mom and baby

We tell kids all the time in school that description is good and that “showing” is great. But description is only good when it does more than describe and showing is only great when what it shows is a great deal of depth and texture.

When kids slop a bunch of adjectives and adverbs around in an endless attempt to please their teachers or themselves, what they’re trying to clarify for their readers becomes, ironically, murkier.

Great writers know this intuitively. They use description for more than making pictures in their readers’ minds, and they use it, often in tiny bits, for powerful in-the-moment impact.

Barbara Claypole White is one of those great writers.

The Promise Between Us by [White, Barbara Claypole]

The Promise of Great Detail

In her latest Amazon bestseller, “The Promise Between Us”, Barbara uses bits of carefully crafted description to elicit from her readers a flood of inferences that reveal the depths of her main character.

Barbara’s descriptions are vivid and enjoyable for their own sake, but they accomplish more than mere entertainment. With just a few well-chosen phrases, she tells us things that might require thousands of words of exposition.

Let’s take a long walk off a short paragraph and see how she works her magic.

Crouched in the corner of my baby girl’s bedroom, we both shake: the three-legged mutt and the mother with a colony of fire ants multiplying in her brain.

“Crouched in the corner…”

“Crouched” is a terrific verb. “Corner” is a perfect place.

Four words in and we know this character is frightened, anxious, falling apart perhaps, wedging herself against walls to hold herself together.

“…of my baby girl’s bedroom.”

More alliteration, that’s nice for energy. Now we know she’s a new mom. This adds to the weight of her anxiety and opens a question: “Is the fear she’s feeling about herself or her child?

Let’s read on.

“…we both shake:…”

Maybe it’s both of them. Or?

Now, look at those tiny two points of punctuation: a colon. This tells us that the words on the left side that we’ve just read are in some way equivalent to the words we’re about to read on the right.

“…the three-legged mutt and the mother with a colony of fire ants multiplying in her brain.”

“… three-legged mutt….”

A dog who has lost a leg, a stray, a rescue, not a purebred—and no longer “whole”.

“… and the mother with a colony of fire ants multiplying in her brain.”

“…THE three-legged mutt and THE mother…”

Switching to the third person here. Why? We’ll tackle that in a moment.

“… with a colony of fire ants multiplying in her brain.”

Me—an arachnophobe and a just-about-every-other-kind-of-insect-aphobe—I’m a little creeped out by this which is probably exactly how Barbara wants me to feel, whether she knows about my quirky queasiness or not.

It’s a “colony of fire ants”. That’s pretty serious. Not your every day bumble bee buzzing around like a random thought looking for a pretty flower.

These are fire ants. They’re in this woman’s brain. It’s a “colony”, an organized mass of Helter-Skelter-scurrying creatures. And it’s “multiplying”. This is not a static situation. It’s terrifying, it’s intensely painful, and it’s getting worse!

Is it a panic attack? I’d say not. I’d say it’s something more chronic, something that happens often to this woman, if not very often.

What’s the clue for me? The switch to third person.

When we go from “I” to “me”, we distance ourselves from ourselves. This typically indicates that a behavior or situation is something that happens so regularly we can describe it as if we’re the omniscient narrator of our own lives.

I think this woman struggles with some kind of serious mental illness: anxiety or OCD? But probably not PTSD or paranoia. The first two tend to be chronic and seemingly continuous; the last two, while possibly chronic, tend to be episodic.

 

The Known Unknowns

What I’m also pretty sure of is that we can rule out one thing that’s very common in fiction today: she’s not hiding from an intruder.

If she were, the book would be some kind of thriller perhaps. But I don’t think she’s afraid of someone else. I think she’s afraid of herself and what she might do, or fail to do, for her child, if those fire ants continue to multiply.

Do we need a definite diagnosis of her mental state? Nope. We just need to know that this is probably the worst possible feeling a person could hold in her head and still be self-aware enough to momentarily reflect on her situation.

This is another reason why the switch to 3rd person is so important: we know she’s not mentally dissociative; she’s holding it together—herself, her child, her motherhood—even if just barely.

The important thing for me is that I’m getting the feeling, in just one sentence and 29 words, that this is not a thriller, that this may be the story of a personal struggle for a new mother.

 

Let’s Not Forget the Title

Oh! The book is called “The Promise Between Us”.

Is the story about that implicit promise of protection that exists between every mother and child? Just a guess on my part. But not a bad one. And if I’m right, Barbara has also solved the genre question for me.

This isn’t a thriller or anything like it. It’s probably a drama of some kind. A drama about family.

 

From a Few Words Come Many Ideas

A few well-chosen words can do a lot of work—if they’re the right words written in the right order. Using only 29 of them, a talented writer can set up an 80,000-word novel.

This is what we need to tell our students, again and again and again—well, every time they burst into the full-flowered purple prose they often do. The words need to work, of course, but most young writers don’t know how hard they need to work—nor how hard they can be pushed. (I talked to Barbara about this bit and she said it was possibly the toughest few lines she’d ever written: 10, perhaps 20, revisions.)

With practice—and models of good writing broken down as we’ve done here—kids can do it. Even very little kids can do it. But we need big kids, like Barbara, to show them how.

Advertisements