Commandments for Writers Series: #10, One-Zero, TEN-- LAAAAA

I almost forgot in the craziness that is my life that I had not presented Commandment Number Ten from Sol Stein's Ten Commandments for Writers, from his book, Stein on Writing. Whew! That would have been embarrassing.

10 Above all, thou shalt not vent thy emotions onto the reader, for thy duty is to evoke the reader's emotions, and in that lies the art of the writer.

 This is my favorite commandment of them all. I relate to this, I agree with it, I GET IT.
I don't think Sol is saying that you can't use your emotions to express feelings on a page. Many of us channel frustration, sorrow, joy into scenes we've thought about, that we know are coming, or scenes that have been inspired by the emotions when they hit. That can be amazing after editing and revisions hone down the emotional avalanche to bones that will move the story forward, deepen the character, create tension.
BUT, have you ever read something and found yourself not submersed in the story, but considering what happened to the author to make them write what is on the page, and why are they pushing this on you? It can be such a fine line, between venting emotions onto a reader, and evoking the reader's emotions.
Let's look at the definition of the word, evoke.

e·voke  (-vk)

tr.v. e·voked, e·vok·ing, e·vokes

1. To summon or call forth: actions that evoked our mistrust.

2. To call to mind or recollection by naming, citing, or suggesting: songs that evoke old memories.

3. To create anew, especially by means of the imagination: a novel that evokes the Depression in accurate detail.

The act of evoking is an outside act. The focus is on those outside ourselves, in this case, our reader. When we write emotion, we want to tap into our reader's mind, his memories, his experiences with similar emotions, and draw on those to evoke compassion, support, even comradery, with the characters we are writing. Can we use our own experiences? Of course. But we can't just tell our reader what to feel, can't just push it on him and say, "I feel this, so now you feel it." Nope.
We have to suggest. For example, frustration. Remember how it feels? How, when you're trying to fix something you're not sure how to fix, and you're already running late...

His fingers were too thick, too clumsy to grasp the wrench in that tiny space under the cupboard between the wall and the old copper pipes. Twenty minutes he'd been wedged under there, cursing himself for the half-dozen donuts he'd eaten in that week. Maple bars, chocolate cream-filled... glazed raised ... displayed in the office, every day. Donuts had always been his downfall, but he wasn't playing football anymore. Neither was he a plumber.
"Aaugh." He clenched his teeth against the curse word in his head as the wrench slipped against the bolt and clanked noisily to the bottom of the cupboard.
"You all right?" his wife asked as she hurried to lift steaming jars of processed peaches to a towel on the counter. "I'm so sorry. If it hadn't happened in the middle of canning--"
"Just get me that other wrench, the funky one with the bendable head." He stuck his bleeding knuckle in his mouth. "I'm just too big to reach these bolts." His fingers shook, always did after too much exertion. It's a good thing he hadn't pursued the surgeon thing. Of course, then he could afford to pay someone to be wedged under the sink, fixing the broken faucet.
"When are you supposed to leave?" 
"About twenty minutes ago."
His wife drew in her breath. "Do I need to call somebody?" She handed him the funky wrench and squeezed his arm, an attempt to soothe. "Do you need a band-aid?"
He huffed out a laugh but scowled. "No, I'm fine. I'm not leaving you for three days with a broken sink. They'll just wait on me. They can't go anywhere, I'm driving."
"All the way to Cheyenne?"
Distracted by the realization that the funky wrench was too bulky to fit in the cramped space, he didn't answer, but tossed the heavy thing out the cupboard opening. "Why don't we have any tools in this house?"
He ran a hand through his thinning hair as his wife paused in her work on the peaches.
"We do," she answered, "but they're all my tools, and I'm not a plumber. I'm sorry."
The truth stung and he grabbed her old wrench, jammed it up around the stuck bolt, and applied pressure enough that his fingers shook again. Holding his breath, he twisted, squeezing, cursing his teaching degree and swearing in his next life he would be "handy". The bolt gave with a jerk and his breath whooshed out of him.
"I got it."
"You got it?"
"Yup."

This is based on true events experienced recently by my husband and I. The frustration was there, but I didn't just tell you my husband was frustrated and I was frustrated and you should be frustrated, too. I got inside my husband's head, drew on those things that a reader might understand or connect with on some level, and then invited the reader to say, "Oh, man, I have been there!" Even if "there" was the inability to pitch a single strike at the game, or being stranded on the side of the road with the car hood up, or struggling to administer an IV after a long day. The self-doubt, the shoulda-woulda-coulda, the fatigue, all a part of feeling frustrated.

Does that make sense? Invite, draw, relate. Don't push or force. 

Unless you are trying to loosen a stuck bolt so your wife can finish her peaches.

Thoughts?

Search Your Feelings

A writer and nothing else:  a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right.

~John K. Hutchens, New York Herald Tribune, 10 September 1961

 I am getting The Inn ready for submission, diving into another edit. It is the sequel to The Orchard and centers around Elizabeth Embry, Alisen's older, snobby, successful sister. It had to be different because Elizabeth is such a different character from Alisen. Alisen was so open and searching. Elizabeth is closed and cautious, skeptical. Alisen had never been away from home. Elizabeth is hardly ever home. Alisen had innocence. Elizabeth has been there, done that. It was very interesting, finding her story. But they both had their childhood, shared the pain of the loss of their mother, and, though Elizabeth's awareness of it is latent, are looking for home... a place to belong.
The Inn has been my most difficult novel to write so far. It was my first novel without a definite inspiration (The Orchard was based on Jane Austen's Persuasion) and so I still worry about where it goes, plot and conflict. But I do love the emotion, because Elizabeth is so guarded. I loved having her true feelings forced to the page. So, while I struggle with the twist and timing, here is a snippet of emotion I do like. The X's are to eliminate a spoiler.

 

She flipped on the entry light and looked around.  The cathedral ceilings made the room feel extra large, or maybe she just felt small tonight.  The furniture was simply arranged in front of the fireplace on the right wall, and the back windows overlooking the golf course were black, only reflecting the room and her own image.  She took a deep breath and headed for her bedroom.

She hung up the dress in her closet, set down her bag, and sat on the bed.  Her heart began to thud a little too uncomfortably and she took another breath.  Gripping her phone, she pressed the button.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Paul.”

“Liz.  How are you?” 

She pictured his smile. 

She breathed as she spoke, trying to hide the rapid movement she felt from her heart to her throat.  “I’m good.  I’m sorry I couldn’t return your call earlier.  I’ve been on the road.”

“Where to this time?”

“Actually, not too far.  XXXXXXXXX.”

There was a pause.  “Well, that’s great.”

“Yes, it is.”  She tried not to overdo the enthusiasm as she smiled.  “It was lovely.”

“Good, Liz.  Man, its great to hear your voice.”

Something occurred to her.  She looked at the clock.  “Are you still in Hong Kong?”

He laughed quietly.  “No.  I’m in Maine.  I opened a restaurant here a while back.”

“Oh.”  She hadn’t expected that.  “It’s still late, though.  I’m sorry.”  He didn’t say anything.  “Should I call back in the morning?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“So, Maine?”

“Yes.  An old friend of mine offered me a chance at his place and I couldn’t turn it down.  I missed the homeland.  And the restaurant is doing really well…”

He sounded as if there was more.  She waited, gently biting her manicured thumbnail.  “And…?”

He took a deep breath and she pictured him scratching his hair back and forth as he raised his eyebrows.  “…and, I’m getting married, Liz.”

She blinked and felt heat rising up her neck, then her face.  She didn’t breathe as her mind flipped like a deck of cards, too fast to land on something to say.

“I wanted to tell you… before you heard it from somebody else.”

She nodded, somehow finding her voice.  “Anyone I know?”

“No, no.  She’s a schoolteacher here in Maine.  She’s… she’s really great, Liz.”  His voice was gentle, not boasting. 

Elizabeth swallowed, hoping that would affect the water accumulating in her lower lids.  It didn’t.  “I hope she is.” 

They were silent for a few stretched moments.  Finally, he spoke.

“Liz… I,” he cleared his throat, “take care of yourself, okay?”

She nodded.  She was good at that.  “Paul?”  A rough rock lodged in her throat. 

“Yes?”

 She felt the hot, unwelcome sting of a tear escape down her cheek.  “I hope everything works out… with the restaurant, and… everything.”

“Thanks, Liz.”  He paused.  “Liz?”

Couldn’t she just go, now?  “Uh-huh?”

He hesitated, then whispered low, “You’re more than you think you are.”

Her hand came to her stomach as if she’d been hit, and she tried to swallow.  He had said those words to her before, in a much different situation.  She had to let them sink in once more. 

Finally, she whispered back, “Goodbye, Paul.”

“Goodbye.”

She hit cancel and dropped the phone.  She sat there holding her stomach, holding back the tears, steadying her breathing.

 Twenty minutes later, she slowly got up and changed into her nightgown, skimming past the shimmering red kimono robe, noting to herself that she could never wear it again, and hating herself for being that sentimental.

She climbed into bed, set her alarm, pulled the light covers up, and closed her eyes.  An hour later, the silent sobs came when she was too tired to fight them any longer.

And she knew her cries weren’t just for him.

Emotion is such a personal thing to write. How do you take words and form them into feelings, while staying true to the character? Share your thoughts.