When I was eight, I moved from my dad's house in Ireland to my grandparents' house on Long Island. It was a typical American house built of wood frame. One of the few details I mentioned in my memoir Love Child was the thickness, or rather thinness, of its walls. The Irish walls were stone two feet thick; these walls were flimsy and mean in comparison. I hated them.
When my friend Liz read the book, she said, "Now I know why your walls are so thick!" The house I live in now has double-thick adobe walls—unusual for a newly-built house, since that extra layer of adobes is a substantial extra cost. These walls are probably about the same thickness as the old Irish walls, with deep-set windows creating a journey for your eyes as you look outside.
I skimped elsewhere when we were building this house, as money was tight, but the double-thick walls were non-negotiable. I didn't realize why until Liz's comment reminded me of how unsettled and unsafe I felt in that flimsy-walled Long Island house.
Ten years later, as James Navé and I were working on prompts to do with location for Write What You Don't Know, those layers of memory came back to me. I didn't have a technique when I wrote about the Long Island walls; they just popped themselves onto the page. Our task was to develop prompts that would enable anyone to choose the right detail and imbue it with emotional power. As you know if you've been around us for a while, we believe that trying to write well is the number one enemy of writing well. So we wanted to find a way to do this without effort, with the imagination and the heart taking the lead.
Here’s the prompt we came up with. You might like to try it for yourself:
Choose a location in which you had a strong emotional experience. Close your eyes and put yourself back in that place. Notice all the details, sights and sounds and smells, and make a list.
(Lists are a big part of the Imaginative Storm method. They're the prep, like a pianist practicing scales or trills, or a decorator filling holes in the wall before painting it. They’re enjoyable, and they help take away the pressure to write well.)
If I was writing about my current kitchen, my list might include:
aqua walls tin milagros of hands and hearts nailed to the walls old-fashioned tin ceiling as a backsplash behind the cooker basic, non-electronic cooker (yay!) spice jars in a hanging holder, rather dusty knife block with mismatched knives, annoyingly blunt shelf with teas, one corner held up by a wine bottle the fabulous heated table candlesticks with half-burned candles deep two-bowl stainless steel sink etc.
Now go through your list and make notes about how each item made you feel, then or now. You can use words like "sad" or "trapped" or "celebratory" but it's best to be specific rather than abstract. For example, the spice jars represent my desire to be a good cook, and the dust shows that I don't cook much: fantasies of the domestic goddess I will never be, a complex welter of emotions.
Other items on your list might be full of story, such as the milagros on my kitchen walls (my first Christmas tree decorations in Taos, 24 years ago), or the fabulous table which I invented and commissioned, which has become the hearth of this house and fills me with satisfied delight every time I sit at it.
Some details on your list might combine to hold the same emotion. Some details might not hold much emotion at all—if they bore you as you make your notes, you’ll know those are details to leave out. So, now you can set your 10-minute timer and describe that place, and this intriguing preparatory exploration will integrate the story and the setting, seamlessly.
You can purchase Write What You Don't Know in paperback or as a self-paced online course. Even better, work through the book over 10 weeks, with James Navé as your guide in a small Zoom workshop, every Tuesday from June 11 to August 20. There are still a few spots remaining; learn more and register here. We promise that what you write will amaze you!
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