P.M. Castle

Colorado Author

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Making sense of descriptive writing

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What color is a crash of thunder? What does a seascape taste like? For that matter, what does green smell like?

Those questions probably make as much sense as asking the sum of two and two and expecting for an answer a bushel of apples. But those who experience synesthesia might perceive the blare of a trumpet as the color orange or recognize a particular word that tastes like waffles. It’s a phenomenon in which the senses blend or cross over. For many so-called synesthetes, numbers and letters are perceived as inherently colored.

While synesthesia offers a fascinating subject for research into brain function, it’s also a useful device in writing vivid imagery that evokes all the senses. I enjoyed the opportunity to explore synesthesia and other techniques for immersive descriptions in a recent Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers workshop in Grand Junction.

Anne Marie, a former editor for a small press who reads queries for a literary agent, led the presentation. Anne started with an overview of the research into the senses of sight, hearing, smell, touch and taste. It was interesting to realize our perceptions are a result of the ways our brains interpret nerve impulses.

What followed at the workshop was even more interesting. Participants went through a series of five exercises in which we listened to recorded sounds, looked at photographs, touched objects inside a box, tasted various foods and smelled different spices. We filled in a worksheet in first writing down words to describe what we heard, saw, touched, tasted and smelled. We then described our experiences in terms of different senses.

A photograph of an abandoned shack in snow brought to mind the rough texture of the wood and sound of wind whistling through the boards. A sample of dark chocolate evoked a sensation of smoothness. The smell of spices resurrected pleasant memories of the taste of stuffing and pumpkin pie served at Thanksgiving gatherings. The final step in the process was to devise metaphors or similies for the descriptions.

There’s a well-worn admonition that writers should show, not tell. A quote attributed to the Russian novelist Anton Chekhov states: “Don’t tell me the moon is shining. Show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

Why, then, just tell readers about a mountain meadow? Instead, let them linger to smell the wildflowers, listen to the creek gurgle and feel the wet grass beneath their bare feet? Now, combine those perceptions. Perhaps the fragrances of those flowers blend in an intricate fugue. Perhaps the sound of moving water evokes the image of a slow-moving parade of blues and greens.

In my work in progress, I strive to immerse readers in the rugged and scenic landscape of northwest Colorado. It’s a setting where long flags of loose snow flutter from mountain peaks and sparkle in the morning sun. It’s a place where dry leaves clinging to otherwise bare branches rattle in the breeze while the nearby river babbles on, oblivious to the raucous interruption of a crow. It’s a sometimes foreboding location as well where thunderclouds spill over the western horizon and a chill wind carries with it the scent of rain and sagebrush.

Do you feel at least a bit like you’re there? I hope so. I also hope you’ll soon enjoy the opportunity to experience even more of the remarkable setting and what happens there.

In the meantime, I’d enjoy the opportunity to read some of your descriptions blending the senses. What color are they? What do they taste like? What do they smell like?

Dive right in, the water really is fine

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I have no memory of my birth. I was too young at the time, I suppose. Sixty years later, I can’t help but wonder if birth was like another event in my life — only in reverse.

With birth, I emerged from the fluid realm of the womb and pulled into new lungs a first breath of air. With scuba diving, I returned to an aquatic environment and pulled through a regulator a first breath of air under water. There’s a commonality, though: Just as birth heralds discovery, so does diving.

That’s why it’s been all the more rewarding to combine two of my passions in including scenes involving scuba diving in my second novel. I hope you’ll enjoy following my two protagonists into a cold mountain lake in search for gold bars hidden there more than a century ago by outlaws. What they discover instead is a ghastly corpse lashed to a rock. My protagonists will have to get wet again before discovering the treasure or truth.

Unlike birth, I recall with clarity my first breaths under water — initially in a dive shop swimming pool, then the dark depths of the Homestead Crater in Utah and finally the warm and welcoming sea off Cozumel in Mexico. Each breath was a tentative one in a bigger universe and came with the growing realization of what a self-contained underwater breathing apparatus affords. That’s freedom to explore the vast expanses of Earth accessible only to those with the right equipment — or gills. There’s another benefit no less significant: the opportunity to share the adventure with family and friends.

Scuba diving is nothing if not varied. Each dive is unique with its own conditions, depth and time logged. One dive could be as warm and shallow as the next cold and deep. Visibility ranges from crystalline to murky, from hundreds of feet to mere inches. Calm waters invite leisurely investigation. Ripping currents provide a thrilling ride. A quick dip might take only 20 minutes. A longer foray could extend more than an hour.

Dive sites are no less varied. I’ve toured spectacular coral reefs off the Cayman Islands, giant kelp forests off Catalina and foreboding shipwrecks off the Florida Keys. I’ve plumbed the depths of flooded quarries in Illinois and Kentucky, roamed the halls of a submerged lead mine in Missouri and watched snaggletoothed sharks make the rounds in a massive aquarium in downtown Denver.

Nothing fascinates or rewards more than observing life under the sea up close and personal. Nowhere are the creatures more intensely colorful or more frequently bizarre. Angelfish and butterfly fish dazzle like neon signs with their ostentatious displays. Eagle rays soar as majestically as any bird. Conversely, stonefish blend in with their surroundings so masterfully they remain undetected to all but the most wary passersby. In a place where some animals look more like plants, anemones bloom like flowers and worms pop up like tiny Christmas trees. When small fish swarm in tightly packed schools, they can form gigantic bait balls that roil like storm clouds and blot out the sun.

Jacques Cousteau, the pioneering oceanographer who helped develop scuba diving, famously warned: “The sea, once it casts its spell, holds one in its net of wonder forever.”

I say this: Let the net tighten.

What’s blocking you from getting things done?

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Writer’s block. I shudder to type those words, fearful the very act could trigger a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In case you haven’t deduced it already, writers can be a superstitious lot. We attribute success and failure to all sorts of circumstances that have no bearing whatsoever on the outcome. How much coffee you’ve chugged, for example. The music to which you listen. The color of your socks, for heaven’s sake. The Latin phrase for these fallacious connections is post hoc, ergo proctor hoc. Translation: after this, therefore because of this. After writing what I deemed a particularly amusing newspaper column one time, I remembered I’d sprinkled blueberries on my cereal that morning. It’s been blueberries and Cheerios for breakfast ever since.

Writer’s block has been described as a black dog from hell, creative constipation and — my personal favorite — muse repellent. Picture your mind as a sere landscape where no novel thought grows.

There are as many explanations for writer’s block as there are writers. Each affliction is uniquely torturous. I’m fortunate as a newspaper editor in there’s never a shortage of news to report. It’s only a matter of setting priorities given the restraints involved. There’s scarcely time to keep up and no time to overthink the process. Writing blogs? That’s a horse of a different color, one more likely to throw me ass over teakettle than carry me along for an enjoyable ride.

Perhaps the best antidote to writer’s block is mustering the confidence to get started. If you still suffer doubts, start anyway. I’m the kind of writer known as a “pantser” rather than “plotter.” I tend to write by the seat of my pants instead of plotting my progress or, God forbid, creating an outline. That makes the process all the more uncertain. I’m often pleasantly surprised, though, how one step leads to another. Before I’m aware of it, I’m headed in a different direction than I’d anticipated, but toward a better destination.

I suspect writer’s block also could be a symptom of an underlying condition. Writers don’t want to write. That could be as temporary a situation as they don’t feel up to the task at that particular moment. Take a break, then get back to it. But if a chronic aversion develops, some soul searching and resulting changes might be in order.

I could suggest still other remedies to writer’s block. Mark Twain worked in bed. So did Winston Churchill. Victor Hugo sometimes wrote in the nude, although that could prove problematic for those caught naked in front of their laptops.

What’s your remedy for writer’s block? I remain open to any and all suggestions.

In the meantime, I’ll let you in on a little trade secret. When writers believe they suffer from writer’s block and can’t think of anything to write about, there’s always a fallback position. They write about writer’s block.

Call me chief storytelling officer

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I’m perfectly content, honored even, with my title as editor of the Business Times. Although editor of a one-man news staff isn’t nearly as impressive as it sounds and necessarily requires a lot more than editing. Like reporting, writing and occasionally hauling out the trash.

But I’ll admit it. I’ve long aspired to something my beloved late wife, ever the astute attorney, would have dismissed as ostentatious. Your royal majesty, perhaps. Supreme allied commander has a nice ring to it. Then there’s my personal favorite: illustrious potentate. For that matter, I wouldn’t mind becoming what the Beatles called a paperback writer.

All kidding aside, the one title that actually matters most to me also describes a function, and that’s storyteller. I use that word not at all in the derogatory sense of those skilled at fabricating exaggerations. Rather, I offer reverential praise to those who make connections, convey truths and perpetuate culture in ways great and small.

I love to tell stories. Hopefully, I offer some compelling ones in the mysteries I’ve written about a small town newspaper editor and brilliant history professor.

At work, I love to tell stories about entrepreneurs and their ventures. I love most of all to tell success stories with happy endings because I believe they offer lessons from which other entrepreneurs can learn. Kind of like the morals of the fairy tales that were read to us as children.

Not at all surprisingly, storytelling has garnered growing recognition as an effective form of brand promotion.

Kindra Hall, president of the Steller Collective consulting firm, also possesses a title of which I’m especially envious — chief storytelling officer. She comes by the title by education and accomplishment in both earning a master’s degree in communication and winning a national championship in storytelling. Yes, that’s a thing.

In her forthcoming book “Stories That Stick: How Storytelling Can Captivate Customers, Influence Audiences and Transform Your Business,” Hall details the four kinds of stories businesses can tell. They include the value story to convince customers they need what a business provides, the founder story to persuade investors and customers the business is worth the investment, the purpose story to align employees and the customer story in which those who use products and services share their experiences.

Let’s add to the conversation my observation from working more than 20 years as editor of a business journal. Nearly every business has a compelling story to tell. Few businesses tell their stories well. Some don’t even try.

Fortunately, part of my job as editor of a business journal is telling those stories. You could call me a storyteller, in fact. Actually, make that chief storytelling officer.

I treasure stories about treasure hunts

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I love stories about treasure hunts. How about you? What’s your favorite story about a treasure hunt?

The story that invariably first comes to mind was told by Robert Louis Stevenson in “Treasure Island.” What child — or adult, for that matter — can resist reading about Jim Hawkins, Long John Silver and the search for treasure buried by the infamous pirate Captain Flint?

Mark Twain told what I consider an even more compelling story in the “Adventures of Tom Sawyer.” Twain combines in his novel a murderous plot and treasure hunt, both of which are resolved in sometimes humorous and sometimes dramatic fashion.

Treasure hunts also feature prominently in works by everyone from Edgar Allan Poe in “The Gold Bug” to Ernest Cline in “Ready Player One.”

I knew I wanted to tell my own story about a treasure hunt the moment I aspired to write a novel.

“Small Town News” covers what happens when Tucker Preston, a big city newspaper reporter turned small town editor, uncovers a plot involving betrayal and murder. But a second story unfolds after Tucker meets Billie Brownwell. She’s a brilliant and beautiful history professor searching for — you guessed it — treasure.

As if looking for a cache of stolen loot hidden in northwest Colorado by the outlaw Butch Cassidy wasn’t enough, I wanted to raise the stakes even higher. I took advantage of an actual mystery in the fate of some of the rarest and most valuable coins in U.S. history. Of 24 dimes minted in San Francisco in 1894, only nine are known to exist. What happened to the other 15? What if two of the dimes were included in the mail stolen in a train robbery? By the way, an 1894 S dime sold at a recent auction in Chicago for more than $1.3 million. How’s that for treasure?

Of course, there are many kinds of treasure and just as many kinds of desperate searches for what’s truly valuable. What kind of treasure will Tucker and Billie find?