Read Songwriting Without Boundaries Online
Authors: Pat Pattison
Songwriting Without Boundaries (12 page)
CHANELLE DAVIS:
Grass is lush green, long and untrimmed as I get closer to the edge. Flax bushes rustling in the wind, Tui bird clinging onto a black stalk, eating the seeds, looking out to blue sea, white-capped waves in the distance, cloudy sky, seagulls hovering like kites, islands in the distance, shadows on horizon, cruise liner slowly moving through the harbour, waves pounding the rocks below, out of sight, lean over the edge and feel dizzy, stumble back and lie down in the grass, sneezing, summer allergies, plane overhead in the sky leaves a long white trail, cars driving up the steep windy hill tires crunching gravel and spinning dust clouds, families posing for photographs with the view, warm clothes, kids chasing each other in circles laughing …
Sparkling descriptions. They set a wonderful context for action. Put some of your characters in either Nicholas’s or Chanelle’s scene and watch the colors of the place affect them and how readers feel about them. Give them a thing to hold, like a camera, a pickax, a rifle with a scope, and see how “where” reflects back at them.
Your turn.
10 minutes: Park Bench in the City
Pigeons cooing and flapping around my feet, bobbing heads, diving for bread and scattering when people walk through the square, old cathedral towers up to a bright blue sky, eating fresh strawberry yoghurt ice cream with a wooden stick rough on my tongue, smooth cold sweet ice cream with crunchy strawberry seeds, river water running under the little bridge, ducks taking a ride, punting boats of tourists, busker playing endless solos on guitar through his amplifier, park bench is wooden and curved, fits snug into the shape of my back, avoid the patch of white and green watery bird poo, shoppers bustling past arms heavy with bags, summer sun hot I could be getting burnt, feel it creeping up my neck, undo my hair tie and let out my hair, dig around in my messy handbag for my sunglasses, leave the park bench and head across the square to the sushi shop for salmon and advocado, rip open the plastic container, break the staples, put a whole piece in my mouth …
Blue sky New York April day, park bench with black iron armrests, oak seats worn from the millions of pairs of pants sliding in and out of the now well-worn baskets of brown, wood-grained resting places; pigeons flapping and crying a few feet from this peaceful resting spot, radio-controlled boats gliding silently across the boat pond, tacking jerkily as their captains stride careful along the edge of the pond. Smells of cotton candy, popcorn and deep fry from the little cafe beside the boathouse, strollers and children, gliding by, passed by the roller-bladers, bike racers. The mewing of the pigeons, gulls and laughter. Odd scent of the homeless person who slept on the bench last, the scent of desperation, of no running water. Jazz trumpet, bass and cardboard drum set wafting from the back side of the huge rock formations framing the pond and the statue of Alice in wonderland, so kids crawling all around it while their parents smile as they slide over the brass statue. The percussive interruptions of the thousands of cell phones, chimes and personal ring tones. Armies of park workers in their brown jumpsuitsdriving electric carts and mowers and the great lawn, home the the greatest frisbee catching dogs, and populated by armies of little kids—Sheesh!!
Great attention to detail. Both give you a panoramic view, but do it by engaging your senses: smells, sounds, sense details like “wooden and curved, fits snug into the shape of my back” and “homeless person who slept on the bench last, the scent of desperation, of no running water.”
The better you are at imagining a place, the more activity is possible for your characters because they’ll have something to react to. Try it out.
90 seconds: Hotel Bar
Bunched shoulder-to-shoulder against the slick mahogany bar, Armani suits and long-legged beauties in svelte black dresses litter the night. Martinis and passions. Stirring to jazz jumping in the background. A dim haze of candlelight mingled with the eye-stinging fog of perfume, hairspray and cologne.
The bar stool pivots back and forth as my foot swings restlessly over the floor, like a hypnotist’s medallion, my eyes scanning the room like the spotlight from a prison tower. Her hips swing with the rhythm of a slithering cobra …
Hot spots: “Armani suits and long-legged beauties in svelte black dresses litter the night” and “eyes scanning the room like the spotlight from a prison tower.”
Now, let’s hear about your hotel bar.
DAY #13
“WHERE” WRITING
Get your details glasses on. I’ve heard that’s where the devil is. I guess it’s fair to say that the devil lives in “where.”
Set a timer and respond to the following places for exactly the time allotted. Stop IMMEDIATELY when the timer goes off.
Sight Sound Taste Touch Smell Body Motion
5 minutes: Suburban Swimming Pool
Shrieking kids in colourful togs, my bikini tied up tight around my neck, feel a little bit of my hair caught in it, pulling, sink under the cool water and down to the bottom, sound disappears, open my eyes and feel salt water sting, blurry legs, black lines on the bottom of the pool. Walk across on tiptoes, chin just out of the water, slipping on the tiles, over vents in the bottom exploding air bubbles up my legs, freestyle swim legs kicking and warming my body up, hit in the head with a ball, babies pushed around in floating rings, clapping and smiling, mums trying to keep their hair dry, boys bombing off the side, running and hitting the water, jump out trying to suck my stomach in, walk cool across to the hotpool, jets of water massaging my back, steam ris …
Light dances across the water in ripples, the cavernous space filled with a cool sky blue. The choice of easing myself into the icy water wins over plunging in headfirst. The echoing sounds of arms and legs whacking against the surface as dedicated swimmers push themselves from one end to the other then back again, in a hypnotic, trance-like state. Their rhythm works on me like a metronome. Chlorine-scented swimwear get rung out, wrapped up in damp towels then thrown into plastic bags. I crunch hard into a crispy apple as I step out into the grey working day ahead of me.
Hot spots: “… vents in the bottom exploding air bubbles up my legs …”; “I crunch hard into a crispy apple ….”
You try.
10 minutes: The Old Fishing Hole
Trees hunched over the old fishing hole as filtered fins of light hooked through the fluttering leaves. It was tranquil and the water a perfect mirror of clouds and blue satin. When the trees turned green he would head out for weeks at time, tuck his thoughts into his flannel pockets and feel his bare feet on the mud flats where oysters hid among the mangroves. He had rusty old remnants of childhood memories in a squeaking angler’s box and hooks and spindles of line collected over the months of ice and sleet, when he’d delicately hook bait from the chest freezer of the local store. He watches the frying pan splatter and spit bubbles of melted butter and toss in fillets …
