On Writing About the Unwritable
Short fiction and viewpoint.
There is absolutely nothing that you can write that will be the same for every reader. Nothing you can describe will be the equal of the reader's imagination. As worldly as you may be you will never feel the same way the reader does.
The best you can do is covet the readers mind and strive to help them write the story with you. Allude to things that are common or can be expected to be common.
Does the reader know the pain of hell fire? Probably not. Odds are though that the readers has been burned to some degree in their lifetime, and odds are that they have known remorse, suffering and hatred.
Milton tells us of remorse when he says "Any place which is not Heaven is Hell."
Poe tell us of suffering when he says "Nevermore"
Melville tells us of hatred when he says "For hates sake I spit my last breath at ye"
It's not about the description, it's about finding the common elements of being human and playing them like a harp string.
Everything that touched him burned him like a million little cigarette embers floating down and forcing their way into his mouth and nose, they burned in his ears with a continuous sizzle, and he knew that the sumptuous smell on the wind was his skin crisping like bacon.
For eternity he would remember the shape bent over her as he walked through the open door, smiling and waiting for an end of the day hug that never came. . .never. Comfort and happiness ripped from him and left splayed in the hallway like the days clothes, cast aside. Every tender minute was killed, every passionate touch gone, used by the beast to quench its own passions.
The shadow had not seen him coming, had not known that its own death was upon it. Hate driven fingers crushed into the unshaven throat and tightened until the joints of his fingers creaked and popped. The shadow threw itself about, beating at him with its hands and slamming him into the walls, but he didn't care. Everything that was good was there on the ground. He found a way to wrench harder, his fingers digging into flesh.
The shadow collapsed onto the floor and still he squeezed.
Damned for murder, he would burn forever, he only wished he could break a neck more than once.
The best you can do is covet the readers mind and strive to help them write the story with you. Allude to things that are common or can be expected to be common.
Does the reader know the pain of hell fire? Probably not. Odds are though that the readers has been burned to some degree in their lifetime, and odds are that they have known remorse, suffering and hatred.
Milton tells us of remorse when he says "Any place which is not Heaven is Hell."
Poe tell us of suffering when he says "Nevermore"
Melville tells us of hatred when he says "For hates sake I spit my last breath at ye"
It's not about the description, it's about finding the common elements of being human and playing them like a harp string.
Everything that touched him burned him like a million little cigarette embers floating down and forcing their way into his mouth and nose, they burned in his ears with a continuous sizzle, and he knew that the sumptuous smell on the wind was his skin crisping like bacon.
For eternity he would remember the shape bent over her as he walked through the open door, smiling and waiting for an end of the day hug that never came. . .never. Comfort and happiness ripped from him and left splayed in the hallway like the days clothes, cast aside. Every tender minute was killed, every passionate touch gone, used by the beast to quench its own passions.
The shadow had not seen him coming, had not known that its own death was upon it. Hate driven fingers crushed into the unshaven throat and tightened until the joints of his fingers creaked and popped. The shadow threw itself about, beating at him with its hands and slamming him into the walls, but he didn't care. Everything that was good was there on the ground. He found a way to wrench harder, his fingers digging into flesh.
The shadow collapsed onto the floor and still he squeezed.
Damned for murder, he would burn forever, he only wished he could break a neck more than once.
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