Man paces the beach
rounded calves of
pale freckled skin
Perhaps unaccustomed to
sun exposure
Yet
He flies a kite with casual ease
a nonchalance only gained
from endless practice
He keeps the kite
on a short leash
Simple blue diamond it hovers
silently persistent
got a monkey on your back?
walk circles to shrug it off
Yet
He treads without alarm or tension
Familiar with this friendly presence
kite peering over shoulder
His soul on a string
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The above is an untitled poem by Fiona Clifford
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Imagining Details: Literature vs. Film
Sometimes I like to read the reviews included at the front of a book before starting the book itself. This was the case when I first picked up what I'm currently reading: In the Lake of the Woods by Tim O'Brien. The following excerpt from a review stood out...
"...literature's natural strength: the way in which an author can call on a reader's intelligence to help fashion a novel's effects." - Harper's Bazaar
It got me thinking...when trying to describe something creatively within the structure of a novel/short story/etc., you can't simply set down every excruciatingly imagined, minute detail that your writerly brain can conjure up. To do so would likely mess with the flow of the work. It's very jarring to read an onslaught of description that sort of zooms you out of the narrative; and then once the description is over, to get plopped back down in the plot again. It's a delicate balancing act to thoughtfully include details - so naturally and subtlely that the reader is not consciously aware of receiving them - with just enough clarity to allow the reader's imagination to participate. Where the above quote mentions the reader's "intelligence," I think "imagination" is a more appropriate notion.
Within a movie, there are an abundance of details (objects that make up the setting the scene occurs in; the characters' wardrobes; the addition of soundtrack music to compliment the mood/emotions) - but many of these details are tucked in the background. Though the camera dictates what we see, viewers often encounter movie scenes the same way we take in the world around us. We see what we look at, we hear sounds around us. Smell, touch, and taste are harder to convey in a movie, but sight and sound typically unfold on film in a way that we recognize - in a way that requires less creative effort on the part of the viewer.
As an example, think about the scene at the end of American Beauty when Caroline (Annette Bening's character) has presumably just discovered Lester's dead body. We hear her gasping, the slam of the bedroom door. See her wet hair. Watch her open the closet doors with effort. Watch her notice and reach out for Lester's shirts. Hear the gentle clink as the hangers bump together. Hear her gasps turn to a sustained wail. Watch her lean into the rack of shirts, clothes swaying back in unison under her weight. Hear the snap of hangers springing from the rail. Notice clothes softly crumbling to the floor, the awkward way Caroline's legs bend out behind her. All this occurs somewhat simultaneously in about 30 seconds. We absorb these details as naturally as if we're in the same room watching it all firsthand, unseen by Caroline.
How would this same scene be different if presented in prose? It likely wouldn't do much for the reader if I wrote that Caroline is wearing a red dress and carrying a black purse. That the closet doors are painted white. That there are plaid shirts, blue shirts, and tan shirts hanging in the closet. Yet these details are also presented in the movie scene - we may notice them or not. We are likely noticing them without truly realizing it. In writing, the mention of these things may add painful bulk to the scene. Then again, writing provides descriptive opportunities that film does not: the ability to integrate touch (the softness of Lester's well-worn flannel shirt against Caroline's cheek); smell (the lingering scent of detergent on the fabric, mingled with her freshly shampooed hair, wet from the rainstorm outside); and taste (salt from her tears, an aftertaste of garlic from dinner with the man she was having an affair with).
To me, in film, the scene is served by the imagination of behind-the-scene movie folks (stylists, props, sound effects, scene dressers, etc.) These folks are responsible for determining what kind of clothes the character would wear; the objects that would be found in the character's bedroom; what music best suits the desired effect of the scene. Then they create a physical, "real life" setting by artfully arranging those details in front of the camera. As a result of all the imagination that went in on the back end, there is less imagination required from the viewer. We simply watch and listen. Film makers are able to present us with a great number of details due to the nature of the medium.
In writing, the reader is not able to absorb details in the same manner. Reading is not the same thing as watching and listening. The author must selectively decide what details to present in order to keep the story moving and not overwhelm the reader. There needs to be enough detail to breathe life into the work - to give the reader enough footing to imagine the world on the page in a concrete, personalized way - without allowing the reader to accuse the author of leaving them stranded in the dark.
"...literature's natural strength: the way in which an author can call on a reader's intelligence to help fashion a novel's effects." - Harper's Bazaar
It got me thinking...when trying to describe something creatively within the structure of a novel/short story/etc., you can't simply set down every excruciatingly imagined, minute detail that your writerly brain can conjure up. To do so would likely mess with the flow of the work. It's very jarring to read an onslaught of description that sort of zooms you out of the narrative; and then once the description is over, to get plopped back down in the plot again. It's a delicate balancing act to thoughtfully include details - so naturally and subtlely that the reader is not consciously aware of receiving them - with just enough clarity to allow the reader's imagination to participate. Where the above quote mentions the reader's "intelligence," I think "imagination" is a more appropriate notion.
| Movies can easily show us action, with less need for the reader to "imagine" what's happening. Photo Source |
As an example, think about the scene at the end of American Beauty when Caroline (Annette Bening's character) has presumably just discovered Lester's dead body. We hear her gasping, the slam of the bedroom door. See her wet hair. Watch her open the closet doors with effort. Watch her notice and reach out for Lester's shirts. Hear the gentle clink as the hangers bump together. Hear her gasps turn to a sustained wail. Watch her lean into the rack of shirts, clothes swaying back in unison under her weight. Hear the snap of hangers springing from the rail. Notice clothes softly crumbling to the floor, the awkward way Caroline's legs bend out behind her. All this occurs somewhat simultaneously in about 30 seconds. We absorb these details as naturally as if we're in the same room watching it all firsthand, unseen by Caroline.
| How would this scene be different if presented in prose? Photo Source |
To me, in film, the scene is served by the imagination of behind-the-scene movie folks (stylists, props, sound effects, scene dressers, etc.) These folks are responsible for determining what kind of clothes the character would wear; the objects that would be found in the character's bedroom; what music best suits the desired effect of the scene. Then they create a physical, "real life" setting by artfully arranging those details in front of the camera. As a result of all the imagination that went in on the back end, there is less imagination required from the viewer. We simply watch and listen. Film makers are able to present us with a great number of details due to the nature of the medium.
In writing, the reader is not able to absorb details in the same manner. Reading is not the same thing as watching and listening. The author must selectively decide what details to present in order to keep the story moving and not overwhelm the reader. There needs to be enough detail to breathe life into the work - to give the reader enough footing to imagine the world on the page in a concrete, personalized way - without allowing the reader to accuse the author of leaving them stranded in the dark.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Books, Books, Books
| This set me back $3.25 |
In case you're wondering, here's what I came home with today:
- Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates - I read this book a few years ago and loved it. The more I think about it, this book has informed some of what I'm trying to accomplish with my Laura/Wren piece - in terms of exploring the insular world of a homelife, and an outside person who comes to affect the family in an intangible way. So I just had to make sure I owned a copy. The movie based off of this book is also excellent.
- This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff - I got a little confused when I first picked this up, as I was thinking this was the book that the movie The Basketball Diaries was based off of (ummm the book that the movie is based off of is also called The Basketball Diaries...guess my morning coffee hadn't kicked in yet). Then I realized that there is a movie based off of This Boy's Life and that Leonardo DiCaprio is in that movie and The Basketball Diaries movie. Whew! Then I realized I was still standing there with the book in my hand so I might as well get it.
- A Home At The End Of The World by Michael Cunningham - Michael Cunningham wrote The Hours, which I loved, so I'm excited to read more of his work.
- The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean - I have a sneaking suspicion that we already have a copy of this book, but I have wanted to read it ever since I saw Adaptation.
- Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding - I read this back in high school? When I first started college? Either way, it's been awhile. It's a must have. Though I'm not a fan of the cover art on the edition I got today.
- The Fall Of The House Of Usher and Other Writings by Edgar Allan Poe - We watched The Raven (with John Cusack) recently, and while it's not the greatest movie, it did make we want to read some Poe. I'm pretty sure we already have various versions of collected Poe works hidden somewhere in our bookshelves.
- Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood - This was required summer reading for AP English my Senior year of high school. One of the main things I remember from this book is that when the main character was growing up, she had a compulsive habit of peeling skin off the bottom of her feet. It will be interesting to read this book now that 13 years have gone by (probably more than that, by the time I get around to reading it)
- It's Always Something by Gilda Radner - I'm a sucker for celebrity memoirs. I think this one will be heart wrenching.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
April 25-30 Sentences
The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
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[From April 1-24] It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
"Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
Wren accepted the offering and settled on the living room floor. Laura stood awkwardly above her daughter for a moment, unsure what to do next. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen, but working at the sink - with the blank, windowless wall in front of her, windows full of rain at her back - required more effort than she could muster.
She sank back into the couch, trying to shake off the fog that had settled around her mind.
Stretched out on her stomach, legs bent, Wren absentmindedly swished her feet through the air like windshield wipers. Back and forth. Back and forth. The yellow and red colored pencils broke free from the carton, rolled to the edge of the coloring book. Without taking her eyes off the page, Wren dropped the pencil in her hand and picked up the red. The pencil box rattled.
Laura watched Wren place the tip of the pencil in the center of a cartoon bunny's nose, then start coloring. Wren gripped the pencil in a fist, bore down hard. Laura waited for the tip to snap off.
Wren quickly filled in the bunny nose, then continued outside the lines, moving across the animal’s face. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The pencil rasped across the paper. As Wren dragged the color in jagged scribbles, the rasping filled Laura’s ears like insect wings rubbing together. The sound joined by bursts of rain blowing against the windows, exploding into dribbling splatters.
Clamping her hands over her ears, Laura nervously tracked the uneven lines of red traveling across the bunny’s face like a slow flood of blood. Bright and harsh against the crisp white paper. Flashes of finding Fred in that bath tub. Uneven splotches of blood against the tile.
What would happen when Wren’s pencil scratched over the bunny’s eyes? Laura couldn’t stand to see those eyes colored red. She had to get out.
“Let’s go!” she blurted out, bolting up from the couch. Hands still covering her ears.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
April 14-24 Sentences
The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
[From April 1-10] It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
"Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered. Laura picked a coloring book from the top of the heap. Examining the forgotten cartoon characters splashed across the cover, she wondered if coloring was too childish for a nine year old. Hovering just inside the closet door, she tried to predict Wren's reaction.
She sank back into the couch, trying to shake off the fog that had settled around her mind.
Stretched out on her stomach, legs bent, Wren absentmindedly swished her feet through the air like windshield wipers. Back and forth. Back and forth. The yellow and red colored pencils broke free from the carton, rolled to the edge of the coloring book. Without taking her eyes off the page, Wren dropped the pencil in her hand and picked up the red. The pencil box rattled.
Laura watched Wren place the tip of the pencil in the center of a cartoon bunny's nose, then start coloring.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
April 11-13 Sentences
The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
[From April 1-10] It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
"Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered. Laura picked a coloring book from the top of the heap. Examining the forgotten cartoon characters splashed across the cover, she wondered if coloring was too childish for a nine year old. Hovering just inside the closet door, she tried to predict Wren's reaction.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
April 10 Sentence
The following is from a work in progress by Fiona Clifford
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
[From April 1-9] It was a stifling weekend with Wren - full of incessant, drizzling rain; stale air, the lingering smell of fried bacon from breakfast; and the sensed agitation of the neighbors, also cooped up in their constricted apartment worlds.
"Bored, bored, bored," Wren muttered to herself, pacing the living room's threadbare carpet. Then, unexpectedly lunging at Laura on the couch and digging her fingers into her mother's thighs, she shouted "I'M BORED" in Laura's face.
Startled by the wild flash in her daughter's eyes, Laura pressed back into the couch cushions.
Wren released her grip, retreated a few steps. Flapping her arms against the sides of her own legs, she twirled in lopsided circles before collapsing on the floor with an exasperated sigh.
Trying to act normal, Laura rose from the couch. Heart skittering, she headed to the hallway closet to see if there were any forgotten board games that might occupy Wren.
Fraying towels, ill-fitting spare sheets waited in the dust and dark. At the bottom of it all, a lopsided pile of puzzles and games teetered.
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