No, this post isn’t about Jane Austen.  I loathe most 19^th century sappy novels in general and hers in particular.  Yeah, I know she’s enjoying a revival of sorts—like an oozing zombie rising out of the tomb to bore us to death with romantic drivel [Note from Steve: maybe like these “classic posts”?].  Instead, I want to talk about all the senses you might use as you write your thriller or mystery.

I was reading Preston and Child’s Two Graves (no one gave it to me as a gift—it was on sale at $2.99), and I was struck by the scene where Pendergast’s ex-special forces manservant uses his keen sense of smell to help him combat a serial killer (if you don’t know the book, fine—I won’t give away any spoilers).  In my sci-fi mystery Teeter-Totter between Lust and Murder, Detective Castilblanco appeals to Detective Chen’s sense of smell to generate some additional and useful evidence about the events surrounding a murder (again, no spoilers here).  Castilblanco comments that the police don’t use odors much for evidence.

I’m not sure this is true in real life, but I believe it is.  I’m willing to bet juries don’t pay much attention to anything beyond hearing and sight because even those are highly subjective—if witnesses so often become confused with sights and sounds, think about the other human senses.  But, forensic evidence aside, can you use a character’s other senses to improve your prose?  The answer is yes, even in titles.

Consider the movie Scent of a Woman that was popular some years back (ok, 1992, more than a few years ago).  Al Pacino’s character, a blind man, has heightened senses beyond sight, as often happens.  These heightened senses define his character.  In particular, in spite of the title, sound also plays an important role.  The tango, danced to one of old tango crooner Gardel’s famous hits, is both sensual and an ode to these heightened senses.  Its lusty nature is handled with sensibility.  Movie viewers might have reveled in the visual, but see it again—ex-Lt. Col. Frank revels in all the other senses.

While Jane Austen described more romantic odors, Charles Dickens was a master in describing the more offensive and pungent ones of 19^th century London.  While I have little patience for his extended and ponderous plots (“A Christmas Carol” and Tale of Two Cities are exceptions), his descriptive prose involving the senses is spot on.  I hold Les Miserables in high regard also for that reason (and the same criticism of the plot—the music in the Broadway play left me feeling the same boredom).  Of course, some modern mysteries and certainly other works in speculative fiction emphasize other senses beyond the visual.

Hollywood can only appeal to sight and sound on the silver screen, but the sounds are often obscured beneath a ponderous movie score.  Certainly, touch, taste, and smell can often only be treated via actors’ dialogue, but even in this case you could portray a couple of senses.  Consider a pool of liquid on a dark and stormy night (I’m not writing prose here, so I’ll allow myself the cliché).  Your detective studies it.  What is it? he might ask himself in your prose.  But you don’t need that.  Just have him kneel and study it—that’s good enough to tell your reader he’s asking some version of that question, and it’s also good enough for the moviegoer.  He might not touch it in consideration of the CSU that is about to arrive.  But suppose he’s hot on the trail of someone and can’t wait for the CSU.

He’s already used the sense of sight.  He uses thumb and first finger to pinch up some liquid, rubbing the fingers together to sense the viscosity.  Touch.  He sniffs it.  Smell.  He touches it to the tip of his tongue.  Taste.  There are at least nine senses.  Some experts say there are twenty-one or so.  Of course, you could go beyond those to ESP if your detective is some type of mutant.  Maybe he can “see” the history of how that pool of liquid came to be there.

I’m not sure reading body language is considered a sense.  It can combine many senses.  Certainly sight, but maybe touch (the skin feels clammy), maybe odor (a person stumbles and by the alcoholic odor you know why), and so forth.  Describing this in your prose can often tell your reader what your character is feeling without saying it directly.  It’s often much better than saying that he was drunk, enamored, lustful, angry, etc.

I’m not a master when you consider these techniques, and I certainly don’t use them all the time.  First, I feel they can be overdone.  While it’s not particularly inventive to write “Joan was angry” directly, you can write the same thing in dialogue: “You’re an SOB,” said Joan.  Or, you can imply that Joan is angry by writing that her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed.  That’s the sight sense.  Or, you can have John sense her muscles tensing.  That’s touch.  Or, you can write: “The odor of gunpowder wafted to his nostrils.”  That’s smell (and indicating that Joan was pretty angry!).

Second, I’m not sure all your readers will grasp the nuances.  It’s a mixed bag.  Some will, some won’t.  You have to know your audience well enough to think that X% of your readers will get it.  What X has to be is debatable, but you certainly don’t want it to be zero!  Maybe it’s safer to use a combination: “John, his eyes closed, felt her muscles tense.  The odor of gunpowder wafted to his nostrils as he touched his bare chest and felt the stickiness.”  (OK, so Joan used a silencer!)

Third, you have to mix it up.  When we write descriptive prose, there are many ways to do it, but you certainly don’t want to get into a rut.  Variety is the spice in a good mystery or thriller.  Work at it.  I do.

[Next Monday, “Editing myths…”, the final “classic post” on writing.]

In libris libertas….

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