For me,
establishing a setting for a story is as much about drawing the reader in as it
is about building a picture of a specific time and geographic location. When I
describe a setting well, I’m hoping to give my hypothetical reader a photo, or
perhaps even a video of where I want them to go, what I want them to see.
That
description is a multi-layered task, one that doesn’t stop at just one sense or
one dimension. I want my readers to hear, smell, even touch what my characters
are experiencing. Not that I want to overwhelm them with insignificant details,
of course, but rather I want to fire their imaginations. I want them to want to
be in that place and experience it for themselves.
I write
my drafts much the same way I used to paint. First, I create an initial sketch,
the bare bones of a city, a room, a specific place. In the story I’m excerpting
below, that sketch begins with a hotel balcony overlooking a river. Not just
any river, mind you, but the Arno flowing through the heart of Florence. My
character sees the old merchant palaces glowing golden in the sun on the other
bank. She thinks about going outside with her lover to explore the city below.
They pause to flirt.
Then they
do go out to see to see the wonders of Renaissance Italy. Michelangelo’s David
is on their list as is the Uffizi Gallery. There they fall madly in lust with
Titian’s painting “Venere da Urbino” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_of_Urbino).
The art becomes as much a part of my story’s setting as the architecture. I add
more detail in the second draft and then there are street performers and the
swirling noises of thousands of tourists. The air is hot and sticky and the
atmosphere is charged. My characters are aroused, not only by each other, but
by their surroundings as well.
Third draft and
I’ve got almost all the colors filled in. The medieval architecture of the city
takes hold of my characters, enhancing their flirtation.
From “A Room
with a View” (Night’s Kiss): The crowds part and I remove my hand, using
it instead to steer you away across the uneven cobbles. I wonder if I could
pull you down a deserted sidestreet, press you up against a wall like a medieval
lord with his mistress. I imagine pulling up your heavy skirts and sinking into
your wet, welcoming warmth. My pants are hot and moist at the thought of
thrusting my way inside you, your carmined lips parting in a torrent of Italian
that begs me not to stop.
Looking
at the ancient stones, I choose not to remember the religious wars that made
these very same streets run with blood. Or Savoranola, the mad monk with his
bonfires of the vanities that consumed so many books, so much art. No, instead
I dream tourist dreams of beauty and sophistication, poetry and love and forget
the ugliness of the past. And for now, since the crowds are unrelenting and
there are no deserted streets, my medieval lord is a story for another time.
There is
always the temptation to get lost in my own mental landscapes, to outline and
paint every object, every tree. But the action has to move on through the
setting, not pause to admire itself in the mirror. If I’ve done my job well,
that’s the best possible outcome.
