There’s a trick, a technique.
I’ll break it down in a moment but first, a story to draw from:
— — —
My mouth is dry.My appointment is at eight ey em. I arrive early. The waiting room is empty. I sit beside the water cooler, looking at it, staring at it. My mouth is so dry. I usually have a glass of water when I wake up. This morning I did not. Doctor’s orders: no food, no fluids before the sample. “Ed?”“Yes.”“I’m Heather,” the phlebotomist smiles behind her mask. “Come on back.” She walks me to a room and asks me to have a seat in the recliner. “Left or right?” she says. “Left,” I say. She ties the tourniquet. “Make a fist for me.”I do. “Open and close it for me.”I pump my hand once, twice, three times, four times, five—“Uh—” she says, “I can’t find a vein. Mind if we try your right arm?”My mouth is so dry, dear God. “Sure,” I say. She finds a vein. “Much better,” she says. I watch her pick the needle up from the tray. She removes the plastic. “Small pinch—” she says, “in three, two…” I watch the needle go in, first a little, then all the way.“Ow.”“Sorry, sorry.” She pulls the plunger. My palms feel wet, and cold. I watch the vial turn red, then dark orange, almost brown. Then, blackness. When the light comes back, I’m in a hallway, in a wheelchair. My head hurts. I try standing. “I’m good,” I say. My palms are still wet, still cold. “I’m good.”Heather bends over so I can see her eyes. “Sit tight for me,” she says. “We’re almost there.” She pushes me into an empty examination room. She flips a switch. Lights flicker on. “Can you stand?” she says. Her voice fills the room. It bounces off the walls and ceiling and into my head. It’s loud. I stand up. “Not too fast,” she motions towards the exam table. I mount it and lay back and exhale. Heather gives me a bottle of water. “Take a moment,” she says. “Relax,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”I open the bottle and drink and drink and drink. The wetness coats my tongue and throat and teeth. I drink it all. My mouth isn’t dry anymore. — — —
This story uses a technique called “realism” to make it feel vivid and evocative, immersive.
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Could you see it?
I studied realism in college as an English Lit major. One of my professors described it as “working class” writing because it’s efficient and deliberate, intentional and functional.
Like copywriting, there is no excess. Realism is concise, almost clinical writing. Most importantly, it doesn’t let The Reader inside the mind of the characters. The characters' thoughts are off limits. Only facts, actions, and dialogue are allowed.
A few examples from the vignette above:
Facts:
My mouth is dry.My palms are wet.My mouth isn’t dry anymore.
Actions:
I sit beside the water cooler, looking at it, staring at it.I pump my hand once, twice, three times, four times, five—I watch her pick the needle up from the tray. She removes the plastic.
Dialogue:
“Make a fist for me,” she says.“I’m good,” I say.“Relax,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
Less thoughts = more realism:
Because in reality, we can’t read a person’s thoughts. We can only gather context, and form opinions, based on things a person says and does: tangible things, real things. Hence the term.
Realism conveys much with little. It elicits images and visuals in the mind’s eye — “mental movies” — and so efficiently. This is because the sparseness, the lack of detail actually forces The Reader to fill in the holes with her own experiences and imagination. It forces her to see things from her own world in the world of the story.
In many ways, this is also what good copywriting does: it lets people visualize themselves in a situation, a scenario, good or bad, painful or pleasant.
And oh, how compelling this can be.
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