Tuesday Tips: Mood and Atmosphere
Oct. 21st, 2013 08:41 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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1_million_wordsThis week, our Tuesday Tips come from our fellow comm member, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
goneahead who was kind enough to write up this post. Click for tips, thoughts, and links all about creating atmosphere in a story, and setting the mood of a scene.
Take it away, goneahead!
~~*~~
"Holmes' last attraction also derives from the setting and the atmosphere of the story. We enter into that Victorian world of fog and gaslight, the jingle of the horses' reighs, the grind of wheels on cobblestones and the shadow of a veiled woman climbing the stairs to that claustrophobic sanctum at 211B Baker Street.
...We may not always believe in the details of the play, but we believe in the man himself and the world he inhabitats."
~P. D. James, Talking about Detective Fiction, 2009.
How do you do this?
jimvanpelt
Some more things to think about:
Atmosphere makes a story compelling and hard to put down. It adds another dimension for the reader. It gives them a feeling of being part of the scene.
...The Things That Create Story Atmosphere:
Is the hero under threat? How big is this threat? How much is at stake?
1. The rookie rested his hand on his holstered pistol, partly to be prepared, but mostly to keep the trembling a secret from the manager. As he pushed the door open, the stench took his breath away.
"Stay here," he said to the manager.
"My ass," the manager replied, and he took off down the hall.
The rookie inched his way into the room. With its flowered wallpaper and industrial carpet, the motel was a place from his youth. It triggered memories of endless car trips that doubled for vacations back in the day. He always ended the day feeling nauseous then, too.
2. Malloy could smell the rot from the hallway. He pointed to the lock and barked at the manager, "Open it." He wondered how long the old guy could hold his breath before he keeled over from oxygen starvation.
The lock turned. "Now get lost," Malloy said, and the guy disappeared. He smiled. I hope I can move that fast when I'm a hundred and thirty, he thought.
Oh, Christ. This wasn't rot. This was three weeks of cheese in the sun. As if this ancient bedbug farm wasn't moldy enough already.
Taken From: Kill Zone Authors
Another example is Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher:
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.
And finally, going back to Doyle, a passage from the Hound of Baskerville:
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
goneahead who was kind enough to write up this post. Click for tips, thoughts, and links all about creating atmosphere in a story, and setting the mood of a scene.Take it away, goneahead!
~~*~~
"Holmes' last attraction also derives from the setting and the atmosphere of the story. We enter into that Victorian world of fog and gaslight, the jingle of the horses' reighs, the grind of wheels on cobblestones and the shadow of a veiled woman climbing the stairs to that claustrophobic sanctum at 211B Baker Street.
...We may not always believe in the details of the play, but we believe in the man himself and the world he inhabitats."
~P. D. James, Talking about Detective Fiction, 2009.
In writing a novel, an author tries to create mood and atmosphere. They are closely related terms, so just what is the difference between the two?
In this context, the Macquarie Dictionary defines mood as “frame of mind, or state of feeling, as at a particular time.”
“Atmosphere”, it suggests, is the “quality in a work of art which produces a predominant mood or impression.” So, it seems, it really is a case of the chicken and the egg – atmosphere creates mood, which is a feeling.
read more: Atmosphere in Writing
...Remember that settings aren't simply a stage for your puppets to walk about on - each setting is an opportunity to:
- build mood and atmosphere
- develop character
- foreshadow plot points
How do you do this?
- Decide what the atmosphere is supposed to be, then set every word to supporting that effect.
- Scenic details do much to establish mood and atmosphere. A cemetery can be cheery, just as a wedding can be horrifying, depending on the the details the writer includes.
- Pay attention to the connotation of words to establish mood.
- Appropriate similes and metaphors can establish mood.
- Sentence length and rhythm can change mood or atmosphere.
jimvanpelt
Some more things to think about:
Atmosphere makes a story compelling and hard to put down. It adds another dimension for the reader. It gives them a feeling of being part of the scene.
...The Things That Create Story Atmosphere:
- Mood of the characters
- Emotions that characters are feeling. Are they happy, sad, scared, worried? How do they show this in their speech and body language?
- Actions of characters – how do they respond to the situation?
- Time of day – lighting, temperature etc.
- Setting detail about the location of the scene – where and when – sounds and colours
- Situation the characters find themselves in
- Who is in the scene? Which characters, and what is their place in the story? Are the antagonist and protagonist in the scene?
Is the hero under threat? How big is this threat? How much is at stake?
- Pauses/beats between action
- Imagery
- language
- rhythm
deescribewriting
1. The rookie rested his hand on his holstered pistol, partly to be prepared, but mostly to keep the trembling a secret from the manager. As he pushed the door open, the stench took his breath away.
"Stay here," he said to the manager.
"My ass," the manager replied, and he took off down the hall.
The rookie inched his way into the room. With its flowered wallpaper and industrial carpet, the motel was a place from his youth. It triggered memories of endless car trips that doubled for vacations back in the day. He always ended the day feeling nauseous then, too.
2. Malloy could smell the rot from the hallway. He pointed to the lock and barked at the manager, "Open it." He wondered how long the old guy could hold his breath before he keeled over from oxygen starvation.
The lock turned. "Now get lost," Malloy said, and the guy disappeared. He smiled. I hope I can move that fast when I'm a hundred and thirty, he thought.
Oh, Christ. This wasn't rot. This was three weeks of cheese in the sun. As if this ancient bedbug farm wasn't moldy enough already.
Taken From: Kill Zone Authors
Another example is Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher:
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.
And finally, going back to Doyle, a passage from the Hound of Baskerville:
Over the green squares of the fields and the low curve of a wood there rose in the distance a gray, melancholy hill, with a strange jagged summit, dim and vague in the distance, like some fantastic landscape in a dream. Baskerville sat for a long time, his eyes fixed upon it, and I read upon his eager face how much it meant to him, this first sight of that strange spot where the men of his blood had held sway so long and left their mark so deep. There he sat, with his tweed suit and his American accent, in the corner of a prosaic railway-carriage, and yet as I looked at his dark and expressive face I felt more than ever how true a descendant he was of that long line of high-blooded, fiery, and masterful men. There were pride, valour, and strength in his thick brows, his sensitive nostrils, and his large hazel eyes. If on that forbidding moor a difficult and dangerous quest should lie before us, this was at least a comrade for whom one might venture to take a risk with the certainty that he would bravely share it.
The train pulled up at a small wayside station and we all descended. Outside, beyond the low, white fence, a wagonette with a pair of cobs was waiting. Our coming was evidently a great event, for station-master and porters clustered round us to carry out our luggage. It was a sweet, simple country spot, but I was surprised to observe that by the gate there stood two soldierly men in dark uniforms, who leaned upon their short rifles and glanced keenly at us as we passed. The coachman, a hard-faced, gnarled little fellow, saluted Sir Henry Baskerville, and in a few minutes we were flying swiftly down the broad, white road. Rolling pasture lands curved upward on either side of us, and old gabled houses peeped out from amid the thick green foliage, but behind the peaceful and sunlit country-side there rose ever, dark against the evening sky, the long, gloomy curve of the moor, broken by the jagged and sinister hills.
The wagonette swung round into a side road, and we curved upward through deep lanes worn by centuries of wheels, high banks on either side, heavy with dripping moss and fleshy hart’s-tongue ferns. Bronzing bracken and mottled bramble gleamed in the light of the sinking sun. Still steadily rising, we passed over a narrow granite bridge, and skirted a noisy stream which gushed swiftly down, foaming and roaring amid the gray boulders. Both road and stream wound up through a valley dense with scrub oak and fir. At every turn Baskerville gave an exclamation of delight, looking eagerly about him and asking countless questions. To his eyes all seemed beautiful, but to me a tinge of melancholy lay upon the country-side, which bore so clearly the mark of the waning year. Yellow leaves carpeted the lanes and fluttered down upon us as we passed. The rattle of our wheels died away as we drove through drifts of rotting vegetation—sad gifts, as it seemed to me, for Nature to throw before the carriage of the returning heir of the Baskervilles.
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