Light Bulb

You know that little light bulb that goes off in your head? When you realize something that's really really obvious?

I had one of those the other day.

Basically, it's this:

Write what you want emphasized.

I know. I know. This is painfully, embarrassingly obvious. Right?

Well. Not necessarily.

See, when anyone reads a story, they create a setting in their heads. They fill in the blanks: the characters' movements, gestures, expressions. The smells, noises, surroundings. All the unsaid things. But the rest? The rest they take straight off the page. It's the foundation on which they build the scene in their heads.

Take, for example, the following:


 
They sit in the car, staring out at the sun sliding down the mountain. The last rays of the day beam straight into her eyes, make her fight not to squint. She doesn't care if they'll make her blind. She's on a one way track to freedom, and he's her ticket out of here.
He turns to her.  The sun lights up the tiny mole on the corner of his mouth.
"You ready?"
She smiles.
"Absolutely."


 
Versus:

 
They sit in the car, staring out at the sun sliding down the mountain. Anticipation buzzes under her skin. It's almost time to go.
The old leather creaks as he shifts in his seat. The last rays of the day hit his eyes, turn them liquid gold.
"You ready?" he asks, and she feels like the whole world is waiting for her response.
Her hands tremble as she takes in the patient expression on his face. But she knows her answer.
"Absolutely."


The scene is virtually the same. But what you write emphasizes something totally different every time, to the point that the same exact scene--where the characters are in the same car, staring at the same sunset, saying the same exact things--changes completely.

So yeah. Really amazing to make this a conscious thing, I think. Write what you want highlighted in any given scene, the subtle nuances and thoughts and descriptions that it has to have--and leave the rest up to the readers' imagination.

Light bulb, indeed.