July Newsletter

By Jessica Page Morrell

Specificity

Gems of wisdom circulate in writing classes: write what you know, show, don't tell, be specific. To borrow a phrase from Constance Hale, specificity separates the wimps from the wizards. This statement must be entertained along with the idea that there are two types of writers: those who write too much and those who don't write enough. Naturally, there are many permutations and writing problems, but a great number of writers fall into these two categories.

Thus, this essay might have no interest for people who need to be reined in. Their pages are florid outpourings, and every minor character; grimace, cackle and wink; strand of errant hair; and ceiling crack shows up on the page. Too much detail is boring, but it also has a way of dulling the senses, just as too much chocolate ruins your appetite.

Each word we pen is loaded with meaning. Every detail we choose is significant. Kit Reed says: "If I work with enough care, I can make you see beyond your individual vision to give you some sense of mine."

You must not confuse using specific details with cataloguing, listing. Readers want to enter the world of your stories, not be bombarded with endless minutiae. If you mention a dog in the corner, then the reader expects that the dog has importance to the scene. And herein lies the problem: how much detail is enough?

Perhaps a better questions to ask is: does it speak to the reader? Anton Chekov advises: "seize upon the little particulars, grouping them in such a way that, in reading, when you shut your eyes, you get a picture."

So your goal is to select details that anchor the reader in a place, a moment, a scene. Specificity draws a reader's notice, but, to borrow another popular phrase, it allows readers to connect the dots. We imagine what comes next, we imagine that the character's grimace means she hates her son-in-law. Details deepen the reader's knowledge but also bring his or her imagination into the appreciation of the story.

Specificity is linked to purpose-do you need the reader to linger, will the detail push the story forward, or will it make the reader stop for some reason? The best details will provide an engine to the scene or paragraph.

And don't forget that there are other techniques available to you-writing can also be suggestive, understated, oblique. There is often subtext in the best stories, the things left unsaid, the elements that are whispered.

The best writing has layers, it resonates. Good writing lingers in the reader's mind the way the last dying note of a symphony lingers in the air. Good writing haunts us-and when the story slips within a reader it is often a combination of specific and sensory details, vivid dialogue, characters or people brought to life in actions, and then that more ephemeris layer-the connections that the reader makes below the surface of the words. All parts are important, all make up the whole.

What do you see in the world? What have you learned? How have you been bruised, damaged, nearly destroyed by life? Writing can transform all that we've witnessed, endured or longed to explain. The transformative power of writing means that you're not merely recording memories or events, you're add meaning, imagination, and power to what has happened. And thus writing leads to liberation, insights and gives voice to sorrow.

There is a difficult question that writers face: how much of myself do I reveal in my writing? We can work with the idea that writing gives us power over our material: we can minimize, exaggerate, or expose. Reframe it according to our needs, to witness, discover, or transform.

As writers our aim is to improve, grow, perfect the craft. And some times the best way to grow, is to have some fun. Writing exercises, playing with words and images, is a terrific way to stir your creativity and experiment with new forms. Here are a few writing prompts to get you started: