So when I’m ready to write a scene’s first draft, I have much on which to rely. I know the purpose of the scene, and I know its setting (an Indiana field in the spring, the Situation Room in the White House). I know my characters, anticipating what they will do, how they’ll interact, and what emotions will be revealed.
However, that’s not enough to author a good scene.
A good scene has to evolve smoothly, with the reader always aware of their surroundings and the involved characters. Readers need to be involved in the scene and it is the author’s job to ensure that the reader is not just a watcher but a participant. The reader should not just observe the scene−they should be enveloped by it.
This requires a good deal ofthought above and beyond the scene’s planning up to this point. This has become more critical for me as I have turned to dictating first drafts of scenes, rather than using a keyboard. So I therefore have to be clear in my own mind how this scene is going to lay out; otherwise the dictation is just wandering drivel.
Thus, before I dictate, I rehearse the scene in my mind. If the scene is going to take place outside, which may have been in my initial plan, then there other questions that now must be answered, Is it during the day, night, or a glorious sunset? Is it during the summer, or is it during a frigid winter when the characters are wrapped up in coats? If the scene is indoors, is it well lit or poorly lit? Is there is a noise coming from other rooms? Are there any smells or odors? I let my mind work through all of this. Now, I may not be able to put all of this inthe scene, but this certainly helps the scene to come alive. This helps me see how to actually hook the narrative of the location into the dialogue. There are additional thoughts required for the characters. Are they standing? Is one of them standing, and the other sitting? What clothes are they wearing? Who enters? who leaves? With these in place, the dictation proceeds well with fewer interactions. Before the rehearsals I had a good idea what the scene would portray. After the rehearsals, I know the scene.
Now upon completion, much work is required. It must be edited with great and time consuming care. Maybe somerearrangement is required. How does the narrative dialogue balance feel? Is the dialogue emotional? But I am off to a good start. So I may start practicing the scene with little but what the characters are going to say, and some separate narrative, but as I rehearse and re-rehearse, the narrative and emotion find their rightful places in the dialogue.
And of course, the nice thing about thinking it through in your head is that it is so easy to rearrange things. No technologies involved. You can move an idea from one paragraph to the other in your mind, with no technical overlay. And you just do this over and over until the scene has the flow you’d like it to have, making it easy for the reader to be pulled in and enveloped by the scene before they even realize it.
The clang of the leg irons ground guilt’s sharp stones deep into Cassie’s heart. Yet the ex–vice president legal of SSS Pharmaceuticals held her head level, eyes straight ahead. No blinking. Barely breathing. Statuesque and steel to the end. The courtroom was identical to the hundreds of ones the tall woman with black eyes had inhabited before. Light streaming through the tall windows illuminated the floating dust where the defendant attorney sat. Please, God, just end this verdict day. To think— “All rise,” barked the bailiff. The judge entered as Cassie struggled to stand, her breath now ragged. Months ago, in the time of light and sweet life—there was no thought of life behind bars. But now. For months, she’d inhabited the same small cell. Same small bed. Same filthy leering cellmate. Same clogged toilet. Again and again and again. And there was likely more of that coming. “Can we have the jury please?” the judge asked. Time’s ticks slowed as she studied each of the jurors like she had done each morning and afternoon throughout the month-long trial. But today was different. Before, they came in laughing, talking, easy with themselves and each other. Today, the jurors were mum. Silent, stiff, moving statues. Cassie at once broke out in a sweat, the leg chains a thousand pounds heavier. She wanted to cry ou “Let the record reflect that we have now been rejoined by all the members of our jury panel and our alternates,” the judged intoned. “You may be seated.” He motioned to the large audience before him. “Ms. Calthrone, do you have the envelope with the jury forms?” “Yes,” the plump brown sixtyish clerk said on cue. Cassie watched her lift the manila envelope for the judge to see. “Would you please give those to Deputy McDaniel, and would you, Deputy, please return them to juror no. 1?” The sweat rolled down Cassie’s back. In just a few brief moments, her fate would be known to her. And the world. The deputy walked over to Ms. Calthrone who sat to the right of the judge. Cassie rocked a little, as the deputy took the forms from Ms. Calthrone and then walked over in front of the judge to the jury box on Cassie’s left. This is taking forever. Cassie bit her lip. My life’s being treated like it’s a worthless thing, “Madam Foreperson, would you please open the envelope and check the condition of those juror forms.” What? Cassie’s right knee began bouncing as she watched the young African American woman seated in the front of the jury carefully open the envelope. Extracting all twelve ballots, she inspected each page one at a time. Cassie, now sweating, thought the plump juror was going to eat them. “Are they in order?” Get on with it. “Yes, Your Honor.” Just read the— “Have you signed and dated those verdict forms?” Damn. “Yes, Your Honor.” Verdict. “Thank you very much. Please hand them back to Deputy McDaniel.” This is intolerable. A quick glance to the right revealed that her attorney was focused on the ballots, a look of solemn wisdom on his face. Deputy McDaniel walked back to the judge, who took them and— What now? —inspected them himself, one at a time— I can’t take this. —then closed the envelope and gave it to Ms. Calthrone. “All right, Ms. Calthrone.” Her head pounded. I’m going to scream. She watched as the judge turned to face her, Cassie’s heartbeats falling on top of each other in a runaway fear cadence. “Ms. Rhodes, would you please stand and face the jury.” Her counsel rose. Cassie, at once nauseous, stayed seated, leaning onto the left chair armrest. She coughed, holding back the bile load that ejected up into the back of her mouth. Is this how the end of life feels? Cassie took a partial breath and, gripping the hand of the counsel, leaned on the cold wooden table to stand. The judge looked up from her to the courtroom. “I would caution the audience, during the course of the reading of this verdict, to remain calm.” Vomit suddenly filled her mouth. Using what remained of her self-control, she swallowed it. She slumped but regained her unsteady bearing. “All right, Ms. Calthrone?” Each heartbeat was now a hammer blow pounding her chest as if it wanted to break out. “Superior Court of Indiana, County of Marion. In the matter of the People of the State of Indiana vs. Cassandra Rhodes. Case number ZQ097121. We—” It’s all over. Doomed. “—the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant Cassandra Rhodes not guilty of the murder of Cristen—” Cassie collapsed back in the chair. Not guilty, not guilty. Jesus, Lord. Suddenly she weighed nothing. She sat down on her own stool that coated the seat of her pants. Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty, not guilty . . . Muscles all relaxed, her porous skin completely open to the lightest, sweet-smelling air that entered and raced through her. She was clean. She was free.
The reader is pulled into this high tension environment feeling Cassie’s frustration as she waits for the verdict that will set the direction of her life.
We all feel the pressure to write, to put pen to paper, to get those pages typed out. The press of this rush can rub out some of writing’s enjoyment. Planning a scene then running that plan over and over in your mind can be one of the most imaginative and fulfilling parts of the novel writing process.
