1. Zooms – Writers using the cinematic style might “zoom in” on some detail, such as a character’s face, to describe it intensely for no apparent reason. “The lines on her face tightened as her lips inched upward into a smile.” Such observations can work if rendered in a first person or third person attached POV.

2. Pull backs – In this, the opposite of a zoom, the POV seems to draw back from a scene to reveal a foreground, a middle ground and a background. “The old man stood by a hut, surrounded by brush and weeds, with tall pines rising in the background. The Rocky Mountains loomed in the distance.” Such a passage might work in a carefully crafted omniscient narrative, which is difficult to pull off.

3. Pans – POV might pan across a scene as a movie camera would, from left to right or top to bottom, as the camera records the setting. “The waterfall began at the top of a high cliff. The splashing water hit a large boulder about halfway down the precipice, then plunged into a pool at the base of the cliff.” Note the feeling of distance in this description.

4. Cuts – Scenes shift abruptly from one to the next, without transitions, or bridges, which help readers comprehend a new setting. Cutting to scenes works in a movie, where visual images provide a continuum, but it is far harder to make such a technique work in a novel or story.

5. Cues – Perspective is pulled back so far that the reader can “see behind the scenes” and imagine the writer shouting instructions to the characters, like a director cuing actors. “A burst of laughter comes from David’s table.” Passive voice and present tense indicate that far too much distance is being used here.

6. Stage directions – These are obvious or inconsequential actions that are characters make for little or no purpose. Like cues, they seem to originate with the writer, acting like a director, not the characters themselves. They read like a playwright’s directions to actors in a stage play. “Jenny opens the closet, looks around, selects a coat, puts it on and closes the closet door.”

7. Present tense – The present tense can be used legitimately in fiction, usually short stories, to create a sense of urgency and immediacy. It is not an easy task to use it well, especially in longer prose fiction, which begs the question, “How can 200+ pages of writing be `immediate?’ The cinematic style is often combined with present tense to create the feeling that the actions in the novel are being recorded mechanically, at a significant distance, on the spot.

8. Props – Lists of inconsequential items or details in a story or novel give the impression of the presence of props on a stage. “In the bedroom was a nightstand, on which sat an alarm clock, a glass of water, a pair of nail scissors and a paperback novel.” Include lists of items only if they are meaningful to the plot, characters or setting.

Note that, in prose writing, the techniques above usually hinder rather than help writers develop characters or advance the plot. Instead, they are far more at home providing backdrops and camera angles for a screenplay or a stage play. A novel is an entirely different animal.
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What is Meant by the Terms “The Willing Suspension of Disbelief” and “The Fictional Dream”?
If you are serious about writing a novel or other piece of fiction, sooner or later you will probably ask yourself some questions along these lines: “What the heck am I trying to create, anyway? Fiction, yes, but isn’t fiction a lie? Won’t the reader dislike it because it isn’t the truth? Won’t it seem fake?”

This ambiguity intrigued Samuel Taylor Coleridge, an English poet who lived in the transition years between the 18th and19th Centuries. He was awestruck by the ability of good fiction to have a strong, “real” emotional affect on people. He was so fascinated with the ambiguous nature of fiction (the lie that tells the truth) that he came up with a very good explanation for how a reader is able to process fiction. According to Coleridge, the reader knows fiction isn’t true, but realizes that it can impart the truth. Like a spectator watching a play, the reader is willing to believe, at least for the duration of the play or book, that what he is watching or reading is really happening. Coleridge called this rationale of the reader “the willing suspension of disbelief.” By this he meant that the reader makes a conscious, voluntary decision to postpone or shelve what he knows is true (he’s reading a work of fiction), and accept the work of fiction as the truth, at least for a while. His disbelief (“Hey! This stuff didn’t really happen!”) is suspended, or put on hold, so that he can better enjoy the impact of the novelist’s skill and become emotionally absorbed in the work. This is why great works of fiction move us so deeply: we allow ourselves to experience real feelings about the characters.

In the 20th Century, the English novelist John Gardner took Coleridge’s concept one step further and observed the situation from the perspective of a writer as well as a reader. (Obviously, the English were onto something.) Gardner postulated that successful novels represent alternative realities, which are activated whenever the works are read. He compared this alternative realm to a dream, since dreams appear extremely realistic and believable as they are in the process of unfolding, no matter how odd they seem once the sleeper has awoken. It is the challenging duty of the novelist to create this alternative plane of reality with vivid, powerful writing, suspense and solid structuring. He must also keep that world going, luring the reader into suspending her disbelief for as long as possible. If the writer does this successfully, his novel will “work,” no matter what else he does.

Bad writing, Gardner argues, such as awkward sentencing, inappropriate images, obvious inconsistencies, or painful grammatical errors, jolts the reader out of the fictional dream. This forces her to return to reality and accept the fact that the novel is an artifice, a construct, a lie. This is an uncomfortable experience for a reader, and it may be difficult, if not impossible, to coax her back into the fictional dream. Why? It is a matter of broken trust. The reader no longer trusts the writer to create that ongoing, seamless, dreamlike, beautiful reflection of reality, or alternative reality, that sucked her up into his world in the first place.

As you’ve probably guessed, creating the fictional dream is not easy. The good news is that, like most activities, it becomes easier the more you write.
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What Characteristics are Typical of “The Fictional Dream”?
In last month’s discussion, we examined Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s concept of “the willing suspension of disbelief” and how it ties nicely into John Gardner’s concept of “the fictional dream”. As writers, we may strive to create an alternative reality in our fiction, and we may expend a great deal of effort getting the reader to “buy into” the world we are creating. But what specifically can a writer do to create his fictional realm? What are some techniques that writers can employ to encourage a reader to suspend her disbelief and keep suspending it?

First of all, note that Gardner did not exclude any genres from his concept of the fictional dream. All fiction represents an alternative reality, although some are more extreme, perhaps, than others. Whether you are writing science fiction, with its unexplored planets and fantastic creatures, or a very realistic, mainstream contemporary novel about a declining farming community, you are weaving a new, never-before-encountered fabric and draping it around your reader’s shoulders. Keep in mind that the novel is both real and unreal at the same time, and therein lies the major challenge for the fiction writer: How do you balance these opposites? Here are a few methods that have worked for some authors.

First of all, make sure that your alternative reality is consistent within itself. That is, if you are writing about a misogynist, for example, show the reader how he interacts with women. He’s not going to be nice to them, and he’s not going to speak well of them, even in private, no matter how hard his friends argue with him. If suddenly he should encounter a woman whom he can’t help but admire (after trying hard to despise her), you will have to show his admiration in terms that are believable, given his character. He’s not going to instantly start doting on the woman, but he may feel exceedingly confused, even angry at himself as his entire world begins to change.

Second, rely on the judicious use of vivid images and powerful, colorful language to create characters and settings that linger in the reader’s mind, even after she has put down your book. After reading the electrifying first paragraph of Lolita, for example, you know exactly what this girl looks like, as well as what the narrator thinks of her – a lot to ask of ten lines or so. While it’s unlikely that any of us will be able to pull off this kind of tour de force in our writing, we can use vivid imagery to draw the reader into the lives of our characters and the places they inhabit. Just be careful not to overwrite; one strong image goes a long way.

A third technique that seems to help readers suspend their disbelief of fiction is the use of suspense itself. Some degree of suspense probably occurs in all genres of fiction, not just in mysteries and adventure stories. Basically, it’s a good idea to keep your readers wondering what will happen to your characters; keep your characters wondering what will happen, too. In general, the more pressure on a protagonist, the better. Or perhaps it is the increasing intensity of the pressure that is most compelling. The sense of threat in the story may be extremely subtle, or it may be as palpable as a horse’s bloody, severed head amidst one’s blankets. Suspense may arise from exterior events (a brilliant psychopath stalks his victim) or interior ones (a woman undergoes an inner struggle to leave her abusive husband). You may have to play with the thread of suspense that runs through your novel, in order to make certain that it is both compelling and realistic, within the bounds of your fictional world.

A word of caution: It is all too easy to push at fiction too hard, to write too much when only a few words will do, to describe an entire world when the reader needs to see only one corner of it. It may be a good idea to pause occasionally during the writing process to try to sense whether a reader would still be engaged, or would have abandoned your world a chapter or two ago.
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What Is the Reader Response Theory?
The intimate relationship between the writer and reader is perhaps the most mystical, yet satisfying, aspect of fiction.
Take a moment to consider a novel separate from the reader. In its most basic form, a book is words on paper, most probably sitting on a bookshelf in a bookstore, a public library, or a person’s home. In that form, even the most successful novel is not a piece of art, nor is it even an evening’s entertainment. It is potential, waiting to be tapped.

The person entrusted to tap this potential is the reader, that is, anyone interested enough in the book to pick it up and begin reading the text. Only then, with the aid of the reader’s mind, can the skill of the author and the art of the novel be fully realized. The reader, then, is absolutely necessary if the writer’s efforts are to be fulfilled.

Reader response theory holds that the reader is a sort of co-author, collaborating with the writer to give meaning to the book. The reader processes the writer’s vision and is at least at some liberty to use her own mental powers to bring the author’s world to life. For example, say that the author mentions “yurts” in her writing, and gives a brief description of this Mongolian herder’s dwelling. The reader’s image of the yurts will depend to a great extent on what she brings to the interpretation – her experience, her scholarship, and her imagination.

Unlike watching a movie, which is a passive experience, reading a book is an active process. The director, actors, editor and cinematographer of a movie have already done the work of creating images for the audience to consume. Therefore, if we watch a movie with a thrilling car chase, for example, we can be reasonably certain that most other viewers’ experience of that scene will be very similar to ours. A novel, however, offers a reader much more room for individual interpretation. There are hundreds of thousands of words to actively interpret in our own, individual ways in order to create unique images, and thousands of images and other types of passages to plumb for aesthetic value and nuances of meaning.

Experienced authors choose words in an effort to maximize the chances of eliciting a certain response from a reader. Nevertheless, the author still depends on the reader to bring an extra, personal dimension of meaning to the writing, perhaps even one that the author has not intended. This suggests that the reader has a limited ability to “devise” the novel as it is being read, and the wise writer knows this.
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They’re Not Buying It: What Readers Don’t Want From Writers and What to do About It.
As was suggested in a previous essay, readers and writers are involved in a sort
of delicate collaboration, whether they are aware of it or not. Readers do not passively take in the text of a novel; they interpret it, and their interpretations are colored by their own imaginations, experience and personalities. For example, some readers may feel repulsed or disturbed by Bret, the troubled young woman in Ernest Hemingway’s novel, The Sun Also Rises, while others may feel much more sympathetic toward her. Individuals react to fiction in different ways and may come away with entirely different interpretations of the same piece. To some extent, then, readers are “devising” fiction as they process it and respond to it.

The reader and the writer unwittingly share a pact of trust and mutual respect.
The reader is responsible for acquiring the book and reading it, and the writer is responsible for presenting the reader with material that is at least readable and interesting, and at best powerful, insightful, moving and enlightening. A person may read fiction for many reasons: escapism; a sense of romance or adventure; insight into the human condition; uplifting, beautiful language, or just a pleasant way to pass a few hours. No matter what a reader’s desires or tastes, there are definitely some things a reader does not want from a writer, and here are some of them.

1. Confusion – A reader should not have to work too hard to
discover the main character of a novel or its setting. In other words, a good writer answers the questions, “Where are we, and who is this story about?” early and clearly, using just enough physical details to make the reader feel as if she has stepped into the fabric of the fiction and become part of it. Sometimes a writer will intentionally confuse a reader as part of a writing strategy, but, most often, a confused reader is the sign of an inexperienced writer.

2. Boredom – Almost all fiction has a very strong element of storytelling, that is,
the plot gives the impression of moving forward. Events happen, and the pace of the story is brisk enough to keep readers from dozing off while reading in bed at night. Novels generally create a sense of rising action, which makes the reader curious to know what will happen next.

3. Jaded plots – People who read tend to read a lot, and they do not wish to read
the same plot over and over. While it may be true that there are few subjects that have not already been explored in fiction, responsible writers are still obligated to provide readers with creative twists, original insights and fresh ideas, even along familiar paths. A jaded approach to writing also results in the use of stock characters and clichés.

4. Unreadable language – There is no reason to subject any reader to awkward,
confusing, or outright incomprehensible language. Clear, precise, direct language and powerful but simple words allow the reader to access the writing, interpret it effectively, and react to it emotionally.

5. Insults – A reader can tell when a writer is patronizing her, and she will not
put up with much abuse. A responsible writer will avoid referring to the reader’s inability to understand his writing and will restrain himself from making condescending attempts to “explain” terms or events (unless this is obviously done for humorous effect). If it weren’t for readers, none of us would be writing, so it makes no sense to bite the intellect that feeds us.

Remember that writers are also readers, so be sure to re-read your own work in order to evaluate it. Don’t read it with the pride of a new writer, blind to its flaws. Read it as a reader would, demanding clarity, accessibility and originality. Take the process a step further and, unlike a reader, actively seek out and uncover the flaws in your writing. Perhaps the best way to do so is to read your manuscript out loud; even small errors will stand out like giant Sequoias once they are voiced aloud. Then, be ruthless. While you may like a certain passage, it may not belong in the work at all. As the temperamental Samuel Johnson once wrote, “Read over your compositions and, when you meet a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.”
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Halloween Special: Creating a Sense of Horror in Fiction
As I am writing this essay on Halloween, I am moved by the spirits of the season to discuss the topic of scaring people. I don’t mean dressing in frightening costumes or walking in a graveyard at night; I do mean using the craft of fiction to create a sense of foreboding, disorientation and, ultimately, terror. The object is not to cause the reader to stop reading and run away in panic. It is to cause her to continue reading in order to extend the delicious feeling of horror, ultimately safe yet disturbingly chilling, that Stephen King, Edgar Allen Poe, and H. P. Lovecraft are famous for.

How do these horror masters work their dark magic? Without going into a lot of detail, here are three of the most basic writing techniques for eliciting the fear response in readers.

A measured, painstaking increase in tension – Horror writers don’t fire their big guns first. Effective horror fiction often begins with business as usual for the characters, to contrast with the spooky events to come. Slowly, perhaps even in an offhand manner, subtle but disturbing elements are introduced: the appearance of rats in a beautiful manor house, an inanimate object that seems to change position occasionally. As the story progresses, unnatural events increase and become more destructive. For example, a topiary topic just doesn’t change position, it attacks the main character.

Blood, dismembered limbs, eviscerated corpses, and other physical horrors – A staple in horror literature, gruesome physical details are terrifying, but are more terrifying when they are not overused. In some cases, a drop of blood where it doesn’t belong is more disturbing than gallons of gore. In one of Poe’s most shocking short stories, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” Poe wisely saves the grotesque and repulsive disintegration of a main character for the very end, leading up to the strong conclusion with subtle hints.

Reader disorientation – Perhaps the most effective trick of the horror trade. Horror writers disorient readers in two main ways, either by leading them away from the truth or by introducing elements that defy the laws of physics. For example, H. P. Lovecraft distracts his readers with rats in order to keep them from realizing the madness of the narrator in the horror classic, “Rats in the Walls.” And remember the movie, “The Blair Witch Project”? The characters walked due east for 12 hours, yet returned to their starting place. When logic and physics fail us, then the door is opened for powers we cannot comprehend to take over, especially powers bent on wreaking chaos and evil. The realization that we are powerless against an unknown force, and that all our knowledge and skill is for naught, is perhaps one of humankind’s most primal fears. The feeling of disorientation is one of the main components of the so-called “gothic” school of horror, which also features somber, shadowy settings, a sense of decay, and characters who appear to be hiding grim secrets.

If you have a taste for the macabre, why not write your own horror novel or short story, using these techniques and your own devilish details?

Hideous Gaffes: What are they? Why are they? Can you prevent them?
“Come in, Will,” Lionel said, opening the door for his newfound friend. “Have a seat.” Lionel directed his visitor to the sofa in the living room and sat down across from him in the blue wing chair. “Care for some coffee?”

Will nodded, so Lionel went to the kitchen and grabbed the coffee pot and two mugs. Then he returned to the living room, sat down, and laid the coffee on an end table. Resting his feet on an ottoman, he poured them each a cup of coffee.

What? Didn’t you know that feet drink coffee? For that matter, have you ever tried to “lay” coffee anywhere? It could get messy!
This passage was culled from my personal collection of writers’ bloopers. Obviously, the writer meant to write that Lionel set the coffee pot on the table and poured himself and Will a cup of coffee. But that’s not what he wrote. It is amazing how often fairly good writers become victims of temporary insanity, creating some truly embarrassing lines. I’ve found that literary gaffes come in several flavors, but by far the most amusing involves misplaced body parts, especially eyes. Consider the literal meaning of these entries in the gaffe collection:

• He held her with his eyes.
• Her eye fell from the gun to the lake below.
• The detective’s eyes bounced from one window to the next.
• Martha’s eyes were on her shoes.
• The captain summoned the officer of thick blond hair.
• Strolling down the icy lane, Steven’s feet slipped out from under him.
• The thief glued his astonished face to the window.

Simply substituting the word “gaze” for “eye/s” in the first four examples will greatly reduce the problem. Another source of amusement for readers (but not authors) is the direct use of onomatopoeia, or the attempt to mimic natural sounds. Onomatopoeia is easy to abuse; take care when wielding it, lest you create something like the following:

• Whoosh! The spear sailed through the mist.
• BOOM roared the explosion.
• He knocked on her door: thump, thump, thump.
• Tweeting, warbling and chirping (attorneys at law?) greeted Elizabeth.

As with any writing errors, language gaffes can sometimes be prevented by thinking carefully about the words you are committing to paper before you write them. When errors do occur (and they will!), correct them; this is where meticulous editing and proofreading enter the picture. Don’t rely on grammar software to catch gaffes, as these treacherous mistakes often slip in under the radar. It’s always a good idea to read over your work carefully to catch and correct any awkward noun, verb and preposition arrangements, including misplaced modifiers. Writing in haste, trying too hard for special effects and failing to proofread manuscripts are all excellent ways to introduce horrendous gaffes into good writing.
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The Anatomy of an Incomprehensible Paragraph
Mistakes in writing sound awkward or even ludicrous to the reader. Such gaffes are bad enough when they are limited to an occasional sentence here and there throughout the work. But what about entire paragraphs that are awkward, hard to understand, or even impossible to understand? How do they come about, and how can they be corrected?

Awkward, protracted writing can result from several causes. For instance, perhaps a writer does not really understand her subject or her story. Perhaps she is unsure of what she wants to say, or how she wants to word what she wants to say. Maybe she is in such a hurry to get her ideas down on paper that she is willing to risk the clarity of the writing. Likewise, she may be in too great a hurry to get a manuscript off to an agent or publisher and thus fail to proofread it carefully for sense as well as grammar. Or she may be distracted by shouting children, the pressure of a day job, or a whopping sleep deficit. Any of these conditions can lead to a paragraph like the following, which is the first paragraph of an espionage story.

The speaker’s words were interrupted by several gunfire-like blasts coming from an ancient truck that labored up the road toward the main building. Darcy Adams wondered if she had missed any important information as she contemplated the contents of the vehicle, which was likely carrying a catered lunch for the delegates. This was to be served to them after the big debate, which was taking place later that morning at the Palmer Pavilion, once the delegates had finished their question-and-answer period. She was expecting a lot from it. Just then a driver called out to her, and she looked up at him. “Thorton Hall is straight ahead,” she said, then stepped aside as the little car sped past.

Obviously, the writer of this passage did not thoroughly plan the beginning of his book, nor did he proof and revise it for clarity. After much re-reading and a discussion with the writer, I finally understood what the paragraph was supposed to be about. Darcy Adams is standing near a road on a college campus where an important international debate is about to be held. (You wouldn’t know this from reading the paragraph, because the writer fails to adequately establish the setting or the circumstances of the event.) We aren’t told who Darcy is, but we later learn that she is a newspaper reporter. Neither Darcy’s thoughts nor the timing of the event are very clear; in fact, they are downright confusing. Worse yet, the truck seems to have turned into a small car at the end of the paragraph. What the heck is going on here?

The rewrite that follows is an attempt to clarify the information in the original paragraph so that the reader will be intrigued instead of bewildered.

Darcy Adams squinted into the pale early-morning sunshine flooding the campus
of Wilburton College, thanking her lucky stars that she was fortunate enough to be covering the big debate on global warming. This might just make my career, she thought as she hurried along the main road through campus toward Wilburton’s huge Greco-Roman style lecture hall. Her thoughts were scattered by the screech of an outdoor public addressed system, announcing that the debates would begin in fifteen minutes. Better fly, she thought, lengthening her stride. The blast of a horn caught her attention, and she looked up just in time to see two vehicles ahead of her nearly sideswipe each other. One was an ancient panel truck marked Dale’s Fine Catering. The other was a bright red foreign sports car that had sped past the truck and was heading toward her like a runaway train. It screeched to a stop beside her and a man with a wild mop of gray hair stuck his head out the window. “Hey, you! Where’s the lecture hall?”

Well, hello to you too, Darcy thought, giving the rude driver a wry smile. “Right behind you,” she said, pointing. “The one with the giant columns.” The man nodded, wheeled his little car completely around and roared off, once again nearly clipping the poor old truck. “That’s guy’s crazy,” Darcy muttered, to no one in particular. “I hope he’s not one of the debaters.”

Now, at least, the character, the setting, and the situation are clear to the reader,
and a sense of disruption, if not mystery, has been established. Note that the rewrite is much longer than the original, since it includes all the information – necessary to establish the scene -- that the writer omitted.
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Setting in General and Setting a Scene in Particular
There are many ways to make mistakes in writing, and they usually occur when writers, even good ones, forget that they are not really alone in the writing process. They are writing for a reader, and that reader will not long tolerate writing that is difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend.

One way that writers can confuse and irritate their readers is to become so involved in their characters and plots that they forget about that subtle but powerful element absolutely necessary to creating the fictional dream: setting. In experimental novels, writers “play” with time and place to intentionally confuse the reader. In traditional novels, which we are addressing in this series, the writer must create setting by placing his characters in a specific place and time, and allow time and place to follow logically from that point on. Are we in a British tea clipper in the middle of the Atlantic in 1889, just after dawn? We may spend the entire novel aboard the ship, or we may make port in the next chapter and never again take to sea. Therefore, place may remain the same from scene to scene throughout the novel, but time will certainly change, usually progressing forward but occasionally retreating backward into a character’s memories. One thing is certain: The reader of traditional fiction has a right to know where the characters are and what they are doing, as well as when all this activity is taking place. If she doesn’t, then it will be difficult for her to follow the story line and understand the characters’ personalities and motivations.

Very rarely does a writer, even a beginning writer, fail to establish setting at the beginning of a novel, although he may not do so adequately. It is probably not enough to write that Jane Aire is standing on a corner in downtown Pittsburgh. What time of day is it? This can be indicated by many factors, including the lighting, the traffic, and Jane’s desire for breakfast, lunch or dinner. What is it like in downtown Pittsburgh? Are tall buildings creating cool shadows? Is it noisy and dirty, or oddly calm and quiet, save for the occasional whoosh of a passing car? What time of year is it? Are the almond trees in bloom, filling the air with their sweet scent? Or is it snowing or raining? Can Jane smell nothing but the bracing fragrance of coffee from a nearby Starbucks, or does the place smell distressingly of old beer, garbage and cigarettes? Knowing this information will help readers place Jane in a specific place and time, thus helping them visualize the character within her surroundings.

In the great majority of novels, setting does change from scene to scene in terms of place, whether a central character is traveling to another country, driving to the local mall, or just moving from his bedroom to his kitchen. Then again, the scene may focus on a different character, which may also mean a shift in place, depending on the location of that character. Time, of course, will change, too, not just in terms of days or weeks passing, but in terms of hours. If one scene is set in the morning, for example, as the main character gets ready for work, the careful writer will indicate how much time has passed between that scene and the next, even if it is only a matter of hours or even minutes. The next scene may be in the evening, as the main character is returning home from work. Or perhaps the next scene is that night, and the character is watching television with his wife in their bedroom. The reader needs to know when and where the POV character is from scene to scene, just as an audience must be able to follow where an actor is during a play.

Novels have a great deal in common with stage plays, including the notion of setting, that is, the establishment of a certain place at a certain time. The idea of action occurring in scenes is also borrowed from the theater. One important aspect of setting a scene in a novel, as well as on stage, is the placement of props, or objects, within the scene. As the great Russian playwright Anton Chekov observed, if a pistol is introduced in the first act, it had better be fired by the third act. This observation is just as useful for novelists as playwrights. If a dramatic scene, perhaps even the climax, requires a specific item or piece of evidence, be it a weapon, an identifying piece of jewelry, a handwritten letter, a Dylithium crystal, or whatever, it should be featured in at least one or two scenes, preferably several, early on. It is up to the skillful writer to make sure that the placement of the item does not seem contrived but natural, and that the reader will register its presence but not dwell on it. A brilliant example of setting, including the embedding of a prop within several scenes, occurs in Flannery O’Connor’s short story, “Good Country People,” in which the main character’s artificial leg not only indicates her lack of “wholeness” but also plays a vital role in the plot.
Setting serves many purposes, including the creation of mood, and is especially important in terms of making transitions from scene to scene. All these will be discussed in the next essay.
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Using Settings to Suggest Mood
What is mood in writing? Basically, mood refers to the emotional state of the reader that is established by the writing itself. In other words, it is the writer’s responsibility to persuade the reader to feel an emotion that is appropriate to a particular scene. For example, the mood of a climatic wedding scene is going to be far different than the mood of a scene in which a protagonist senses that he is being stalked. Writing, especially fiction writing, affects the mood of the reader, and good writing has the ability to change or establish the reader’s mood while she is reading.

Setting is a quick, relatively easy, and highly effective way to establish the mood of any scene. Consider the following sentence, which is an attempt to establish mood in a suspense novel featuring a 12-year-old girl named Marie.

Feeling apprehensive, Marie walked down the deserted street. Normally, she loved being out late at night, but tonight the main street of the little town felt spooky and dangerous.

There is really nothing wrong with the above paragraph. However, it is very direct and does not leave much work for the reader’s imagination. In essence, the reader is told how to feel, instead of being placed in a setting that evokes apprehension. In many, if not most cases, it is preferable to show us a scene that evokes a mood, rather than telling us a mood. With that in mind, read the following passage that establishes the setting of Marie’s little nighttime walk.

A chill breeze played with the hair on the back of Marie’s neck and made her shiver. She stood on the corner of Maple and Main, staring into the gaping mouth of the wide, deserted street. It was late, between twelve and one maybe, far past her bedtime, but that wasn’t unusual. What was different tonight was the night itself. Clouds swam past the agonizingly bright half moon, illuminating the familiar main street like a floodlight one moment, and swamping it with silent darkness the next. What she knew was a parked car in the moonlight became an indistinct shape in the shadows, alert and threatening, like a huge cat crouched and ready to leap.

Compare the two paragraphs. How did each make you feel? Did it make a difference as a reader to be told how to feel, as in the first paragraph, or to be moved toward feeling a certain way, as in the second paragraph? By creating a setting at or near the beginning of a scene, the writer can establish the mood for part of the scene, the entire scene, or perhaps even several scenes. In the case of Marie’s scene above, the setting highlights her apprehension and causes a somber, somewhat fearful, expectant mood.
What if the writer suddenly wants to change the mood of this scene? For example, the writer may wish to show that Marie feels relaxed enough to laugh at her fears. This can be easily accomplished simply by changing the setting. Marie might encounter a friend, who takes her to a warm, pleasant atmosphere and regales her with amusing stories. Or she might simply go home, where she feels safe.

Nearly any mood you might wish to evoke can be suggested with the use of setting and atmospherics. As implied above, shadows, darkness, chill weather and certain sounds such as thunder or creaking wood, evoke feelings of fear, distrust and apprehension. Brightness, warmth and natural daylight sounds, such as the songs of birds, create a more positive, upbeat mood. Consider using mixed images from opposing settings, such as birds singing at night, or the warm, oppressive atmosphere of an approaching thunderstorm, to imply confusion and a sense of vulnerability.

Interior settings are just as valuable for evoking moods in reader. Interior settings usually rely on items, such as furniture, tools, or decorations, to set a scene, as well as the condition of the interior space itself. A scene set in a living room of a private house could evoke any number of moods, from gaiety to horror, depending on the furnishings. One famous example of interior mood-setting occurs in Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, when Pip speaks with Mrs. Haversham in her decrepit parlor. The ancient lady, dressed in an ancient wedding dress, sits in a room wreathed in cobwebs and practically crumbling in decay, despair, and lost dreams.

When it comes to emotions, people are influenced by their surroundings. This is as true for the reader immersed in a novel as it is for people in their everyday lives.
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