This is different for my different novels. I love poetry, so I love writing emotions in "Damsel in the Red Dress" more like imagery to give people the sense of the way the characters are feeling rather than expressly stating the way they feel.
My head spins again, turning bodies topsy turvy. Smearing faces into the paint. Baptized with blood in the white space. I’m not even sure when I woke up or how long I’ve spent lying here, staring at the walls or the ceiling. My senses are all scrambled. Am I facing the left or the right? Am I hearing or feeling the voices crashing around me, a barrage of nervous wrecks? I swim in the excruciating sensation, almost blacking out. I feel as though I'm hanging from the rafters by my hair, and the pressure in my neck only increases with every crash of my heartbeat. My mouth defies me as I try to call for a nurse - my jaw is locked tight as if it’s been screwed shut and it's stubbornly set on staying that way for the moment. The whole thing fills. With bitter bile. I can’t swallow. And I try desperately not to drown before somebody finds me.
In "A Dozen Morning Glories" my FL is bad at writing social cues, so I express the emotions other people are feeling just by hints in their expressions, since she herself doesn't really understand what they're thinking.
Tiffany is knocking on my desk, her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.
“Essence! We’re late!”
“Late for what?”
Her ponytail jumps with each click of her rings against the wood as she pounds, “Meeting!” emphatically.
“Meeting?”
I should feel more concerned.
I couldn’t have forgotten something that important, right?
I start to check my calendar, shaking my head, “Since when do we have a meeting?”
“Apparently, Mrs. Green mentioned it two hours ago, but of course Monica wouldn’t send out our notices until 5 minutes before the meeting started.”
Tiffany roughs up her words with a growl that would give anyone else a sore throat as she marches down the narrow hallway and I try to avoid brushing against her padded shoulders, until I can overtake her.
“Monica” is watching Marvel trailers as we pass by, swiveling in her office chair, both her stockinged feet resting on her desk next to the dusty name plate that says ‘Muñeca Guerrera.’
“If you were reborn as a hot dog slicer, you’d still be more useful than you’ve ever been in this life,” Tiffany fires at her as I slide past the desk and into the overly bright meeting room.
“Can’t hear you. Take a number,” Muñeca buzzes, sounding like Rosie Perez. She waves Tiffany away like a horsefly, and Tiff closes the meeting room door too forcefully.
