There exist untold numbers of articles across the Internet on how or when to write, plot structure, creating characters, etc., a good number of which that I’ve read are not only well-intentioned but are chocked full with solid advice. The bottom line is, writing, as a hobby or craft, is a growth-based endeavor; it takes time and proper nurturing to bear sweet fruit.

This won’t be one of those articles about mechanics or grammar. There are plenty of excellent books and resources dedicated to those disciplines.

This is about the intuition of writing—the Zen of wordsmithing, if you will. It’s the act of drawing upon and describing those moments when your logical mind quietly faded to the background and your soul leapt forward, absorbing the moment and all its nuances like melted wax against the ridges of a fingerprint. When that wax cools and it’s still pliable, upon its surface is a print entirely unique to its owner, captured in a physical medium for the rest of the world to see.

For example, I’m not a baseball nut, but I have a deep appreciation, a certain love for the game, because of things I experienced as a boy in Little League. I don’t remember stats or know volumes about the game’s history, but I do remember its essence—that’s what draws me to it: the solid crack of a wood bat as it strikes the ball, the excited roar of the crowd during a game, or even the act of standing in the outfield letting the light, sweet odor of grass waft about you. These things are gently etched upon my being—the words are written to evoke certain imagery, they’re somewhat mechanical, but making that invisible leap from that intuitive feeling to the page is what hooks the reader, at some point or other, ensnaring some shared experience and creating a wordless bond between you and the reader, ironically via words—your words.

In fictional writing—especially short stories—it’s crucial not only to keep the reader interested but to bring him or her along with you as you tell the story. Sounds obvious, but it’s not always as simple as it would seem. Use your senses to describe the setting, to color the atmosphere with vivid splashes of evocative wording. Consider your imagination as a needle, and your words as thread.

If you are setting a scene with two people walking on the beach, then describe the environment: how it feels underfoot, how the air smells, what the breeze might do to clothes and hair, etc. For instance:

Descriptive, but lifeless
They walked upon the sand, hand-in-hand, as the ocean crashed upon the shore.

Intuitively descriptive
The warm sand gave slowly, with dry fluidity, under each step they took. With her hand pleasingly comfortable in his, they strolled in silhouette against the setting Pacific sun as the surf foamed and rolled, inching further up the beach.

The difference (besides the obvious)? The first sentence tells you what’s going on and leaves it at that. The second draws a visual story and fills it in with the senses. Having said that, the first sentence contains thirteen words—the second, forty; it’s always wise to be economical with your words, just as you might with your wallet—get the most from the least when possible. Writing intuitively can induce wordiness. If you find that’s what’s happening, go back and revise as much as possible but retain the essence, the spirit and feeling of your words. You can bore readers with not enough detail, and can certainly lose them with far too much. Thread your needle carefully.

In my short story Emissary I used the same idea to invite the reader into a mudroom as two characters don rain slickers and boots to step out into the morning rain:

Just off the kitchen was the mudroom, a space just large enough to hang six sets of coats, rain slickers, and galoshes. It measured only six feet by six feet, but what it lacked in size it made up for in coziness. Plastic and rubber slapped and wobbled as we donned our gear, the clasps clicking in an almost-natural syncopation with the rain falling on the roof above. Neither of us said a word as we stepped out of the mudroom and into the morning rain, the soft drizzle on the slicker and the ever-present sound of surf reminding us who was really in charge.

I’ve given very basic dimensions for the room’s size so the reader can quickly draw a mental picture, then provide sound cues and certain ‘visual’ nuances—if you’ve never seen how rubber galoshes wobble, or heard how a slicker sounds as you move around in it, you may not completely understand the setting. But anyone old enough to read knows what rain sounds like as it falls upon any surface, and most can instantly recall the sound of it falling upon a roof. There’s enough detail to give some imagery, but the real power comes from empathy—vicariously experiencing things without actually having them spelled out in excruciating detail, or perhaps even without ever having experienced them firsthand.

The same holds true for character emotion. Let that emotion—that humanity—live and breathe in your characters and their dialogue. The writing maxim, “Show, don’t tell” definitely applies here.

Telling
“I’ve told you at least six times not to put my pantyhose in the dryer!” she shouted at him.

Okay, you get the idea that she’s pretty cheesed about another ruined pair of pantyhose. But while it is indeed word-economical it sacrifices some raw emotional impact. What might happen instead if you show?

Showing
She dangled the two pair of shrunken hose in front of him, her incredulous gaze shifting between them and him. He badly wanted to laugh, but while the now miniaturized pantyhose were funny she apparently didn’t share the humor of the situation. “How . . . how many times have I asked you not to put my hose in the dryer?” she stammered, shaking the nylons for emphasis.

Again, a touch wordy, but you get the idea. You can picture the pantyhose wiggling in mid-air, the woman heatedly trying to get her message across. The point gets made by implication, not outright imposition.

As a final self-check I highly recommend reading aloud your writing. Listen to how the words sound together. Do they paint the picture you intended them to? Do they make that subtle play for the reader’s empathy? Do they feel just as intuitive as you felt them when you first tapped them out? Then do yourself (and your readers) a favor and sleep on it. Come back later and read it again, refreshed. It may surprise you how much you improve and tighten up your prose by reading it out loud.

Mark Twain’s first rule of writing states “A tale shall accomplish something and arrive somewhere.” If you’ve written from your intuition and not solely from your brain then you’ll certainly have accomplished something of value not only for the reader, but both of you. Each will have arrived at a satisfactory destination.

© 2008 J.W. Nicklaus

J.W. Nicklaus is a twice-published poet and author of a new short-story collection The Light, The Dark, and Ember Between.