So many people tell you that
keeping it simple is the best way to go. There’s even an anagram for it: “K.I.S.S”
Keep It Simple Stupid. I’m sure they are right. It is best to simplify whenever
possible. However, as a writer, simplicity is not always the way to go. Also,
simplicity can actually be harder than it looks, like with children’s books. I
can’t count how many folks have told me they should “write a children’s book”
because it would be so much simpler/easier than a “real” novel. Right… There is
nothing “simple” about writing a children’s book, or a short story, or a poem.
Is it possible as a writer
to keep it simple? In my humble opinion, no. Not if I want the reader to read
my novel with ease, with the desire to finish quickly because they can’t wait
to see how it ends and because getting there is so much fun. If I wrote a “simple”
story I don’t think I’d attain that goal for my reader, much less myself.
To lay clues and/or “red
herrings” as is done in a mystery or thriller or make your characters more than interesting, there is no “simple
way” to do this, unless of course you’re Nora Roberts, who whips out books like
a magician does doves from a hat!
Below is an excerpt
from The Seventh Man, an example of layering character, alluding to back-story,
setting up for what comes later, and hopefully piquing your interest so you’ll
want to read more, want to know these people and their stories.
His
brain wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t stop thinking of the huge mistake he’d made and
what it might cost him. Back in front of the store window he had touched her,
skin to skin. He hated to make that sort of contact with anyone but had decided
in an instant. Extraordinary danger required extraordinary action no matter
what he hated.
In his head he kept repeating what he’d done
as if playing an old scratched LP that wouldn’t stop skipping. He’d gripped her
lower jaw, pulled her face to his; moved his hand to allow his mouth to meet
hers. He hadn’t been gentle with her, had felt her flinch in pain as his mouth
had touched hers. He remembered the feel of her as she’d squirmed beneath him.
He took a deep breath and tried to relax, to rid his memory of her perfume. Was
it perfume or her natural fragrance? Either way the light floral aroma still
penetrated his nose as it had on the street. Her scent had crept inside him,
had flowed deep into his mind along with the underlying acrid aroma of her fear.
And then conflicting colors of black, pale yellow and red shadows had flashed
across his vision; a sudden pain had stung his eyes as if in warning. He shut
them now, for an instant, just as he’d done at the scene. When the cops had
moved away he’d been locked into the woman, her breath, the foreign taste of
her lips; the forgotten touch of a woman’s softness. The dreamlike desire to
kiss her with complete abandon had almost overpowered him. Now, with that
memory haunting him the flicker came again in chaotic colors and a throb in his
head. And, just like on the street outside the store, the killer found he
couldn’t breathe. He remembered not being able to breathe, and that he hadn’t
been able to stop kissing the woman he’d taken, either.
©2011
©2011
Was
this easy to read? Does it seem like a “simple” scene? I hope not!
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