Filler vs Details

Today at my "real" job I was having a discussion about writing with one of my bosses and an interesting topic came up.



The boss in question also enjoys writing but has no real aspirations with his work than to enjoy himself and maybe write something someone else may enjoy.



Anyway we were talking and he brought up a book he was listening to on the road one day where the author wrote something like "The face showed no emotion save for his upper lip which quivered like granite in an earthquake.....". Of this my boss said the author excells at turning a phrase but that writing things like that add nothing to the story aside from word count.



I happen to take a different view.



I've always felt that a writer's mission is the same as a painter's just with a different tools. Whereas the painter has his canvas, brushes and paints to create an image with the author has the computer, typewriter, word processor or even pen and paper to accomplish nearly the same goal.



My boss has an image similar to this on his wall:






I explained to him that if the painter had left out the people, the clouds, the choppy water and went with not much more than a sihlouette of a ship at an odd angle you'd have no where near as powerful an image. And frankly it'd be a rather dull image to boot.


Detailed writing serves the same purpose and keeps written works alive. If the author stuck to simple and lifeless phrasing like "his lip shook" the scene loses its power and as such isn't nearly as interesting. In my mind nothing could be worse than a piece written in nothing but bare bones language (well other than a bad story but that's another case for another time).


Can this be overdone?


Definately.


Probably the most common example is in focusing too heavily on what the characters are wearing (something even I am guilty of). I can't count how many times I've read books that, while I enjoyed, I've found myself wanting to skim past endless descriptions of the cut and style of clothing everyone is wearing.


Could those never ending lists of attire be the author simply padding their word count?


I suppose so but as an outsider looking in who am I to say.


I believe I've soapboxed enough for one day. I hope everyone has a good weekend, looks like the weather is going to be perfect in my neck of the woods for some quality writing/reading time.

A Slightly Revised Version of Something I Posted Earlier

Some months back I posted the opening chapter of a novella I've been working on for a long while.

A few days ago I made some alterations to it and since many people may not have checked it out yet I decided to repost it with the aforementioned changes.

Since there is no point in further introductions I give you the goods:

Clawing at earth and gasping for air he pulled himself up the small hill. Rocks digging into the flesh of his hands and tearing away finger nails with each laborious pull. At the top his legs failed him and he collapsed in a heap on the sun baked grass. The beating of his heart jackhammered in his skull and left him feeling dizzy. Dizziness combined with the struggle to pull in each new breath brought tidal waves of nausea crashing down on him. Too early he pushed himself upright and was driven to his knees retching. Cursing himself he further bloodied his hands digging a shallow hole in the soil and scooped as much of his waste into it as he could. Even as he patted the earth to conceal the disturbed soil he studied his back-trail. He didn’t see anyone between him and the horizon but he was certain they were out there somewhere. No one ever got away from them for long and he’d witnessed first-hand more than a handful of escapees drug back to camp, the luckiest ones being those whose throats were already slit when they arrived.

His hand rested on the hilt of the knife he had taken off the lone guard who had stood in the way of his escape. If it came to it, he told himself, he’d take his own life before letting them take him back to camp and if luck was on his side he’d take of them with him. His only real chance of survival was to make it to some form of civilization before they found him. From his pocket he produced the decaying map he had also liberated from the guard and spread it on the dirt before him. With a finger he traced over lines printed decades before his birth, lines depicting long since forgotten roads and routes searching for the intersection where the ruins of the two Great Roads crossed. Rumors whispered among the other captives at night claimed the two roads spanned thousands of miles in divergent directions, something he would have found preposterous less than a month ago.

In all his life, a life of barely twenty years, he had not ventured more than two miles out side the confines of the village he had been born in before they had come riding out of the hills with their nets and rifles. Until that day the world had been nothing more than the water reaching as far as the eye could see to the east, the collection of lean-tos and shacks and the fields surrounding them. Now he was untold miles from his home, a man running blind in a land that had been a fairytale mere weeks before. They had chained them together and led them west, whipping them without mercy as they drove them like cattle towards the great unknown. He shuddered as he thought on how as the hours bled into days the members of his village disappeared and he tried to block from his mind the vile possibilities their vanishing may have meant. He kept his head down in the hope that by causing no trouble he’d go unnoticed long enough to find a way out. Eavesdropping on the conversations of guards or stealing glances at open maps while tending camp he marked the point where the Coastal Great Road met with its north-south counterpart as his best chance at freedom. Maybe his plan to stay unnoticed worked or maybe it was blind luck but on the day they reached the Great Intersection he was still alive and ready to move. Hours after they made camp that night, when everyone but the guards had fallen asleep he made his move. First he crushed the throat of the sole guard he encountered with a jagged rock and then looted the corpse of its knife, boots and map. He would have preferred a rifle to the knife but it was sharp and he had no choice but to make do. Had he more time he would have tried for one of their horses but they were better guarded than the captives and he saw certain death in even trying.

Stabbing the map with his left forefinger he marked where his escape had been made. He had been running for the better part of three days and by his best guess had only made it halfway to the river which spelled freedom. Law and order existed on its far shore, there he’d not only be safe from recapture but wherein he hoped to find ways to bring his captors to justice. Many nights fellow captives had spoken of a band of “justice seekers” that headquartered in the settlement south of the river but like most things spoke of in the prison camp night he was certain they were more myth than man. For now he contented himself as best he could with simply focusing on making it to the river alive.

He had done his best to parallel the ruins of the Great Road as it ran south despite the fact that do so only made it easier for those who might be after him to follow. Keeping the buckled surface of the ancient roadway in sight was the only way he could be certain that he’d reach the river but he made sure he kept clear of it whenever possible. Save for when he needed to cross a river on the remains of a bridge he kept the road just in sight on the horizon. These lands were full of uncivilized tribes and raiders who would make easy prey of anyone foolish enough to be caught walking in the open. These crooked men were lacking the organization of the men he felt creeping after him on his trail but were just as dangerous, if not more so. Encountering either group you were as likely to be killed for the clothes on your back as for the flesh on your bones so it was better to remain unseen until either you or they passed. Savage and lawless men weren’t the only dangers either. The land was full of wild beasts that were just as willing to make a meal of you as the cannibals. Bedtime stories claimed the lands were once the dominion of man but if that were true it had been in a time well before his birth. Now the animals ruled everything outside of the villages and twice since his escape he had to cut the throat of a wild hound before it tore out his. Both times he had lamented the kills, not out of empathy but because he was unwilling to light a fire to cook the meat out of fear that it’d be spotted or its ashes would further mark his trail. Tossing the carcasses as far as he could off the sides of his trail he cursed the waste of many good meals before continuing on his way.

Folding the map and stuffing it back into his pocket he gave one last look the way he came. He could almost see the trackers out there, sniffing along his backtrail. How long did he have before they caught up to him? When they did would they slit his throat then or would a worse fate await him? He took in a chest full of air and exhaled in one steady breath to ease the tension building before moving on. His legs refused to carry him at the pace he had been setting so he settled for as brisk a walk as they’d allow. The sun was all but directly overhead yet he felt as if he was carrying it on his back. Every inch of his being was aflame with pain and exhaustion begged him to stop and rest. Delay meant death or worse so he pressed on. Wiping sweat from his brow he wished for shade but knew that was as likely as his sprouting wings and soaring with the birds. Trees were everywhere he looked but their arid corpses bore not a single shade giving leaf, instead reaching out with twisted branches like the arms of death. Despite the terrible thirst cracking his lips he stayed clear of any bodies of water he found that were larger than a puddle as well. Growing up on the edge of the sea he had learned that while the land contained many creatures that want your blood deep waters hid their own vicious creatures from you until the moment their teeth pierced your flesh and pulled you under.

As he walked with the road off on the eastern horizon his eyes darted around in search of the next threat. The land was less forgiving than he had ever imagined it could be and he longed to be back in his shack or working his land. Sadness over the loss of life as he knew it exploded into anger and he spat a curse at the men who put him in this hostile land. Religion was never something he found time for, working to survive took precedence over bended knee to him but as he walked alongside the road he prayed to Whoever might be listening. He prayed that one day his would be the hand that brought justice to the treacherous bastards who did this to him and his village.

So lost in thoughts of salvation through vengeance was he that he almost walked into the center of the gathering of shacks and makeshift cabins. He cursed himself for his inattentiveness, realizing that had he done this a dozen other times he’d be dead in a ditch or on some savage’s dinner plate already. Pressing himself against the lean-to to his left he put his ear to its then metal wall. Nothing. Crouching he slipped across the narrow space and repeated the act there, still nothing. Backing out a step at a time he retreated into the high grasses north of the gathered buildings. Panic gripped his heart when he realized that he had managed to completely lose the road. He wanted to slap himself for his stupidity, not only had he slipped so deep in thought as to make what could have easily been a fatal mistake but he had wandered away from the road like a brainless idiot too.

He watched the small village for what felt like an eternity before deciding it like more than a handful of he had passed in the preceding days was abandoned. Still he stalked into the outlaying shacks like he expected attack, hand on the knife’s hilt and muscles tensed. He slipped around the outer ring of the shacks, stopping only to listen to the silence within each building. Once he checked the outer he moved to the second and final ring of buildings. Moving with a little more certainty he checked this last grouping of homes in moments. Not a soul was amongst the buildings and a quick check in a few shacks told him all he needed to know and brought not yet healed wounds to the surface within him.
The first buildings he entered had been simply ransacked. Clothing was thrown everywhere and what few things of value that may have been inside had been taken. Aside from the damage to property it looked as if the townsfolk had simply decided to leave in a hurry. The fourth building was the smoking gun. Just inside the door lay the bloated corpse of a young man with a bullet hole in his forehead. Closed inside the metal building the corpse had baked in the heat and the smell was more than he could bear. He bolted into the center of town and retched for the second time that day. Once his chest quit hitching and his body quit trying to bring his organs out of his mouth he allowed himself to really listen. Beyond the stillness of vacant town was a faint vibration he’d not heard before. Standing there immersed in the silence that only a ghost town can own he heard the buzzing fully. Flies. Hundreds of thousands of the carrion devouring insects no doubt feasting behind the closed doors of the remaining shacks. The constant thrum of their wings assaulted his mind and the images his mind conjured of men, women and children covered in writhing black masses brought another wave of dry heaving and dizziness.

Once again his legs failed him and he crumpled to the dirt as his body tried to empty its already hollow gut. He tried pushing himself onto all fours but the dizziness kicked him like a steel-toed boot in the head and he fell to his side. Waves of hot and cold washed over him as the world spun freely on an unnatural axis and for the briefest of moments he was sure he was going to be the next course in the insects’ feast. The mere thought of his maggoty corpse brought another pang of nausea down like a hammer but it also drove to the heart of his panic. Willing himself to his feet, he rose on shaky legs. Whatever had happened here and whoever had done it, he decided he didn’t want to be here if they returned. It was all too similar to what he had witnessed when he had been taken and the fear of another group finding him stirred his resolve. He decided it was worth the risk to check the three empty homes on his way out of town for any supplies like bandages that might come in handy. It took more time than he would have liked but by the time he was finished he had found the following: a revolver in working condition and some ammo, a deerskin water bag and a cowhide bag that fit comfortably over his shoulder. Stuffing his finds into the bag he shouldered it and made one last stop before leaving town, the well in the center of town. The act of pulling the bucket of water up strained the muscles but once it was up he had to restrain himself as excitement on the edge of delirium took control. A careful sniff told him the water was clean and with it he washed his blood and dirt caked hands and face. Washing the taste of bile out of his mouth was difficult because dehydration demanded that he swallow the mouthfuls of water immediately. After he was rinsed and clean he sucked handful after handful of the water down his throat until he felt like his stomach was going to burst from within. He emptied what remained in the bucket into the deerskin bag before pushing it back into the well and moving on. The water had removed his thirst but he still felt dizzy and feverish, feelings he hoped would pass once his body realized it was no longer suffering from dehydration. Rejuvenated by the water his legs found the energy he had been lacking before and he trotted southward in hoping his stupor hadn’t taken him too far off course.

The Great Road remained out of sight for the rest of the day as he moved south, running when able and walking as fast as he could the rest of the time. Lesser patches of smaller roadways showed themselves on occasion but generally he found himself walking on barren soil. He skirted the edge of two more gatherings of buildings as well as the collapsed heaps of rubble that at one point may have been one of the fabled cities from the bedtime stories his dad told in his youth. Before his escape he had seen his captors drive them wide around a similar grouping of mountainous heaps, plainly in fear of what might be within. Anything that brought fear out of merciless and armed men like them was something he decided he wanted nothing to do with while only with a knife and limited ammo so he gave the ruins a wide berth. As he worked his way around them he was certain he heard deep feline sounding roars like the mountain cats from his home but deeper in pitch. Gooseflesh rippled his skin at the thought of a cat even larger than those he had hunted at home and as if the thought of the hunts was a single a single gunshot went off with what could have been a wildcat’s cry of pain trailing it.

On the other side of the ruins he continued southward, covering more ground than he had in the previous two days since his escape. He was feeling more and more feverish as the day wore on and he began to curse himself for not stopping at one of the last two villages to look for medicine. The inhabitants may have been hostile but they might also have been friendly and willing to trade. Shortly before the sun dipped below the horizon he found a tree with a hollow area in its trunk to slip into and he decided it was time to call it a day. He put the waterskin behind his head and sat back into the hollow of the tree with the revolver in one hand and the knife in the other. He was looking at the stars and daydreaming about home when the day’s rigors caught up with him. Sleep overtook him before he knew it.

The blast of a not too distant gunshot snapped him from his sleep and he was in a crouch with the knife drawn and his finger on the trigger of the gun just as fast as he had fallen asleep the night before. His heart was racing and he searched the land visible from within the tree for his captors. In his half asleep daze he was certain they had caught up to him and was ready for a fight he knew he’d not be able to win. After a moment he slipped out of the opening like a snake and into the waist high grasses nearby. Laying there concealed by the grass he heard voices from what he guessed to be less than fifty paces away. He nearly squeezed the trigger in surprise when a second shot shattered the silence of the new day’s morning followed by a celebratory cry of “Got one!” Crawling on his belly he made it to a large fallen log and peeked over the top of it. In the field behind the tree he had been sleeping in were a man and a teenage boy not much younger than himself. They were obviously hunting and he watched over the log as the man took aim at one of the brown feathered birds in flight. The shot thundered in the morning air and one of the flock dropped like a stone. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s shot but was content to lie there until the two of them finished their hunt and moved on. He already knew better than to assume every person you encountered would welcome you with open arms. Far too often the only arms open to a stranger in this world were the kind that fired hot lead.

The man and what was probably his son continued their hunt and he continued to watch. The whole scene reminded him of days spent with his own father and he must have been lulled by the similarities because he hardly heard the crunch of gravel and dead grass to his left. Before he could turn to face it his mind exploded with crack and the back of his head felt as if it was bathed in warm water. As the searing pain drove him into consuming blackness he heard a man’s voice yell out “Lookie at what I found here!”