Some of this is my fault.
I’ve been writing for so long sometimes I forget how much
I’ve had to learn – and how much of the writing I do now is a natural reflex,
rather than a concerted effort. I get reminded of that when I work on my
novels. And, sometimes, when I’m in class. Here’s to hoping I can correct my
error.
Details. A common thread I’m seeing in about half of the
profile essays I’m reading is a lack of details. Details are different from
facts. Facts, I’m getting. I get, for example, the basics: Who the person is
you’re writing about, why you chose to write about them, and how their presence
in your life affected you. But I’m not getting details. Details are the quotes,
the stories, the philosophizing, that bring those mere facts to life.
Here’s a little of what I mean. I’m going to tell you a
little about my Dad.
My Dad, Marinus Jacob
Davidson, grew up in the little village of Santpoort, Holland. He and his older
brother Sjaak were always up to mischevious little things that tested their mother’s
patience, as any normal boys do. Their Dad Albertus worked at many jobs,
delivering milk, and once as a merchant marine.
Here, I’ve given you the facts. Re-read that paragraph.
There’s a lot there. But is there enough? You know a little about him, but,
truthfully, not all that much. I’ve given you the facts, but not the details.
I’ll try again.
“Oh, Frau Davidson,
you must come with me!”
At the door, the
postmistress, in distress. Frau Davidson followed. The postmistress talked
loudly as she walked, Frau Davidson almost running to keep up. “They’ve locked
themselves in the phone booth, and they won’t come out. I’m responsible to
answer the phone if it rings. I can’t get in to the phone! You’ll have to get
them out.”
Now Frau Davidson
walked faster than the postmistress. She knew where her missing boys were.
She could hear them
shouting.
“Pularubia!
Pularubia!”
The name of their
father’s boat. She’d called him from that phone booth this morning, catching
him before he boarded the ship, where he worked as a merchant marine. The boys
talked briefly to their father, amazed at the technology that let them talk to
him in Amsterdam, miles and miles from home. She knew they hadn’t followed her
home when the phone call was over, but she hadn’t worried too much. Having them
out of the house for a while would be a good thing.
Or not.
“What will your father
think?” she hissed at the boys. “And the Pularubia –“
“Pularubia!
Pularubia!” the boys shouted.
“ – has left, and I
can’t call him to deal with you. Come out. NOW!”
Frau Davidson was
small. But Frau Davidson was not meek. The smiles faded from her boys’ faces.
They pulled the door open and slunk outside, the postmistress brushing past
them to put the receiver back on the hook.
Okay – are there still facts there? Check. But now there are
details. There’s a story. There’s something more to read. Something, hopefully,
to capture the reader’s eye and imagination. I don’t have to tell you they’re
miscreants. I’ve shown that.
Effective writing does have facts. But even more effective
writing has facts and details – especially when you’re trying to tell someone
else’s story.
Here’s an exercise: Try to explain what color is to a blind
man.
Or ponder what it’s like for a blind man to dream.
Bonus points for those who can create an awesome description
to help a blind person understand what a color is.
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