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Writing immersive stories:

There’s a trick, a technique. I’ll break it down in a moment, but first an example to draw from:

“Dry”
My appointment is at 8 am. I arrive early. The waiting room is empty. My mouth is dry. 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. But this morning, I did not. Doctor’s orders: no food or fluids before the sample.
“Ed?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Heather.” The nurse 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—
“Okay,” 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 up a syringe off the tray and remove 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 are 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?” Her voice fills the room. It’s loud. It bounces off the walls and ceiling and into my head. I stand up.
“Not too fast.” She motions toward the examination table.
I mount it, lay back, and exhale. Heather gives me a bottle of water. “Take a moment,” she says. “Relax. 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. Realism doesn’t let The Reader inside the mind of a character. A character’s thoughts are off-limits. Only facts, actions, and dialogue are allowed.

A few examples from Dry:

Facts:

✓ My mouth is dry.
✓ My palms are still wet, still cold.
✓ 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 up a syringe off the tray and remove the plastic.

Dialogue:

✓ “Make a fist for me,” she says.
✓ “Ow.”
✓ “Take a moment,” she says. “Relax. I’ll be right back.”

This works because, as in reality, we can’t know what someone is thinking. We can only gather context and form opinions based on what someone says and does. Tangible things. Real things. Hence the term.

Realism also conveys much with little.

When I studied literature in college, one of my professors described realism as “working class” writing because it’s efficient and deliberate, intentional and functional. Like copywriting, there is no excess. It’s concise, almost clinical writing, which elicits images in the mind’s eye—and so efficiently, too—because the lack of detail creates holes in the story, gaps that you, The Reader, can then fill in with things and experiences from your own life. This happens automatically, subconsciously. The sparseness forces you to see things from your own world in that of the story, like a “mental movie” if you will.

Another example:

“Birthday”
The room was dark and quiet, calm. Kels was asleep. Her back was to me. I was sitting in a recliner, reading something, listening to my son’s heartbeat come through the fetal monitor.
I closed my eyes. The door opened. My eyes opened.
“Okay,” the nurse said, “we have a grumpy baby in there…”
Kels sat up. I stood up.
“I’m gonna have you roll over,” the nurse told my wife.
Then, suddenly, another nurse walked in. And another. And another. Then the obstetrician walked in. Then the anesthesiologist. Suddenly, a dozen people surrounded my wife, shifting her this way and that way, propping her up, telling her, “It’s gonna be fine, dear, just breathe, dear, breathe.”
I backed up until my heel hit the wall. I was in the corner now. My wife was on her knees and elbows now. I couldn’t see her face anymore.
A doctor approached me. “Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, Dad, the boy’s heart rate just dropped.”
“Dropped?”
“Yes,” she said. “One-ten to one-sixty is normal in utero…”
I looked at the monitor. It was beeping and bouncing: fifty-four, fifty-seven, fifty-two. “You can see it’s in the fifties now,” she said.
“Why?” I said. My palms were wet.
“We can’t be sure,” said the doctor, “but it’s probably the umbilical cord…”
She kept talking, elaborating, but I could only see my wife and hear the monitor and feel my throat tightening. Then, suddenly, the beeping stopped.
“Heart rate stabilized,” someone said, and the room cleared out as quickly as it had filled up.
Suddenly, it was just me and my wife and the doctor, who said, “This can’t keep happening.”
“But what actually happened?” my wife asked.
The doctor repeated herself. “The umbilical cord,” she said, “it’s compromised.” Then she told us if the heart rate deceleration kept happening, an emergency C-section would be necessary. Kelsey squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. An hour later, it happened again. And again after that.
“Okay,” said my wife, and signed the liability form.
“Okay,” said the doctor, and the nurses began rolling Kelsey’s bed toward the operating room. Before she turned the corner, we signed “I Love You” to each other. Three fingers.
Suddenly, it was just me, alone, sitting there, picking the skin off my thumb and tapping my foot. I looked down. My thumb was bleeding. I stopped picking and put it in my mouth. The nurse walked in. “Kelsey’s all prepped,” she said. “Are you ready to join her?” She gave me some scrubs.
“I know it’s scary,” she said, “but it’s gonna be okay.”
And it was. •

Notice how I don’t express my inner monologue. Despite the intense circumstances, I don’t tell you what I’m thinking or feeling. I only let you see what people do and hear what they say. The rest falls on you to imagine.

Another example:

“Sanpaku Eyes”
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” I say.
“Me too,” says Kels.
“Go ahead,” I say, “we’ll wait here.” I pick up Beau and step to the side of the waiting area. There’s a TV above the host stand. Sunday Night Football is on.
“Okay,” says Kels, “two minutes.” She squeezes our son’s foot before turning around and walking away. I lean against the wall and catch the host smiling at Beau.
“How was your dinner?” she says, leaning across her stand. Beau looks at the host, smirks, blinks, and then looks away, pressing his cheek into my neck. “Was it yummy?” she says. Beau doesn’t look back. He presses harder.
“He’s being a shy-guy,” I say.
“So cute,” she says.
There’s a man to my right. I’m just noticing him. He’s older than me. He’s wearing a tuxedo. It’s a casual restaurant, a chain restaurant. He’s very close to me. I can smell him. He smells like cigarettes. I take a step left. The man looks at me.
“Why are you watching football?” he says. He’s monotone.
I look at him. “What?” I say. I can feel a triangle of sadness between my eyebrows.
“Why are you watching football?”
“Why am I watching football?”
“Yes, why are you watching it?”
I look at Beau. He’s looking at the TV. I look back at the man in the tux. “I dunno,” I say, “because it’s on? We’re just waiting for Mom.”
“You like the hits, don’t you?”
I take a beat. “The hits are fine,” I say. “The injuries are hard to watch, though.”
“Oh,” he says, “I love the injuries. I love the broken bones and torn ligaments,” he says. “And I love watching them bash their brains together over and over again,” he says.
I cock my head and squint and feel my forehead smooth out. “What?” I say. I’m looking at the man now, into his eyes. I can see the whites above his irises.
“Yes,” he’s leaning in now. “Oh, yeah, I love watching people get brain damage.”
In Japan, his eyes have a name: sanpaku.
“I’m sick this way, but nobody knows it,” he says. “And I can’t tell anyone.”
“Hey—” I’m walking backwards now. “My kid can hear you,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t understand—” he’s following me now, moving in step with me. “I can’t tell anybody.”
“Hey!” I’m in the middle of the waiting area now. “BACK UP!”
“You’ll burn…”
I turn around. Kelsey’s standing there. She repeats herself: “Your turn…” she says. “You still gotta go?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not leaving you with this guy.”
My wife makes a face. “What guy?” •

Recapping the rules of realism:

One, never let The Reader inside the mind of a character. Note how Sanpaku Eyes never reveals thoughts or feelings, only facts, actions, and dialogue.

Two, don’t give too much information. Note how Sanpaku Eyes doesn’t over-describe the setting or the characters because too much information—too much specificity—fills in the gaps for The Reader, which can be counterproductive.

And one more, use the present tense. Note how Sanpaku Eyes is happening in real time. It’s not always necessary, but writing this way can make the events feel like they’re unfolding in front of The Reader, live, as they would in real life.

Copywriters:

You can follow these rules to transport The Reader anywhere, into any situation or circumstance, good or bad, painful or pleasant—and oh, how compelling this can be.

Learn more