Looking at Things in New Ways

By Thomas Kies

On Valentine’s Day, my first cataract surgery took place.  Romantic, huh?

It was my left eye and before the surgery, it had gotten so that I could barely see out of it.  My vision faded so slowly, so subtly, that I didn’t notice it until it got really bad. 

Once that surgery took place, one eye was still nearsighted, as it had been since I was five years old, and the left eye was now farsighted.  My brain was flummoxed. 

Some people say it wasn’t a new scenario.

Then, last Tuesday, my right eye underwent surgery.  Now I’m not wearing glasses, for nearly the first time in my life. 

It’s weird.

However, now I need “readers” for reading, obviously, and writing and working on my laptop.  I won’t get the prescription specs that I need until sometime next week so I’m using glasses I found in Walgreens.  A stopgap measure at best.

What’s this got to do with writing?  I’m now more keenly aware than ever how much we rely upon our eyesight for everything and what it means when it comes to writing.  Not only logistically, but creatively. 

Describing a scene, we usually start with what it looks like.  As I tell my writing class, you should incorporate all the senses—sounds you hear, scents you detect, what things feel like.  You want to bring the reader into the scene. 

As an example, here is an excerpt from my first book, Random Road:

 

I poured a healthy serving of Glenlivet for Kevin and tumbler of Absolut over ice for me. Then I suggested, “How about we go out and sit on the porch?”

We sat in chairs next to each other and breathed in the night air, thick with the sweet scent of roses that my landlady, Mrs. Soldaro, had planted all around the base of the front porch. A history of the universe twinkled down at us in the form of a sky full of stars.  Crickets and cicadas hummed and chirped, giving auditory proof that the earth was a living, breathing entity.

I took a long, hard sip of vodka, the ice tinkling against my teeth, the liquid lighting a fire in my throat and igniting a familiar heat in my stomach.  Almost immediately, the warmth and a sense of well-being stole into my consciousness.   I took a deep breath.  The world was okay.

 

So, I’m getting used to the new vision and editing and tweaking what I hope will be my next Geneva Chase novel.  I’m also marveling over how fresh and new colors look.  I'm enjoying the new experience. 

It’s a unique opportunity, seeing things for the first time through fresh eyes.  I guess that’s what we try to do for our readers. Look at things in new ways.

The Telling Detail

 A couple of days ago I was reading Tangerine, a psychological suspense novel by Christine Mangan. It's Mangan's first novel and set in Bennington, Vermont at Bennington College (in flashbacks) and in Tangier (Morocco) in 1956. 

Mangan did her PhD dissertation on 18th century Gothic literature. Gothic influences -- from the Bronte sisters and Poe to Shirley Jackson -- are there in the haunted spaces and places. Other influences seem to come from romantic suspense novels of the 1970s, Alfred Hitchcock, film noir, definitely Patricia Highsmith, and all those most recent "Girl" novels with unreliable narrators. 

I had the fun of leading a reading group discussion about the book. where we spent 90 minutes being "picky" about the characters, plot, and settings. There was much to say about a novel that was beautifully written, convoluted, and with an ending that tended to delight or dismay the readers. We focused on the details.

The details I found particularly interesting were the descriptions of characters. The challenges of describing any character are multiple. The description should be organic -- be limited to what is necessary in that moment and reflect the attitudes/beliefs of the person who is describing. Even better if the description also advances the plot, including providing red herrings and clues. I found the descriptions provided by Mangan's two first-person narrators intriquing because they were increasingly engaged in a game of cat and mouse. Until late in the book, the reader had to decide whose version of the truth could be believed. 

Lucy describes the husband of her former roommate in this way:

He looked, I thought, like most men our age: vivacious, eager, not yet dulled by the monotony of everyday life. He was handsome, that much I could ascertain. And yet, while I suspected his features would have been classically pleasing to some, I found them overbearing and difficult to look at for any great length of time. There was something else there too I could already see -- something harder, more concrete. But then, I brushed the thought aside, reasoning that perhaps it was just the imposing line of his suit. Though I knew little about men's fashion, I could tell that his clothes were expensive. He wore a three-piece suit cut from a textured pattern that looked entirely out of place in Tangier and a tan fedora with a narrow brim resting atop his head. He seemed, I noticed with a touch of envy, unfazed wearing the heavy material in the unforgiving heat of Morocco (p.35).

 It makes sense that Lucy would notice that Alice's husband, John, is able to look "unfazed" in spite of the heavy material of his suit. She herself was worried about arriving at Alice's door in wilted clothes.  But by the time John returns home, she has had a chance to cool off  -- even though she has been sitting on Alice's leather sofa "where almost immediately my skin began to sweat" (p. 33). She tries to "alternatively air out the parts of my skin in contact with the leather, hoping the sweat wouldn't stain my new dress" (p. 33). The dress costs her a month's salary and was purchased for the trip.

But she believes that John is impressed when he really looks at her, "A flicker of annoyance flashed, but then he seemed to take in my figure -- well dressed, reasonably attractive -- and his features relaxed, growing into one of surprise, pleasure" (p. 35).

As with other descriptions in the book, Lucy reveals as much about herself as about the person she is describing. But can we trust what she is saying. Is she lying? Is she insane? Or, does she misinterpret what she sees? When Mangan presents the same scene from Alice's POV, we learn that a blush or a smile that Lucy interprets in one way actually meant something different to Alice. 

As I read, I underlined the descriptions that I thought Mangan handled well. I have a couple that I want to quote in the section of my nonfiction dress and appearance book. As a reader, I appreciated the writer's efforts to provide telling details. 

I'm looking forward to see the descriptions translated to screen in the movie adaptation.