Since it's so important to include the five senses in descriptions when we write, I decided to do a writing exercise this morning. It was simple. All I did was try and notice what was going on around me as I walked Rascal.
Here are some of my early morning observations from living in a medium sized suburb of Chicago:
What first struck me was the smell of fumes from a jet that had already flown by. Sometimes the fumes are so strong, I can almost taste them. This time it wasn't too bad.
I felt a cool breeze swirl around my hair. Later, the temperature might clime to eighty as predicted, but to start out, it was only fifty-something.
Next, I heard birds chirping. I couldn't tell what kind they were, but there were many, nothing like the bird sounds of winter, which are almost non-existent..
As I walked Rascal to the corner, I noticed a car pull up. A dog across the street barked as the driver threw a rolled up newspaper out the window. I heard the plunk as it landed.
A jogger ran by. I felt the pull on the leash and I had to hold tight, as Rascal felt threatened.
When I continued on, I couldn't help but admire the scents and sights of spring flowers. I noticed daffodils and tulips gracing partially green lawns.
I saw a light turn on in one of the houses. Someone else was rising early.
The gate creaked as I re-entered our yard.
I walked into the house only to hear a commercial about spring home fix-ups and news about people being shot on the South Side of Chicago.
Now, what about you? What do you notice on an early Spring morning?
Morgan Mandel
http://morganmandel.blogspot.com/http://facebook.com/morgan.mandel
It’s the time of year when I feel a bit like Leo Lionni’s grasshopper. Fall has well and truly come upon us in Michigan. The soy fields are dry and golden, the Virginia creeper wound round our trees is scarlet and we’ve had our first frost. Yesterday I heard sand hill cranes and assumed I’d see them in the neighbor’s field as I walked by. Nope. Twenty-two of them were forming a flying wedge and heading south.
It’s the time of year to be sure your larders are stocked. I’ve made my jellies and juices. And now, I have to collect as many bright and shiny words as I can and store them up against the day deep winter decides to accost us. To do this, I read and write (especially poetry). Sometimes it’s enough just to find a line I like. I keep those jotted down in my journal.
I keep my eyes and ears open. And, oddly enough, my sense of smell is truly alive at this time of year. Yesterday, in addition to the sand hill cranes and the soy fields I was particularly attuned to that tang–that smell–that is always in Michigan’s air in October. You know the one; overripe grapes small, dark, and pungently grapey smelling, and apples that have fallen on the dirt road to be smashed by cars and eaten by deer producing that sweet, sharp “appley” smell.
Well . . . you can see that I’m having a problem here. Just how does an author describe a smell? How do you get that into a poem or story? In fact, my book MY MOUNTAIN SONG (Clarion) deals, in part, with this issue when the main character wants to get the smell of the green dampness of the mountain holler into her song. I initially wrote that book more than twenty years ago . . . and I still wonder how it’s done. I do my best . . . but it never seems quite enough.
It’s easy to describe things you see, touch, hear, and to some degree taste (salty, bitter, etc.). But smell? And the funny thing is, I’ve read that the sense of smell can trigger our strongest and most emotional responses. And we humans have powerful reactions to pheromones.
Perhaps it’s just that smell is so personal. Does the smell of ripe grapes smell the same to me as to you? Juicy apples? Hot chocolate and cinnamon? Wet dog? And what about that other smell for people of my generation? The one that said, yep, school is back in for the season. It was a combined smell of wet galoshes lined up along the walls, and that red rubbery stuff that the custodians used to sprinkle down before they swept the hallways. (What is that stuff called?). That smell has had such a hold on me for all these years that it is easy to bring a sense of it back to the foreground of my memory–but how, as a writer do I write about it?
In the Torrey Pines park in California there is a path for blind walkers. It stops at spots along the way where the smells are particularly strong. I LOVED it! I loved the sage smells, the salt from the ocean, the pine smells. What a wonderful idea for sighted walkers, as well.
I don’t have any answers here for you. (If you have one for me, please let me know!) But I do have a thought for you: while you are squirreling away all those golden summer words and stories for the deep winter, store away some of those smells that have been important to you. Perhaps, one day, you can find a way to share them with others in your writing.
Happy autumn!
Happy writing (and smelling)! Shutta
I was working at my desk in my dorm room at NYU. The radio was on, as always. Vin Scelsa was on the air. I may be Station tuned to the place where rock lived-- emphasis on past tense-- WNEW-FM in New York City. It was in the 11:00 PM hour when I heard the news. I froze. Phones rang from room to room. Doors flung open, faces in disbelief, white shock. I went back to the radio, back to the music where rock lived, and Vin Scelsa, mourning with us, played Bruce's JUNGLELAND.
John Lennon was dead?
Dead?
No way. No no no way.
Twenty-seven years later and the loss of John Lennon still shocks the conscience and breaks the soul. A light of the universe went out that night, taking with it the creative genius that gifted this world with his lyrics and music. The music didn't die. It never does.
From http://www.coreylevitan.com/features/lennon.html (LET ME TAKE YOU DOWN:)
"If it wasn't for John Lennon, a lot of us would be in some place much different. It's hard to come out here and play tonight, but there's nothing else to do." -- Bruce Springsteen to a Philadelphia concert audience, Dec. 9, 1980
"beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy"
Someone else remembers the annoucement on the radio as I did:
"I was actually listening to the radio in New York that night (I'm old) and this sounds real to me. I only wish the person had captured Vin Scelsa on WNEW-FM who was one of the first to announce that a wire story had a person identified as John Lennon being shot outside the Dakota. He said he hoped it was not true. Then he played Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" all the way through. And when it was over he said, unfortunately, it was true and Lennon was dead. I will never forget that night."
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Morgan, as I was reading this, I felt as if you were in a trans while walking your dog. LOL
I always hear the birds chirping first. Those darn things wake me up every morning way before my time.
Then I notice the cold house, as I crawl out of bed. I like my windows open at night, and turn down the heat.
Of course my next observance is the time, and while I quietly say ' Oh sh##t' I run for the shower.
Then Im in trans myself as I drive through the congested parts of the suburbs and think when is this construction is going to end. Oh...this one is just starting.
I always notice the scents of spring. The fresh, clean smell of a spring rain shower. The sweet fragrance of spring blooms, which put a tickle in my throat and threaten a sneeze. The damp earth as I turn it over to plant new seeds or bulbs.
Spring morning in my part of the world:
Hummingbird feeds, its irridescent feathers contrast against the wood tones of the juniper pine.
Sun rises over Watson Lake, warms my neck, awakens my spirit.
School bus waits for the local high school kids; they're late, again.
Robin takes his morning bath, leaves some water for the others.
Green sprouts stretch as the sun warms their new growth; more weeding to do this afternoon.
Here, the first thing I hear is usually the barking of a distant neighbor's dog.
Yesterday while out first thing, I heard blue jays and crows, and the scream of a hawk.
As it quietened, I heard the trickling of the small stream that flows at the base of the hill by our house.
There is almost always a constant soughing of wind through the leaves and branches, as our house is surrounded by sycamore, sweetgum, and tupelo poplar trees.
Recently the smells of apple blossoms, redbud blooms, and wild cherry flowers have added to the usual mix of scents. Soon, honeysuckle will be part of the blend.
I love the way one day its all brown and barren and bleak and almost overnight everything is green and flowering and budding. A rebirth.
Scents and sounds are big ones for me too. It takes a while for my garden to get going, most of the colors bloom later in spring and into summer, so I'm usually looking at half brown, half green stuff. With the woods behind us, the first thing I notice is all the tree frogs mumbling away and the woodpeckers coming back; though a robin in the front yard always means spring.
It is so funny that you wrote about this today because I've been giving workshops on this topic to a third grade class this week.
Cheryl
I'm seriously into gardening now, watching the breeze tease the lilacs and flowering trees, and my Steelers wind sock.
As I pull weeds, I smell the clay soil, the scent of the weeds, and an occasional whiff of narcissis.
Several species of cardinals, woodpeckers, pigeons and bluejays crowd my husband's birdfeeder, scolding eachother.
I pluck a sprig of spearmint from the herb garden, needing to freshen my mouth with its cool, sweet taste.
It's getting hotter, so I take off my sweatshirt and throw it over the back of a lawn chair, too busy to take it into the house.
I notice the creak of my knees as I go down the stairs, then how cold the tile feels once I walk down the hall to turn on my computer. Flipping the switch to start the coffee makes me smile, so I open the blinds and stare off into the blackness punctuated by small headlights on the highway in the distance.
Helen
Straight From Hel
I've started paying attention to sensory input since I started writing. We've just moved to the Colorado mountains, and everything is new.
I'm a resident in the Deep South. Spring announces itself quite timidly here, since our winters are so mild.
But, what I notice most in spring is a delicious metaphorical laughter as the oaks gain fresh foliage. Polished, brilliant green. With their drooping limbs and mossy trimmings, a trip past the park always brings to mind stately ladies exhibiting the latest fashions at a garden party.
Japanese magnolia announce spring in a whisper, still too cool to leave home without a jacket, but the subtle flash of color on these silver-barked trees heartens the spirit, reminds one winter is marching on.
At present, the azaeleas have erupted into a carnival of color. White, red, coral, magenta, baby pink... They're everywhere. Parks, residences, public buildings, university campuses. I don't know why I associate their brilliance with laughter, but I always have. Their beauty seems to be an open secret.
I love this time of year.
I sat outside this afternoon reading a manuscript, and felt the magnolia blossoms sprinkle my chair. Their heavenly scent along with the blooming spring flowers made for a perfect relaxing afternoon. Alas, it's back to work in my office.
Margot Justes
www.mjustes.com