When you actually LOVE writing exposition/narration (talk about your favorite things to describe, and share your excerpts x links)

Leyelle 2024-01-30 17:02:32 UTC #1

In general, I like describing landscapes and settings (probably because of my history in poetry):

"The frozen night gnaws at my face like it hasn’t eaten in days, alive with a bouquet of red currants, and fanfare. The smell of perfume slips silently out of the after-party and down the spiral staircase, escaping through the closed door in lusty drafts like a flower garden on steroids. Our footsteps echo - too loud in the crowded, solitary parking garage. Everything feels amplified tonight, and yet far away - like I’m listening to - reaching out and existing through a glass wall. The click of my high-heels on the concrete… The heartbeat of the alcohol in my bloodstream…"

https://tapas.io/episode/3023865.

But people are a lot harder, especially to keep using unique ways to describe them as the story progresses so that you aren't recycling adjectives over and over again:

"The eyes are what get me. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen - so vivid and bright - and out of place in his brown face, like emeralds set in amber, or buried in cinnamon - but he attributes my dumbness to his not being a woman."

https://tapas.io/episode/3041896.

My FAVORITE things to describe though are feelings and emotions.

I might go a little crazy with this. but I both love describing these themselves, and writing my stories in trippy, choppy, or strangely punctuated ways to help people feel the story. It's super weird, but it helps to make a novel into a sensory experience. It's sort of an obsession of mine.

"The endless hum of over-bright. LED. electric lights. sings in my ears like a chorus of skittish cicadas, fanning their wings, as if they’re desperate to escape. I can’t blame them. Trembling like a miniature earthquake. My body tries to make sense of this cataclysm that’s left my world seeing stars.

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."

https://tapas.io/episode/3024594.

"I hear everything and nothing. I see him, but barely. The shouting choir in my head drowns out reality - anxiety blurring sight - blurring life. I’m listening too intently to the silence blaring from my cell phone, and it’s so piercing that I think I might lose my mind.

The pen keeps on tapping, and the room descends into vibrant shades of gray.

I grit my teeth against the darkness trying to ooze in at the edges."

https://tapas.io/episode/3052618.

(Art by Mariel Leister)

Leyelle 2024-02-05 02:38:07 UTC #2

I also just really like writing metaphors that reference earlier scenes:

The snow didn’t even seem to touch me. Melting as it fell through the air - making an unimpressive metamorphosis from darling petals of woven ice into homely frozen raindrops.

Leyelle 2024-02-06 16:47:31 UTC #3

here's a bit of a teaser, just because i love this line so much:

The place looks like a wasteland. There are no cars other than mine - though there’s probably separate parking for doctors and staff - nothing in the whole area but a styrofoam container tumbling over the pavement like an urban tumbleweed.

from the new episode "A Spoonful of Sugar" coming out this friday

Animal508 2024-02-06 16:51:27 UTC #4

The dripfeed is the funnest part. The less you reveal, the better. That way, you get to see everyone speculate and theorize.

Leyelle 2024-02-06 16:56:37 UTC #5

yes! i love doing that so much and teasing the readers

Leyelle 2024-02-10 21:04:56 UTC #6

Actually, i think my novel is mostly exposition/narration, at least the first book? is this the case for everyone?:

When he came to find me the first time, after the breakup, I was blanketed by this same fog - ebony bubble - tangible shadows made of osmium and lead. I was a wilted dryad, flower fairy, nymphalid, a dying tree, emblazoned with fall colors in the paint stains on my face - on my dress. The lights were off, the blinds, drawn. The air was so old it was almost poisonous.

He crawled through the midst of it all to sit down beside me - shoving aside the crusted paint palettes, and half a dozen brushes bloodied with morbid shades of red acrylic, watercolor - dirty water-

I had a half-finished version of “Bed of Roses,” smeared across the canvas, dizzy with roses, and spiritless thorns, at that point, perfectly dry, with red clinging to the easel in runny scabs. Burgundy stains in the styrofoam beads I’d torn to shreds in one of many temper tantrums. Those paint-filled cups of toxic water standing paralyzed on the coffee table bleeding stagnant greens from the tops of their furry heads like worthless artifacts of “The Great Heartbreak” that changed the course of our histories forever.

I still had a brush in hand, though only Heaven knows how long I’d been lying there in my stupor. Not eating, not drinking. Water anyway.

The only difference between then and now is that he’s not-

Not coming to save me.

Nobody’s coming to pull me out of the dark.

Glofernwolfe 2024-02-11 00:17:40 UTC #7

I enjoy writing narration, but love reading exposition. I don't know why. Your novel has some really good exposition (as seen in the excerpts above). I have tons of exposition verses that I'm terribly proud of in the later chapters of my book. I don't know which one I like better. So here's the most recent one:

"The undergrowth crunched tenderly under Sascha’s boots as she furtively made her way through the marshes. Swollen with fern and palm, the twisted landscape proved challenging to traverse, even by foot. Sharp roots clawed out from the unsteady ground, threatening to impale unaware trespassers. Every step had to be taken carefully — if the ground pushed in like a drenched pillow, soaking the lip of her boot with mucky water, she knew she had to step back and look for another way around. Feeling the onset of a pounding headache, she felt weak and nauseous. She ascribed her ailment to the overdose of marsh stink, and the birds and bugs that showed no hint of ceasing their chirping and cawing and buzzing and squawking.

Slapping herself every time she felt a bug bite, or waving her hands around to keep the flying ones at bay, she trod cautiously, tracking Sinovan prudently."

Leyelle 2024-02-11 00:20:34 UTC #8

Aww, thanks. Quick question. You always say your characters name is Zov'ha, but the series title says "Zovhara" is Zov'ha a nickname?

Glofernwolfe 2024-02-11 00:29:48 UTC #9

Yeah, so Zov'ha Svao is her real name. She was born in Asenya, and took her father's surname.

In the beginning of my novel, she's wandering the wilderness with no clue who she is. Her memory has been wiped and she's just hanging on, travlling around with her bear companion. When she meets a human for the first time (Sinovan), he asks her for her name. She can't quite remember it and she blurts out "Zovhara". So from then on anyone she meets she says her name is Zovhara.

Later, she adds "Ashfrost" as her surname because she can't remember Svao. Ashfrost because she has frost-like powers.

Towards the middle of the book she is told her real name, but she keeps her new name anyway.

KevinReijnders 2024-02-11 00:43:22 UTC #10

Working within a comic, exposition is a bit more trickey to get across I feel. Or at least, in a novel I have a higher tollerance for it.

So I usually try to weave my exposition into natural sounding dialogue. Especially in the first Chapter I had to walk this fine line between unveiling the world and the characters, while also making sure it was fun to go through. I think I did a decent enough job of it, but the first 10-15 pages might have gotten a bit too wordy.

That said, in my first draft for Chapter 4, I had really wanted to have a big "lore dump" moment. Just one big scene where I get to explain a lot of the shit that's been going on, how and why and a look into the mechanics of it. I'd normally avoid scenes like this like the plague, but I just wanted to see if I could make it work. So I invented a new character and hope that leaning on their interesting design and giving a certain foreboding atmosphere to the scene works to make the lore dump digestible. I also want to work with cool visuals, but that's not something the script is really a good testing ground for.

Glofernwolfe 2024-02-11 00:48:21 UTC #11

Yeah its definitely really hard to write exposition for comics. My web novel was actually supposed to be a comic. I worked on it for years (4 times), then thought it's best to write it as a novel. I had other unpublished novels going on at that time, but I put those on hold to focus on this one.

So most of my lore is going to be in novels. I'll just make comics for "shorts". Like I'm currently doing.

Hey, mate, you could make a website for Trespassers and have lore in there as short stories or something.

I'm planning to do that in the future anyway. An organised website with characters, places, concepts, etc. More like a wiki.

KevinReijnders 2024-02-11 01:09:00 UTC #12

Oh I definitely could go all out and make an entire wiki for Trespasser worldbuilding haha. But I'm also trying to keep my worldbuilding a bit in check and make the actually finishing the story before I drop dead a priority.

Plus I kinda have this "worldbuilding-itis" syndrome where I can quickly go off the rails, inventing entire histories (There are already lore docs for Trespasser in my files that detail just such things). So I'm trying to prevent going full wiki with this and keep my focus on the characters.

I am doing shorts though! The first one, Favors, was me not letting Kyara's scrapper crew go to waste.

((Also, I have done the wiki thing in the past for a whole different thing.
https://www.nationstates.net/page=dispatches/nation=tvill ))

JoshRaed 2024-02-11 21:04:14 UTC #13

I ideally want to write my story with zero exposition because if a character is expositing than that means the story isn't making this plot stuff come across with the plot itself. Though sometimes exposition is important and natural like how in magical school stories a teacher can just tell the students important lore because her job is to teach history and they're history students so them not knowing the history of their own fantasy world makes perfect sense.

KevinReijnders 2024-02-12 22:10:53 UTC #14

I have been going over these old stories and man I kinda like how I wrote them. Well the Alterran RMB events anyways, the older ones are kinda poorley written imo. They're also remarkably novely in style, which is why I'm kinda toying with the idea of reviving this story into an actual novel series.

Here are some expository examples that I kinda like:

The Imperus Rex is a marvel of modern design and engineering, its V12 engine and 6 deep rigged tires are designed to navigate even the harshest of terrains, while its sleek shining black design adorned with silver accents is intended to project imperial power. The car drives through the gate marking the site of the Oil platforms and comes to a stop. The chauffeur exits and opens the door for Emperor Charles. Charles steps out the vehicle and puts on his officer style cap. His grey militaristic uniform, decorated with only the essential Imperial symbols is highly unusual for men of his stature. The Emperors and Kings of the past preferred a more flamboyant style, dressing in deep royal blues, wearing the golden sash and medals of the Crimson cross Knights and other fine jewelry. But not Charles, he prefers to be pragmatic and efficient, and it reflects in his rule. He is joined by two guards, both wearing the red armors of the Crimson cross order, covered by a long thick coat.

(the "she", reffered to in this paragraph is Princess Theodora, eldest daughter of the Emperor.)

She makes her way on the left of the two staircases and the guards open the doors to the throne room. She takes a few steps forward when the throne catches her eye. It always fills her with awe, despite having seen it hundreds of times. She takes in the grandeur of the chair, as she slowly moves towards it. Some days she dreams of being Empress, ruling the Empire instead of that impulsive idiot. Why can't a leader be decided on merit, instead of birth she wonders. Well the merit of one inside the Imperial family of course, no one else can even be considered qualified. She shakes her head, it's not good to have these thoughts. It makes her lose focus, and if anything her father taught her, is that focus is paramount. Having left her thoughts she realizes that she is standing with one foot on the first of 5 steps of the Throne. She stares at it, and proceeds to look around. There's no one here. Maybe this one time, for just a second. She can already see herself sitting on it. What harm would it do, just once, break a rule. But before she could decide for herself, she hears the muffled voice of her father approaching rapidly.

(Arianne is the youngest daughter of the Emperor)

Arianne was overseeing the men loading the artifact when suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see Malcolm van Hoof. Her skin always crawled when she saw his burned face. She heard that it happened during the war of 3 monarchs, that he protected her father from a grenade. In the process he lost his right arm and burned half his face. It was ghastly to look at, even with the eye-patch covering the hole where his eye used to be.

Leyelle 2024-02-18 13:00:29 UTC #15

So i have an unreasonable amount of scenes about Alicia taking a bath (about 4, but they're sfw I swear) just because it's such a rarity for her...lol, just because it's how she tries to calm herself. I love writing them every time, maybe just because i love water, and there's so much imagery in bubbles, the sound of water, etc.

Shedding my 8-day dirty jeans and sweaty socks, I toss them onto the wicker hamper lid, preparing my willpower for the first real bath I’ve been able to take since the wounds on my legs sealed off, relieved to finally have the green light… I’m long past ready for this-

-Don’t think I would have had the energy to try to stand in the shower today, going through the tedious steps of cleansing my ravaged carapace. I know I wouldn’t have had the patience to be gentle, and that would’ve set the whole process backward again. The last thing I want is an infection - to be hospitalized all over again. Or…maybe the second to last thing…

I take a deep breath and ease my body into the warm water, forgetting the nurse’s instructions to test the water temperature first, to avoid any sort of shock. Fortunately, it’s cool enough, but even the slightest stimuli trigger the panic. I’m not sure if it hurts or if I just think it does. My skin begins screaming at me, as I grit my teeth, and submerge my body up to the neck. It’s a little better after the initial alarm. Like the first chill of diving into a frigid river. I leave the water running, churning soap into a layer of foam like the froth on a vanilla latte. I steep. Steaming my cinnamon skin into “Lady Tea.” Thick bubbles shimmer on the surface with little rainbows, a thousand shades of glory, as if someone captured Iris in a bottle. The simplicity is dazzling.

I scream something between a shriek and a wail and kick the door, glad there’s nobody close enough to hear me. Then, throwing my shoes against the wall I march up the stairs into the bathroom and set the tub running. I drizzle a long line of pinkish-blue solution into the steamy stream, and the artificial ocean, until the bathroom smells like a chemically engineered garden.

I hate the smell of flowers, but Mrs. Moon bought me this bath-and-body kit ten Christmases ago, and it’s about time I use it.

Throwing my slacks and stockings into a pile on the cold floor, I sink heavily into the mountain of lavender bubble bath, hugging my sudsy knees to my chin, in as close to the fetal position as I can manage - without drowning.

I set the tub running, but opt out of the bubble bath - decide, on a whim, to sprinkle some tea in the water, before sinking into the warmth up to my neck. And because Woman is a porous creature, I take on the scent of spices at a deeper level than perfume - a little bit more a creature of beauty than I’ve been for a long time.

Trudging up the stairs in the wishy-washy dark I feel a dithering shade of gross. Tired - anxious and happy - all slurred together, like a nasty batch of trail mix that has a few chocolate chips stirred in.

I turn on the bathroom light but don’t even bother to close the door, letting the glow spill into the hallway in a golden puddle as I set the tub to run, and sift in the tea leaves - unzip my dress.

Running my hands along the fabric, I think of the wrap dress. Of Kattar.

Why won’t he tell her?

I try to shake off the nosiness - curiosity - the anxious worry - because it’s none of my business - probably.

Or is it?

A venomous little voice bleeds on my psyche, like maybe, there’s something wrong with me - something he thinks would make his mother disapprove of him dating me-?

Not that.

I hurry to remove the rest of my things and toss the dress through the doorway to sit and steep in that shimmering pool of brilliance, as I sink into the bubbly deep myself, face steaming hotter than the cinnamon-scented, frothy water-

Leyelle 2024-03-11 18:01:48 UTC #16

Despite knowing better I glance at the hidden panel again - like it’s the doorway into my life and fate is waiting to knock -

No. It never knocks. It forces its way in. Kicks the door in action movie style, and forces you to the ground, under duress.

I feel the cold fingers of anxiety wrap themselves around my heart and squeeze tight. I ooze goosebumps.

What if I do something dumb?

What if it bombs?

The interview. The date.

At least with Kattar, I’d have another shot - but with Ms. Howard, there’s no saying.

Leyelle 2024-04-01 01:49:00 UTC #17

The restaurant is more crowded than I expected for a weeknight, bubbling with bodies like a pot of mortal soup at a rolling boil. Small groups of teens and twenty-somethings hem us in on both sides, like Kattar and I are the extraneous tide in a little pool surrounded by flesh and bones as numerous as the grains of sand. Everything is sound, ricocheting into my skin like a thousand pint-sized kamikazes exploding in minute amounts of tranquil panic.

Someone. Joking and debating - too little too late - why they should have gone out for Chinese or Mexican instead. Someone laughing at a companion’s failed dye job that made them look like a ginger-haired skunk. Complaining about totally aggravating partners and how totally ‘starving’ they are though they’re less than twenty minutes away from dinner at this point.

At least three sets of parents with pre and grade-schoolers are ordering an early dinner while trying to convince their irascible offspring, rancorously crying for McDonald’s, to try something new. One set actually brought a Happy Meal with them for their toddler, and that’s as ridiculous as it is very probably illegal, though nobody but me really seems to mind.

Kattar is fidgeting uncomfortably, unnecessarily intent on his menu, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with the cantankerous kids, who at this point, are throwing themselves on the floor.

I’m also sure he’ll never tell me why, even if I ask, so I try my best to ignore it like I ignore the tantrum.

Leyelle 2024-04-16 02:03:17 UTC #18

I wake up drenched with sweat that feels like ice - coursing down my spine in tortured torrents-

And something in me is so shattered-

So fed up with the torment that I lose my mind- like fire through my blood and the bed-

I tear my sheets off the mattress and throw them to the floor, hearing threads fracture and fabric tear - I throw the pillows at the wall and my words after them, shrieking at the tops of my lungs.

“I DON’T CARE! I DON’T CARE! I DON’T MISS YOU! I DON'T WANT TO!”

And it’s not the first time I’m glad the house is empty! Glad everyone who cares about me is millions of miles away! That I have no one close enough to hold me after the nightmares and I’m completely and entirely alone! So I can scream like a demoniac until the howling on the inside of my head calms to that mellow, roaring melancholy I’m so used to that it’s almost comforting - almost mothering - and I can lay down on the bare mattress, weeping like a raving maniac with anger and agony-!

Not because I miss her.

I don’t miss her.

Leyelle 2024-05-12 12:51:52 UTC #19

I used to not spend enough time describing actions or what people looked like in context to a scene (expressions, movements) but I'm actually starting to really enjoy it. (maaaaybe get addicted to it lol)

“All dressed up just for a date with me?” she asks a little awkwardly, a lot hesitantly, trying fruitlessly to hide her uncomfortable smile in the dark hair slung over her left shoulder as the rest of her mane spills down her back in a curly curtain. Like it’s trying to make sure everyone knows where center stage is. As if I could look at anything BUT her.

But her posture seems to be begging me to.

Leyelle 2024-06-05 02:24:29 UTC #20

She’s so slender she looks as if every part of her frame was whittled from the same twig of Mozambique Ebony, with branch like fingers, and black, flowering, dandelion hair.

Her skin, her hair and her eyes are all nearly the exact same color, and the longer she sits still without moving, the more I wonder if she’s just a shadow.