plot actions they undertake need solid ground and meaningful props to support them. Always ask, what needs to be
seen
in this scene?

STRIKING A BALANCE

Setting is where many writers get lost in chunks of narrative summary because it's easy, and even fun, to describe the setting. It's crucial to remember that setting exists mostly to serve as a way of both creating authenticity and grounding the reader in the scene (and story) at hand. If setting begins to take too much precedence, and distracts from your characters or storyline, then it needs to be tamed back.

Here is an example of well-balanced setting description, filtered through the character's perceptions, punctuated by small actions, from Jane Alison's lyrical novel
The Marriage of the Sea:

Max landed in New Orleans like a sprinter. His cab barreled over the toxic empty highway into town, the battered streets and battered sidewalks and battered, crooked houses. He'd chosen the most romantic hotel, just beyond the Garden District, lopsided and seedy. Once he'd checked in he ran up the staircase, noting with delight the stained glass promise in the window:
Let my beloved come into his garden and eat his pleasant fruits!
Then he had barely put down his bag, barely phoned Sea & Air to provide a temporary number (should his fur teacup and cookbooks and secondhand Paul Smiths be lost at sea in their nailed, stamped crates), before he washed his hands, looked at his teeth, tried to order his fly-away ringlets, paced once up and down the room, lifted the receiver and dialed.

While a lot of detail is given to setting in this paragraph, it feels intimately connected to Max's perceptions, and sets the stage for the fact that he is setting the stage for the woman he is in love with.

When you describe setting details, in order to strike a nice balance and not overdo it, keep in mind:

• Setting helps create mood or ambiance that sets a tone for the scene.

In the scene above, there's a sense of preparation, of nesting almost, as Max prepares to see his love.

• Your protagonist needs to interact with the setting.
This can be through his observations of it or by his physically engaging with it. The reader sees New Orleans through Max's eyes here—words like "romantic" and "battered" reflect his opinion.

• The setting needs to support your plot.
Max is in New Orleans because he has come to be with a woman—a woman, it turns out, who will break his heart.

• Small actions help break up setting description.
Because Max is moving around, the reader doesn't feel as though he is looking at a static scene. The scene comes alive.

STAYING CONSISTENT

Once you've done the work of establishing the place in your scenes and fleshing out the settings so the reader is clear on where your characters are, it's important to stay consistent. If there are long tendrils of night-blooming jasmine on the porch in one scene, be sure they don't later turn into wisteria.

Don't forget which way the front door faces as your characters enter and exit. If a character sleeps in a room without windows, don't allow in a sudden, unexpected beam of sunlight.

For anyone who has a complicated setting, I often recommend keeping a notebook with all the small details in it as a kind of reference guide in case you get lost. I recommend this for any amount of significant research. If you have trouble organizing, try to keep your notes ordered into chapters and scenes in a linear fashion.

Before language, humans were like other animals; we came to know our world through our most primary set of tools for understanding and learn-ing—our senses. The senses are as core a scene element as you can get, and are very important in writing fiction because they transform flat words on a page into three-dimensional, realistic scenes. However, many writers overlook senses other than sight and sound. In a scene that takes place in a garden, for instance, you might forget to allow readers the opportunity to
smell
the jasmine and lilacs that drew your character out to the garden in the first place. Or you might show a character eating an entire tin of cookies without telling the reader what flavor they are. No matter
when
you add in sensual details—upon revision or at the start—remember that they are key tools for bringing your written world alive for readers.

AUTHENTICITY OF DETAIL

The sensual experiences that you describe should be realistic and believable. If a character is cooking blackberry pie, but the scent emanating from the oven smells "savory and meaty," you're off base; obviously a blackberry pie would smell sweet.

Also, the senses are a part of everyday life, so they should, in fact, be blended into your scenes as an integral part of the stage you set. If your scene's stage is a meadow in County Cork, Ireland, then there ought to be the nutty smell of grass and the sweet perfume of wildflowers, and possibly the musky scent of animals and mud. There might be birds trilling or sheep baaing or the gentle slicing sound of a scythe cutting hay. Characters will feel the wind on their face and the ropy knots of lavender stems between their fingers. The more seamlessly all these sensual details emerge, so that they are the backdrop to the scene in which a young boy confesses to his angry father that he is leaving Ireland, the more the reader will feel transported to that very spot and time, her own senses activated.