A Verbal Self-Portrait

Hello, ducks! I went a creative route with the Description of Moi so that I could set up a scenario in which someone (I chose a man) was doing the describing. I find that having a set of eyes through which to see the character helps color the actual description. You know? So today you are seeing me through the eyes of a man sent to observe and describe me to someone else. This is, of course, a purely fictional occasion, but it is quite the truth. Hope you enjoy it. :)

(an actual picture of me in action, though less sparkly than usual)

What was she like? She struck one as being monstrously alive. That impatient toss of side-swept bangs, the inviting laughter spilled from one sentence into the next.. He'd been asked to describe her carefully. Easily requested, harder to fill. Her eyes might have been any color they were so caught up in her smile but he thought they were light. Light what? Green, gray, blue? Did she even know? As for pretty, he supposed she was in her comfortable way: generously curved in all the right places. Too curved in some. Womanly. Pleasing. In possession of all the required normal features in rather normal quantities and style. Brown hair bounced around her shoulders, got whisked to one side then the other as she spoke. Natural waves. Not uniform at all.

He drained his glass, glanced away as she shot an inquiry at him, and returned to studying her when she'd got distracted again. No, a million girls could fit the physical description: a stylish, plump brunette of middling height, moon-eyes, cracking grin. It spoke nothing of her. One didn't notice any of these things when she talked, and had he ever seen her stop in her ceaseless revolutions from group to group, caught in the bokeh-effect of her own light? He couldn't remember. She always talked. Talked with her whole body. Her head made as many motions as her hands. Her eyes expressed even more than her laughter. And when she was especially happy, she rocked her hips side-to-side, perfectly unconscious of the gentle swaying. She noticed his studying, flashed the moon-eyes just once, and hurried on with her next statement which, like them all, would be of a different tone than anyone else's. Shyness. There were bits of it still in her. Bits that turned her cheeks just a few shades lighter than her reckless lipstick.

He laughed at her, giving in, and was rewarded with a second moon-flash. He'd lost the battle; his laughter was probably what she'd wanted all along. But he'd given in to a worthy foe. After all, her whimsical charm was notoriously hard to resist, even for the most well-regulated of logical minds.

The Rain-People

In Romania, we spent a happy hour in the top floor of Betel Biserica Baptista, watching people in the rain ...

   Sitting up there, it seemed we were demigods. The people below--the old woman with a black kerchief tied under her chin, the Orthodox priest, the teenagers--were unaware of the onlookers as the rain began.
   We opened the screenless windows and stretched our hands into the play of the rain. Rain, we knew. Rain was neither American, nor Romanian, nor Russian nor Chinese. Rain was home, whomever you were. The rich scent of it pressed into our faces as we leaned out the fifth-story window and laughed at the bits of humanity, small and significant under our outstretched palms.
   Most of the crowd shifted from one foot to the next and seemed to ignore the rain; one or two people looked up and shrugged. Looked up,but not up enough to notice us and we were glad. Anonymity suited our mood because we were not ready to meet more people whom we would have to bid goodbye. No one thought that clearly, however; we all just wanted a show and a silent seat in an opera box.

   A tram scooped half the crowd into its shovel-mouth and shuttled off to another street, another stop, another priest hearing thunder and crossing himself for safekeeping.
   A boy opened a green tin gate and a pair of breedless terrier-things pelted after an old man with a white beard who had passed that way. The boy gave chase. His mother pursued.
    The rain, by now, was tremendous.

   Another tram: hiss, scoop, shuttle-shiver and the street was empty. An incoming deposit of tram-riders was received to the drumming of a million raindrops. A million was not too many. Two, three million, and still there were drops uncounted.
    Shirtless, a muscular young man darted from the tram into a doorstep crowded with damp humans. He laughed, shook rain from his bare shoulders, and pulled a dry shirt over his head. We laughed high above the street.
   This group dispersed in pairs and singles like damp ads peeling from a wet cement wall and the bare-chested man jogged down the street beside a stranger or a friend--it little mattered; a thorough soaking is as good a bond as any for forming quick attachments.

   By and by, hail mixed in with the rain and the thunder grew ravenous as a blood-hungry lioness. We leaned further into the glory and caught the hail. Some of us ate it and were happy to have known what sky-ice tastes of beyond the Atlantic. Ferocious now, wind thrashed our street with a whip of braided rain. Lightning and thunder kept precarious time and we marveled at the unconcern of the little old lady with her great big purse and a drenched trio crossing over our way.
   Gleefully, we watched as they missed a shallow crossing and plunged ankle depth into a rushing run-off. It was funny to us and stayed so because the trio laughed among themselves and did not seem to mind.

   If ever a wild rain had rained, this was the occasion, for it seemed the drops were contesting in girth and speed to see who might claim superiority.

  The soaked, cloth-plastered woman on our corner crossed to the other and took refuge in a window-ledge where she stayed with a cur-dog for company. Unmoved by their mutual plight, the dog slunk away to play road-kill in the afternoon traffic. A moment, and the woman made a dash for the green tin gate, only to meet water to her calves. She dragged out of the river one shoe at a time and adopted a soggy course town-ward, defeated in the art of staying remotely dry.
   From below us, an old man with a sock fitted over one hand walked away and we wondered why he obscured his fist from everyone's sight.

   Traffic dwindled, rain slackened, and another old gentleman--patient, slow--toddled down the cobbles. His umbrella had played games with the wind and bent like a cup, filling itself from the downpour. Nothing is more frustrating than an umbrella that does the opposite of keeping one dry, but this old man took a philosophical view of the misfortune: one spine at a time, he turned his umbrella right-side out and a gentle, satisfied smile sat on his face.
 
 Then off he went--patient, slow--and we watched him behind our curtain of rain.

A Writer's Untapped Paradise: People-Watching

 "I'm just people-watchin', watchin' people watchin' me..."

-Jack Johnson "People-Watching"

I like to shake things up a bit in my class and give the gals writing assignments that aren't your run-of-the-mill short stories. Since I am working from my own resources and not following any set of curriculum I get to choose each week's topic; having taught them the versatility of Action Beats Vs. Dialog Tags, I thought it'd be a fun assignment to go out to lunch and have them people-watch in order to add originality to their action beats. We piled into the van at lunchtime and headed off to Panera where I assigned them each a position in different corners of the restaurant to eat their own lunch quietly and observe everyone else eating theirs. (On the ride over I instructed them minutely on how to people-watch without detection so the poor customers don't feel like butterflies on pins. "No Customers Were Harmed In the Making of This Post" and all that.)

"He ain't a 'tec, he's a bloomin' busy-body!"

(did anyone get that reference?)

Even I, a dedicated people-watcher was surprised at the variety of descriptions we came up with as we scribbled madly and tried not to let our soup go cold in between. There was a woman who had grown up in Japan and been abducted for half an hour because of her white-blonde hair. The same women's parents live in Ireland now, and the rest of her family in Tuscany or Tuscon. (This pupil wasn't quite sure which) Another has a step-daughter who married a man who earned $75-80,000 a month and spent oodles at posh clothing stores.  Other scraps we got down were just bits of description of peoples' actions...it's amazing the stories you can unearth just by sitting there and not-quite minding your own business...

And because we came up with such random gems, I thought I'd show you the notes I managed to get down in the hour we were people-watching; it's like a different sort of Snippets post because I wrote them all in third-person...heehee.

She leaned on her fist and ignored her meal, focused instead on the screen of her iPhone.

The woman tore pieces of bread from her roll and dipped them into her soup one by one.

"Feel free to open that." She shoved a packaged cookie toward her friends.

The woman seemed to be at odds with her ponytail, always flicking it over and tossing it behind her shoulder. Babies and long hair do not, apparently, mix.

He left his plate and soup bowl at the table while he got a refill as if, she thought, there were no hungry beggars in the world who might descend upon it like buzzards while he was gone.

The expression on her face as she crossed her arms was meant to pronounce definitive judgement on the thing of which she disapproved. 

She wiped each of her fingers between bites in what seemed a strikingly fastidious manner, considering she had been eating bread.

"Him? Oh he's not married."

"Did I hear he beat you?"

The woman folded her receipt after she had been seated and took an age filing it in her purse where it probably now lay cheek-to-jowl with a coupon for 50 Cents Off Tomato Soup and a pamphlet from her granddaughter's ballet recital.

"What did you have to eat for your birthday?"

"Uhhhhh-huh....her usual."

"Well they were good...OH! I forgot to tell them to put that stuff over it!" (what stuff, we wonder?)

When she laughed, her head jerked down and her shoulders forward like an eager, strutting pigeon taking halting jerks across the pavement.

The manager refilled the baskets of cookies and squeezed out from behind the counter with a fawning smile for a passing female customer. His grey hair was pulled back in a slick, respectable ponytail and when he walked it was with a certain feline grace that she knew, somehow, was part of his act.

The boy had an uncomfortable manner of fastening his eyes upon you as you talked and chewing rapidly like a concentrated and famished hare. Also, one of his eyes stared slightly in an alternate direction which only heightened his rabbity-ness.

"He put up his great big paws and WOOFWOOFWOOFWOOF he was out the door and I was chasing him and I realized I was naked. I hid myself but next time I was outside cooking fish, my neighbor said, 'That was some show.'" (now I am scarred for life.)

He used a form of God's name instead of adjective which somewhat marred the impression of an educated man.

He crossed his arms across his large belly so his elbows looked like hams and stared like a large and somewhat disgruntled genie. 

One half of her mouth appeared to be permanently hitched up in a snip of a smile showing a few white teeth in the left corner of her mouth.

She held her drink while she talked and it was fascinating--if you were bored enough to notice--to watch the slosh of liquid in the cup as she punctuated her conversation.

"She gets herself in more predicaments."

The old man possessed a humped back so that his head appeared to be glued to the front of his neck instead of the top.

"My wife's daughter spends spends spends all his money."

"He used to earn $75-80,000 monthly."

"They used to go to a place on Taylor Rd--it's closed now, thank God--but it was called Madamoiselle's and it was the kind of place you'd buy three outfits and it would cost $2,500. I told her, 'You do not take your mother to Madamoiselle's any more.' So she called her mother one day and said, 'Come on and meet me in front of Madameoiselle's--Steve put me on a budget and I have to stay within the budget.' " 

A pretty good catch for a single lunch-hour I think.

Of Rembrandt and Beatrix Potter

Jenny challenged us this afternoon to write a post about the way we describe our characters. After reading her bits of description I felt a tad disheartened about my own. I don't do amazing. But Jenny raised a proverbial eyebrow at me and gave me this piece of advice:
"I ask for all your Rembrandts and your Beatrix Potters. There is something lovely in each of them."
So of course when she put it that way I had to comply. I rummaged through Fly Away Home and brought out a few pieces of description that weren't too shabby to see the face of the public, and now you will read them and judge for yourself.
The first rule of describing your protagonist is not to use the Mirror Trick. At least, not right away.Sometimes you can't avoid the mention of a mirror throughout the entire course of the plot, but by all means save it till the end. Or the middle. Or something reasonably far from looking like a crutch. The Mirror Trick is that handy, cliched way of showing what your main character looks like by showing them looking at their reflection in the mirror. But how--especially in a first-person novel--do you get around that? I attempted one method in this bit about Callie:

I grabbed a handful of my dark, wavy hair and squeezed it between my fingers. How was my perm holding up? Drat. Split-ends. Time for a trim again. It cost far too much, I’d decided, going to the beauty parlor twice a week to get my hair styled. I just couldn’t afford it—people died often enough, but obituaries don’t pay that well. Consequently I looked like Elizabeth Taylor sopping wet and run through a wringer.

Here you get a bit of Callie's quick wit, her sense of humor, her habitat (1950's) and her appearance. Not too bad, really. My next task was describing Mr. Barnett. I did a very blunt description at the start where Callie reminds herself that she {along with every other young lady in America} has memorized his face. He's famous after all! But along the way I've managed to drop other observations into his character and appearance while avoiding the commonplace:

Mr. Barnett laughed—it matched the elbows of his coat: shiny, worn, genuine 

That bit is, perhaps, one of my favorite pieces of description about Mr. Barnett in the book. I myself treasure laughter so knowing what a person's laugh sounds like is really important to me. Also, those three words totally describe Mr. Barnett's personality, his history, and his coat all in one smack. Eyes are windows to the soul. That's why I can't stand talking to someone wearing sunglasses. But sometime's one can glimpse too much of a good things, as Callie experiences early on in their relationship:

He shifted and bent to look into my eyes. I tried to hold his gaze but it was too open and honest for me. I saw hopes written there, and dreams. I saw a soul and it troubled me. I preferred the cold glaze so much of Manhattan wore—it saved one the trouble being hurt.

But if eyes are good then tone of voice is even more fun to play with. I do like this one line:

"My voice had horns and callouses and was hot to the touch."

...I can picture exactly what that voice sounds like. But moving on. Of course, I managed to get Callie to give me an assessment of Mr. Barnett in one fell swoop. It was rather clever of me, because Callie is not exactly a helpful, suppliant person you'll understand.

Ladybird Snippets. I like it. What do you think?”

What did I think? I sipped my coffee so I wouldn’t have to answer yet. I thought it was a name that perfectly fit my growing picture of Mr. Barnett:  old-fashioned, out of touch with reality, and pretty darn cute.

And then we come to the side-line characters who I love describing. I go by the rule that every character--whether he's a cabby, a doorman, a deli-man, or the printer--ought to have their moment of fame. You have opportunities to make even these shadows memorable by giving them a bit of interest of their own. I am very fond of Annamaria: an Italian baker who once had views of being an opera-singer before she gave it up for a family and children. I'll end with the scene when she and Callie meet for the first time:

...It was then she caught sight of me. “Ahhhh!” (There was a world of meaning in that “ahh” and its accompanying sweep of my person.) “You bringa your pretty girlfriend for lunch, no?”

I examined the clippings on the wall and pretended like I hadn’t heard. Still, from the corner of my eyes I studied Mr. Barnett. He appeared as composed as usual. “No, no, Annamaria—she’s my assistant. I’ve started a new job and she and I are out to change the world.” He motioned for me to come closer and I obeyed—a new sensation of shyness creeping over me.

Annamaria wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head at Mr. Barnett. “Assistant, girlfriend—bah! She’s still beautiful.”

I kept my eyes on the floor, but Annamaria’s thick forefinger was under my chin in a moment and she lifted my head so that I looked into her face. It was broad and good-humored, and red as the roses in her cotton-print dress. She wore little gold hoops in her ears, and when she smiled her teeth were parted in the middle. I found her delightful, and I suppose she approved of me, for she startled me by planting a hearty kiss on either of my cheeks and patting my back. “You helpa heem, no?”

“Yes ma’am, I do.”

“And what’sa your name?”

“Calida Harper, ma’am.”

“Calllida Harper.” She tasted the name, trilling the “l” as if she savored it. Then she chuckled. “Eet sounds like an opera-singer name. Very good—I like-a you.” With that, Annamaria squeezed back behind the counter and continued her work.

Achilles' Heel

Every one of us wants to be a successful writer--we want to know our strengths and weaknesses. We want to rely on the strengths but we want to shape our craft so that our weaknesses grow stronger with each book.

There are several spheres that I consider "strengths or weaknesses" for writers. They are as follows:

Plot

Dialog

Characterization

Description

My greatest strength has been (and I assume will always be) characterization. It makes sense because since I am always people-watching whenever I'm around people (and I'm a people-person) I get a deal of research done. It's really important as a writer to pinpoint your greatest strength and then try to find the places that need work. My nemesis, I think, is plot. My first book--written at age twelve--was entirely plotless. My second, A Mother for the Seasonings, is a very simple tale. (though a good one!). I got half-way through two other books that are still languishing in their word document files, but never finished them. You see, one had too much plot, the other not enough. By the time I reached The Scarlet-Gypsy Song I knew I needed a plot that could carry me through a novel without seeming stretched thin. "Like butter scraped over too much bread," as Bilbo says. And though I was able to spin out a tale with a plot that I liked very much much, it was still lumpy-bumpy and will take a deal of editing to make palatable. I will admit that even in this book my character-love came out first. You see, I didn't have a plot when the book was born. I had a phrase:

"There was Nannykins to begin with, but she had a bad knee and left for the North."

I mean honestly. What does that have to do with a father whose children get into his fictional world and his princess who gets out of it, and massive travail and bloodshed and angst and beauty? Nothing. But somehow I came up with a plot and the phrase and the rest lies in the bloodied pages of the Gildnoirelly. 

All this to say, I know that plot strength is a weakness for me. So I've been doing a deal of reading this summer in hopes of getting a little better at it. I just finished reading a book called The Thief by Megan Whalen Turner. She is not a Christian writer, but her skill is certainly a force to be reckoned with. I loved the plot anyway, but she put this huge twist at the end that left me reeling and marveling and wishing I knew enough to do the same.When we do research like this, it's helpful to ask yourself several questions:

Where did I think the plot was going?

How did she tailor my opinion one way so that she could whip the story around?

What was the most dynamic scene in the story?

How does the characters' personality/character play into the way the plot turns out?

I am excited. I've done my research and I have a good, strong plot for Scuppernong Days. I actually sat down and wrote it out in my writing notebook so that I know where I'm going. Y'see, my worst part is getting only major events and having difficulty stringing them together with important nothings. Of course there is wiggle-room for the plot changing and your characters changing and your idea changing, but for myself I find I can keep plot weakness to an ebb if I structure my story. :) What are your strengths/weaknesses? How do you strengthen your weak parts?

"Be sure of only two things: yourself and the ropes beneath your hands."

 -Mr. Nesbit, First Mate of The Scuppernong

Cape Farsight--the most complete incompleteness.

In my imagination I see things so vividly. The places in my books are alive and I could take you on a tour of my dream-worlds. Last night as I lay in bed my mind kept drifting over to Cape Farsight, India, home of the Seasoning children. I hadn't thought of this book of mine for a long time, being too absorbed in my other books. But you know when a book is good. You know it because you can't forget it.
As I drifted off to sleep I took a mental tour of the Cape and all the dear places I grew to love so well. It's strange how vividly I see it all--almost as if I've been there before. I was pleased to see how well I remembered each path under the shady trees and each turning of the dusty-dim road.
I can see the Seasonings' little bungalow--the front walk covered over in exotic vines, the large window looking into the dining room. The rooms are low and cool and shady--a blessed relief from the heat outdoors. I can see Derrydock in the distance, and I know (because I have walked it many times in thought) the way to the marketplace. You turn right out of the Seasonings' gate, pass a grove of low trees, cross a dusty foot-bridge, and you are in the market, socializing with Dharma and smelling all the thousand and one scents pervading the air there.
On the other hand, if you take the left branch out of the gate, you will come to Miss---oh blast. I forgot her name.--well anyway, you come to her house and then continue on. Pretty soon, taking a bit of a right-ward veer you will happen upon the Green in the center of the village, and on the other side of that Green is the Ladies' Club where the OLAF meet.
All of it is right there in my mind and I can see it and hear it and smell it and I know it. Cape Farsight is as real to me as any place in this world. Because I've spent a whole novel there. I met my characters there, and I do believe it will always stay with me because it holds the esteemed place of being my first novel I was satisfied with. I do hope to introduce you to it someday, and I do hope I have been able to describe it so you can see it as I do. At any rate, I hope someday to see Cape Farsight...I'll let you know when I find it. :)
P.S. I'm thinking of re-naming the book: The Mother-Hunt. What do you think? :)

Wisps of violet in between.

I keep scraps of paper stuffed everywhere with my writing all over them. Incidentals I've captured on paper, folded up, (half ashamed of some of them) and forgotten about. Honestly, some authors have a writing notebook in which they neatly file every little sentence they write. (Or such is my impression) I could call myself artistic, but I suspicion I am merely a tidge scatter-brained.
All the same, I do have to admit to feeling rather brilliant when I open a book and a scrap of paper tumbles out into my lap. Or onto my head. Or at my feet. Whichever way the cookie crumbles.

What's this?

I unfold it. Written sloppily on the paper I generally find a few sentences describing an interaction, a moment, some elusive emotion, a humorous or witty exchange of banter... And you know what? They are generally not too bad at all. Much better than I might have hoped. I wonder if perhaps these obscure scribbles gain genius from their close embrace with the pages of finer books...?
I think I have a condition. I think I have OWD. (Obsessive writer's disorder.) I am constantly having a conversation within myself that goes something like this:

Normal Rachel: "I wish you could take everything that woman tells you as truth, but you know she has alzheimers and is making most of it up."
Inner Rachel: "Who cares? It's hilarious."
Writing Rachel: "Not to mention the fact that this whole conversation would fit perfectly in a book about a writer. Totally gotta capture this moment on paper. Who knows when I might use it in the future?"
Normal Rachel: "Guys...guys..we're taking this too far."
Writing Rachel: "Excuse me? Where's a pencil? Where's paper? Let me through!"
Inner Rachel: "Yeah! What time is it? We need to get home so she can write."
Normal Rachel: "Really? You are so pitifully entranced by words. Go away."

Ahem. What? Why are you looking at me out of the corners of your eyes like that? You mean to say you don't hold lengthy conversations with yourself? You don't know what you're missing.

All the same, I do think it's a good idea to write anything and everything down. If it occurs to you to capture the moment in words, do so. Please. You never know when you might need to lighten a scene of your plot-heavy novel with a good laugh. You never know if that gorgeous sunset you saw yesterday evening will figure significantly in a book you've yet to write. I think it's this that drives me to hoard away little caches of writing. And actually, I have used several scraps in my novels. Because sometimes you just need that boost of antiqued, burnished inspiration. Stuff that has sat around cheek-to-cheek with the plot of Oliver Twist on your bookshelf might just give your current project a certain eclat.

So keep on with your obscure twists of paper and index cards and backs of receipts and anything else you vent your word-obsession on. I promise you'll thank yourself one day!

The Scarlet-Gypsy Song--a last hurrah!

As a sort of Last Hurrah for The Scarlet-Gypsy Song, I thought I would give you some of my favorite bits from the past few weeks. I've been writing like mad--Thursday I wrote over 4,000 words. Enjoy these last few pretties from my dark-haired child! :)

Darby squeezed his fists where they were tied behind his back, feeling that somehow it helped him to think clearer. A clumsy movement beside him brought round a faint hope. Peter Quickenhelm! If Darby could only get Peter to be the object of the panther’s attention for a moment, he might have a chance to slip away. After all, wasn’t it a well-known zoological fact that panthers would stop and gobble whatever you dropped behind you? At least that’s how they told it in the books—that’s why people escaping from panthers often arrived to safety wearing no shoes or hat or jacket or—sometimes—anything at all. Yes. It was an applauded tactic in the old world. Perhaps beasts were similar here.
Darby drove his heel into Peter’s side—hard.
“Ow—whatsermatter?”
Darby took this to mean “what’s the matter” and since it also meant that Peter had regained consciousness, he smiled to himself and kicked again.

-The Scarlet-Gypsy Song

“Adoniram—you simply can’t be letting Darby and Bertram go to battle—you can’t. It’s…it’s…indecent! If it was happening in London someone would call the Agency.”
The pen stopped. The head rose. The eyes glared. “My love—it is not happening in London. There has not been a battle in the streets of the Capital since the time of your grandfather. Therefore, I would greatly appreciate your silence and a cup of tea. Miss Woodruff—er, Lady Cecelia. Would you be so good as to teach my wife the proper way to do it?”
Mrs. Macefield fluffed her skirt and pursed her lips. “I am certainly capable of making a cup of tea, Adoniram.”
“Doubtless. Nevertheless, the need of tea is imminent and one or the other of you must make it, or I’m afraid the boys will be done for. You’ve no idea what a horrid business it is, writing a battle. I’ve no more idea of what happens in a battle than…than a cockroach does! There are only so many synonyms for ‘hack’ and ‘thrust’ and ‘parry,’ you know. They’ve been hacking and thrusting and parrying for several chapters now and I feel quite exhausted for them.”

-Ibid.

Diccon shifted and gave a smile that was both shy and roguish. “In faith, my little sister, you showed yourself a bit of a vixen.”
Adelaide laughed and curtsied with an arch pursing of her lips.  “A fox caught in a trap is never over-careful of her manners.

-Ibid.

Darby hugged Diccon a bit tighter and shrugged. “I’m fine—I was just wondering if this daft plan would work.”
“Catching the panther in his lair, you mean?”
“Right.” Darby felt Diccon’s muscles rippling under his shirt, and it inspired him a bit of manly courage. “ ‘Course I’m not scared—I’d just think Growlbeard would be too smart for this sort of trick.”
Diccon laughed. “He is a clever beast, but a cat all the same—likes naps in the sunshine and doing his dirty deeds by night. Coming upon him like this in the full light of the morning—we’re like as not to catch him.

-Ibid.

Darkness, punctured with the honey-gold globes of lamplight, filled the banqueting hall. Echoes of that feast before the battle still seemed to whisper in the corners, discussing this new, half-somber celebration. On the dais the King sat, Lord Diccon Quarry at his left hand—Captain Sparrow’s seat at his right empty, as is the custom when a beloved man has died. The Macefield children fanned out on either hand—even the babies—and waited in silence.
For it was silent in the hall—very silent, with a warm sense of expectation that was curiously in keeping with the gold-stitched gloaming of the hall. Lad, Dear-Heart, and Agnes waited like kindly wraiths in the deeper shadows at the end of the table.

-Ibid.

“Oh, Diccon,” she whispered to herself. She had not thought he was by. She had not meant for him to hear those sorrowful words, but his rough hand closed around hers a moment later and she looked up to see him beside her. He did not look at her, and he did not speak, but his hand held hers and she knew all was right.

-Ibid.

Tears ran down Adelaide’s cheeks and blurred the sight of the king’s noble face, pooling it together with the shimmering, honey-colored globes. She tried to stop her tears but it was no use. This fierce ache was familiar somehow, and she had to weep. Why was it familiar? Adelaide could not say, but as she mused on the king’s words it came to her. He had said it was The End…this feeling was that of turning the last page of a splendid book, only magnified and heightened and altogether unbearable. Adelaide sobbed once, and it thrummed through the hush of the hall, startling her into silence again.
Diccon put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. He leaned over and put his mouth close to her ear. “There now, sister-mine. We are only parted by the cover of a book. When you miss me—or any of us—too too much, you have only to ask your father to read to you. I’ll be waiting there for you…there amongst the pages, and you will always be able to find me.” There was a catch in his voice, and when Adelaide wiped her own tears away she saw that Diccon’s jaw was set in a determined line and a lone tear glistened on his cheek as Jupiter or Mar glistens in a winter sky.

-Ibid.

Gone was the dusk-dim light of the banquet hall. Gone were the honey-gold globes. Gone were Diccon and Dear-Heart and all the rest, and Adelaide saw she stood on the strangely familiar marble staircase of…home.

-Ibid.

A question of coat and waistcoat

"Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine." -Charles Dickens

Okay...so it's a random picture...but isn't this a gorgeous bird?!

 Description is so important. Description done well. There is description in excess. There is tacky description. There is description that is too heavy and golden and dripping so that it feels rather like a handful of honey getting everything sticky and running out through your fingers while you try to taste it. But then, there is description that is spot-on and leaves you knowing just what the author intended you to know.

I used to be a bare-bones writer in the Description Department, meaning that I counted on dialog and character strength and that sort of thing to beautify my plot. But through my last few projects I've grown to love describing things. As with any writer, my world and my characters are so very alive in my mind that there is a danger of forgetting the world at large doesn't understand. We are given the privilege of showing our readers the just-so parts of literature. Not only the plot, not only the characters, but what they look like. What the scenes look like. All that.
Jenny is a stellar example of How To Do Things. Somehow (and it seems without much groping about) she chooses just the right words so that you are transported not to her world but in it, as I'm sure you know if you've read anything she writes.

But how do you know it's good? How can you tell splendid description when you know it? I'll tell you.

Good description doesn't tire you to read. Good description is so enveloping and intricate that you hardly notice you are reading. The words have become a portal There and you quite forget Here in that moment. I know you have all emerged from reading a book only to be quite surprised it is summer outside--you'd been trapped in a snow-storm. Or else you raise your eyes from your book with a sudden realization of its being dusk and you've not stopped even to turn on a light.

That's good description. Description done right will transfix you and carry you into the book. It doesn't serve as a piece apart from the story. There should be no: "I'm describing it to you and then we'll have a conversation and then a bit of action and then the next scene I'll describe more to you!" No. Description ought to be so mixed up with the plot that you have those gorgeous chunks, but you also have unexpected bits of brilliancy lying about the meat of the chapter.
Paraprosdokian is a good word to describe what I mean, in a way. It means: "Figure of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprising or unexpected; frequently used in a humorous situation." 

Though of course it doesn't have to be humorous. It's the knack of tucking gems in amongst the hum-drum so that you are never looking for them when they appear. :)
 An example of a paraprosdokian is this: "To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research."
 I feel like I'm not making much sense, but I trust you to get the idea. I don't mean your description must be a paraprosdokian, only that it adds much it has that sort of unexpected appeal. :) But now I've diddled my mind with using such fifty-dollar words and I will leave you now!

Sometimes Less is More

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.”-Patrick Rothfuss

I think of description in general. I think of the power words can have. I think of my bleak skill in turning them--I make pretties now and then. Sometimes I make a gleaming sentence or two. But then I read someone who really knows how to turn words to their advantage. I use reams of words and am able to build something readable. They pin it to the exact point in one sentence. And I fall silent. Not silent from discouragement. Not silent from dismay. Silent with the silence that one feels in the presence of something greater than themselves. There is no desire to say anything. It is enough to look and be amazed....

"He wasn't that good looking, he had the social skills of a wet cat, and the patience of a caffeinated hummingbird." -Karen Chance

"It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside." -Maud Hart Lovelace Betsy, Tacy, and Tib

“Time will mellow it, make it a moment for laughter. But now it was not funny, now I did not laugh. It was not the future, it was the present. It was too vivid and too real.”-Daphne du Maurier Rebecca

“I do not think that you can be changing the end of a song or a story like that, as though it were quite separate from the rest. I think the end of a story is part of it from the beginning.”-Rosemary Sutcliff