Things Your English Teacher Won't Tell You

How A Bit Of Trickery Will Make Your Writing Feel Alive

In an earlier post I mentioned the term Suspension of Disbelief, which is really just a nice way of saying you are misleading your readers for a good cause. Today, let’s go into this a bit deeper. Come inside, if you dare.

Every story, every novel, poem or song, no matter the format or genre, relies on the reader being transported temporarily into the writer’s imagination. We create entire worlds that exist first in our minds, then on paper or screen, and at last within our readers imaginations. It is almost a form of telepathy, giving thought seeds to perfect strangers and hoping they take root. But how can a writer ever pass along the strange worlds that live in our mind to people we don’t know and most likely will never meet?

In truth, we can’t. The scene I have in my mind will, no doubt, be different than the scene someone reading my description creates in their own mind, but if I have done my job properly the scene will be real enough for them to stay in the story I am telling. In other words, they have suspended their disbelief. In their minds, at least while they are reading, they are living in my imagination. And how, you ask as we come to the crux, can we as writers do this?

Simple. We lie.

Have you ever watched a magician’s act? If they are any good, and most of them are, the audience will be convinced that what they just witnessed is impossible Solid objects don’t vanish only to reappear elsewhere. People can’t be cut in two and then put back together. Pretty ladies can’t be turned into tigers. And even as we watch we know it is all a lie, a clever illusion, but still we watch with astonishment when the trick – and we all know it is a trick – works. How is this possible? Because the magisician, or illusionist if you prefer, has misdirected our expectations and temporarily hijacked our imaginations.

Writers do the same thing. Every scene we create, every bit of dialog or action or description is nothing more than a sleight of hand, a literary bit of prestidigitation. We create illusions with our words just as the stage magician crafts theirs with rope or theatrical fog.

Some writers create their illsurory worlds by usung vivid descriptions while others take a minimalist approach. In the end the way a writer lays out a scene is one of the hallmarks of their style and we all do it differently. But the end result is the same. We give our readers the foundation to create the scene in their mind’s eye.

Jenine followed the crying girl into the old church, but once inside, could not see her. She looked around, stunned at how the child seemed to have vanished. The church was like nothing she had seen before, the walls and domed cieling covered with bright murals, the figures oddly proportioned as if they had been lifted in whole from some ancient Byzantium palace. Bearded men in robes spoke with angels os simply stared heavenward, their names written beneath them in both English and Cyrillic. Some of the figures she recognized from the Sunday School her mother used to make her attend when she was little, but many of them she had never heard of. Saints with unpronouncable names, old men sitting atop high pillars, even one panel showing a Piper Super Cub banking into a storm, St. Herman of Alaska printed beneath it, Like the walls, the alter was brightly lit, gold leaf sparkling under the floodlamps. The air was cool and smelled faintly of frankincense, old lady perfume and Murphy’s Oil Soap.

“It is a beautiful church, isn’t it?” a voice said behind her. Startled, Jenine spun around.

A tall man with a gray beard and dark eyes,wearing a lomg robe, stood behind her. He smiled pleasantly. Jenine tried to collect herself.

“Yes, sir it is. Uh, yes, father?”

“Leonard,” the presbyter said. He had an accent, probably Chicago or New York. “Father Leonard.”

“I’m sorry I came in here uninvited.” Jenine could feel her cheeks redden with embarrasment.

“Quite all right,” Father Leonard said. “Visitors are always welcome.” He paused. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, actually…” She considered lying, but decided against it. “There was a little girl outside, crying. I thought she might be in trouble, but when I said something to her she ran in here. But, I don’t see her now.”

“I see.” The priet’s face grew serious. “Young, no more than five or six? Blond hair in braids? Black dress and red shoes?”

“Yeah,” Jenine said, relieved that the priest had seen the girl as well. “That’s her.”

“Her name is Hanna.” His smile returned, a bit wistful. “She is our resident ghost.”

So, do you see what I did there? While I was giving you a tour of our local Serbian Orthodox church, I was quietly laying the foundation of the scene in your mind, hopefully enough that when Father Leonard informs us the church is haunted by a little girl named Hannah you weren’t thrown out of the story. If I did my job right, if my misdirection was on, you suspended your disbelief.

Use strong words and vivid descriotion. Distract them with dialog. Throw some action around. Reach out and grab your readers by the collar and pull them in. Think about how you envision the scene. Close your eyes if it helps, and look around, gathering it in your mind. What glittery little details can you toss out at your readers to distract them? What can you do make them see what you want them to see? Find a way to hold their attention while you weave your illusions around them. Do whatever it takes to make them step into your world and stay awhile so you can get on with the serious business of telling your story?

That, dear reader, is the trick of it.