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(Essay
for authors) In John Steinbeck’s classic short story The Chrysanthemums, Elisa, a lonely rancher’s wife, was instantly energized by a complete stranger, a drifter, who praised her flowers. Exhilarated, Elisa has just explained how to grow chrysanthemums: She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled
passionately. The man’s eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. “Maybe I
know,” he said. “Sometimes in the night in the wagon there…” Elisa’s voice grew husky. She broke in on him. “I’ve never lived
as you do, but I know what you mean. When the night is dark—why, the stars are
sharp-pointed, and there’s quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star
gets driven into your body. It’s like that. Hot and sharp and—lovely.” Kneeling
there, her hand went out toward his legs in the greasy black trousers.
Her hesitant fingers almost touched the cloth. Then her hand dropped to
the ground. She crouched low like a fawning dog.
“…the
friendship that was his lifeline to the laughter, the warmth of human touch, the
hand that reached out and grasped his in the inner darkness of this
seemingly universal destruction.” Touching, reaching out, in a story will convey an intimacy that a paragraph of words can not improve on. I’ve used this writing device several times in my own writing. In Nathan’s Valley, Nathan and Nellie Lee struggled with religious beliefs that prevented them from getting married. They are subdued after an argument with no satisfactory conclusion: He helped her clean the table and wash the dishes. When they worked
close to each other, Nathan could feel the attraction in his heart. He
sensed if he reached out and touched her arm, or even her hand, she would not
pull away from him.
“To work together, to love together,” said the Walking Woman,
withdrawing her hand… An intimate moment was described
in Carol Buchanan’s novel, God’s
Thunderbolt (Publication TBD). Daniel’s thigh wound was being treated by
Martha, a married woman he loved desperately, but she was married to another
man. Having the wound taken care of was the last thing on his mind. The touch of
her fingers to his skin was the only thing he was aware of. One hundred words
could not have described his profound affection as well as the sensation he felt
when she touched her fingers to his thigh. NOTE: The Chrysanthemums and The Walking Woman are both short and may be read on the Internet.
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