Today’s story doesn’t have a picture. It didn’t have anything, actually, except for six little words that started the whole thing:
“In a box under the stairs…”
Six words that eventually turned into seven hundred and fourteen. After a few rounds of editing and some word adjustments - delete a sentence here, a phrase there - until it made a lot more sense on paper than it did before.
Sometimes, writing is hard. We, the writers, see stories so clearly in our heads: the scarlet swirl of a knight’s cloak, the blue buzzing electricity of lightning, the burnished gold and copper parts of a steampunk gun. We can hear our characters talk, try to record their lilting accents, high-pitched screams and whispered conversations. And of course, we try to share it with other people. But it doesn’t always work as planned.
In this post, we talked about flash fiction, and the importance of using action words. (Here’s the short version: they punch. They drag readers, kicking and screaming, into your story. You need them. Use them.) But action words alone won’t save your tale. Yes, they keep the story moving. Yes, they engage your reader. Yes, they’re a lot more interesting than using “is” and “was”.
But you need more than that. Action is only half the story. The rest is setting the scene.
It sounds stupid, but you’d be surprised how difficult it is to write descriptions. Stories are action! People doing things! Getting in trouble, saving princesses, escaping solitary on Mars! Yes, yes, yes yes yes. But think about it for a moment. Why do people get in trouble? Why are they saving princesses and escaping Mars? Does it have anything to do with the world or the decor?
If you said no, you’re missing something huge.
In The Martian, it’s pretty clear to the reader that this planet is desolate. Not only is our stranded astronaut literally the only one there, but dust covers the ground, the air is toxic, and nothing grows except- well, read it and you’ll find out. But the main catalyst for getting off Mars isn’t just because the spaceman wants to go home. It’s because he can’t stay there.
What about The Maze Runner? Surrounded by giant walls that close every night, a maze that shifts all the time, and no way out - talk about a downer! The characters are striking, yes. Their lingo and way of life, their organization and their farmstead are all marvelous world-building things. But the story wouldn’t make very much sense without the setting, would it?
In these stories, the setting plays an important role in pushing - sometimes literally - the characters into action. Escape the giant rolling doors before they close. Blast off a world that would kill you if it had the chance. Yes, there are other problems, like… a lost memory, perhaps? But the thing that drives most of the story isn’t really a character. Not a person, anyway. It’s the place.
That’s why you have to take time to paint the scene. Okay, if your story happens in a coffee shop (where there aren’t any giant walls or things that try to kill you) it may not seem as important as if it were a driving force for your character. But it would be a sin not to give the shop some attention and love. Besides, even coffee shops aren’t all the same. Tell us why yours is different, or maybe it is the same, and that’s the whole point because it frustrates our hero so much! But we won’t know that unless you tell us, will we?
So mention it. Talk about the bittersweet smell of roasted beans, the stains on the carafe, the burned aftertaste of a gas station cup. Set the scene, and tell us why it’s important. Share what you see in your head, and let everyone else see it, too.
In a Box
In a box under the stairs of an old bookstore sits a magical book. It has no author and no name. The gilded edges of its pages has been worn away by time, baring its paper as it sits in its cardboard cage. The script on the cover, once hand-written by its first owner, rubbed off on bags and shirts and other books. Only the owner of the store knows its rightful name, though he doesn't tell a soul.
The book has been in his family for generations, handed down from one member to the next and no one can recall where it came from. All different kinds of handwriting decorate its pages: slanting, stiff letters that lean to the right; loopy, bouncing script that looks like flower petals in springtime; cramped, scribbled cursive that seems like the child of late-night inspiration by candlelight. There are recipes and stories, diary pages, and a few black-and-white photographs hidden between its pages. Tucked in together, as if getting ready for bed. Destined to sit in a box under the stairs for eternity.
At least, that's what the book fears. But the store's owner has other ideas.
Long after the book resigned itself to sitting in the box for eternity, the top flaps open. An old, weathered face stares down at it, a smile gracing his lips. His face is lined with age and there are crinkles in his eyes, but the book recognizes him anyway. It didn't realize that so much time passed - he was just a boy when they last met - but the book has grown old, too. It rustles its pages in greeting, and sighs in its spine, cracking as if it were new and barely off the shelf. Its old hinge-clasp protests weakly as the owner swings it, but the book itself doesn't hesitate to open under his touch. He is the last of his blood, and the book has served his family faithfully. If their blood were to end with his passing, the book will have completed its purpose, and will sit in the box at peace.
Except he is not the last. Not any more.
A little girl stands at his knee, her eyes bright as she regards the book. She watches silently as the owner turns it over and over, blowing off dust and inspecting the old tome for damage. He scowls when he finds a new torn page, or a corner that a mouse visited too many times. In his gruff voice, he promises to fix it up, restore it to its former glory. But the book only has eyes for the girl.
She has brown hair, like her mother. Freckles, like her father. Anxious fingers and tappy toes like her great-great-grandmother, too much energy to contain in one small body. She brushes her hair out of her eyes with an impatient gesture that reminds the book of someone, although it can't remember who. But when it sees her eyes, it knows.
Those are the family's eyes. The store owner's eyes. The eyes that have passed from one descendant to the next. Their handwriting fills the pages, and their eyes have scoured the recipes and stories and smiled at the little notes their ancestors left in the margins. Those eyes have seen the mysteries of hundreds of years, and now - right when the book believed its time was over - they blink anew.
The book shop owner moves carefully, slowly extending his arm to the girl. "Here you are, dear. I knew it was here somewhere."
"What is it?"
"This is ours," he says simply, his eyes shining bright. "Yours, and mine. Your mother's, and your great-grandfather's. It goes back many, many years, and you must always treat it with care. One day, it will be yours."
"Why?" she whispers, her breath hushed. Her thumb brushes the pages as she scans their contents, glimpsing recipes for luck and charisma, moon tea and the occasional curse. The book tries to show her a drawing of a daisy, but she skips by it, pausing instead of a nearly illegible recipe for lavender tea.
"Because we all have our secrets, my dear. This one is ours. And this is what we do."
(Photo by Karolina Grabowska, Pexels)