Using Flashbacks

As I make my way through Shelley Pearsall’s new novel, Jump Into the Sky—I’m almost halfway through the WWII story about a young boy in search of his father—I can’t help admiring how she uses flashbacks as a way of deepening the reader’s emotional connection to Levi Battle, the 13-year-old boy who serves as her main character.

It isn’t easy for an author to find just the right balance between creating the forward momentum needed to advance the plot and the backward pull of flashbacks that deepen our understanding of the character.

If you push too hard in one direction, you risk a story that’s so slick on the surface that the reader’s attention may slide off the page. And if you push too hard in the other direction, you risk a story so weighted down by information that a reader may feel as if she’s sinking into quicksand.

Finding the right balance so a reader keeps turning pages rather than feel bogged down in a story isn’t easy, but Pearsall is a master of flashbacks and uses them to great advantage in her latest work.

A deft author can employ flashbacks to: 

• easily and unobtrusively incorporate important information as part of a story; 
• reveal a character’s emotional longing for someone, some place, or some thing, adding to a reader’s understanding of the character;
• give depth to a character so that a reader can see beneath the surface of what’s happening and gain a glimpse into the way a character’s mind and heart work; and
• enhance the strength of the character’s voice so that we trust that voice on a deeper, more intimate level.

The passage below is an example of a flashback from Pearsall’s Jump Into The Sky. Notice how it’s woven into the story, a single paragraph used to describe the character’s memory of a past event, sandwiched between the forward momentum of the unfolding story and Levi’s reluctance to leave Chicago for the first time in his life. It’s prompted by the sight of flat rooftops on the apartment buildings which Levi can see from the train: 

There was no way I was closing my eyes, though, Not with all the things there were to see outside the window as we rolled out of the city. Criminy, Chicago was way bigger than I ever thought. 

Sometimes we used to go up to the flat rooftop of Aunt Odella’s building on hot summer evenings and sit up there cooling off with some of the neighbors. We’d chew on ice chips, play cards, and survey the neighborhood like proud kings. Like we owned it all. Big Man, the king of south Chicago, I used to think when I was looking down on everybody below. 

Now I could see how we were kings of nothing but a street or two. Heck, there must’ve been thousands of families sitting on their rooftops just like us, chewing on ice chips and looking down at the exact same things. The crowded neighborhoods stretched for miles.  

Here’s another example of how Pearsall uses a flashback to great effect a bit later in the story, this one prompted by the smell of pinecones:

Still feeling kinda stunned, I eased open my door and jumped out. Big pinecones the size of mortar shells covered the ground everywhere you looked, As my feet landed on the soil, a smell like Christmas came drifting up, which made me start missing my good life back in Chicago. Started thinking about how me and Archie and the rest of the neighborhood gang would have snowball fights in the winter that could make your face sting for hours. How Uncle Otis would always bring us gifts on Christmas Day and Aunt Odella would always tell him he’d spent too much. 

Swallowing that cold lump of memories right back down, I yanked my suitcase outta the truck. No time for feeling sorry. A bunch of bugs swarmed around my face like they were trying to cheer me up. Gave them a good hard swat. 

Of course, in the hands of a less skillful writer, flashbacks can prove daunting. If used incorrectly, they can impede the flow of the story, pulling a reader too far back into the past so that it’s hard to regain forward momentum.

Or the information contained in the flashback may seem insignificant (and, hence, a waste of time for the reader). Or the flashback shows us a side of a character that makes the character seem more shallow and uninteresting rather than more compelling.

But readers of Pearsall’s work will find themselves in the skillful hands of a writer who knows how to use flashbacks to their best advantage to deepen her work and the reader’s experience of her story.

For more information about flashbacks and how to use them, visit:

http://www.delishfiction.com/storytelling-writing-flashbacks/ 

http://www.ehow.com/how_4558550_write-flashbacks-fiction.html 

http://www.writersdigest.com/qp7-migration-all-articles/qp7-migration-fiction/3_tips_for_writing_successful_flashbacks 

http://www.be-a-better-writer.com/flashback.html 

http://ezinearticles.com/?Writing-the-Flashback-in-Fiction&id=2615798

Exploring Voice

Thirteen-year-old Josh Greenwood, the main character in Shelley Pearsall’s new novel, All Shook Up, has a problem.

His grandmother is ill, and his mother flies off to Florida to take care of her, shipping Josh from Boston to Chicago, where his father lives and where Josh definitely does not want to be, especially after he discovers his father doing Elvis impersonations in order to make a living after losing his job at a shoe store.

How is Josh supposed to show his face in his new school if the other students ever find out his father's making a fool of himself?

Here’s Josh trying to explain, mid-way through the story, how he feels to his father:

After that, my voice began to grow less sorry and more angry. It was like another thirteen-year-old suddenly took over my body: Josh Greenwood, Now Being Played by His Evil Twin. “Everybody thinks I can handle anything. No problem–send Josh to a new city or a new school or whatever, he’ll be fine, right?”

My voice rushed on, gathering steam. “Then, just when he’s starting to fit in with people and he’s made, like, two or three friends...why not have his dad go ahead and screw it all up? Because Josh can handle anything, right? Don’t even bother asking Josh his opinion– ”

“What?” my dad interrupted, sounding completely surprised and confused. “What have I messed up? Tell me.”

This was the point when one of those possessed, forced laughs came out. “Jeez, Dad, how can you not see it?” My voice rose, sounding embarrassingly like a girl’s at one point. “Walking around pretending you’re Elvis and buying thousand-dollar costumes–that’s normal? And then you go and sign up to be Elvis at my school? I mean, what do you think I’d be upset about?”

How does Pearsall use voice to draw readers into Josh's world?

First, there’s the voice of the narrator. It’s Josh’s voice, describing how he feels about his own voice, which is an interesting way to reveal character. As a result, we get an insider's view of the picture, hearing his voice the way he hears it.

Hearing that voice, that interior voice, lets us know Josh on a deeper level. It's what gives us a clearer understanding of Josh's emotional state, which isn't just anger, it's more than anger, as if “another thirteen year old suddenly took over my body: Josh Greenwood, Now Being Played by His Evil Twin.”

This layer adds a new perspective and lets us see Josh viewing his life as if it's a horror movie. It's the perfect way to draw a reader deeper into Josh's emotional vortex because it depicts exactly how Josh feels at this point–as if he actually is playing the lead role in a horror movie.

Then we get the chance to hear not only Josh’s interior voice but his actual voice so that we can evaluate the anger for ourselves. Once Josh's voice appears in quotes on the page, we know not just what’s going on inside him and how he hears himself, but how he sounds to the rest of the world and to his dad in particular.

“Everybody thinks I can handle anything. No problem–send Josh to a new city or a new school or whatever, he’ll be fine, right?”

The sarcasm, tinged with anger and blame, comes from Josh's desire to make sure his father understands just the opposite of what he’s saying: maybe he can’t handle anything, and everybody’s wrong; he isn’t fine.

Notice how in the second paragraph his voice rushes on because he can’t control the anger that’s bubbling up inside him. He's been left out of the decision-making process. It’s his life. Shouldn't he have been included? Instead, he has to put up with his mom and dad shaking up his life.

What does Josh want? He wants to live a normal life, the same as everyone else, which is to say, ordinary and under the radar, where most teens his age prefer to live.

Yet Dad’s totally clueless, unsure what he’s done wrong, unable to see the problem that Josh has with him dressing up as Elvis. For Dad, impersonating Elvis is simply a way to make a living, and, surprisingly, he enjoys it.

But it's precisely Dad’s blindness that causes Josh’s anger to boil over. His voice rises until it sounds almost like a girl’s as he attempts to explain the situation to his dad in the most sarcastic tone possible, assigning blame even as he begs for sympathy, and posing the ultimate in sarcastic questions: what do you think I’d be upset about?

What’s wonderful about the way Pearsall uses voice in this excerpt and throughout the book is how she shows us a character from the inside–using voice intonations, interior thoughts, self reflection–as well from the outside as other characters see and hear him.

By constantly shifting the camera’s eye so that first it’s inside Josh, then outside him, always pointing to something else, revealing something the reader hasn’t yet seen, Pearsall is able to bring her character to life in the reader's mind.

The next time that you’re working on a story and struggling with a character, listen closely to his or her voice... and see if you can record not only how the voice sounds to other characters but how that voice sounds inside the head of your character.

Imagine a video camera trained on your character. You’re the director behind the camera. What do you see and hear?

Now imagine the camera inside your character . (You’re still behind the camera, seeing and hearing everything through its lens). What do you see and hear now?

If you have a moment or two, share what you discover with us at Wordswimmer.

For more on voice and character development, take a look at:

http://character-development.suite101.com/article.cfm/character_voice_writing_exercise
http://writers-in-progress.deviantart.com/journal/16028617/
http://moviepals.org/blog/screenwriting-tips-and-tricks-character-development/
http://character-development.suite101.com/article.cfm/using_dialect_in_fiction
http://pubrants.blogspot.com/2008/07/dont-mistake-voice-for-character.html

For more on Shelley Pearsall and her work, visit: http://www.shelleypearsall.com/

And for more on All Shook Up, visit: http://www.shelleypearsall.com/allShookUp.htm

One Writer's Process: Shelley Pearsall

You would never guess that Shelley Pearsall, the award-winning author of Trouble Don't Last, Crooked River, and All of the Above, dreads diving into the water as she sets off in search of her remarkably compelling stories.

After all, reviewers have described her first novel, Trouble Don't Last, which won the Scott O'Dell Award for Historical Fiction, as "astonishing... a thrilling escape story" (Booklist, starred), "action packed... gripping from beginning to end" (Publishers Weekly, starred), and "one of the best Underground Railroad narratives in recent years" (Kirkus Reviews).

And her second novel, Crooked River, earned her yet more honors. A Junior Library Guild Selection and 2006 New York Public Library Book for the Teen Age, the book was called "a captivating tale of fear, ignorance, and bravery on the Ohio frontier" (School Library Journal, starred), "outstanding historical fiction," (Kirkus Reviews, starred) and "an issue-raising historical novel about frontier life, prejudice, justice and courage." (VOYA)

And in All of the Above, her most recent work, Pearsall dives deeply into the lives of four children in one of Cleveland's inner-city schools. Reviewers have already called Pearsall's newest story "smart and fast-paced," (Kirkus Reviews), and early readers like Laban Carrick Hill, author of Harlem Stomp!, a National Book Award finalist, have praised the characterizations as "deft and sensitive."

Yet this former elementary school teacher and former historian for Hale Farm and Village, a 160-acre living-history museum in Ohio that recreates mid-nineteenth century life, has to force herself to leap off that diving board into her story each morning.

In the essay below, Pearsall was kind enough to take the time to share some of her thoughts on diving and writing with Wordswimmer.


Diving In

I am not a fan of diving. Swimming...no problem. I can backstroke, butterfly, sidestroke, and front crawl with the best of them. But I do not like to go below the surface. I remember childhood swim classes at the Y where, in order to move up to the next swim level, our instructors required us to demonstrate our ability to retrieve various objects--pennies, small weights called "donuts"--from the bottom of the pool. And I believe at some point, at the top swim level, you were required to retrieve a person. But I never got that far (thankfully).

I notice that I try to avoid diving in my writing as well. With each new book, I manage to convince myself that this time--this time--I will be able to write the story while paddling easily on the surface. Secretly, I think my goal is to float and write, while holding a tropical beverage and getting a tan at the same time. I tell myself that after three books, perhaps I am expert enough at this swimming/writing thing that I will be able to look down at my story from the safe and sunny poolside--without actually having to go down to the depths to retrieve it.

This never works, of course. But I always attempt to make it work. For weeks at a time, I paddle around on the surface of my story. I know that the writing is too slick, too easy. I realize that my characters are little more than shadows swimming past me on the page. I know that my story lacks depth. Still, I am reluctant to take that first breath and dive. From my childhood swimming days, I remember too well the ear-popping pressure and the heart-pounding rush to reach the surface before the last gasp of air disappeared.

Eventually, I believe that I begin by taking small dives into my story, gradually getting deeper and deeper. A sentence. A breath. A paragraph. A breath. And then the moment usually comes when I realize I haven't taken a breath since... well, I can't quite recall. I come up from the page, my chest tight, my vision blurred. Where am I? My eyes cast wildly around my office in the disoriented way that they do when I come up from a dive...desperate to find something familiar: the sky, the side of the pool, the shore.

It is always at these moments--when I've made a heart-stopping, ear-popping, breathless dive and break the surface--that I realize finally, finally, I've gone deep enough to reach the story. When I open my fingers, it's suddenly there--clasped in my palm like one of those precious copper pennies shimmering on the bottom of the pool long ago. Not the whole story of course. Not each character fully formed. But a beginning, at least.

With each book, it seems, I have to learn these lessons over again. Stories, like pennies, are not found in the shallows. They do not float to the surface if writers wait by the side long enough. Stories are found by diving deeply--into characters, into words, into the heart. Each book seems to push me to my own limits as a writer: I can't go any further than this, I insist. I can't describe any more. I can't tell it any better.

And then, without fail, each story takes me one breath deeper.

For more information about Shelley Pearsall and her work, visit her website:
www.shelleypearsall.com

(P.S. - Wordswimmer is taking a break for the holidays and hopes to return to the water in two weeks. May the lights of this season burn bright and bring health, joy and peace to Wordswimmers everywhere.)

Deep Diving

Some authors are blessed with a gift for characterization. They dive so deeply into the lives (and hearts) of their characters that you feel as if you're diving with them, slipping inside the character’s skin so deeply that you can feel the character’s pulse beating beside your own.

In her newest book, All of the Above, Shelley Pearsall, the award-winning author of Trouble Don’t Last and Crooked River, dives into the lives of a handful of teens in an inner city neighborhood in Cleveland OH.

The story begins with a tour of the neighborhood along Washington Boulevard: “...past the smoky good smells of Willy Q’s Barbecue, past the Style R Us hair salon, where they do nails like nobody’s business, past the eye-popping red doors of the Sanctuary Baptist Church, you’ll finally come to a dead end.”

At the dead end is a school, and within this school are a handful of students in a Math Club folding small pieces of paper into the world’s largest tetrahedron.

Tetrahedrons are “geometric solids with four faces,” according to Mr. Collins, the math teacher in whose math class readers first meet the story’s four main characters–James Harris III, Rhondell, Sharice, and Marcel.

Listen to each character's voice in these early introductions:

James Harris III: I don’t listen to nothing in Collins’ math class. Only thing I listen for is the bell. That bell at the end of class is just about the sweetest sound in the world. The whole class, I sit there waiting on that bell and watching the hands of the clock jump from one little black mark to the next. You ever notice how school clocks do that? How they don’t move like other clocks do; they jump ahead like bugs?

Rhondell: All the way home on the bus in the rain, I roll the word tetrahedron around in my mouth. I keep my face turned toward the steamed-up bus windows, and I let my lips try the word over and over without using my voice. Tetrahedron.

I wonder if this is one of those words that might get me into college someday. It sounds as if it could. Inside my mind, I keep a whole collection of college words for someday. Words like epiphany, quiescent, metamorphosis...

Sharice: Six people are already in the math room when I get there on Monday. This kinda surprises me a little. I take a look around the doorway first ‘cause if it’s only me and Mr. Collins, I don’t plan on sticking around. But then I see Ashlee and Deandra from math class. They are hanging all over Terrell (how desperate can you be?) And passing a bag of chips back and forth.

Marcel: Marcel the Magnificent, that’s me. After our math club meeting, I head on over to the Barbecue. Slap a big slab of ribs on a plate. Take fifteen orders at the same time.

“How you want your ribs done, ma’am, heat or no heat? Hot sauce or mild?”

“We got Blast off to Outer Space Hot, Melt the Roof of Your Mouth Hot, Tar in the Summertime Hot, Red Heels Hot, Mama Thornton Sings the Blues Hot, and Just Plain Ol’ Hot. Which you want? Yes, ma’am. Two Singing the Blues coming up. Napkins and forks on the right side. Fire hose on the left. We aim to please at Willy Q’s Barbecue. You have a good day, too, ma’am.” I slam the order window shut.

Ahhh. Feet up. Butt down.

In these initial glimpses, you can feel the pulse of each character immediately. You know who these characters are... and who they’re not. They’re not what you might have expected: dead-end kids attending a dead-end school in a dead-end part of Cleveland. No, they’re kids with attitude and personality, with hopes and dreams.

What comes through in each of these excerpts, aside from each character's unique personality, is the depth of love that Pearsall feels for each of them. She cares deeply about her characters, and in caring... manages to show us why we should care about them, too.

Look at James, for instance. Gruff, impatient, almost defiant, wanting to be anywhere else but in school. Yet he’s observant, he notices things, small things, like the way the clock hand advances ... and the need to be doing something else besides spending time in Collins’ math class.

This combination–defiant, yet sensitive–makes for an interesting mixture, a way of shaping our feelings about him, so that we expect James to stand up for what he wants, even if it’s dangerous to stand up, and yet we understand that he has a sensitive side, too, a side that makes him vulnerable, hence exposed to danger. That means that we fear him... and fear for him... at the same time.

And look at Rhondell. Dreaming of college on the bus ride home, dreaming of college words all the time, but saying them to herself, not wanting anyone to know her dreams, scared of what might happen if anyone finds out about them... or, worse, scared of what might happen if they don’t come true.

Notice how Rhondell collects college-level words, and plays with them in her mind as if they were precious stones, the key to her future, which is just a dream now. And the one word-- "someday"--letting us feel her longing for a future that’s better than the present she’s in now.

Rhondell's dreams are what help us understand and sympathize with her, just as her fear of dreams not coming true helps us understand what’s important to her... what she wants more than anything yet can't tell anyone for fear the dream might be lost once it's exposed to the light.

And then there’s Sharice who will have to learn how to stand on her own feet... or drop into the abyss and be forgotten. What will she choose? Does she have the courage to make friends, to share her heart and dreams with others?

And Marcel, sweet-talking, full-of-himself, oozing confidence, ready to sell customers his daddy’s barbecue ribs and sauce, a hard worker, but not so hard that he can’t let himself take a break when the line of customers slackens.

But is he all show? What’s he really made of? That’s what the reader wants to know. When the test of his character comes, it comes straight at him. What will Marcel do?

At the core of each character is a pulsing, beating heart, and each heartbeat breathes life into this story about what people are truly made of and how courage and perseverance can be found on Cleveland's inner-city streets.

In diving deeply into each character’s inner world, Pearsall tells a story that’s true to life. Some characters reach for dreams and get them, while others never get the chance to reach... yet remain standing, nonetheless. Together, their voices serve as a rich tapestry of lives linked in mysterious ways.

In the end, it's hard to leave Washington Boulevard. That’s because Pearsall has taken us deep-diving into the hearts of characters who we end up loving as much as our own friends and neighbors, their hopes and dreams mingling with our own.

For more information about Shelley Pearsall and her work, visit her website at
http://www.shelleypearsall.com/

And for a librarian's review of All of The Above, take a look at A Fuse #8 Production at http://fusenumber8.blogspot.com/2006/07/review-of-day-all-of-above.html

The Danger of Thunder

Have you ever found yourself shaken to the core by the crash of thunder?

I don't mean short claps of thunder that sound like toy guns going off next door... or a rolling succession of booms far in the distance... but the intense, ear-splitting explosion that goes off inches above your head.

Such a soul-wrenching explosion can steal your breath away... and, somehow, stop your heart, if only for a moment.. before you are able to regain your senses and run in search of shelter.

That's the kind of thunder Shelley Pearsall shapes into a character of sorts in the climax of her newest novel, Crooked River, about a Chippewa accused of murdering a trapper and held captive in the attic of an Ohio settler's cabin in 1812.

At the heart of Crooked River is this clash of cultures, a clash reflected in two different points of view that Pearsall shares with the reader.

The bulk of the story is related in a straight-forward narrative from the "white man's" view as each day two sisters, Rebecca and Laura Carver, climb the stairs in their cabin to bring food to the Chippewa.

But poetic interludes between chapters represent the Chippewa viewpoint.

Each point-of-view occupies a position outside the other's consciousness, as if poetry and prose represent two different worlds.

Gradually, Rebecca comes to see the two worlds, not as separate, but as sharing a common humanity.

As a sign of her growing change of heart toward the Chippewa, she brings him little gifts--a wild flower, an acorn, a leaf--along with his daily meals, and he gives her keepsakes in return--colorful beads, a delicate feather.

And during the trial, when Rebecca realizes that witnesses are lying to compel a guilty verdict from the jury, she decides to act to save Amik, even if it means going against her strong-willed father's beliefs and her own culture's code of conduct.

On the morning before the hanging, Rebecca borrows clothes from her brother and changes into them before dawn. She plans to climb the gallows and cut the hanging rope so it will break once Amik is strung up.

Meanwhile, Amik--imprisoned in the attic the entire story--places his faith in the Thunder Beings (mythical spirits) to rescue him. He is confident of their power, especially since he has seen them in a dream and feels confident that they will save him.

The climax of the story is a remarkable melding of these two arcs--Rebecca's action and Amik's belief in the power of myths and dreams--which have been building beneath the surface of the story all along.

On the morning of the hanging, a terrifying thunder storm erupts, sweeping out of the sky and wiping out the Carver's cornfield. The storm disperses the crowd watching the hanging, but not before they see Amik's limp body placed in the coffin.

After the storm has passed, everyone returns to the gallows and finds the body... gone.

Like the crowd, the reader is left wondering what happened. Did Amik die? Did someone steal his body? Who--or what--may have rescued him? (Don't worry... Pearsall answers these questions before the end of the story)

Some readers may find themselves objecting at this point to a solution that comes from heaven (a deus ex machina resolution).

Others may find themselves frustrated that Rebecca doesn't do more, or that Amik himself doesn't manage to mastermind his own escape (perhaps with the help of his lawyer and friend, Peter Kelley).

But if you look carefully at the "thunderous" conclusion to this tale, you'll see these two solutions reflect the deep division between the two cultures that's at the heart of the story.

One resolution requires Rebecca to cut the rope... and act to save him, compelled by her conscience to do the right thing for a fellow human being.

The other invokes the Thunder Beings... very real creatures in Amik's world... who come to rescue him, blending fantasy and reality in ways that are true to his consciousness.

Together, these different resolutions show us how two views of the world can co-exist, and attest to a common humanity that all of us share, even when the occupants of each world are unaware of their connection.

The next time you hear the rumble of thunder in your story, take care. A plot that relies on external or supernatural forces to resolve itself doesn't always succeed.

But in the hands of an accomplished storyteller like Pearsall, it succeeds because of the dramatic way that she shaped that external force (the Thunder Beings) into the story earlier, creating a character who Amik--and her readers--could believe in.

For more information about Shelley Pearsall and her work, check out her website: http://www.shelleypearsall.com/.

To learn more about the use (and potential pitfalls) of deus ex machine resolutions, check out:
http://noggs.typepad.com/the_reading_experience/2004/05/in_the_maysumme.html
http://www.write-on.org/story/2003/8/1/143429/2740
http://groups.msn.com/romancewritingtips/endings.msnw

A Different Kind of Listening

Detecting the emotional content of a voice requires a different kind of listening.

No longer can we rely solely on our ears. We need to feel the emotion in a voice, and to do this means using our hearts as well as our ears.

Listening with our hearts lets us feel the underlying emotion--the fear or joy, sadness or hope--that flows through a character's veins.

But how are we to identify this emotional quality?

Where do we begin?

Although it may seem obvious, listen to the language of the story--the author's choice of words, the details the narrator has selected to share.

Listen for the rhythm of a pulse, and listen to the tone--whether it's formal or informal, stiff or loose, warm and inviting, cool and aloof.

Then, ask yourself how you feel about the language... and the main character.

What do your feelings reveal? Not just about the character, but about your response to the character?

Let's listen to a handful of voices and try to hear the emotional currents rippling through them:

Basketball is my thing. I can hoop. Case closed. I'm six four and I got the moves, the eye, and the heart. You can take my game to the bank and wait around for the interest. With me it's not like playing a game, it's like the only time I'm being for real. (from Slam! by Walter Dean Myers)

What do you hear in this passage?

Who is speaking?

What's the most important thing in the character's mind? Basketball? Playing the game? Proving himself on the court? Or feeling something different when he's playing than when he's not?

We know he's tall (six four), well-coordinated (he's got the moves), a player with drive and determination. We know, too, that he can play well (in his own mind, at least). And... what else?

How would you describe his emotional state? Secure? Fragile? Despite his prowess on the court, does he feel confident when he steps off the court?

What does Myers intend for us to feel as we read this passage? How does Myers succeed in linking us with this character? He merges our heart with this character's... so that we can feel it beating beside our own... but how does Myers do this?

Here's another voice:

"What if they find us? What's gonna happen?"
Harrison's eyes snapped open and he gave me his meanest stare. "Now, you be quiet, child, and git some rest 'cause we got another long run ahead of us. I don't want to hear no more of your talkin."
I kept quiet then, but the questions were still running back and forth in my head. What if I had left footprints in the field? What if Master hired dogs to track us down? What if it didn't rain? What if they found us sitting in the tree? What if they shot us down, as if we were nothing more than a pair of foolish wild birds?
(from Trouble Don't Last by Shelley Pearsall)

Listen closely... what do you hear in this passage?

Do you hear the fear in the character's voice? Can you feel his fear?

What do we learn from this passage about his life? He's a child ("Now, you be quiet, child...") and tired... and his journey is far from over... but what else?

The characters are running from someone or something... and the danger of being discovered is great... so great that the boy must remain silent.

But the silence only gives the boy's imagination freedom to design ways for their escape to fail--a series of what if's... his existence dependent not on his own actions but on random luck. If the master doesn't send out dogs. If it doesn't rain. If they're discovered in the tree.

Notice how the boy's consciousness reflects his way of looking at the world... his way of being... as an escaped slave. Having run away, he now can feel only the foolishness of his attempt to gain freedom, an attempt no different than a "pair of foolish birds."

How does the author bring you inside the story? What words does she use to let you feel the boy's fear, sense of isolation, and abandonment? The danger that the escaped slaves are in? The growing tension over the boy's future?

Now listen to this voice:

I spent the reception listening to comments about how tall I was, everyone trying to make it sound like it was a good thing to be a giant at fifteen. I towered over everyone, it seemed, and Ashley kept coming up behind me and poking me hard in the center of my back, which was my mother's subtle and constant signal that I was slouching. What I really wanted to do was curl up in a ball under the buffet table and hide from everyone. After four hours, several plates of food, and enough small talk to make me withdraw into myself permanently, we finally got to go home."
(from Sarah Dessen's That Summer)

What do you hear now? And, on a deeper level, what do you feel?

What details provide keys to the emotional state of this character? How do we know what we know about her? Which words, which actions, make us feel a certain way? Why?

Is she confident about herself? Happy with who she is? Pleased with her body? Does she like to spend time with people or does she prefer to spend time alone? What's her relationship with her mother? Her sister (who pokes her in the back)? How does she deal with things that she dislikes? Does she tell people what she's feeling? Does she have the courage to exit a situation that's making her feel uncomfortable?

How does this scene make you feel? And how does the author place you in the character's shoes?

One last voice:

I felt tears stinging my eyes as the bus pulled out of the station. It would take me to the Mehtas' village, but it would not bring me back. Maa must have had the same thought; she reached for my hand and held it tightly.
Mr. Mehta was there when the bus stopped. He was a short man with a small round face and a pair of large, dark-rimmed glasses. It was hard to see his face behind the glasses. I made my best ceremonial namaskar, saluting him and even touching his feet, but he gave me only a quick look. Instead he turned to Baap and, after a courteous but quick greeting, asked, "You have brought the dowry, sir?" Until that moment I had believed it was me the Mehta family wanted; now it seemed that what they cared for most was the dowry. Was my marriage to be like the buying of a sack of yams in the market-place?
(from Homeless Bird by Gloria Whelan)

What are the emotions that you feel when you listen to this voice? And why do you feel them?

We are present at a leave-taking and an arrival... events that will change the character's life. By sharing certain details with us, the author gives us a glimpse into the young girl's heart: how much she cares for her family, especially her Maa and Baap, and how much she will miss them.

Even though her parents accompany her on the journey, she's already imagining her life without them... as a married girl in the future. And we're given a glimpse into how she feels about herself and that future when she gets off the bus and meets her future father-in-law, who virtually ignores her respectful greeting and shows interest in only one thing: her dowry.

How does that rebuff make the character feel?

And how do you feel as you move deeply inside the narator's point of view?

What is it in the language that gives you this feeling? Is it the way the character finds herself ignored by Mr. Mehta? Or is it the way that she feels about being ignored... and the way that she expresses her emotional state in words ("Was my marriage to be like buying a sack of yams in the marketplace?")

Listen with your heart. Try to find the emotional thread running through these passages.

If you listen to a story with your heart, not just your ears, you should be able to slit open the story at any point... and not only hear the quality of emotion in a voice but feel the emotional pulse of the story, the character's heart beating steadily beside your own.

The examples that we looked at above were from YA novels, but you could perform the same exercise with picture books or middle grade readers.

Try it, see what happens... and let us know what you hear.

For further reference:

Walter Dean Myers: http://www.scils.rutgers.edu/~kvander/myers.html and an interview at http://www.teenreads.com/authors/au-myers-walterdean.asp

Shelley Pearsall: http://www.shelleypearsall.com/

Sarah Dessen: http://www.sarahdessen.com/

Gloria Whelan: http://www.gloriawhelan.com/

Also, Canadian illustrator Ian Wallace describes how he probes a text for an emotional link before he begins work at http://www.ian-wallace.com/speeches_1.html