creative writing describing a party

Alexander Chee on What Writing Parties Reveals About Characters

The author of The Queen of the Night describes how a scene by Charlotte Bronte showed him the dramatic stakes of social interaction in fiction.

By Heart is a series in which authors share and discuss their all-time favorite passages in literature. See entries from Karl Ove Knausgaard, Jonathan Franzen, Amy Tan, Khaled Hosseini, and more.

A few years ago, the publishing imprint Picador asked writers to share their favorite party scenes from literature. Many classics were cited—the finale of Mrs. Dalloway , Joyce’s winter-bleak “The Dead,” Bilbo’s birthday celebration in The Fellowship of the Ring , Jay Gatsby’s wild Friday nights. But one writer, the award-winning novelist Jim Crace, had a different take. “I hate parties,” he wrote. “Come on, admit it, everyone hates parties. Stop pretending.”

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It’s a reminder that parties, as fun as they can be, often also provoke profound anxiety and dread—and that dichotomy is one reason Alexander Chee, author of The Queen of the Night , loves writing about them. For Chee, parties are essential dramatic tools in fiction: They’re supercharged with action, intrigue, and uncertainty. In our conversation for this series, Chee looked closely at a pivotal scene in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette , where a play is put on during a lavish ball. In Chee’s view, Bronte offers an apt metaphor for how parties work: We’re all acting, and the roles we choose and costumes we wear say everything about us.

It’s been almost 15 years since Chee’s acclaimed first novel, Edinburgh , was published in 2001. It’s clear why this one took him so long: The Queen of the Night is a multi-stranded, thoroughly researched epic about the world of 19th-century French opera. The main character, a soprano with a harrowing past she is ashamed of, is offered a starring role in an production written specifically for her by an anonymous composer; to her horror, she discovers that the work contains details about her secret life. In our discussion, Chee explained how Villette helped him become more comfortable writing about 19th-century mores, and imbue performance scenes with dramatic force.

Chee’s essays and stories have appeared in The New York Times Book Review, Tin House, Slate, Guernica, NPR, and Out , among others. The winner of a 2003 Whiting Award, he inspired the idea for the much-discussed “Amtrak residency” and curates the Dear Reader reading series in New York City, where he lives.

Alexander Chee: I had a writing teacher once who told us writers should never describe parties. If possible, she said, we should avoid it. It might have been her own disinclination for parties, even though she seemed to be a very social person. Or it may have been that she was simply tired of the way undergraduates wrote about parties. But her advice made the description of parties incredibly taboo to me, and gradually, I knew, I would have to write about them.

The qualities that make parties such a nightmare for people—and also so pleasurable—make them incredibly important inside of fiction. There’s a chaos agent quality to them: You just don’t know who’s going to be there, or why. You could run into an old enemy, an old friend, an old friend who’s become an enemy. You could run into an ex-lover, or your next lover. The stakes are all there, and that’s why they’re so fascinating.

In my first novel, there’s a party scene that I’m incredibly proud of, which I would hold up as a model to anyone. But that was the kind of party I was very used to—kids in college, someone’s family isn’t home—which made it easy to write. My new novel presented a very different challenge. I had zero experience with the parties of the 19th century. (Most of us alive, I guess you could say, really don’t.) When you’re writing historical fiction you have to think a little farther into the situation: what the average social interactions were, what was acceptable behavior. What did people think was fun, what did they find unhappy, and why?

I knew I wanted the parties in The Queen of the Night to be convincing, beautiful, and also dramatic, situations where significant things happened on a scale that was both grand and intimate.

There were several texts that helped me think about how to do this and one of the most important ones was Charlotte Bronte’s novel Villette . The heroine, Lucy Snowe, is not particularly beautiful, but is incredibly intelligent, and was born into unfortunate circumstances. She has ruthless standards of behavior for herself and others that she believes protects her, and so parties are almost like battles for her, over her identity, even her soul.

There’s a party in Chapter XIV, “The Fete,” which beautifully demonstrates the dramatic stakes. Lucy has left England for France, and is working as a teacher at a boarding school for young women there. The party is an annual one, celebrating the headmistress, Madame Beck, and involves a short play performed in her honor as well as dancing.

On the grand scale, it brings out the world of the novel and the larger political context of the era. The students and teachers are from different parts of the world, and there’s a lot of commentary about what is English and what is French, so their two nations’ longstanding conflict with each other gets rendered as a sort of banter. That was useful for me to see as the parties in The Queen of the Night have international guests, some of them very important diplomatic or aristocratic figures, some of whom had been at war or were about to be at war, or were spying on each other. Seeing how that plays itself out in the minutiae of these parties was part of what I was looking for.

But “The Fete” does its best on a smaller scale, bringing out dynamics between the main characters. One of the things that’s really important in Queen of the Night is how people communicate with their clothes. We start to see that, here, before the party even begins. There’s a great scene where Lucy is thinking about how everyone will dress, and also how she will dress, and is anxious about it. As she watches a group of young girls preparing for the evening, dressed in muslin, she can’t see herself in their brilliant white outfits:

In beholding this diaphanous and snowy mass, I well remember feeling myself to be a mere shadowy spot on a field of light; the courage was not in me to put on a transparent white dress: something thin I must wear—the weather and rooms being too hot to give substantial fabrics sufferance, so I had sought through a dozen shops till I lit upon a crape-like material of purple-gray—the colour, in short, of dun mist, lying on a moor in bloom. My tailleuse had kindly made it as well as she could: because, as she judiciously observed, it was “ si triste — si pen voyant ,” care in the fashion was the more imperative: it was well she took this view of the matter, for I, had no flower, no jewel to relieve it: and, what was more, I had no natural rose of complexion. We become oblivious of these deficiencies in the uniform routine of daily drudgery, but they will force upon us their unwelcome blank on those bright occasions when beauty should shine. However, in this same gown of shadow, I felt at home and at ease; an advantage I should not have enjoyed in anything more brilliant or striking.

Lucy is anxious to look appropriate to the situation even as she does not want to draw attention to herself. She’s hoping to choose her dramatic role in the evening, aware that the whole thing is a play of a kind, not just the one rehearsed event. Party clothes say so much about what someone wants to communicate to other people about themselves, as well as what they’re also feeling about themselves, and whether what they’re making makes them feel more or less powerful. And the “gown of shadow,” is such a fantastic phrase: turning her mousy attire into something transfiguring and even powerful for a brief moment. At the beginning of that section she’s a shadowy spot on a field of light. And by the end of that description, she’s the gown of shadow.

And, as I read it, I can see how this phrase, “gown of shadow” became incredibly important as an image in my own novel, and I suspect this is where it comes from. Also this sense of being dressed and hidden at the same time.

In fiction, I think, you’re always working with who your characters are and who they believe they are. You’re telling a story that’s about both of those people. At a party you see, most of all, who they aspire to be, a kind of theatrical role they hope to assume—it’s not just Lucy Snowe doing this. And so the costume we are in, as it were, matters hugely—and Bronte makes that overt in this scene, when an emergency requires Lucy to play a part in the little play that’s going to be put on: One of the male actors has fallen ill, and she’s forced to step in. She’s told she must dress as a man for this. And so, she’s unwillingly being drawn into the center of attention even as she’s already being disguised by the costume that she must wear. That is a wonderful paradox of forces to subject someone like Lucy to—someone who is hoping to simply wear that gown of shadow and slip by, watching from the edges and certainly not be at the center of attention.

These kinds of entertainments were very common back then; it was typical, at these parties, to have a tableau vivant or charade, play, or operetta, as part of the game of the evening. The play doubles as a kind of metaphor for the way a party brings out certain elements of a character’s personality, and Bronte pulls that off masterfully here.

Lucy refuses to wear a man’s clothes—and instead consents to wear some of each, becoming kind of a hermaphoditic presence—and this affects the way the other characters, especially the female characters, relate to her as the night goes on. Meanwhile, one of the other characters, Ginevra, plays the coquette between two suitors, one of whom is the character Lucy is playing—and this is a role Lucy will continue inhabiting during the rest of the evening. For both, the drama they perform in becomes truer than might have been thought.

With this, Charlotte Bronte introduces a story within a story, another thing that I wanted to do in The Queen of the Night with my character who fears her voice is cursed, dooming her to repeat the fates of the characters she’s performed. This kind of doubling was important for me to create throughout the novel.

And so I really disagree with my old writing teacher. It’s a commonplace of teaching writing that the story really takes off when your characters speak to each other. But I think when your characters go to a party, so much more is possible than can happen in just a simple conversation. The kinds of surprising developments here are exactly what you want to have come forward in the novel. Parties aren’t to be avoided—they could even be said to be paramount.

Freshmen Screen Play

How to Write a Party Scene in a Screenplay

Did you know that 73% of movies made have some party scene? Whether that be a barbecue, dance party, sleepover, club scene, dinner party, you name it.

It’s a great way to see how you r protagonist reacts and responds emotionally in an environment with many unfamiliar people. It puts pressure on your character and is responsible for a lot of amazing scenes in movies.

How do you write a party scene in a screenplay? You write a party scene by writing one sentence for each image of what the audience sees. Make sure you keep them short and use active verbs.

Notice how the above scene description of the warehouse party shows where people are in the building.

“On the dance floor, to the right, on the left, and at the bar. “

You want the reader to see everything, like a real estate pro showing a house to a couple.

Did you notice I didn’t say everything that’s happening?

I didn’t go into copious amounts of detail about what’s happening with the DJ, bartender, outside, etc. When describing a party scene or any scene with a large group of people, you only talk about the big important things.

Because this is a screenplay, not a novel.

Lastly, the emotion of the scene

I used action to show the craziness of the scene and to inform the reader of how long the people have been there.

They’ve been there for a while, and they are doing illegal things.

It’s packed.

Everyone is enjoying themselves.

Short sweet and to the point.

Party Scene Examples From Screenplays

Below we have a few examples of parties from screenplays. We are starting with the Matrix.

You can see how anti-social Neo is by his actions and how confident Trinity is by hers. I also like how they describe the people in the party by using “jungle cats” and “shadow-like figures.” This scene is short and to the point.

Here is how it translated on screen.

Next, we have a party at “The Wolf of Wall Street.”

Like I used in my example, this script also specifies where things are coming from. “From the kitchen.”

Let’s see the scene from the movie.

Whats the Purpose of a Party Scene in a Screenplay?

The purpose of a party scene? It depends on when it takes place.

• It can be a great character introduction .
• A see how your main character reacts in an environment other than the ones we’ve seen them in previously.

There needs to be something that happens to lead to the next.

This is the basis of any scene in your script. But most importantly, it needs to move the story forward. If it doesn’t move the story forward in any meaningful way, then don’t write the party scene.

As screenwriters, we can’t think about what fantastic scenes to put in the movie. We have to think about what the character needs to do and exciting ways to show it.

Now its time to hear from you:

Why are you writing a party scene in your script?

What did you learn from this post that will help you write your scene?

Whatever your answers are, let’s hear them in the comments below.

Writing Nestling

How To Describe Dance Scene In Writing (13 Best Ways)

Describing a dance scene in writing is an exquisite art form, where words transform into graceful movements, and sentences become choreography for the imagination.

It’s the magic of storytelling that transcends the page, immersing readers in a world where bodies communicate through leaps and twirls, where emotions are conveyed through fluid gestures, and where the stage itself is a canvas for the human spirit.

In this guide, we embark on a journey to explore the intricacies of capturing the rhythm, passion, and visual splendor of a dance scene through the written word.

From setting the stage to diving into the souls of the dancers, we will delve into the rich tapestry of sensory details, emotions, and symbolism that breathe life into dance, allowing writers to create scenes that not only resonate with readers but move them to the very core of their being.

So, let us embark on this enthralling dance, where language becomes motion, and words become a ballet of expression, painting vibrant stories with the brushstrokes of the literary art.

Table of Contents

How To Describe Dance Scene In Writing

Describing a dance scene in writing involves capturing the movement, emotion, and atmosphere of the performance. Here’s a step-by-step process to help you do that:

Observe Carefully

Attend the dance performance or watch it closely if it’s available through video. Pay attention to the details: the dancers, their costumes, the stage, and the music.

Set the Scene

Start by setting the stage. Describe the location, whether it’s a grand theater, an intimate club, or an outdoor space. Note the lighting, decorations, and any unique elements that create the atmosphere.

Introduce the Dancers

Describe the dancers themselves. Mention their appearance, costumes, and any unique characteristics that stand out. Are they graceful, powerful, or elegant? Highlight their individuality.

Emphasize the Music

Discuss the music that accompanies the dance. Mention the tempo, instruments, and how it complements the movements. Note if there are any changes in the music during the performance.

Highlight the Choreography

Describe the dance movements. Pay attention to the choreography – the leaps, spins, and gestures. Are the movements fluid or sharp? How do they convey the story or emotion?

Express Emotion

Emotions play a significant role in dance. Describe how the dancers convey feelings through their expressions and movements. Are they joyful, melancholic, or passionate?

Capture the Energy

Convey the energy of the performance. Is it high-energy and intense, or slow and contemplative? Use vivid adjectives to evoke the mood.

Engage the Senses

Engage all the senses. Describe the sounds of footfalls, the rustle of costumes, the scent of the air, and the feel of the performance’s energy.

Note Interactions

If there are multiple dancers, describe their interactions. Are they in sync, mirroring each other, or engaging in a complex interplay of movements?

Create Vivid Imagery

Use descriptive language to paint a vivid picture. Make use of metaphors, similes, and sensory details to transport the reader into the dance scene.

Chronological Flow

Describe the performance in a chronological order, from the beginning to the end. Take the reader through the progression of the dance.

Conclude with Impact

Summarize the climax of the dance, where the emotions and movements reach their peak. Describe the final moments and the audience’s reaction.

Edit and Revise

After writing, review and revise your description to ensure clarity, coherence, and engaging language.

Remember that the key to a great dance scene description is to convey the magic and emotion of the performance through your words, allowing the reader to experience the dance without actually being there.

Setting the Scene

Setting the scene in your writing is like crafting the first brushstroke on an empty canvas, the beginning note of a captivating symphony, or the opening shot of a blockbuster film.

It’s the very foundation upon which your readers will build their mental stage, where your characters will dance to the rhythm of your narrative. In this creative act of world-building, you hold the power to transport your audience to a different time, place, or even a fantastical realm.

The setting is not merely the backdrop; it’s a living, breathing entity that sets the mood, ignites the imagination, and casts an enchanting spell on your readers, making them eager, curious, and fully immersed in the story that unfolds before their eyes.

So, let’s embark on a journey to conjure vivid landscapes and atmospheres that will enrapture your readers’ senses and captivate their souls.

Choose an appropriate setting for the dance scene

Selecting the right setting for a dance scene is akin to choosing the perfect stage for a timeless performance. The environment you pick can be a character in itself, shaping the dance’s tone, emotions, and visual appeal.

Whether it’s a moonlit beach where the waves provide a natural rhythm, a grand ballroom adorned with crystal chandeliers, or a gritty urban alley pulsating with the energy of the city, your choice should harmonize with the narrative, enhance the choreography, and immerse the reader in a sensory experience.

A well-chosen setting can infuse depth into your characters’ movements, injecting life and meaning into their dance, making it not just a sequence of steps but a powerful, visual narrative that resonates with your audience.

Describe the atmosphere and ambiance

Describing the atmosphere and ambiance in a dance scene is a symphony of sensory details that envelop the reader in a captivating sensory experience.

It’s the play of shadows and light, the soft rustle of curtains in a hushed ballroom, or the electric buzz of neon signs in a bustling club.

These atmospheric elements set the stage for the dance, evoking emotions and enhancing the overall mood. They can be a soft, romantic breeze that carries the scent of blooming flowers, or a palpable tension in the air that crackles with anticipation.

By skillfully crafting these sensory nuances, you transform a mere backdrop into a living, breathing entity that influences every step and gesture, immersing the reader in a world where movement and emotions are inseparable from the environment that cradles them.

Characterization

Characterization is the soulful heartbeat of storytelling, the art of breathing life into the mere ink and paper or digital bits of your narrative.

It’s the alchemical process of crafting characters who transcend the bounds of imagination, becoming friends, heroes, or even antagonists who linger in the readers’ minds long after the last page is turned.

In your hands, characters cease to be words on a page; they are complex, multifaceted individuals with quirks, passions, and dreams.

They are the secret keepers, the rebels, the lovers, and the warriors, each possessing a unique identity that unfolds through their actions, dialogue, and inner thoughts.

So, delve into the realm of characterization, where you mold your own cast of extraordinary beings, and breathe life into them until they march off the page, ready to enchant, provoke, and inspire your readers in ways only true kindred spirits can.

Introduce the dancers

Introducing the dancers is like presenting the key players in a grand theatrical production, where each performer brings their own unique essence to the stage.

These artists are more than just bodies in motion; they are the embodiment of passion, dedication, and creativity. As you unveil them to your readers, delve beyond their physical appearances to unveil their personalities, quirks, and aspirations.

Each dancer possesses a distinct energy, a history, and a motivation that fuels their every step.

Whether they are graceful ballerinas, fiery flamenco performers, or hip-hop enthusiasts, their individual stories and character traits enrich the dance scene , infusing it with depth and complexity, making it not just a performance, but a window into their souls, inviting the reader to dance alongside them in the world you’ve created.

Explore the emotions and motivations of the characters

Exploring the emotions and motivations of the characters in a dance scene is akin to diving into the depths of the human soul.

These dancers are not mere bodies in motion but vessels of raw feeling, aspirations, and inner turmoil. It’s about deciphering the unspoken language of their hearts as they pirouette, leap, or twirl across the stage.

Emotions like love, yearning, triumph, or even despair infuse their movements, creating a tapestry of human experience.

By peeling back the layers of their motivations, readers are invited to connect on a profound level, to understand the profound stories that dance tells, and to be moved by the vulnerability and resilience of these characters as they express their innermost desires through the poetry of movement.

In this exploration, we unearth the universality of the human experience, reminding us that, like the dancers on the stage, we are all bound by our shared journey of emotions and dreams.

Music and Sound

Music and sound in a dance scene are the heartbeat and breath of the narrative, an auditory masterpiece that orchestrates the rhythm of emotions. Imagine it as a mesmerizing serenade, where notes and beats become a vibrant canvas on which the dancers paint their stories.

The music can be a romantic sonata that caresses the senses, a thundering crescendo that fuels the passion, or a subtle whisper that hints at the untold mysteries.

It’s not just a soundtrack; it’s the pulse that guides the dancers’ every step, transforming a simple movement into a crescendo of emotion.

The sound becomes a companion to the choreography, setting the tone, and enveloping the audience in a symphony of sensations that transcends the boundaries of mere words.

It’s the magic that makes the dance come alive, resonating in the hearts and minds of readers long after the last echo fades, leaving them forever enchanted by the harmonious marriage of music and movement.

Describe the music accompanying the dance

Describing the music accompanying the dance is like capturing a fleeting melody that echoes in the heart’s chambers long after the final note has faded.

It’s not just a soundtrack; it’s a storyteller in its own right, carrying the emotional weight of the performance. Whether it’s the haunting strains of a melancholic violin, the thunderous rhythm of drums, or the ethereal hum of electronic beats, the choice of music sets the stage for the dance’s narrative.

The genre, tempo, and nuances of the music speak volumes, painting an auditory landscape that wraps around the dancers and lifts them to the sublime.

The music becomes a character, breathing life into the choreography, infusing it with a specific mood, and whispering secrets to the dancers and the audience alike.

As you describe the music, you invite the reader to embark on a sonic journey, feeling the notes cascade through their very soul, ensuring that the dance is not just seen but heard, felt, and remembered in the cadence of its melodies.

How the music influences the dance and emotions

The influence of music on dance and emotions is a mesmerizing symbiosis, where the vibrations of sound fuse with the physicality of movement, weaving a tapestry of sentiment that leaves an indelible mark.

Music acts as a catalyst, guiding the dancers with its rhythm and melody, infusing every step with purpose and resonance. The tempo can quicken hearts, setting bodies in a frenzied whirl, or slow down time, allowing for intimate connection.

The melodies evoke emotions—joy, sorrow, passion, or serenity—tugging at the audience’s heartstrings. It’s the harmonic dialogue between the dancers and the music, where each note becomes a partner in the performance, translating feelings into choreography.

The dance becomes a mirror, reflecting the music’s soul, and the audience, in turn, experiences the symphony of emotions through the graceful, dynamic, or dramatic expressions of the dancers, leaving an enduring imprint on their hearts and minds.

Choreography and Movements

Choreography and movements are the poetry of the body, the language of the soul, and the canvas upon which dancers paint stories that transcend the boundaries of words.

It’s the intricate choreography that unveils the hidden depths of human expression, where bodies become instruments, and every step, every pirouette, every gesture becomes a brushstroke in a visual masterpiece.

The dance isn’t just a sequence of movements; it’s a narrative, a dialogue between bodies and space, a secret code that reveals emotions, relationships, and the unspoken tales that linger between the lines.

Choreography is the roadmap to a journey of the heart, where every leap and twist weaves the plot and exposes the characters’ vulnerabilities and triumphs.

It’s the magic that turns silence into eloquence and transforms the stage into a realm where dreams, desires, and stories are translated into a symphony of movements that captivate the soul.

Describe the style of dance

Describing the style of dance is like unraveling the distinctive language of human expression, a choreographic dialect that speaks volumes about culture, history, and personal identity.

Whether it’s the ethereal grace of ballet, the high-octane energy of hip-hop, or the fluid storytelling of contemporary dance, each style possesses its own unique flavor.

It’s a fusion of body and soul, a visual art form that transcends mere movement. The style of dance isn’t just a label; it’s a portal to a world where bodies become poetry, and emotions flow through every limb.

As you unveil the style, you open a door to a universe of artistic traditions and innovation, where the narrative of movement takes center stage, where the dance itself becomes a character in the story.

It’s in this rich tapestry of styles that we discover the endless possibilities of human expression, inviting the reader to explore a realm where emotions, cultures, and identities converge on the dance floor, creating a vibrant and endlessly fascinating tapestry of artistry.

Discuss the choreography and specific movements

Discussing the choreography and specific movements in a dance scene is akin to dissecting a symphony of motion, revealing the hidden intricacies and emotional narratives etched into every gesture.

It’s where the alchemy of creativity meets the physicality of performance, crafting a mesmerizing sequence of steps that carry the weight of a story, a passion, or a message.

Each movement, whether it’s a graceful arabesque, a powerful hip-hop break, or a fluid contemporary sequence, is a brushstroke on the canvas of the stage.

Choreography isn’t just a sequence of steps; it’s a visual poetry that captures the essence of the dancers’ souls. It’s the swell and release of emotions, the narrative arcs played out through bodies, and the unspoken dialogues between dancers.

As you delve into the choreography and movements, you unlock the door to the language of the body, allowing the reader to decipher the stories and emotions woven into every twist, turn, and leap, immersing them in a world where movement is a universal dialect that transcends the boundaries of spoken words.

The flow of the dance

The flow of a dance is a symphony of motion, a choreographic river that carries the dancers and the audience on a journey through time and emotion.

It’s the seamless connection between movements, where each step becomes a bridge to the next, and every gesture is a note in the narrative score.

Like a captivating story, the flow of the dance has its arcs and crescendos, moments of delicate reprieve, and heart-pounding climaxes. The transitions between different movements are the threads that weave the tale, ensuring a smooth and captivating narrative.

As the dance unfolds, it becomes an organic entity, breathing, evolving, and taking on a life of its own, drawing the audience deeper into its spell.

The flow of the dance is where the magic happens, where emotions surge and stories are told, inviting readers to surrender to the enchanting rhythm and become part of the captivating narrative that unfolds before them.

Emotions and Expression

Emotions and expression are the alchemical ingredients that turn mere movement into a profound narrative that resonates with the soul.

It’s in the quiver of a dancer’s lip, the fire in their eyes, and the grace of their gestures that the invisible strings of human sentiment are plucked, creating a breathtaking symphony of feeling. Dance isn’t just a physical display but a journey through the heart, where the language of the body becomes a tapestry of emotions.

It’s the untamed joy of a pirouette, the poignant elegance of a slow waltz, or the raw, unbridled passion of a tango that speaks volumes without words.

In the world of dance, emotions are not just portrayed; they are embodied, lived, and shared, inviting the audience to partake in a visceral experience where stories are etched upon the canvas of the heart and soul.

Depict the emotions and expressions on the dancers’ faces

Depicting the emotions and expressions on the dancers’ faces is akin to unveiling the secrets of the soul, where the mask of the physical gives way to the raw, unfiltered depth of feeling.

As they move through their choreography, their faces become the canvas where emotions are painted with a palette of nuance and intensity.

The curve of a smile, the furrow of a brow, or the glistening of tears tell stories more profound than words ever could. In their eyes, one can witness the reservoir of joy, passion, heartache, or determination that fuels their every step.

The dancers’ faces are the windows to their inner world, allowing the audience to connect not only with the grace of their movements but with the vulnerability and authenticity of their emotions.

In this delicate dance between the physical and the emotional, we are reminded that it is the human experience, the joys and sorrows etched on the dancers’ faces, that transforms mere performance into a powerful, shared journey of the heart.

The connection between the dancers

The connection between dancers is a magnetic force, an invisible thread that weaves through their movements, creating a symbiotic dance of trust, synergy, and unspoken communication.

Whether they’re twirling in harmonious unity, clashing in dramatic tension, or embracing in tender intimacy, the connection between dancers is the heartbeat of the performance.

It’s the shared breaths, the mirrored expressions, and the seamless transitions that forge a palpable chemistry, transcending the realm of mere partners and choreography.

In their connection, we witness a narrative beyond the steps, where relationships, conflicts, or love stories come to life.

It’s a reminder that dance is not a solo endeavor but a shared experience, where the connection between dancers becomes a profound conversation, a dance of souls that resonates with the audience and leaves an indelible impression of human connection and vulnerability.

Imagery and Sensory Details

Imagery and sensory details are the brushes and colors with which a writer paints a vibrant, multisensory masterpiece on the canvas of a reader’s mind.

They’re not just words on a page; they are the alchemical catalysts that turn mere text into a sensory feast.

When you read about the gentle rustle of leaves in a moonlit forest, taste the salty tang of ocean spray on your lips, feel the heat of a scorching desert sun, or hear the haunting whispers of a forgotten love, you’re not merely reading; you’re experiencing the story in high definition.

These details are the portals to parallel worlds, inviting readers to touch, taste, smell, see, and hear the narrative in all its vivid glory.

They are the breadcrumbs along the literary path, guiding readers deeper into the immersive universe you’ve created, and ensuring that the story lingers, vivid and unforgettable, long after the final page has been turned.

Transitions and Pacing

Transitions and pacing are the conductors of the narrative symphony, orchestrating the ebb and flow of tension, emotion, and revelation.

Think of them as the gear shifts in a thrilling race or the cadence in a stirring musical composition. They are the architects of anticipation, granting the story its heartbeat.

The seamless transition from one scene to the next is like a secret passage that keeps the reader on their toes, ensuring there are no lulls but a continuous surge of excitement.

Pacing, on the other hand, dictates the rhythm, whether it’s a racing heartbeat in a suspenseful chase or a languid melody in a moment of quiet reflection.

It’s the art of timing, drawing the reader deeper into the narrative’s heartbeat or allowing them to pause and savor the emotional resonance.

When mastered, transitions and pacing transform a story into a dynamic journey, ensuring that every twist and turn leaves the reader breathless, craving more, and ultimately, satisfied.

Transition smoothly between different aspects of the dance scene

Transitioning smoothly between different aspects of the dance scene is like a choreographed dance in itself, where the narrative seamlessly glides from one moment to the next, ensuring the reader’s engagement remains unbroken.

It’s not just a bridge but a masterful sleight of hand, allowing the story to shift from setting to characterization, from music to emotions, or from movements to expressions with grace and finesse.

These transitions are the key to maintaining the reader’s immersion, avoiding abrupt jolts, and creating a cohesive and fluid narrative.

When executed with skill, they are the invisible threads that weave the tapestry of a dance scene, ensuring the emotional and sensory experiences blend harmoniously, allowing the reader to follow the performance as if they were watching it unfold in real-time.

Control the pacing to build anticipation or excitement

Controlling the pacing in a dance scene is akin to conducting a crescendo in a symphony, where the rhythm and tempo become tools to shape the audience’s emotions.

Whether you want to build anticipation like a silent pause before a breathtaking leap or ignite excitement with a quick, dynamic flurry of movements, pacing is the magician’s wand that shapes the reader’s emotional journey.

It’s about knowing when to slow down, allowing the audience to savor the intricate details, and when to quicken the beat, infusing the scene with a surge of exhilaration.

Pacing, when skillfully managed, is the storyteller’s secret weapon, manipulating the reader’s heart rate and breath, making them hang on to each word with bated breath or inviting them to dance in perfect harmony with the narrative’s rhythm.

It’s the art of suspense, the thrill of the unexpected, and the magic that keeps the reader eagerly turning the pages, all in your capable hands.

Symbolism and Themes

Symbolism and themes are the hidden treasure maps within the labyrinth of storytelling, where words transcend their surface meaning to unlock deeper, universal truths.

Think of them as the constellations in the literary night sky, guiding readers on a journey through the rich tapestry of the narrative.

Every symbol, every recurring motif, and every underlying theme is a secret handshake between the author and the audience, inviting readers to decode layers of meaning, explore moral quandaries, and venture into the enigmatic landscapes of human existence.

The beauty lies in the intricacy; the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the mundane is imbued with profound significance.

These literary devices are the key to inviting readers to embark on an adventure where the destination is not a physical place but a realm of enlightenment, reflection, and understanding.

Like breadcrumbs along a winding path, symbolism and themes beckon readers to follow and unearth the treasures of insight and enlightenment hidden within the narrative’s labyrinthine folds.

Explore any symbolic elements in the dance

Exploring symbolic elements in the dance is like unraveling a tapestry of hidden meanings and metaphors, where movements become a language and gestures become whispers that carry profound messages.

These symbols, whether they’re the delicate placement of a hand, the arching of a back, or the choice of colors in a costume, are the subtext of the performance.

They transcend the boundaries of the choreography to convey universal themes, emotions, or cultural insights. Each step becomes a brushstroke in a larger canvas of symbolism, inviting the audience to decipher the narrative beneath the surface.

It’s the silent conversation between the dancers and the viewers, a connection where the unspoken is eloquent. When the audience discerns these symbolic elements, the dance scene transforms from mere performance to a journey of exploration, awakening, and revelation.

It’s a poetic dance of interpretation, where the readers and viewers alike are invited to become active participants in the profound storytelling that unfolds before their eyes and in their hearts.

Relate the dance to broader themes or motifs in your story

Relating the dance to broader themes or motifs in your story is like weaving a golden thread of significance through the tapestry of your narrative.

The dance becomes a microcosm of the greater human experience, a vivid reflection of the themes and motifs that resonate throughout your work.

Whether it’s the dance as a symbol of liberation, a metaphor for the human condition, or a representation of love’s transcendent power, it adds layers of depth to your storytelling.

The choreography becomes a mirror, reflecting the central ideas and dilemmas of your narrative, enhancing their resonance and imbuing the dance with a profound narrative weight.

By drawing these connections, you invite the reader to not only appreciate the dance but to grasp its significance in the larger context of your story, forging a more profound and lasting impact that lingers in their thoughts long after the final bow.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ) about How To Describe Dance Scene In Writing

Why is it important to describe a dance scene in writing.

Describing a dance scene in writing is crucial because it brings a sensory and emotional dimension to your narrative. It allows readers to vividly experience the performance, fostering a deeper connection with the characters and the story.

How can I choose the right setting for a dance scene?

Select a setting that complements the dance style and enhances the mood. Consider factors like lighting, ambiance, and the atmosphere you want to convey.

What are some techniques for depicting the emotions of the dancers?

Use descriptive language, character perspectives, and sensory details to convey the dancers’ emotions. Explore their expressions, body language, and inner thoughts.

How do I effectively describe the choreography and specific movements?

Break down the movements into specific steps or sequences. Use descriptive language, metaphors, and vivid imagery to convey the grace and intensity of each movement.

What role does music play in describing a dance scene?

Music sets the tone and influences the dance’s mood and rhythm. Describe the genre, tempo, and how the music interacts with the choreography and emotions.

How can I create a seamless transition between different aspects of the dance scene?

Transition smoothly by using transitional phrases, maintaining a consistent tone, and ensuring that the narrative flows logically from one aspect to another.

Why is symbolism important in describing a dance scene?

Symbolism adds depth and layers of meaning to the dance. It can be used to convey themes, character development, or cultural elements, enriching the narrative.

How can I relate the dance scene to broader themes in my story?

Connect the dance scene to central themes or motifs by using symbolic elements, character experiences, and emotions to create a meaningful narrative resonance.

What’s the significance of pacing in describing a dance scene?

Pacing is essential for building anticipation, excitement, and emotional depth in the scene. It controls the rhythm of the narrative, enhancing the reader’s engagement.

What role does the connection between dancers play in describing a dance scene?

The connection between dancers enhances the emotional impact of the dance. It’s a crucial element for conveying relationships and communication between characters through their movements.

In conclusion, describing a dance scene in writing is an intricate and captivating endeavor that marries the literary arts with the art of movement.

It’s an opportunity for writers to transport readers into a realm where words paint vibrant choreography, emotions resonate through the pages, and the dance itself becomes a powerful character in the narrative.

From setting the scene and characterizing dancers to exploring the emotions and symbolism, this guide has unveiled the tools and techniques to craft dance scenes that inspire, enchant, and move the audience.

As the final curtain falls on this exploration, remember that the magic of dance lies not only in the movements but in the words that bring those movements to life, creating a dance of imagination and emotions that lingers long after the last page has been turned.

So, let your pen become a dancer’s grace and your words a choreography of the soul, and transport your readers into the mesmerizing world of dance through the power of your writing.

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• Writing About
• Tips For Writers

April 16, 2013

Writing about: a party, 2 comments:.

I didn't think I had written about a party but remembered a dinner scene I had written. I'm glad I didn't think about as I was writing it, though. I included all the senses - phew!

Brenda, When I wrote about a charity event, I simply wrote it as it unfolded in my mind, but for aspiring writers who might need a little advice on writing a party, this should aide them on how to write it completely. As long as all the five senses are used and perhaps even who, what, where, when, and why then all the necessary bases are covered. Thank you for your comment! :)

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Writer's Block Party

A blog about writing and publishing, how to create atmosphere in your writing.

Atmosphere: what is it really? It sounds ethereal, hard to describe and even harder to define in your own writing.

Atmosphere is another word for mood; it’s the feeling a writer wants their readers to experience, like suspense or foreboding, longing or joy. Individual scenes can have a particular mood, while the overall novel has another mood those scenes contribute to. For example, I might write a psychological thriller that has an overall atmosphere of paranoia and suspense, but an individual scene could have the dial turned up to absolute horror, or there could be a scene of reprieve that has an atmosphere of calm–though it won’t last. 

So, how do we achieve this? I used to think atmospheric writing was either something you had or you didn’t. But the truth is nothing in writing works that way. Writing is a craft, and we can all learn and hone new skills and level up our writing. So here are some tools you can use to create atmosphere in your writing: 

“It was a dark and stormy night.” This is a classic, often-joked about for it’s heavy-handedness, example of setting a mood. A scene set at night is likely to have a different mood than one set during the day. A scene at the beach is more likely to be joyful or peaceful than one set in an old, abandoned mansion. Even the season can elicit mood–think fun summer romance versus bleak winter thriller. 

However, you can also use setting conversely to mood, too. Imagine a suspenseful thriller that takes place during summer; instead of fun and bright, the heat is suffocating, the non-stop sunlight is scorching, cicadas are hissing in the trees, getting louder every day, and there’s a drought, too, so the land is dry and cracked and dying. Now that beach scene is no longer peaceful; all your characters have gathered there on the hottest day of the year, hoping for some relief. The sand is burning hot, there are mosquitos everywhere, the tide is too strong for swimming and the crashing waves are not soothing but frustrating–they are marking the slow passage of time, a ticking clock, a tapping foot. 

Contrastingly, imagine a winter romance. Snow blankets the ground, glittering like diamonds in the moonlight, and inside the small, log cabin, a crackling fire provides warmth and comfort. Not to mention the love interest in a knit sweater making hot cocoa in the kitchen with extra marshmallows. Even setting the scene at night (moonlight) can evoke feelings of peace and wonder, rather than fear and isolation. The key of course, is not just the setting–it’s the details and the language used to describe them, our next two tools. 

We already know the details you choose can establish character and voice. A scientist will notice different things than say, an artist. The same is true for creating atmosphere. In the above summer example, I mentioned heat, cicadas, and a drought; at the beach, sand and mosquitos. If I was going for a lighter mood, instead of sand and mosquitos, I could mention the clear sky and stripped umbrellas and a cooler full of ice and dewy bottles of water. Now, you can infer it’s hot and sunny–there are no clouds, our characters brought umbrellas and a cooler, and the bottles are dewy because of condensation. But instead of feeling overwhelmed and irritated, hopefully, you feel calm and light.

For the winter scene, instead of a cabin, there’s a tent. The moonlight is the only source of light because the fire wouldn’t catch, and our character’s companion is wearing a parka leaving the MC with a thin, itchy blanket, picking mold off a piece of stale bread. The mood has changed from cozy to cold and uncomfortable and dark. 

Be tactile. Use all five senses. I failed to use it, but smell can definitely create a mood: the bright scent of sunscreen versus the stench of the ocean on the wind. Warm chocolate versus old, moldy bread. Try to put yourself in the scene, in the mood you want the reader to feel–what do you notice? Write it down.

In addition to details, the language you use around them helps create mood. Hissing cicadas elicits one feeling while humming cicadas elicits another. Snow glittering like diamonds versus refracting the light like broken glass. An itchy blanket versus a soft one. Even if all the details are the same, the way you describe them changes the mood. It might be helpful to come up with a list of descriptive mood words before working on a book or scene. The words might have a certain connotation, like shadow versus light, or there could be something to the actual sound. Skitter sounds creepy, like something a spider, or monster, might do. 

So, for a creepy mood: creak, rattle, skitter, shadow, claw. For a light, happy mood: squeak, rustle, scamper, shade, hand.

Here’s the same setting, but two different sets of language:

The forest was dark and full of shadows. Wind rattled the trees, making the branches creak. Without leaves, they seemed to curl in the air like claws. Nearby, something skittered over the ground. 

The forest was ten degrees cooler, providing some much needed shade. The trees rustled in the wind, leafy branches like hands reaching for the sky. Nearby, a creature scampered over the ground, squeaking hello. 

This isn’t the best writing, but you get the idea. The setting is transformed by the language, evoking two very different moods. 

Similar to the language used, the rhythm of said language can affect mood. Short, staccato sentences can make readers feel anxious, or exhilarated. Longer sentences, with more punctuation and descriptive language, can have a calming lull, or, if it’s extra long without many commas or punctuation breaks it can make the reader feel overwhelmed and breathless and anxious. 

Juxtaposing short and long sentences can be effective, too. Imagine a long description of a room, the color of the walls, the placement of the furniture, the bottles of perfume on the vanity and the mirror smudged with fingerprints, the curtains billowing in the breeze from the open window. I didn’t leave that window open. 

The sudden short sentence packs a punch. Your heart drops. And now those fingerprints on the mirror, a seemingly minor detail, amp up the creep factor. The detail is the same, but your feelings have changed.

Tone and mood are two different things. Tone refers to how the narrator is feeling while mood, as we know, is the reader’s feelings. Tone can augment the mood–a fearful character can add to a scene where the mood is suspenseful. But you can also play tone against mood. 

A character who is frustrated could contribute to a comedic mood. Think Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s On First”: they use a misunderstanding with confused and then increasingly frustrated characters to create a hilarious sketch. Another good example of this is Andy Weir’s THE MARTIAN. The main character is stuck on Mars, alone, and he’s pissed and depressed at times, but the overall mood of that book is fairly humorous. 

It works the other way, too: the character’s feelings can be positive while the reader’s are not. Say a character is happy and content, thinking they’ve found their perfect match, but the reader has started to suspect said match might be a killer. 

Lucy enjoys a glass of wine and banters with Diane, who is chopping tomatoes with a large, sharp knife. The cutting board runs red. Classical music plays in the living room, a piece Lucy recognizes from Verdi’s Macbeth. Lucy notices how deftly Diane chops, how comfortable her hand seems around the handle of the knife. The doorbell rings. Before Lucy can move, Diane says, “Don’t answer it.” The knife is still in her hand. “We’re having a nice night. Let’s not let anyone ruin it.” Lucy smiles. She loves how Diane only ever wants to be with her. “You’re right,” she says and grabs the remote to turn up the music, drowning out the doorbell.

Now Lucy is feeling happy in love, at ease, but how do you feel? Hopefully, I used some of the tools we’ve discussed to make you feel the opposite; details like a knife, the color red, and music from an opera where the main character murders a bunch of people, and descriptors like sharp and drowning, as well as sudden short sentences. The anxiety you feel should be further heightened by Lucy’s content. Can’t she see what’s going on? Why isn’t she afraid? So now you’re afraid for her. 

Genre isn’t a tool, so much as a factor when it comes to atmosphere. A thriller will likely have an atmosphere of suspense while a contemporary romance might have a comedic, or joyful atmosphere. Definitely think about your genre when you are thinking about mood, but don’t feel constrained by it. You could write a comedic thriller, or a joyful ghost story, or a suspenseful romance. People hear “wedding” and think of a celebration of love, but it could be cool to instead write a novel about a wedding where the mood is horror. What about a story of assassins where the mood is romantic and fun? 

Now, a caveat: atmosphere isn’t something I think you should aim for on a first draft. Maybe your powers are greater than mine, but thinking about setting and details and language and tone all at once when I’m trying to get the story out for the first time is…paralyzing. For most of us, atmosphere is something we add in revision. You might even think you want one mood, only to discover after finishing the first draft, a different mood would be better. It’s good to be thinking about the atmosphere when you start, but don’t get bogged down trying to nail it from the jump. 

If you’ve gotten this far, I hope this post will help you create the atmosphere you want in your work-in-progress. While atmosphere isn’t a requirement, I think it’s one of the best ways to satisfy your readers. We read to feel things, to be utterly absorbed in a story, and atmospheric writing is essential in accomplishing that goal.

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One thought on “ How to Create Atmosphere in Your Writing ”

Just found your blog while researching writing my own book. Interesting and helpful, thank you Ashley.

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Write that Scene

May your writing spirit live on forever

How to Write a Beach Scene

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• At first, focus on the overall atmosphere.

» A. To start your story, describe the weather, the crowd and their activities.

I.      Begin with the weather but ease your way into describing what the five senses are experiencing. Describe the feel of the sand between the character’s toes, the brightness of the sun in their eyes, the sounds of the waves, the sounds of children playing in the sand, the taste of the ocean water. Here are some words you can use:

  C. Smell: Seaweed/saltwater Feel: Humid sea air Gritty sand Cool water

II.      Use metaphors, similes and color to breathe life into your scene. The ocean is an aqua blue, the sand is pale yellow, and the sun is a fierce, hot yellow. The sky is a gorgeous light blue with big, fluffy white clouds. Here are some phrases you can use:

  C. Long golden sands with the waves lapping on the shore.

  D. First thing that hit him/her was the salty air.

Jonah hadn’t been to the beach since his first semester of college started. It had been a long couple of months but he survived nonetheless. And, instead of going to a frat party to drink himself silly, he wanted to revisit the place where he first fell in love with life. Could it have been the dazzling sand that sparked in the golden sunlight, or the hungry seagulls beating their wings against the ambush of wind.

Listening with both an open heart and ear, Jonah heard the waves crashing against a nearby rock. This rock had been the go-to place for him as a kid. He used to jump off of it and into the water, or sit on it and read his favorite book.

As the memories poured in, Jonah headed over to the rock where he knew a flood of happiness would follow him. The best stress relief wasn’t popping pills or smoking a joint with his buds, nah… it was the peaceful serenity of the beach. The smell of saltwater traveling up his nostrils, releasing a spell-like hypnotic trance on him. Yes, it was the gritty sand against his bare feet, the tall, hard rock positioned appropriately against his butt as he read a book.

But it didn’t end there. The one thing that made Jonah always returned to the beach wasn’t only because of those reasons. It also had to do with the feel— the emotion he got whenever he looked out far into the ocean. He would forget all forms of agony, pain, regret and frustration. A strong since of peace and calm resided over him always. Only the beach made him feel such things.

With the infinite blue sky above promising sunshine, and the big, fluffy white clouds adding a touch of ecstasy.

Though, all of this fantasizing buildup went out his mind the moment he saw Carolyn, the life guard. She was ten years older than him, but ever since Jonah could remember he had a major crush on her. Watching her sexy body climb up in her high chair with the binoculars in one hand and a whistle around her neck, gave Jonah an idea. A devious idea. The other beach goers meant nothing to him; he wanted her to notice him one way or another…. even if it meant fake drowning.

• Something interesting should happen, no doubt.

» A. A bit of mystery and action is always a good thing.

I.       Maybe the character moved to another part of the beach and it’s a lot louder or quieter? Or maybe there’s music, dance and a party.

Example 2:   

Then it happened. Just like that! No thinking, no pauses: Jonah jumped into the water, screaming. Carolyn looked his way immediately. Running quickly to save him, she blew her whistle for back up and used her binocular to find the fallen body. Jonah saw her every move through his squinted eyes, however he knew in order to make it look realistic, he had to go under water. So he did and in the water below, he pictured Carolyn rescuing him and kissing him…. uh, I mean… doing CPR.

» B. How does the environment affect your character and what’s happening to them? Use the background to emphasize the character’s emotions rather than describing them.

I.     Be sure to give vivid imagery. Allow your reader to continue to see what is going on, in order for the scene to have a realistic feel. What I mean by that is, while you’re talking about the drama, mystery or action events that unfold, every so often add in the “normal stuff” that happens around the character. These can easily become a symbolic meaning. Here are a few “normal, symbolic meaning stuff” to give you an idea:

  C. Playful seal take a ride in a wave = happiness, childlike mindset, freedom, endless joy

  D. A whale surfacing to get a breath can be seen. = revelation, secrets unfold, epic adventure lying ahead

  E. Fishermen’s lines hanging off the pier into the water in hopes of catching dinner. = a new start, overwhelming beginnings, hope for the future, determination to improve one’s circumstances

  F. The sunlight starting to fade = dreams are lost, stuck in darkness, forbidden love

  G. Surfers exit the sea, and build bonfires in the pits and you smell marshmallows burning in the fire. = treasuring the here and now, aspiration ideals about life and upcoming events, finding happiness in the simplest of things

In other words, relate it back to what is going in the story. If your character is talking to a guy she likes, insert a part in your scene about a seal talking a ride in a wave. If your character is feeling miserable and is walking on the beach feeling lonely, insert a part in your scene about them seeing the left overs of children’s sand castles. Come up with your own if you like. Example 3:   

Jonah had been knocked out — he really drowned himself without realizing it. The hot and heavy daydream about Carolyn saving him made him forget to come up for air. By the time Jonah work up, he saw seaweed piled in heaps in various spots on the beach. There were no children and broken shells lined the water line which was filled with debris.

“What, where am I?” Jonah said. Carolyn hovered over him. “Did I go to hell?” Jonah stood up. “There’s no way because you’re here. Tell me, what happened, Carolyn?”

• Identify the main purpose of this scene. Don’t let it linger on without meaning.

» A. Connect all that you can in this scene with your plot. Enhance the characters, bring in new revelations, and/or establish a long-lasting setting that will take place throughout the entire novel.

I.        What significant thing happens during this scene? Is it someone that your character meets? Something they find? What important event unfolds and how does your character handle it?   II.     What is the next step? If the scene’s purpose was for your character to meet someone, then are they going to leave the beach and go somewhere else to have a more serious, maybe private conversation? If not, the beach can be their go to area where they meet in secret, far, far away from the rest of the world.   III.      Does the ocean or animals on the beach have any relevance? Or does this scene on pertain around human beings and their behaviors toward one another? Animals can potentially save your character if they are about to drown. Animals can be in danger and your character tries to help them, and, in the process, they meet the love of their life or a true friend that wants to help this animal too. Hint: it could be the lifeguard.  

Example 4:   

Carolyn spoke with such elegance. This was the first time Jonah heard her speak. “Your heart stopped beating and I had to do CPR on you. The ambulance is on its way so hang in there, okay.”

“Wait, Carolyn,” Jonah tried to speak as best as he could, “before they take me away, I want to say I love you so very much.”

» B. Exit the scene in style, and leave hints about if the character will return or not.

I.      One of the best ways to finish a beach scene is to show how the scenery, setting and/or environment took effect on your character. For instance, did your character have more peace after visiting the beach or feel anger. Then, connect it back to your plot. Whatever trials and tribulations your character faced throughout the book, take from your simple beach scene and incorporate into the story.

Let’s say at the beach your character finally learned how to swim. Then maybe later on in your book have the character save someone who is about to drown, or join a swimming competition. Another example is if your character met someone. Maybe that special someone can later be of importance to your protagonist

II.      What is the most important image/memory that both the character and reader should take from this scene? It could be as small as the walk on the beach to as big as learning how to swim, finally. You decide. And, with that image/memory, have your character reminisce about their time on the way back home. Give them a short dialogue or monologue, saying how their time was well spent. (Unless, of course, they had a miserable time at the beach).

Example 5:   

Carolyn giggled. “I know,” she said, “before you woke up you were mumbling to yourself. I know everything. All about your crush, all about your fake drowning attempt.”

“And you’re not mad at me?”

Carolyn shrugged. “I was. But I guess I forgave you.”

Jonah closed his eyes and smiled. “See, this is why I love you. I don’t know you very well but your awesome personality shines through.”

“Don’t be corny,” Carolyn said.

“No, I’m being serious. When the ambulance comes to take me away, will I be able to see you again?”

Carolyn nodded. “Of course. You can always find me here.”

“Right, I almost forgot. Silly me. You’re a life guard.”

Carolyn turned red. “Um,” she said softly, “not just a life guard.” She pointed down. “I’m also a mermaid. The ocean is my home.”

Jonah looked down at the large, purple fin he had been resting on. Surprised to see that it was real and in no way a trick, he fainted once again. This time, he had a very vivid dream that only he will ever know about.

  ** !You might have to scroll down the textbox with your mouse!

   Jonah hadn’t been to the beach since his first semester of college started. It had been a long couple of months but he survived nonetheless. And, instead of going to a frat party to drink himself silly, he wanted to revisit the place where he first fell in love with life. Could it have been the dazzling sand that sparked in the golden sunlight, or the hungry seagulls beating their wings against the ambush of wind. Listening with both an open heart and ear, Jonah heard the waves crashing against a nearby rock. This rock had been the go-to place for him as a kid. He used to jump off of it and into the water, or sit on it and read his favorite book. 

      As the memories poured in, Jonah headed over to the rock where he knew a flood of happiness would follow him. The best stress relief wasn’t popping pills or smoking a joint with his buds, nah… it was the peaceful serenity of the beach. The smell of saltwater traveling up his nostrils, releasing a spell-like hypnotic trance on him. Yes, it was the gritty sand against his bare feet, the tall, hard rock positioned appropriately against his butt as he read a book. But it didn’t end there. The one thing that made Jonah always returned to the beach wasn’t only because of those reasons. It also had to do with the feel— the emotion he got whenever he looked out far into the ocean. He would forget all forms of agony, pain, regret and frustration. A strong since of peace and calm resided over him always. Only the beach made him feel such things.  With the infinite blue sky above promising sunshine, and the big, fluffy white clouds adding a touch of ecstasy. 

      Though, all of this fantasizing buildup went out his mind the moment he saw Carolyn, the life guard. She was ten years older than him, but ever since Jonah could remember he had a major crush on her. Watching her sexy body climb up in her high chair with the binoculars in one hand and a whistle around her neck, gave Jonah an idea. A devious idea. The other beach goers meant nothing to him; he wanted her to notice him one way or another…. even if it meant fake drowning. Then it happened. Just like that! No thinking, no pauses: Jonah jumped into the water, screaming. Carolyn looked his way immediately. Running quickly to save him, she blew her whistle for back up and used her binocular to find the fallen body. Jonah saw her every move through his squinted eyes, however he knew in order to make it look realistic, he had to go under water. So he did and in the water below, he pictured Carolyn rescuing him and kissing him…. uh, I mean… doing CPR. Jonah had been knocked out — he really drowned himself without realizing it. The hot and heavy daydream about Carolyn saving him made him forget to come up for air. By the time Jonah work up, he saw seaweed piled in heaps in various spots on the beach. There were no children and broken shells lined the water line which was filled with debris.

      Carolyn spoke with such elegance. This was the first time Jonah heard her speak. “Your heart stopped beating and I had to do CPR on you.The ambulance is on its way so hang in there, okay.”

        Carolyn giggled. “I know,” she said, “before you woke up you were mumbling to yourself. I know everything. All about your crush, all about your fake drowning attempt.”

Jonah looked down at the large, purple fin he had been resting on. Surprised to see that it was real and in no way a trick, he fainted once again. This time, he had a very vivid dream that only he will ever should know about.

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7 thoughts on “ How to Write a Beach Scene ”

this really helped my grades thank’s

You’re welcome Claudia. Spread the word, fellow writer! 🙂

This is good but sadly not what I need rn

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HOUSE PARTY

Never struggle with Show-and-Tell again. Activate your free trial or subscribe to view the Setting Thesaurus in its entirety, or visit the Table of Contents to explore unlocked entries.

HELPFUL TIP:

Textures and sensations:, possible sources of conflict:, people commonly found in this setting:, setting notes and tips:, related settings that may tie in with this one:, setting description example:, techniques and devices used:, descriptive effects:.

Quotes and Descriptions to Inspire Creative Writing Discover, Share, Connect

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19,890 quotes, descriptions and writing prompts, 4,964 themes

marvellous school of neurology

"It turns out, as obviousness would have it, that our brains (especially those of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby in this case) have been teaching us neurology through comic books and the movies that have come from them." Full article linked to from my profile, click "abraham" below, awesome!!

walking in the rain

I won't say I love the cold rain. I won't say I love being soaked to the skin. I won't say I'm alright with how long it takes for my boots to dry. But I will say it enlivens me and awakens a part of me that slumbers in the warm and sunny weather. I will say that jumping in puddles is fun and that I'm far too old to be enjoying such things. I will say that a part of me finds a beauty in wondering how many raindrops there are and listening for them in the meditative pitter patter.

essential career advice for writers

"For writers in the next half century and beyond, a comprehension of how creative writing, neurology, biology and our environment interact will be essential for a successful career." - a link to the full article is in my bio and on the Descriptionari "About" page. Much love!!! Angela Abraham (Daisy)

I wonder if the roof tiles miss the rain on these long summer days. I wonder if they miss making their together song. Or perhaps they await the tickle of bird feet and a hearth-warm breeze. Or maybe it is the variation that makes these seasons special.

"When we make daily choices that are emotionally indifferent, the sort that the money-nexus makes faux-virtues of, we build our capacity for emotional indifference at the direct expense of our capacity for empathy, and thus the conflict between money and love is laid bare."

It was a bonny path that chattered day and night, the free leaves upon it and their twig-attached brethren in seasonal conversation.

blanket fort

In that artistry of wool, within a fabric that told of patient hours of tip-tapping knitting needles, we dwelled within a castle within our home.

"Adjective and noun associations are worthy of our consideration because by careful linkage of words such as 'black' with strong emotionally positive words (such as in 'black heavens' and 'noble black night') we can start to program subconscious bias from the brain by creating a background neurochemistry that is more positive. This keeps the prefrontal cortex more fully operational and encourages more empathy in both thoughts and behaviours. Thus society develops better through their own choices and evolves. This is part of social evolution and this kind of awareness in writers is essential."

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The Emotion Amplifier Thesaurus , a companion to The Emotion Thesaurus , releases May 13th.

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WRITERS HELPING WRITERS®

Helping writers become bestselling authors

Secret Setting Thesaurus Entry: House Party

Congratulations, intrepid explorer you’ve discovered one of our secret setting thesaurus entries..

This one is from The Rural Setting Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Personal and Natural Places. We hope the sensory information below will add a deeper richness to your story.

The setting is a powerful storytelling element that,when fully utilized, elevates every scene. When you choose the right one, it becomes an emotional tuning fork that will impact your character’s behavior, actions, and decisions.

Not only that, the setting can characterize your story’s cast, steer the plot, provide challenges and conflict, evoke mood, and become a gateway for critical backstory, delivering it not in dumps but actively through the placement of symbols that act as emotional triggers.

HOUSE PARTY

Inside: Packed hallways and rooms, people sitting on the stairs, beer cans and bottles left on tables, a blasting stereo, haze from cigarettes or pot, strung lights that shed colors across living room furniture, popcorn and chip fragments ground into the carpet, people forming a line to use the bathroom, people crowding onto couches and chairs or jumping chaotically to the music, groups standing around a pool table and cheering players on, snack bowls (chips, pretzels, popcorn) left on tables, steady traffic to the fridge in the kitchen or coolers in the garage, drink spills on the counters, a bag of ice sitting in the sink, discarded red plastic cups everywhere, girls sitting on the kitchen island, pizza boxes stacked on a counter or living room table, couples standing close together (flirting, arguing, making out, etc.), someone throwing up, empty liquor bottles sitting on available surfaces, coats piling up in bedrooms or creating a mountain on a recliner, a beer keg and funnel, empties piled in the sink, an overflowing trash can, someone making the rounds with a tray of colorful shooters or Jell-O shots, broken figurines or picture frames that have been knocked over, locked bedrooms that have been jimmied open

Outside: Puke on the lawn or in a bush, people smoking on the deck or in the backyard, cigarette butts mashed out on the walkway, someone passed out in a deck chair, couples making out in the shadows, partygoers stumbling out the front door, a bonfire, cars parked up and down the street, people sitting on the front step or hanging out in doorways, empty cups and beer cans littering the front steps, fights in the front yard, angry neighbors banging on the door, flashing lights from police cars, people rushing to leave

Loud music, people (laughing, yelling over the music, crying, screaming, arguing), glass breaking, a smoke alarm going off, doors opening and closing, beer bottles on the fridge door clinking together every time it’s opened, glasses thumping onto a tabletop, drunken whooping, the click of pool balls hitting each other and falling into pockets, cries of indignation as people are bumped and drinks are spilled, someone pounding on a bathroom door, the crunch of chips, slurping on beers and drinks, cell phones going off, people calling out for more beer, feet running up and down the steps, creaky spots in the floor, the TV blasting a hockey game, bowls of chips overturning, things being knocked over and smashed, horns honking outside, neighbors pounding on the door, police sirens, drunks (singing, hooting, swearing, falling down)

Spilled beer, a cloying mix of hair products and strong aftershave, alcohol, salty chips, popcorn fresh from the microwave, pizza, pot, cigarette smoke, vomit, sweat, beer breath

Hard liquor (rum, whiskey, vodka, gin), pop, water, cigarettes, pot, gum, mints, chips, popcorn, pretzels, pizza, beer, coolers

TEXTURES AND SENSATIONS

Sticky counters, crunchy chips under foot, being shoved or jostled in a crowd, squeezing up a tightly packed stairway, an anonymous pinch or grope in a crowded room, the unwelcome embrace of a sweaty drunk, brushing against others as one dances in a crowded space, a cool beer cup against the palm, wet lips after taking a swig, a splash of beer spilling down the front of one’s shirt, slipping on a spill in the kitchen, balancing on the edge of a chair or the armrest of a couch, salt from chips coating one’s fingers, the shock of cold as one digs through a cooler, clinking shot glasses with someone, a pool cue sliding along fingers, fending off drunks, kissing, holding hands, cool grass on one’s bare feet in the backyard, hot air against the skin as one sits around a bonfire, clothes sticking to skin, taking a drag of a cigarette or joint, lighting a cigarette for someone, water splashing one’s face as one tries to sober up, the shock of cold liquid against an eyeball when using eye drops to clear redness, fumbling with a smooth doorknob in the bathroom, the hard linoleum or tile floor against one’s knees as one barfs into the toilet, the sensation of dizziness or vertigo, prickly grass against the skin as one lies in the yard, falling into other people in giggling fits

POSSIBLE SOURCES OF CONFLICT

• The police showing up or one’s parents coming home
• Theft, vandalism, or property damage
• Drugs being sold, used, or put into someone’s drink
• Sexual assault
• Fights breaking out between rivals
• Drunks revealing secrets to others or saying something that can’t be taken back
• Running out of alcohol
• The party being crashed by an unwelcome group of people
• Someone passing out on the property

PEOPLE COMMONLY FOUND HERE

Angry neighbors, parents arriving home early, partygoers, police, younger siblings

 RELATED SETTINGS THAT MAY TIE IN WITH THIS ONE

• Backyard, bathroom, kitchen, living room, patio deck

SETTING NOTES AND TIPS

Parties are only as crazy and destructive as the people attending them. If the person throwing the party has friends who are generally respectful and restrained, events likely won’t get too out of hand. If, however, one’s friends are looking to really let loose or are indiscriminate with their invites, things can easily spiral out of control. Adding alcohol or drugs to the mix, wanting to fit in, or the desire to attract a specific person’s attention can also lead to impaired judgment.

SETTING DESCRIPTION EXAMPLE

Greg’s wide shoulders came in handy on the packed stairway, and Jenn followed closely in his wake before the gap around him closed. The air was tight and hot, flavored with the skunky odor of pot. Music shook the windowpanes and had her bouncing to the beat; by the time she reached the basement, she was full-on throwing down, shaking away the stress of Monday’s finals, her broken curfew, and the fight with Allison. She’d deal with that crap tomorrow.

• Techniques and Devices Used: Multisensory descriptions
• Resulting Effects: Characterization, hinting at backstory, reinforcing emotion

A WORD FROM THE AUTHORS

To use this setting to the fullest, think about how your characters may behave around their peers. Will they do anything to fit in? Are they looking to settle a score, prove something, overcome stigma and challenge false perceptions? Or is this an escape opportunity, giving them a night off from the pain or responsibilities they deal with on a daily basis? Whatever you choose, make sure you include an adequate mix of party goers to create challenges, provide conflict, and (if you need it) generate explosive friction.

For more guidance on how to make the setting work harder for your story, use the “ look inside ” feature at Amazon to see if this might be a good resource for you.

Want to work with a setting thesaurus that is beautifully cross-referenced, hyperlinked, and accessible online at the click of a button?

Sounds like a dream, right? Why not take a tour of One Stop For Writers , where this descriptive thesaurus is one of many in our Show Don’t Tell Database . ( Did we mention there’s a FREE TRIAL? )

Happy writing!

Angela and Becca

Here are a few more secret settings to visit : Antiques Shop , Ancient Ruins , and Police Car .

Image: Kaicho 20 @Pixabay

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Picture Prompts

125 Picture Prompts for Creative and Narrative Writing

What story can these images tell?

By The Learning Network

For eight years, we at The Learning Network have been publishing short, accessible, image-driven prompts that invite students to do a variety of kinds of writing via our Picture Prompts column.

Each week, at least one of those prompts asks students: Use your imagination to write the opening of a short story or poem inspired by this image — or, tell us about a memory from your own life that it makes you think of.

Now we’re rounding up years of these storytelling prompts all in one place. Below you’ll find 125 photos, illustrations and GIFs from across The New York Times that you can use for both creative and personal writing. We have organized them by genre, but many overlap and intersect, so know that you can use them in any way you like.

Choose an image, write a story, and then follow the link in the caption to the original prompt to post your response or read what other students had to say. Many are still open for comment for teenagers 13 and up. And each links to a free Times article too.

We can’t wait to read the tales you spin! Don’t forget that you can respond to all of our Picture Prompts, as they publish, here .

Images by Category

Everyday life, mystery & suspense, relationships, science fiction, travel & adventure, unusual & unexpected, cat in a chair, happy puppy, resourceful raccoon, cows and cellos, people and penguins, opossum among shoes, on the subway, sunset by the water, endless conversation, falling into a hole, lounging around, sneaker collection, the concert, meadow in starlight.

Related Picture Prompt | Related Article

Public Selfies

Night circus, tarot cards, castle on a hill, security line, batman on a couch, reaching through the wall, beware of zombies, haunted house, familial frights, witches on the water, blindfolded, phone booth in the wilderness, shadow in the sky, a letter in the mail, hidden doorway.

Point of No Return

Darkened library, under the table, playing dominoes, looking back, a wave goodbye, out at dusk, conversation, walking away, alone and together, a new friend, heated conversation, up in a tree, hole in the ceiling, under the desk, at their computers, marching band, band practice, in the hallway, in the lunchroom, the red planet, tech gadgets, trapped inside, astronaut and spider, computer screen, special key, tethered in space, on the court, in the waves, city skateboarding.

Fishing in a Stream

Over the falls.

Under the Sea

Sledding in the mountains, cracked mirror, wilderness wayfaring, car and cactus, walking through town, tropical confinement, travel travails, roller coasters, atop the hill, climbing a ladder, under the ice, other selves.

Students 13 and older in the United States and Britain, and 16 and older elsewhere, are invited to comment. All comments are moderated by the Learning Network staff, but please keep in mind that once your comment is accepted, it will be made public and may appear in print.

Find more Picture Prompts here.

French Journal of English Studies

Home Numéros 59 1 - Tisser les liens : voyager, e... 36 Views of Moscow Mountain: Teac...

36 Views of Moscow Mountain: Teaching Travel Writing and Mindfulness in the Tradition of Hokusai and Thoreau

L'auteur américain Henry David Thoreau est un écrivain du voyage qui a rarement quitté sa ville natale de Concorde, Massachusetts, où il a vécu de 1817 à 1862. Son approche du "voyage" consiste à accorder une profonde attention à son environnement ordinaire et à voir le monde à partir de perspectives multiples, comme il l'explique avec subtilité dans Walden (1854). Inspiré par Thoreau et par la célèbre série de gravures du peintre d'estampes japonais Katsushika Hokusai, intitulée 36 vues du Mt. Fuji (1830-32), j'ai fait un cours sur "L'écriture thoreauvienne du voyage" à l'Université de l'Idaho, que j'appelle 36 vues des montagnes de Moscow: ou, Faire un grand voyage — l'esprit et le carnet ouvert — dans un petit lieu . Cet article explore la philosophie et les stratégies pédagogiques de ce cours, qui tente de partager avec les étudiants les vertus d'un regard neuf sur le monde, avec les yeux vraiment ouverts, avec le regard d'un voyageur, en "faisant un grand voyage" à Moscow, Idaho. Les étudiants affinent aussi leurs compétences d'écriture et apprennent les traditions littéraires et artistiques associées au voyage et au sens du lieu.

Index terms

Keywords: , designing a writing class to foster engagement.

1 The signs at the edge of town say, "Entering Moscow, Idaho. Population 25,060." This is a small hamlet in the midst of a sea of rolling hills, where farmers grow varieties of wheat, lentils, peas, and garbanzo beans, irrigated by natural rainfall. Although the town of Moscow has a somewhat cosmopolitan feel because of the presence of the University of Idaho (with its 13,000 students and a few thousand faculty and staff members), elegant restaurants, several bookstores and music stores, and a patchwork of artsy coffee shops on Main Street, the entire mini-metropolis has only about a dozen traffic lights and a single high school. As a professor of creative writing and the environmental humanities at the university, I have long been interested in finding ways to give special focuses to my writing and literature classes that will help my students think about the circumstances of their own lives and find not only academic meaning but personal significance in our subjects. I have recently taught graduate writing workshops on such themes as "The Body" and "Crisis," but when I was given the opportunity recently to teach an undergraduate writing class on Personal and Exploratory Writing, I decided to choose a focus that would bring me—and my students—back to one of the writers who has long been of central interest to me: Henry David Thoreau.

2 One of the courses I have routinely taught during the past six years is Environmental Writing, an undergraduate class that I offer as part of the university's Semester in the Wild Program, a unique undergraduate opportunity that sends a small group of students to study five courses (Ecology, Environmental History, Environmental Writing, Outdoor Leadership and Wilderness Survival, and Wilderness Management and Policy) at a remote research station located in the middle of the largest wilderness area (the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness) in the United States south of Alaska. In "Teaching with Wolves," a recent article about the Semester in the Wild Program, I explained that my goal in the Environmental Writing class is to help the students "synthesize their experience in the wilderness with the content of the various classes" and "to think ahead to their professional lives and their lives as engaged citizens, for which critical thinking and communication skills are so important" (325). A foundational text for the Environmental Writing class is a selection from Thoreau's personal journal, specifically the entries he made October 1-20, 1853, which I collected in the 1993 writing textbook Being in the World: An Environmental Reader for Writers . I ask the students in the Semester in the Wild Program to deeply immerse themselves in Thoreau's precise and colorful descriptions of the physical world that is immediately present to him and, in turn, to engage with their immediate encounters with the world in their wilderness location. Thoreau's entries read like this:

Oct. 4. The maples are reddening, and birches yellowing. The mouse-ear in the shade in the middle of the day, so hoary, looks as if the frost still lay on it. Well it wears the frost. Bumblebees are on the Aster undulates , and gnats are dancing in the air. Oct. 5. The howling of the wind about the house just before a storm to-night sounds extremely like a loon on the pond. How fit! Oct. 6 and 7. Windy. Elms bare. (372)

3 In thinking ahead to my class on Personal and Exploratory Writing, which would be offered on the main campus of the University of Idaho in the fall semester of 2018, I wanted to find a topic that would instill in my students the Thoreauvian spirit of visceral engagement with the world, engagement on the physical, emotional, and philosophical levels, while still allowing my students to remain in the city and live their regular lives as students. It occurred to me that part of what makes Thoreau's journal, which he maintained almost daily from 1837 (when he was twenty years old) to 1861 (just a year before his death), such a rich and elegant work is his sense of being a traveler, even when not traveling geographically.

Traveling a Good Deal in Moscow

I have traveled a good deal in Concord…. --Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854; 4)

4 For Thoreau, one did not need to travel a substantial physical distance in order to be a traveler, in order to bring a traveler's frame of mind to daily experience. His most famous book, Walden , is well known as an account of the author's ideas and daily experiments in simple living during the two years, two months, and two days (July 4, 1845, to September 6, 1847) he spent inhabiting a simple wooden house that he built on the shore of Walden Pond, a small lake to the west of Boston, Massachusetts. Walden Pond is not a remote location—it is not out in the wilderness. It is on the edge of a small village, much like Moscow, Idaho. The concept of "traveling a good deal in Concord" is a kind of philosophical and psychological riddle. What does it mean to travel extensively in such a small place? The answer to this question is meaningful not only to teachers hoping to design writing classes in the spirit of Thoreau but to all who are interested in travel as an experience and in the literary genre of travel writing.

5 Much of Walden is an exercise in deftly establishing a playful and intellectually challenging system of synonyms, an array of words—"economy," "deliberateness," "simplicity," "dawn," "awakening," "higher laws," etc.—that all add up to powerful probing of what it means to live a mindful and attentive life in the world. "Travel" serves as a key, if subtle, metaphor for the mindful life—it is a metaphor and also, in a sense, a clue: if we can achieve the traveler's perspective without going far afield, then we might accomplish a kind of enlightenment. Thoreau's interest in mindfulness becomes clear in chapter two of Walden , "Where I Lived, and What I Lived For," in which he writes, "Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?" The latter question implies the author's feeling that he is himself merely evolving as an awakened individual, not yet fully awake, or mindful, in his efforts to live "a poetic or divine life" (90). Thoreau proceeds to assert that "We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn…. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor" (90). Just what this endeavor might be is not immediately spelled out in the text, but the author does quickly point out the value of focusing on only a few activities or ideas at a time, so as not to let our lives be "frittered away by detail." He writes: "Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity! I say, let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand; … and keep your accounts on your thumb nail" (91). The strong emphasis in the crucial second chapter of Walden is on the importance of waking up and living deliberately through a conscious effort to engage in particular activities that support such awakening. It occurs to me that "travel," or simply making one's way through town with the mindset of a traveler, could be one of these activities.

6 It is in the final chapter of the book, titled "Conclusion," that Thoreau makes clear the relationship between travel and living an attentive life. He begins the chapter by cataloguing the various physical locales throughout North America or around the world to which one might travel—Canada, Ohio, Colorado, and even Tierra del Fuego. But Thoreau states: "Our voyaging is only great-circle sailing, and the doctors prescribe for diseases of the skin merely. One hastens to Southern Africa to chase the giraffe; but surely that is not the game he would be after." What comes next is brief quotation from the seventeenth-century English poet William Habbington (but presented anonymously in Thoreau's text), which might be one of the most significant passages in the entire book:

Direct your eye sight inward, and you'll find A thousand regions in your mind Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be Expert in home-cosmography. (320)

7 This admonition to travel the mysterious territory of one's own mind and master the strange cosmos of the self is actually a challenge to the reader—and probably to the author himself—to focus on self-reflection and small-scale, local movement as if such activities were akin to exploration on a grand, planetary scale. What is really at issue here is not the physical distance of one's journey, but the mental flexibility of one's approach to the world, one's ability to look at the world with a fresh, estranged point of view. Soon after his discussion of the virtues of interior travel, Thoreau explains why he left his simple home at Walden Pond after a few years of experimental living there, writing, "It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves" (323). In other words, no matter what we're doing in life, we can fall into a "beaten track" if we're not careful, thus failing to stay "awake."

8 As I thought about my writing class at the University of Idaho, I wondered how I might design a series of readings and writing exercises for university students that would somehow emulate the Thoreauvian objective of achieving ultra-mindfulness in a local environment. One of the greatest challenges in designing such a class is the fact that it took Thoreau himself many years to develop an attentiveness to his environment and his own emotional rhythms and an efficiency of expression that would enable him to describe such travel-without-travel, and I would have only sixteen weeks to achieve this with my own students. The first task, I decided, was to invite my students into the essential philosophical stance of the class, and I did this by asking my students to read the opening chapter of Walden ("Economy") in which he talks about traveling "a good deal" in his small New England village as well as the second chapter and the conclusion, which reveal the author's enthusiasm (some might even say obsession ) for trying to achieve an awakened condition and which, in the end, suggest that waking up to the meaning of one's life in the world might be best accomplished by attempting the paradoxical feat of becoming "expert in home-cosmography." As I stated it among the objectives for my course titled 36 Views of Moscow Mountain: Or, Traveling a Good Deal—with Open Minds and Notebooks—in a Small Place , one of our goals together (along with practicing nonfiction writing skills and learning about the genre of travel writing) would be to "Cultivate a ‘Thoreauvian' way of appreciating the subtleties of the ordinary world."

Windy. Elms Bare.

9 For me, the elegance and heightened sensitivity of Thoreau's engagement with place is most movingly exemplified in his journal, especially in the 1850s after he's mastered the art of observation and nuanced, efficient description of specific natural phenomena and environmental conditions. His early entries in the journal are abstract mini-essays on such topics as truth, beauty, and "The Poet," but over time the journal notations become so immersed in the direct experience of the more-than-human world, in daily sensory experiences, that the pronoun "I" even drops out of many of these records. Lawrence Buell aptly describes this Thoreauvian mode of expression as "self-relinquishment" (156) in his 1995 book The Environmental Imagination , suggesting such writing "question[s] the authority of the superintending consciousness. As such, it opens up the prospect of a thoroughgoing perceptual breakthrough, suggesting the possibility of a more ecocentric state of being than most of us have dreamed of" (144-45). By the time Thoreau wrote "Windy. Elms bare" (372) as his single entry for October 6 and 7, 1853, he had entered what we might call an "ecocentric zone of consciousness" in his work, attaining the ability to channel his complex perceptions of season change (including meteorology and botany and even his own emotional state) into brief, evocative prose.

10 I certainly do not expect my students to be able to do such writing after only a brief introduction to the course and to Thoreau's own methods of journal writing, but after laying the foundation of the Thoreauvian philosophy of nearby travel and explaining to my students what I call the "building blocks of the personal essay" (description, narration, and exposition), I ask them to engage in a preliminary journal-writing exercise that involves preparing five journal entries, each "a paragraph or two in length," that offer detailed physical descriptions of ordinary phenomena from their lives (plants, birds, buildings, street signs, people, food, etc.), emphasizing shape, color, movement or change, shadow, and sometimes sound, smell, taste, and/or touch. The goal of the journal entries, I tell the students, is to begin to get them thinking about close observation, vivid descriptive language, and the potential to give their later essays in the class an effective texture by balancing more abstract information and ideas with evocative descriptive passages and storytelling.

11 I am currently teaching this class, and I am writing this article in early September, as we are entering the fourth week of the semester. The students have just completed the journal-writing exercise and are now preparing to write the first of five brief essays on different aspects of Moscow that will eventually be braided together, as discrete sections of the longer piece, into a full-scale literary essay about Moscow, Idaho, from the perspective of a traveler. For the journal exercise, my students wrote some rather remarkable descriptive statements, which I think bodes well for their upcoming work. One student, Elizabeth Isakson, wrote stunning journal descriptions of a cup of coffee, her own feet, a lemon, a basil leaf, and a patch of grass. For instance, she wrote:

Steaming hot liquid poured into a mug. No cream, just black. Yet it appears the same brown as excretion. The texture tells another story with meniscus that fades from clear to gold and again brown. The smell is intoxicating for those who are addicted. Sweetness fills the nostrils; bitterness rushes over the tongue. The contrast somehow complements itself. Earthy undertones flower up, yet this beverage is much more satisfying than dirt. When the mug runs dry, specks of dark grounds remain swimming in the sunken meniscus. Steam no longer rises because energy has found a new home.

12 For the grassy lawn, she wrote:

Calico with shades of green, the grass is yellowing. Once vibrant, it's now speckled with straw. Sticking out are tall, seeding dandelions. Still some dips in the ground have maintained thick, soft patches of green. The light dances along falling down from the trees above, creating a stained-glass appearance made from various green shades. The individual blades are stiff enough to stand erect, but they will yield to even slight forces of wind or pressure. Made from several long strands seemingly fused together, some blades fray at the end, appearing brittle. But they do not simply break off; they hold fast to the blade to which they belong.

13 The point of this journal writing is for the students to look closely enough at ordinary reality to feel estranged from it, as if they have never before encountered (or attempted to describe) a cup of coffee or a field of grass—or a lemon or a basil leaf or their own body. Thus, the Thoreauvian objective of practicing home-cosmography begins to take shape. The familiar becomes exotic, note-worthy, and strangely beautiful, just as it often does for the geographical travel writer, whose adventures occur far away from where she or he normally lives. Travel, in a sense, is an antidote to complacency, to over-familiarity. But the premise of my class in Thoreauvian travel writing is that a slight shift of perspective can overcome the complacency we might naturally feel in our home surroundings. To accomplish this we need a certain degree of disorientation. This is the next challenge for our class.

The Blessing of Being Lost

14 Most of us take great pains to "get oriented" and "know where we're going," whether this is while running our daily errands or when thinking about the essential trajectories of our lives. We're often instructed by anxious parents to develop a sense of purpose and a sense of direction, if only for the sake of basic safety. But the traveler operates according to a somewhat different set of priorities, perhaps, elevating adventure and insight above basic comfort and security, at least to some degree. This certainly seems to be the case for the Thoreauvian traveler, or for Thoreau himself. In Walden , he writes:

…not until we are completely lost, or turned round,--for a man needs only be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost,--do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of Nature. Every man has to learn the points of compass again as often as he awakes, whether from sleep or any abstraction. Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations. (171)

15 I could explicate this passage at length, but that's not really my purpose here. I read this as a celebration of salutary disorientation, of the potential to be lost in such a way as to deepen one's ability to pay attention to oneself and one's surroundings, natural and otherwise. If travel is to a great degree an experience uniquely capable of triggering attentiveness to our own physical and psychological condition, to other cultures and the minds and needs of other people, and to a million small details of our environment that we might take for granted at home but that accrue special significance when we're away, I would argue that much of this attentiveness is owed to the sense of being lost, even the fear of being lost, that often happens when we leave our normal habitat.

16 So in my class I try to help my students "get lost" in a positive way. Here in Moscow, the major local landmark is a place called Moscow Mountain, a forested ridge of land just north of town, running approximately twenty kilometers to the east of the city. Moscow "Mountain" does not really have a single, distinctive peak like a typical mountain—it is, as I say, more of a ridge than a pinnacle. When I began contemplating this class on Thoreauvian travel writing, the central concepts I had in mind were Thoreau's notion of traveling a good deal in Concord and also the idea of looking at a specific place from many different angles. The latter idea is not only Thoreauvian, but perhaps well captured in the eighteen-century Japanese artist Katsushika Hokusai's series of woodblock prints known as 36 Views of Mt. Fuji , which offers an array of different angles on the mountain itself and on other landscape features (lakes, the sea, forests, clouds, trees, wind) and human behavior which is represented in many of the prints, often with Mt. Fuji in the distant background or off to the side. In fact, I imagine Hokusai's approach to representing Mt. Fuji as so important to the concept of this travel writing class that I call the class "36 Views of Moscow Mountain," symbolizing the multiple approaches I'll be asking my students to take in contemplating and describing not only Moscow Mountain itself, but the culture and landscape and the essential experience of Moscow the town. The idea of using Hokusai's series of prints as a focal point of this class came to me, in part, from reading American studies scholar Cathy Davidson's 36 Views of Mount Fuji: On Finding Myself in Japan , a memoir that offers sixteen short essays about different facets of her life as a visiting professor in that island nation.

17 The first of five brief essays my students will prepare for the class is what I'm calling a "Moscow Mountain descriptive essay," building upon the small descriptive journal entries they've written recently. In this case, though, I am asking the students to describe the shapes and colors of the Moscow Mountain ridge, while also telling a brief story or two about their observations of the mountain, either by visiting the mountain itself to take a walk or a bike ride or by explaining how they glimpse portions of the darkly forested ridge in the distance while walking around the University of Idaho campus or doing things in town. In preparation for the Moscow Mountain essays, we read several essays or book chapters that emphasize "organizing principles" in writing, often the use of particular landscape features, such as trees or mountains, as a literary focal point. For instance, in David Gessner's "Soaring with Castro," from his 2007 book Soaring with Fidel: An Osprey Odyssey from Cape Cod to Cuba and Beyond , he not only refers to La Gran Piedra (a small mountain in southeastern Cuba) as a narrative focal point, but to the osprey, or fish eagle, itself and its migratory journey as an organizing principle for his literary project (203). Likewise, in his essay "I Climb a Tree and Become Dissatisfied with My Lot," Chicago author Leonard Dubkin writes about his decision, as a newly fired journalist, to climb up a tree in Chicago's Lincoln Park to observe and listen to the birds that gather in the green branches in the evening, despite the fact that most adults would consider this a strange and inappropriate activity. We also looked at several of Hokusai's woodblock prints and analyzed these together in class, trying to determine how the mountain served as an organizing principle for each print or whether there were other key features of the prints—clouds, ocean waves, hats and pieces of paper floating in the wind, humans bent over in labor—that dominate the images, with Fuji looking on in the distance.

18 I asked my students to think of Hokusai's representations of Mt. Fuji as aesthetic models, or metaphors, for what they might try to do in their brief (2-3 pages) literary essays about Moscow Mountain. What I soon discovered was that many of my students, even students who have spent their entire lives in Moscow, either were not aware of Moscow Mountain at all or had never actually set foot on the mountain. So we spent half an hour during one class session, walking to a vantage point on the university campus, where I could point out where the mountain is and we could discuss how one might begin to write about such a landscape feature in a literary essay. Although I had thought of the essay describing the mountain as a way of encouraging the students to think about a familiar landscape as an orienting device, I quickly learned that this will be a rather challenging exercise for many of the students, as it will force them to think about an object or a place that is easily visible during their ordinary lives, but that they typically ignore. Paying attention to the mountain, the ridge, will compel them to reorient themselves in this city and think about a background landscape feature that they've been taking for granted until now. I think of this as an act of disorientation or being lost—a process of rethinking their own presence in this town that has a nearby mountain that most of them seldom think about. I believe Thoreau would consider this a good, healthy experience, a way of being present anew in a familiar place.

36 Views—Or, When You Invert Your Head

19 Another key aspect of Hokusai's visual project and Thoreau's literary project is the idea of changing perspective. One can view Mt. Fuji from 36 different points of views, or from thousands of different perspectives, and it is never quite the same place—every perspective is original, fresh, mind-expanding. The impulse to shift perspective in pursuit of mindfulness is also ever-present in Thoreau's work, particularly in his personal journal and in Walden . This idea is particularly evident, to me, in the chapter of Walden titled "The Ponds," where he writes:

Standing on the smooth sandy beach at the east end of the pond, in a calm September afternoon, when a slight haze makes the opposite shore line indistinct, I have seen whence came the expression, "the glassy surface of a lake." When you invert your head, it looks like a thread of finest gossamer stretched across the valley, and gleaming against the distinct pine woods, separating one stratum of the atmosphere from another. (186)

20 Elsewhere in the chapter, Thoreau describes the view of the pond from the top of nearby hills and the shapes and colors of pebbles in the water when viewed from close up. He chances physical perspective again and again throughout the chapter, but it is in the act of looking upside down, actually suggesting that one might invert one's head, that he most vividly conveys the idea of looking at the world in different ways in order to be lost and awakened, just as the traveler to a distant land might feel lost and invigorated by such exposure to an unknown place.

21 After asking students to write their first essay about Moscow Mountain, I give them four additional short essays to write, each two to four pages long. We read short examples of place-based essays, some of them explicitly related to travel, and then the students work on their own essays on similar topics. The second short essay is about food—I call this the "Moscow Meal" essay. We read the final chapter of Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma (2006), "The Perfect Meal," and Anthony Bourdain's chapter "Where Cooks Come From" in the book A Cook's Tour (2001) are two of the works we study in preparation for the food essay. The three remaining short essays including a "Moscow People" essay (exploring local characters are important facets of the place), a more philosophical essay about "the concept of Moscow," and a final "Moscow Encounter" essay that tells the story of a dramatic moment of interaction with a person, an animal, a memorable thing to eat or drink, a sunset, or something else. Along the way, we read the work of Wendell Berry, Joan Didion, Barbara Kingsolver, Kim Stafford, Paul Theroux, and other authors. Before each small essay is due, we spend a class session holding small-group workshops, allowing the students to discuss their essays-in-progress with each other and share portions of their manuscripts. The idea is that they will learn about writing even by talking with each other about their essays. In addition to writing about Moscow from various angles, they will learn about additional points of view by considering the angles of insight developed by their fellow students. All of this is the writerly equivalent of "inverting [their] heads."

Beneath the Smooth Skin of Place

22 Aside from Thoreau's writing and Hokusai's images, perhaps the most important writer to provide inspiration for this class is Indiana-based essayist Scott Russell Sanders. Shortly after introducing the students to Thoreau's key ideas in Walden and to the richness of his descriptive writing in the journal, I ask them to read his essay "Buckeye," which first appeared in Sanders's Writing from the Center (1995). "Buckeye" demonstrates the elegant braiding together of descriptive, narrative, and expository/reflective prose, and it also offers a strong argument about the importance of creating literature and art about place—what he refers to as "shared lore" (5)—as a way of articulating the meaning of a place and potentially saving places that would otherwise be exploited for resources, flooded behind dams, or otherwise neglected or damaged. The essay uses many of the essential literary devices, ranging from dialogue to narrative scenes, that I hope my students will practice in their own essays, while also offering a vivid argument in support of the kind of place-based writing the students are working on.

23 Another vital aspect of our work together in this class is the effort to capture the wonderful idiosyncrasies of this place, akin to the idiosyncrasies of any place that we examine closely enough to reveal its unique personality. Sanders's essay "Beneath the Smooth Skin of America," which we study together in Week 9 of the course, addresses this topic poignantly. The author challenges readers to learn the "durable realities" of the places where they live, the details of "watershed, biome, habitat, food-chain, climate, topography, ecosystem and the areas defined by these natural features they call bioregions" (17). "The earth," he writes, "needs fewer tourists and more inhabitants" (16). By Week 9 of the semester, the students have written about Moscow Mountain, about local food, and about local characters, and they are ready at this point to reflect on some of the more philosophical dimensions of living in a small academic village surrounded by farmland and beyond that surrounded by the Cascade mountain range to the West and the Rockies to the East. "We need a richer vocabulary of place" (18), urges Sanders. By this point in the semester, by reading various examples of place-based writing and by practicing their own powers of observation and expression, my students will, I hope, have developed a somewhat richer vocabulary to describe their own experiences in this specific place, a place they've been trying to explore with "open minds and notebooks." Sanders argues that

if we pay attention, we begin to notice patterns in the local landscape. Perceiving those patterns, acquiring names and theories and stories for them, we cease to be tourists and become inhabitants. The bioregional consciousness I am talking about means bearing your place in mind, keeping track of its condition and needs, committing yourself to its care. (18)

24 Many of my students will spend only four or five years in Moscow, long enough to earn a degree before moving back to their hometowns or journeying out into the world in pursuit of jobs or further education. Moscow will be a waystation for some of these student writers, not a permanent home. Yet I am hoping that this semester-long experiment in Thoreauvian attentiveness and place-based writing will infect these young people with both the bioregional consciousness Sanders describes and a broader fascination with place, including the cultural (yes, the human ) dimensions of this and any other place. I feel such a mindfulness will enrich the lives of my students, whether they remain here or move to any other location on the planet or many such locations in succession.

25 Toward the end of "Beneath the Smooth Skin of America," Sanders tells the story of encountering a father with two young daughters near a city park in Bloomington, Indiana, where he lives. Sanders is "grazing" on wild mulberries from a neighborhood tree, and the girls are keen to join him in savoring the local fruit. But their father pulls them away, stating, "Thank you very much, but we never eat anything that grows wild. Never ever." To this Sanders responds: "If you hold by that rule, you will not get sick from eating poison berries, but neither will you be nourished from eating sweet ones. Why not learn to distinguish one from the other? Why feed belly and mind only from packages?" (19-20). By looking at Moscow Mountain—and at Moscow, Idaho, more broadly—from numerous points of view, my students, I hope, will nourish their own bellies and minds with the wild fruit and ideas of this place. I say this while chewing a tart, juicy, and, yes, slightly sweet plum that I pulled from a feral tree in my own Moscow neighborhood yesterday, an emblem of engagement, of being here.

Bibliography

BUELL, Lawrence, The Environmental Imagination: Thoreau, Nature Writing, and the Formation of American Culture , Harvard University Press, 1995.

DAVIDSON, Cathy, 36 Views of Mount Fuji: On Finding Myself in Japan , Duke University Press, 2006.

DUBKIN, Leonard, "I Climb a Tree and Become Dissatisfied with My Lot." Enchanted Streets: The Unlikely Adventures of an Urban Nature Lover , Little, Brown and Company, 1947, 34-42.

GESSNER, David, Soaring with Fidel: An Osprey Odyssey from Cape Cod to Cuba and Beyond , Beacon, 2007.

ISAKSON, Elizabeth, "Journals." Assignment for 36 Views of Moscow Mountain (English 208), University of Idaho, Fall 2018.

SANDERS, Scott Russell, "Buckeye" and "Beneath the Smooth Skin of America." Writing from the Center , Indiana University Press, 1995, pp. 1-8, 9-21.

SLOVIC, Scott, "Teaching with Wolves", Western American Literature 52.3 (Fall 2017): 323-31.

THOREAU, Henry David, "October 1-20, 1853", Being in the World: An Environmental Reader for Writers , edited by Scott H. Slovic and Terrell F. Dixon, Macmillan, 1993, 371-75.

THOREAU, Henry David, Walden . 1854. Princeton University Press, 1971.

Bibliographical reference

Scott Slovic , “ 36 Views of Moscow Mountain: Teaching Travel Writing and Mindfulness in the Tradition of Hokusai and Thoreau ” ,  Caliban , 59 | 2018, 41-54.

Electronic reference

Scott Slovic , “ 36 Views of Moscow Mountain: Teaching Travel Writing and Mindfulness in the Tradition of Hokusai and Thoreau ” ,  Caliban [Online], 59 | 2018, Online since 01 June 2018 , connection on 07 May 2024 . URL : http://journals.openedition.org/caliban/3688; DOI : https://doi.org/10.4000/caliban.3688

About the author

Scott slovic.

University of Idaho Scott Slovic is University Distinguished Professor of Environmental Humanities at the University of Idaho, USA. The author and editor of many books and articles, he edited the journal ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment from 1995 to 2020. His latest coedited book is The Routledge Handbook of Ecocriticism and Environmental Communication  (2019).

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