How do you make readers feel the darkness of your horror even on a bright summer’s day? How do you make them feel like someone is lurking behind the corner even if they’re sitting on the beach? How do you make them laugh even if they don’t want to?
Answer: Atmosphere. Mood. Or—as the kids say—vibes. (I’m not sure if kids are still saying that, but nevertheless.)
As writers, we create vibes through our word choice, sentence length, and use of simile and metaphor. It’s important to understand the vibe you envision for your work, as this will allow you to write with intention.
Let’s look at some examples, starting with “The Nightingale and the Lark,” a short story by Chantel Acevedo.
They say our myths are born in the rivers and valleys, in the mist-cloaked mogotes of Vinales and the cold caves of Matanzas. They say our myths are open-mouthed screams, rows of jagged teeth, fiery balls of light, and mothers in mourning.
Our myths are also this: A whispered “Te veo,” when nobody is around. A giggle in the night. A dirty rag around your throat.
Notice the words Acevedo uses to conjure frightening imagery. “Jagged teeth.” “Fiery.” “Mourning.” “Dirty rag around your throat.” These are all ominous, unsettling phrases that make you feel … well, unsettled. Which makes sense, because this is a monster horror story. Instead of leaning into simile (which uses “like” to compare two things), she goes directly for the metaphor. The myths aren’t like open-mouthed screams. They are open-mouth screams.
Now let’s read the beginning of Lupe Wong Won’t Dance by Donna Barba Higuera.
My gym shorts burrow into my butt crack like a frightened hedgehog. Note to self: remember shorts from home so you don’t have to wear scratchy school loaners ever again I can fix this. I pull up my kneepads, adjust my wristbands, and tighten my ponytail with a yank. Ready for battle, a.k.a. seventh-grade spring P.E.
Half a cheek hanging out, I glance around the locker room to make sure the coast is clear. I casually place one foot up on the bench and make a stealth grab, yanking my underwear down.
Samantha Pinkerton slams her locker so loud the entire room of girls looks in her direction. “Find anything good up there, Lupe?” She laughs and half the class snickers with her.
I almost respond with, “Yeah, your mom,” but stop myself at the last possible second.
Samantha takes a step toward me and puts her nose inches from mine.
“Oh, yeah?” I say instead.
Samantha scrunches her face and scratches her temple, my comeback obviously stunning her into confusion. My best friend, Andy, cringes behind Samantha. Smack talk is not one of my strong points.
The book opens with a simile. My gym shorts burrow into my butt crack like a frightened hedgehog. The image of a frightened hedgehog isn’t very disturbing or terrifying. Quite the opposite. And, of course, we have the word “butt.” Clearly, this is novel meant to make us laugh, not cover our eyes in terror. The sentences are straightforward and the vernacular (“smack talk,” “your mom,” “a.k.a.”) are relaxed, informal, and casual. We understand right away that this story will be conversational, funny, and relaxed.
All it takes is one word to change the atmosphere of a single sentence. For example:
The church was eerie.
The church was weird.
The church was bizarre.
The church was haunting.
These words mean basically the same thing, but each sentence has a different vibe.
Are you using metaphors and similes intentionally to elevate the atmosphere and mood of your work? Do you pay attention to word choice and how it influences the reading experience? Are you choosing the most effective word or the first word that comes to mind?