Throwback to 2019: an early version of what is now In Pieces, with the best review the book (any book) could receive:
Shakespeare I am not. I do not pretend to write anything more than the best story I can manage with the limited skills God has given me. But I am comforted in knowing that the kids are rooting for me. A happy thought as I settle in and begin tonight's writing session.
Call me Papa Hemingway: I dislike heavy descriptive writing. You won’t find me sitting for hours pouring over a a single page, savoring prose poetry about the curvature of antique silverware or the sundry shades of white present on a snow-covered field. Blame my taste. Blame ADHD. I just…don’t.
As an author and editor, I recognize the importance of scene setting and world-building, of using the five senses to make the story’s physicality vivid within the reader’s imagination. Respecting and preserving an author’s individual style is the mark of good editing, and some people are excellent descriptive writers. And I can recognize when a scene needs more description.
But too much description is an overindulgence. Often it runs to purple prose. Worse, it can ruin tension and obscure the plot. And in my pleasure reading, plot and character are what I want. Description should serve the broader needs of the story; as mere window dressing, it’s a distraction.
Which brings me to my own writing. I write historical romances—a genre that, between its unfamiliar settings and its focus on love and therefore physical attraction, demands a great deal of description. (Same goes for science fiction and fantasy, in which world-building is part of the fun, and literary fiction, in which prose poetry is highly prized.) Yet the prospect of writing description always makes me squeamish. Because I stink at it. Description does not come naturally, and so I take a light hand. Too light. My editors and early readers often have to remind me to add more.
Dialogue, on the other hand… I love me some witty repartee. That I often have to edit out.
My Papa Hemingway tendencies show. A friend recently emailed me with this observation:
I have a question: do you know exactly in your mind what each of your characters looks like? I would imagine so, since they've been your companions for so long. I noticed in the book [i.e. In Pieces] that much of the features of the main characters are left to the imagination; at least so it seemed to me when I compare to other books I have read where the author gives every detail down to the dress size. C.S. Lewis is the same, especially in his space novels. He gives very little description of characters’ appearances. It is a very interesting writing choice, perhaps the better one. Whenever I wrote stories as a kid and as a teen, describing the characters' looks was part of the appeal. Sort of like playing dollhouse but in words, I guess.
If you do know just what they look like, do they resemble people from the real world you have actually seen (friends, acquaintances, actors in movies, people on the street, etc.) or not? I wonder about this a lot for my own storytelling now. I’d been under the impression (see above) that unless I knew and expressed every little thing about how my character looked, then I didn’t really know them and neither would my readers. Yet clearly that is not the only way to go about it.
So she noticed, ha. In doing so, she raises some excellent questions.
Answer: descriptive writing does matter, regardless my squeamishness. To this end, I’ve developed a few hacks, listed here with examples from In Pieces. Fake it until you make it, is what I say.
My friend raises an interesting point: “I’d been under the impression that unless I…expressed every little thing about how my character looked, then I didn’t really know them and neither would my readers. Yet clearly that is not the only way to go about it.”
Description does serve the purpose of helping the reader know a fictional person. Ultimately, his knowledge should go beyond the physical to the moral. Which begs the question: how do we know people’s moral character?
According to Aristotle, a person’s character ultimately rests upon his actions and whether or not they are consistent with virtue. Physical appearance is (forgive me) only skin deep, emotional sensations are passing, thoughts come and go, and even good intentions are not enough. A person’s choices and actions are far more telling and formative. In storytelling, character drives action, which drives character, which drives action… No plot, no character arc, no theme. They’re interconnected.
It makes sense, therefore, to employ action as a means character description—to show, not tell. A simple example from the opening chapter of In Pieces:
“Of course you have.” Josiah winked. Then he straightened to his full height and tossed on his hat and greatcoat. He pushed past her and hoisted several rolls of cloth onto his shoulder—unlike her, merchant sailors were used to hauling things. “I’ll come back for the rest.”
Hoisting cloth is the descriptive action. Earlier in the chapter, we see Molly fumbling the heavy bolts. That Josiah can handle them easily is a roundabout way of describing his build. He’s strong. Muscular. Owing to his profession as a merchant sailor, the reader can also deduce that he’s physically fit and agile.
(Yes, this is a story about Beautiful People.)
No need for a gym membership when you work on a tall ship.
Furthermore, Molly’s narratorial comment that “merchant sailors were used to hauling things” shows that Josiah’s feat of strength is, for her, a matter of course. This points to their relationship: Josiah is too familiar and familial to be an object of physical attraction. The reader may swoon at the thought of a tall, strong, trim man; Molly herself does not.
But why does his build matter at all? Is this window dressing? Am I gunning for a Fabio cover? No. It matters to the plot. Daniel Warren, Josiah’s rival for Molly’s affection, is physically imposing, a giant of a man who wants what he wants, when he wants it, and isn’t above manipulation, bullying, and assault to get it. And—this is important—Daniel sees Josiah as a legitimate foe. Why? Mostly because of Molly and Josiah’s close friendship, but also because Josiah is the only one in town who could beat up Daniel, if need be. He wouldn’t be so much of a threat otherwise.
As often happens with rivals, Daniel is Josiah’s foil, and they share some faults, albeit with different manifestations. Love is patient, love is kind, and Josiah has room to grow in both. His physical strength is not only a logical extension of his profession, but it points to the story’s moral dimension and Josiah’s character arc.
Those of us who are dialogue writers must beware the dreaded Talking Heads—pages of dialogue in which the characters have seemingly lost their bodies, floating in the ether instead of rooted in the setting. To counter this, author Elizabeth George recommends authors employ THADs—Talking Head Avoidance Devices. Give the characters an action, however mundane. Put an object in their hands. Keep them in time and space.
I usually challenge myself to go one step further. I try to choose an object that is distinctly historical. Here, the THAD does double-duty by also describing the story’s setting. Take this scene early in the book between Molly and Josiah, following one of Molly’s PTSD flashbacks. In order to cheer her up, Josiah brings Molly a box of their childhood toys:
Josiah pulled out a wooden top. He turned it in his hands then set it point down on the table and spun it. “Remember this? My father made it for me. He was good with woodworking.”
The top veered toward the edge of the table. She reached out and trapped it with her hand before it crashed to the floor.
“Thanks.”
Molly handed the top back to Josiah, and he placed it in the crate. Then he pulled out two ball-and-cups. He gripped one by its dowel, flicked the attached ball into the air, and caught it in the cup. “These were ours.”
“And I was never good at it. Ball-and-cup is your game.”
He tossed and caught the ball once more, then placed the set aside. “Then we’ll skip it for now. Best find something we can both do.”
“How unlike you.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re always looking for the advantage. You like to win.”
“Pot calling the kettle black, Moll-Doll.”
He set a small canvas bag on the table then reached back into the crate. The bag held a wooden dissection—a puzzle. When completed, it formed the map of the world. Their tutor had used it to teach them geography.
“Finally. It was at the bottom.” Josiah pulled a wooden case from the crate and opened it on the table. Wooden disks, painted black and white, were scattered inside the box, along with dice and two small cups. “Backgammon. I know you enjoy this one” (In Pieces, Ch. 7).
18th century toys: wooden top, cup-and-ball, wooden dissections (jigsaw puzzles), backgammon board.
A wooden top, two ball-and-cups, a wooden dissection (puzzle), and a backgammon board—together, they scream eighteenth century. They also speak to Molly and Josiah’s changing relationship. The toys are familiar, relics of their shared childhood. But their mode of being together has changed, and she notices.
I often find it easier to describe characters against each other in pairs, rather than describing them individually. From the second chapter, an argument between Josiah and his sixteen-year-old sister, Deborah:
Josiah opened the drawer of his oak bureau and pulled out a clean cravat, trying to think of a way forward. Hers was a character he did not understand. Here he had brought home their oldest friend, ill and in distress, and all Deb could think about were her own hurt feelings. He could point out her selfishness, but she would cry all the more, as if he had shattered her world.
If he were any other man, he might chalk it up to her being a girl. But the other women in his life were not like this. Deb’s touchiness was unique to Deb. And she felt uncertain around Molly, not only because of him but because of her appearance. For Molly was the town beauty. And Deb was short and stocky.
Very stocky.
He had told her numerous times that she was pretty, with her blond curls, rosy cheeks, and the gray eyes they had inherited from Mother. It didn’t matter. Nothing a brother said would convince her that she was anything but an inelegant dumpling. And she envied Molly’s “perfect figure” and “dainty features” and “chocolate eyes” and “chocolate hair” and “easy confidence”—in short, everything Deb lacked. Josiah liked those things about Molly too, but listening to his sister’s pathetic descriptions almost made him wish Molly were less attractive. Almost.
This is the first description we get of Molly, and from a man smitten with her, no less. If the prose were to turn purple, this is where it’d happen. But keeping the narrative focus on Deb helps. Both Josiah and the reader are, at the moment, more concerned with Deb’s insecurity than with Molly’s status as town beauty.
The use of irony also helped. I placed all purple prose in Deb’s teenage mouth. Her description of Molly is perfectly ridiculous yet perfectly accurate, as Josiah’s “almost” makes clear.
Speaking of gray eyes: my third child when he was six months old. He also happens to be a natural athlete, strong and agile. Josiah Robb’s physical appearance is largely based on maternal projection—what I imagine my son being like when he’s grown.
Speaking of Molly the Town Beauty…
Originally, I did not envision Molly as the town beauty; it developed as I developed the society drama story line. This necessitated I add more physical description. Question was, how?
Josiah states it as a simple fact in the narrative quoted above, and so quickly that we would miss it, had we depended solely on his viewpoint. We cannot look to Josiah alone for a full physical description of Molly. His attraction is healthy male attraction, but he knows her too well to treat her cheaply. Any lust he might experience is checked by the dynamics of a lifelong friendship.
Not so for his friends. From Chapter 10:
Josiah shook off all lingering thoughts of business. “Now we’re talking about Molly?”
“The Reclusive Beauty. Who else?” Findley smirked. “Pretty little brunette with big eyes, long lashes, and a host of other first-rate qualities I won’t name because she’s a lady and it’s Sunday and I’m standing in the churchyard. Our own Helen of Troy, ‘the face that launched a thousand ships.’ She’s living in your house. Remember?”
Yes, they were talking about Molly.
“Slender and curvy at the same time.” Peterson’s eyes glazed over wistfully. “A rare achievement.”
Did he know he was speaking aloud?
If Josiah were to say, “Slender and curvy at the same time,” the reader would gag and throw the book across the room, and I would have a thousand nasty emails in my inbox, complaining of misogyny. But bring in a couple of dude friends and suddenly we’re allowed to say exactly that. Mark Findley’s facetiousness and George Peterson’s bald-faced comments give the reader a darn good idea of what men think of Molly. And Josiah’s reaction proves that, childhood friend or not, he isn’t blind.
But the comic relief wasn’t for its own sake. Findley and Peterson’s oh-so-helpful descriptive language advances the plot. Molly isn’t “merely” pretty. She’s a hottie. She’s a curvy girl. Men like to look at her, whether or not she invites it (she doesn’t). Therefore, women are jealous. Cue the drama. Without this description, In Pieces would have failed as a story.
…do the work.
From Chapter 15:
Molly sat on the front parlor windowsill, wearing her charcoal-gray redingote gown, holding her hat and gloves on her lap, waiting for Josiah.
The morning sun filtered through the window glass, refracting into short waves of gold light on the worn, waxed floorboards. A similar pattern of light used to appear on the wall of her bedroom, at the same hour of the day. As a child she would lie in bed, mesmerized by the sunlight’s color and translucence, staring at it for what could have been minutes but felt like an eternity. She remembered wanting to capture the light and make it permanent, so that she could look on it whenever she wanted. An impossible wish. The sun always moved and the pattern would fade away.
One day she had been staring at the sunbeams when Papa entered her room and told her they were going for a drive. He said he wanted a change of scenery and thought she would enjoy a picnic. She was seven and picnicking with her father was nothing short of heaven.
They drove a few miles out of town—the Redcoats were no longer in Boston—and found a grove of trees next to a pond. They ate while Papa listened to her prattle, and then they walked alongside the pond, he pointing out tadpoles, minnows, and plants. He had brought a newspaper with him, but instead of reading it, he took a sheet and folded it into a boat. Together they set it afloat on the pond and watched as the breeze pushed it slowly across the surface.
As was inevitable, the paper boat took on water and sank. Molly had not expected that. She remembered how wet her cheeks were from her tears. Papa did not scold her for crying. He simply took another sheet of paper, folded a second boat, and handed it to her to keep. Her tears dried. She felt so safe beside him, that her father could do anything.
They packed up their picnic lunch and drove back to Boston, she clutching her boat, he sitting tall and strong as he drove.
Years later Molly learned that had been the day her mother lost yet another child, a son. The signs began early in the morning and Papa, frustrated at being unable to help the physician and midwives, fled the house, taking Molly with him. After that, there were no more babies. Mama wouldn’t survive another one. There also were no more picnics. Papa buried himself in his work.
Later that year the Robbs moved in. Papa took immediately to Josiah—drove him places, let him follow him around while he worked, laughed at his jests, and spoke to him of Captain Robb. Everyone liked Josiah. Everyone except Molly. She wanted to spend time with Papa as well, but all his attention now went to Josiah—to his education, to teaching him business and horsemanship, and to all the other things fathers did for sons but not for daughters. A few years passed before Molly could accept that boys were special, that fathers were tasked with making sure boys grew into successful men themselves, and that Josiah’s being a boy without a father of his own was not his fault. Once she had figured that out, she decided she could like Josiah—most of the time.
As a grown woman, she knew their family situation was more nuanced than that. Still, Papa always listened to Josiah. Never her. She couldn’t help wondering if, had Josiah been home, Papa would not have taken his own life.
A shadow passed behind her, obscuring the waves of sunlight. Molly turned and looked out the window. Josiah had arrived with the wagon.
I’m not a poet, and I’m certainly no Flaubert or Fitzgerald. But I can try.
To circle back around to my friend’s question: how important is it to describe characters physically in order for the reader to know them? How much description should we aim for?
Description serves a purpose; it has its rightful and necessary place. What and how much is ultimately each author’s judgment call, in consultation with his editor, and with regards the demands of the particular story.
I’ve never been one for adopting a “word of the year"—not because I’m opposed to the idea, but because I usually forget my assigned word. But when Jen Fulwiler’s Word Generator spit this out for me…
…I knew there was something to it.
Fall has ominous overtones. No one likes to fall down, and the word is visually too close to fail for comfort. But the two words have different etymologies: the first is Germanic, the second Latinate, and their Proto-Indo-European roots are different. To fall is not to fail—not when the landing is exactly where we need to be.
The past several days have been rough. Parenting struggles, author struggles, and mental health struggles have converged into a perfect storm, and I would be lying if I said I was handling it well. No, I owe a visit to my old friend, Mr. Confessional. He’s always happy to see me, even if I’m not always happy to see him.
“I do not understand my own actions,” St. Paul says in his letter to the Romans. “For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate” (7:15). Not only am I powerless over other people and external circumstances, but I am powerless over my own carnality.
I cannot fix others. I can’t even fix myself.
But as St. Paul teaches and as we hear echoed in many places, powerlessness has a paradoxical relationship to hope. Powerlessness is the pivot point between willfulness and willingness. Almighty God can and does work miracles in my life, but He waits for my permission. God is a gentleman; He does not force Himself upon those who do not want Him. He will let me flounder until I realize I need Him. And when I do—when I fall—He works His miracles.
I have gravitated to historical romance fiction since I was a teen. Love stories resonate deeply with me as a reader, a writer, and in my spiritual life. And history itself fascinates me. Add a dash of suspense (I also love classic murder mysteries) and I am in my happy place.
Why do these two genres—romance and mystery—resonate so deeply? Maybe because they are a response to humanity’s fundamental brokenness, and therefore my own brokenness. In them we hear echoes of the Garden of Eden. The romance is concerned with union, love, wholeness, and the imago Dei. The murder mystery is concerned with life, death, and justice. These things are what we had—and lost—in Eden.
Interestingly, they are connected thematically in the person of Eve. From Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger’s Daughter Zion:
[Eve] comes, not from the earth, but from himself [i.e. Adam]: in the “myth” or “legend” of the rib is expressed the most intimate reference of man and woman to each other. In that mutual reference the wholeness of humanity is first realized. The necessary condition for the creation of mankind, to be fulfilled in the oneness of man and woman, becomes apparent here, just as previously Genesis 1:27 had portrayed mankind from the very beginning as masculine and feminine in its likeness to God, and had mysterious, cryptically, linked its likeness to God with the mutual reference of the sexes to each other. Admittedly the text also allows the ambivalence of this reference to be evident: woman can become a temptation for man, but simultaneously she is the mother of all life. In my opinion it is significant that her name is bestowed in Genesis 3:20 after the fall, after God’s words of judgment. In this way the undestroyed dignity and majesty of woman are expressed. She preserves the mystery of life, the power opposed to death; for death is like the power of nothingness, the antithesis of Yahweh, who is the creator of life and the God of the living. She, who offers the fruit which leads to death, whose task manifests a mysterious kinship with death, is nonetheless from now on the keeper of the seal of life and the antithesis of death. The woman, who bears the key of life, thus touches directly the mystery of being, the living God, from whom in the last analysis all life originates and who, for that reason, is called “life”, the “living one” (Ratzinger, Daughter Zion: Meditations on the Church’s Marian Belief, pp. 16-17, emphasis mine).
Eve is an icon of the themes proper to the romance and mystery genres—the one who, with Adam, images God in his wholeness, and the one through whom death came and yet also bears the key of life. Like Eve, these genres “touch directly on the mystery of being” through the art of story. Romances and mysteries poke and prod at fundamental questions, the inscrutable mysteries of God. And if Eve, “the woman,” is the one touches on the mystery of being, then the popularity of the romance genre with women comes as no surprise. We are trying to understand the Divine Mysteries as women, which necessitates grappling with being bearers of the key of life and the mutual reference of the sexes to each other. For us, these questions are inescapable.
Yet the romance genre is often a matter for controversy. As with the real life relationships they depict, love stories can easily veer the reader toward false ideals, emotional manipulation, or voyeurism. Shallowness is also a risk: we want the things we want without having to exert much effort. Love without sacrifice. Feelings without virtue. Catharsis, but no personal growth.
I’m sensitive to the genre’s pitfalls. During my prodigal daughter days, I was in an emotionally and sexually abusive relationship. The topic of love is a deeply personal one; and thanks be to God, I have experienced much healing around this area of my life. But “hot and bothered” scenes stir up my yucky stuff, even after all these years. Triggering scenes will cycle through my mind on loop playback. I’m careful about my pleasure reading, but sometimes one of these stories sideswipes me and throws me off for days.
Yet I love to read stories that are bold in the telling. I want to write stories that are bold in the telling.
The question of how to be honest about sexuality without assaulting the reader’s imagination (or my own) plagued me as a younger writer. After a few years of hemming and hawing, I reached out to my college friend and historical romance author Roseanna White and asked her opinion. Not only is she equally interested in the theology of marriage, but she is equally concerned about the effect her stories have on readers. Roseanna helped me think around my scruples—my fear of leading my readers astray was an indicator that I had their best interests at heart—and directed me toward matters of writing craft. She brought up the matter of tension: story conflict can be set up in such a way that a story’s dramatic tension is built on something other than sexual tension. Sexual tension can play its part, but it need not the only point of a story, and it needs to be subservient to other, higher story goals.
Depending on where a scene’s tension lies, it’s possible to be “edgy” while minimizing the “hot and bothered.” But this requires a skilled hand and a judicious use of descriptive language. For example, I loved Lisa Samson’s The Passion of Mary-Margaret and Susie Finkbeiner’s Paint Chips, both of which delve into prostitution/human trafficking. Yet I was able to read both stories and gain something by them despite my own past trauma. The content was hard, but the craft made it readable—for me. I can’t speak to other people’s experiences; what bothers one reader doesn’t bother another.
My exchange with Roseanna set me on a path toward exploring love in my own storytelling in a prayerful, conscientious, soul-searching manner. Guess what? So much good has come from it. So much healing; so much freedom of spirit. I’ve seen its effects on my marriage. I’ve seen its effects on my imagination—I can ponder scenes and topics that I would have shied away from ten years ago. Most importantly, I’ve received spiritual consolation; the connection between marriage and God, especially its connection to the Eucharist, is no longer theoretical, but one that lives in my heart.
From this exploration came In Pieces, my debut novel and the first of my Molly Chase series—a series that is frank about sex while careful in its depiction. As I’ve bragged to friends and editors ad nauseam, I managed to escape the first book without the requisite “first kiss”—In Pieces fulfills that genre convention in a different and (I think) entirely satisfying way. Is there sexual tension? Yes. Does it overwhelm? I hope not. Does it serve character development and the plot itself? I hope so. The reader must be the judge.
Human love serves a higher purpose: to be a sacrament. To touch directly the mystery of being. Let the romance genre follow suit.
Further Reading: Memento Mori, the Romance Genre, and the Catholic Imagination (Chrism Press blog)
