Not matter how great a character is, he or she has to
be somewhere. That's where setting comes in. Much of the time, the setting isn't a real place. So, how do you describe a town that isn't there? I got the chance to hear
Patricia Sprinkle talk about this very craft point on Saturday at the Turner Cassity Literary Festival. Here's a summary of her points:
- Novels need to be about a small community even if set in a large city--the apartment building, or a work place, etc.
- Be sure to include all the senses in the description
- What's unique about the setting?
- What contemporary issues impinge on the characters?
- What universal themes are the characters facing?
All of these help define the setting.
I've been working on Cherry Hill, the small town in which my WIPs are set for some time now. It's a combination of three towns in my area--Carrollton, Temple, and Villa Rica--with a pinch of Cartersville thrown in for good measure. If you know Georgia, you have a good idea where Cherry Hill is located. ; )
Two years ago, I was the facilitator for a house party at Books and Writers Forum. In the Writers Exercises, we regularly spend time in a setting created by one of us and have a mad ad lib writing session. Sometimes we discover deep motive in our characters. In the
Cherry Hill House Party, I hosted other writers in my setting. After a bit over a week we created 180,000 + words set in my little town and I learned a ton about Cherry Hill. If you want to read a bit of that story, take the link above, but I warn you, you'll be drawn into a wild and wonderful ride.
Lately, I've been using the settings I created for the house party and repurposing them for my WIP. I thought a taste of Cherry Hill on the Fourth of July might be a good way to show "describing a town that isn't there." You might notice a certain Master Gunnery Sergeant in the crowd. ; )
What's unique about your setting?
Do you have any suggestions or resources on setting?
Also, I'd love to announce a new blogger--Joann Dunn at Dispatches After Midnight. Go by and check her out. You'll love her humor.
The antique bell clanged as I let the door
shut behind me. Sweet vanilla, cinnamon, and all the aromas of fresh baked
cakes, cookies, and pastry welcomed me.
“Momma, it smells just like home!”
Samantha’s voice rose on the heavenly scented air, but her eyes clouded just a
minute.
I couldn’t blame her. I hadn’t baked since
May. That was one of the doctor’s orders. I didn’t have to like them, but I had
to abide by them. My daughter needed me. Joy rose as the thought hugged me
along with the scents of the bakery. “The bakery hasn’t changed in the fifty
years.” The dark wood paneled walls enclosed over two dozen wrought-iron tables
and chairs with curling heart-shaped backs. The wood seats were worn shiny by
use.
I stepped up to the counter with its old
curved-glass fronts that displayed dozens of choices—six different kinds fudge,
thumb cookies with pastel spots of icing in their centers, cream horns,
brownies, and petit fours.
“Do they have the little cakes, the ones
with the rose buds?” She leaned on the glass, looking for them.
“Yes, there on the end.”
Samantha traced the etching on the glass of
the case. It was old because the name was the original—Cherry Hill Bakery. “Why
did they change the name?”
“Well bakery doesn’t quite cover it all any
more now that they’ve added gourmet coffee and tea.” The front glass used the
same old-style lettering, but the name was now Cherry and Bean Fine Pastries,
Coffees, and Teas. “I swear they’ve not changed the recipes,” I said, and
placed an order for my favorite treat—a cream horn and Irish breakfast tea.
Mona Crossley’s withered face greeted us on
the terrace when we emerged back into the July heat with our treats. “Ready for
the parade?” She patted the table beside her. “Best seats in Cherry Hill are
right here.”
I should have known that Mona would be here
early finding the perfect place under the shade of the old oak. “Did you save
that for us?”
“I hoped you’d come, but I know Doc
Bryant’s got you on a short leash.” She grimaced. “Bet he won’t let you bake
yet.” Her eyebrows arched.
I shook my head and lifted a shoulder in a
light shrug. What could I say that Mona didn’t know about cardiologists and
their unreasonable rules. “He couldn’t say no to the parade. Not when he’s
going to be in marching in it.”
We had the perfect vantage point. The
bakery sat on the high side of the square decked out in red, white, and blue
for the occasion. American flags fluttered from every wrought-iron lamppost.
People had spread blankets and folding chairs out on the grass around the
gazebo that served as Cherry Hill’s main stage. Little kids ran up and down the
walks with flags and patriotic pinwheels fluttering in their hands.
The red, white, and blue bunting on the
iron rail lifted a little as the breeze freshened.
Samantha had settled into the chair beside
me, but she wasn’t looking at the patriotic decorations or the flowers rioting
in the beds around the square. Her head swiveled as she watched the people
gathering, a slight frown puckering her brows. Then she lit up.
Dean eased his way among the crowd on the
bakery’s terrace until he stood beside Samantha. “Hi.”
“I thought you’d never get here.”
He shrugged, then winked at her. “The car
was blocked in by all these folks at the parade.” He slipped an arm around her
waist and planted a light kiss on her lips.
Surprise washed over me. I hadn’t seen them
kiss since New Year’s Eve. Proximity was building the fire Rosemary and I had
wondered about. Well, I’d wondered; Rosemary worried. And there she was a few
steps behind the kids, her brow puckered with twin lines. She looked at me,
nodding at the kids leaning against each other. What could I say? I nodded and
shrugged. Her brows rose, her month firming and I got the message—we’d talk
later. It wasn’t like we hadn’t talked this one to death already.
Samantha looped her arm around Dean.
Looking over the square, she smiled. “Isn’t it exciting? I just love the
parade. Especially all the men who put on their uniforms.” She pointed across
the square at a short uniformed man.
I followed her gesture to a Marine in full
dress blues. His coat was dark midnight blue, trimmed in red. Its white web
belt had a gold waist plate buckle. The pants were a sky blue with a red stripe
down the outer seams. Ribbons and metals on his chest winked in the sun.
“He’s a Marine, right?” She glanced at me.
“He’s got to be hot! Aren’t their uniforms are usually wool? Look at that high
collar.”
Before I could answer, Dean leaned over the
rail. “The parade’s here!”
I bit my lip and watched the man. He stood
back straight and chest out. Something in the line of his shoulders told me he
had served a long time. His right, white-gloved hand stiffly rose to the bill
of his white cap as the color guard of National Guardsmen from the major
branches of service flanked the flag that led the parade into the square. Its
red and white stripes and blue star-strewn field flapped, and the gold braid
and tassels hanging from the pole swayed with the marching steps of the flag
bearer. Sunlight glinted off the eagle standard on top, and I squinted in the
glare. People quickly removed their hats and caps, laying their right hands
over their hearts. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, military veterans of five
wars stood at attention, their hands raised to their brows in salute.
The crowd leaned out and looked down the
street as the sound of the band grew louder. Cheers broke out and applause
echoed in waves along the building fronts with the high school band’s blaring
rendition of the National Anthem.
The first float was greeted with a collective
sigh from the crowd. The centerpiece was devastatingly simple—empty combat
boots held an upended rifle crowned with a combat helmet. It was the classic
honor accorded the fallen in battle. “Freedom Isn’t Free” as the sign on the
side said. Everyone here owed so much to those who had fought for the country’s
freedom and it was only right that the onlookers remember the price paid for
this day of celebration.
I looked back at the Marine. His lean face
was set. The float wasn’t a symbolic reminder of sacrifice for him. It meant
fallen brothers.
Then the rest of the
parade came into the square. Every church, civic group and business in Cherry
Hill had tried to out-patriotic all the rest. But the first float was the
best—as always.
The square was lined with cherry trees in full leaf casting cool shade over the brick sidewalks. I rather missed April’s pink clouds of cherry blossoms drifting over the carpet of rose, white, and pink azaleas at their feet. Though on a hot day in May, shade might be more refreshing. Either way, Cherry Hill always dressed for the season. (from Mother's Day)
The two construction cranes that looked like they were mating over the Court House expansion, gave me pause. I knew it was my perspective. They weren’t actually touching. I’d checked. But it would explain the explosion of new buildings all over town. (from Mother's Day)
I looked over the small lake. On the dam, crape myrtles in riotous bloom alternated with the cherry trees in full leaf. I took a deep breath. Another group’s grill behind our table rewarded me with a whiff of smoke. (from Mother's Day)
The cool, green leaves of the cherry tree moved slightly when I stepped onto the porch. The low, repetitive call of a mourning dove hunting its mate sounded from the shadowy depths of the limbs. But no answer came. The moments stretched as I stood on the porch in the simmering air. The bird’s plaintive call sounded again. When there was no answer, it lifted on white-tipped wings. (from Mother's Day)
