How Far Would You Go?
As a writer, you’re given a certain amount of creative license when penning a story, and although I appreciate that freedom, I find myself getting pretty anal when it comes to certain details.
For example, when writing about mental institutions, I could have fostered an innocuous enough building and location from my imagination to pass mustard. But what about the feel inside the building? The energy that’s exerted by the patients who live there, the families that visit them? Yes, I could have easily made something up, but I figured there were a few readers out there who’d experienced the inside of an institution in one way or another. They would know phony when they read it. So, to remedy the situation, I visited mental institutions, many of them. Some new, some ancient, some abandoned. But I left each location with a sense that I held something tangible, something real I could share with my readers.
In truth, though, I think I take research a bit too far some times. Take the coffin incident for example…
I was writing a scene in Grave Intent, where a secondary character finds himself locked in a casket. Not having experienced such a tragedy, I began winging it on imagination alone. But the scene simply wouldn’t jell. When I finally finished the first draft and read it, it felt two-dimensional. I wrote it again. It still stank. By the third draft my frustration level had peaked, and I shoved my chair away from the computer, knowing there was only one solution to this problem. I would have to experience it. Now you would think a logical person would take into consideration that the number of readers who’d actually been trapped in a casket was minimal enough to make the whole issue moot. Then again, we’re talking about a rational person…I’ll tell you, I’ve pulled some crazy stunts before, all in the name of research, but this one ranks in the top three.
Here’s what happened . . .
Having access to a casket was the easy part because many of my friends are funeral directors. Choosing one of them to lock me inside a casket, however, was the challenge. Although I trusted my friends, did I trust all of them with my life? Uh, nope. And just how many of them would think I had completely flipped off my rocker? Damn near every one of them….except ‘Jay’, a twenty year veteran in the business and an avid adventurer. So I asked him, and, as I suspected, he gave me this crooked grin, eyed me for a long moment, then said, “Aw, what the hell, okay, I’ll do it.”
Early the next evening, after Jay’s staff had left for the day, we went into the casket selection room, and I chose a bronze sealer with off-white satin interior. The high-end, air-tight model made Jay nervous.
“Ten minutes and you’re out of air,” he said, his expression pensive. “You sure you want this one?”
“Yeah, why? You are going to unlock it, right?”
“Well, yeah I’m going to unlock it, but what if it gets stuck? Suppose something goes wrong with the lock. I mean, it’s not like we go around testing these caskets. Once they’re locked, they usually go in the ground.”
“Let’s test it before I get in then,” I said, getting a bit nervous myself.
So we did test it—three times, and the casket reopened each time without fail.
With Jay hovering like a mother hen, I slipped off my shoes and climbed into the casket. My body sank into the plush mattress, and I let out a little sigh. This was more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed.
“When you’re ready to come out, just knock on the inside of the lid or the sides, and I’ll unlock it right away,” Jay said.
“Okay, but let’s practice to make sure you can hear me.” I signaled for him to close the lids.
The moment that tiny space grew dark I beat on the side of the casket with an elbow, then quickly pushed open the lid above my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought. “Did you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
I took a deep breath. We eyed each other for a moment. “Okay then,” I said, drumming up as much courage as I could. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
As soon as the lid closed, I heard the echo of the lock slipping into place….
I have never known darkness so complete. Not one molecule of light existed in this confined space. That alone caused my breathing to grow rapid. Tight spaces don’t usually bother me, but tight, dark spaces are another story. I was able to move my arms, but the range was limited. I brought my right hand to my face, touched my nose, still not believing the depth of the darkness. Only three fingers fit between my head and the lid above me. Leg movement was nearly impossible. A few inches straight up was about all the room I had before hitting the bottom lid. The sides of the casket pressed against my shoulders. A sardine in a can had more room than I did.
With each passing moment, every scent seemed to grow more concentrated—the new mattress—layers of satin—metal. The smells quickly became overwhelming, and my nose burned each time I inhaled.
Sounds, even those created by me, were muffled. The rustle of my clothes against the lining of the casket, my breathing. I coughed to test the effect, and the sound fell flat, like a rock dropped into a shallow pond. A thumping sound came from outside the casket, and I held my breath, listening. More thumping. Jay was walking around the casket. Walking away from the casket? I had to mentally push, shove, squash, stomp that thought out of my head before I completely came unglued.
I closed my eyes, which made no difference in my surroundings, and focused on my character and the scene I’d written for him. What would he be doing right about now? In my mind’s eye, I saw him thrashing, so frantic to be free. I knew his confinement, knew the darkness, understood his helplessness. That vision grew so vivid, I found myself beginning to hyperventilate. Wait . . .I tried drawing in a deep breath, but only managed to fill a third of my lungs. I wasn’t hyperventilating . . .I was running out of oxygen!
My eyes flew open, and I slammed an elbow into the side of the casket. Rapid thumping outside now. Quick, muted footsteps. The clank of metal against metal—Jay sliding the L-key into the lock? A click—then nothing. I felt my eyes grow as wide as doubloons. Ramming my elbow harder against the casket, I yelled, “Let me out!” My voice sounded muffled by a thousand pillows. “Let-me-out!”
More clicking sounds that seemed to go on forever before—light! The top lid flew open, and I bolted upright, gulping air.
When I finally collected myself, I looked over at Jay. “What took you so long?”
He held up the L-key. “I got nervous, and it kept slipping out of the hole.”
Now that would have made an interesting broadcast—Author Suffocates in Casket Due to Nervous Funeral Director—more news at 10!
So tell me, how far would you go?
For example, when writing about mental institutions, I could have fostered an innocuous enough building and location from my imagination to pass mustard. But what about the feel inside the building? The energy that’s exerted by the patients who live there, the families that visit them? Yes, I could have easily made something up, but I figured there were a few readers out there who’d experienced the inside of an institution in one way or another. They would know phony when they read it. So, to remedy the situation, I visited mental institutions, many of them. Some new, some ancient, some abandoned. But I left each location with a sense that I held something tangible, something real I could share with my readers.
In truth, though, I think I take research a bit too far some times. Take the coffin incident for example…
I was writing a scene in Grave Intent, where a secondary character finds himself locked in a casket. Not having experienced such a tragedy, I began winging it on imagination alone. But the scene simply wouldn’t jell. When I finally finished the first draft and read it, it felt two-dimensional. I wrote it again. It still stank. By the third draft my frustration level had peaked, and I shoved my chair away from the computer, knowing there was only one solution to this problem. I would have to experience it. Now you would think a logical person would take into consideration that the number of readers who’d actually been trapped in a casket was minimal enough to make the whole issue moot. Then again, we’re talking about a rational person…I’ll tell you, I’ve pulled some crazy stunts before, all in the name of research, but this one ranks in the top three.
Here’s what happened . . .
Having access to a casket was the easy part because many of my friends are funeral directors. Choosing one of them to lock me inside a casket, however, was the challenge. Although I trusted my friends, did I trust all of them with my life? Uh, nope. And just how many of them would think I had completely flipped off my rocker? Damn near every one of them….except ‘Jay’, a twenty year veteran in the business and an avid adventurer. So I asked him, and, as I suspected, he gave me this crooked grin, eyed me for a long moment, then said, “Aw, what the hell, okay, I’ll do it.”
Early the next evening, after Jay’s staff had left for the day, we went into the casket selection room, and I chose a bronze sealer with off-white satin interior. The high-end, air-tight model made Jay nervous.
“Ten minutes and you’re out of air,” he said, his expression pensive. “You sure you want this one?”
“Yeah, why? You are going to unlock it, right?”
“Well, yeah I’m going to unlock it, but what if it gets stuck? Suppose something goes wrong with the lock. I mean, it’s not like we go around testing these caskets. Once they’re locked, they usually go in the ground.”
“Let’s test it before I get in then,” I said, getting a bit nervous myself.
So we did test it—three times, and the casket reopened each time without fail.
With Jay hovering like a mother hen, I slipped off my shoes and climbed into the casket. My body sank into the plush mattress, and I let out a little sigh. This was more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed.
“When you’re ready to come out, just knock on the inside of the lid or the sides, and I’ll unlock it right away,” Jay said.
“Okay, but let’s practice to make sure you can hear me.” I signaled for him to close the lids.
The moment that tiny space grew dark I beat on the side of the casket with an elbow, then quickly pushed open the lid above my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought. “Did you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
I took a deep breath. We eyed each other for a moment. “Okay then,” I said, drumming up as much courage as I could. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
As soon as the lid closed, I heard the echo of the lock slipping into place….
I have never known darkness so complete. Not one molecule of light existed in this confined space. That alone caused my breathing to grow rapid. Tight spaces don’t usually bother me, but tight, dark spaces are another story. I was able to move my arms, but the range was limited. I brought my right hand to my face, touched my nose, still not believing the depth of the darkness. Only three fingers fit between my head and the lid above me. Leg movement was nearly impossible. A few inches straight up was about all the room I had before hitting the bottom lid. The sides of the casket pressed against my shoulders. A sardine in a can had more room than I did.
With each passing moment, every scent seemed to grow more concentrated—the new mattress—layers of satin—metal. The smells quickly became overwhelming, and my nose burned each time I inhaled.
Sounds, even those created by me, were muffled. The rustle of my clothes against the lining of the casket, my breathing. I coughed to test the effect, and the sound fell flat, like a rock dropped into a shallow pond. A thumping sound came from outside the casket, and I held my breath, listening. More thumping. Jay was walking around the casket. Walking away from the casket? I had to mentally push, shove, squash, stomp that thought out of my head before I completely came unglued.
I closed my eyes, which made no difference in my surroundings, and focused on my character and the scene I’d written for him. What would he be doing right about now? In my mind’s eye, I saw him thrashing, so frantic to be free. I knew his confinement, knew the darkness, understood his helplessness. That vision grew so vivid, I found myself beginning to hyperventilate. Wait . . .I tried drawing in a deep breath, but only managed to fill a third of my lungs. I wasn’t hyperventilating . . .I was running out of oxygen!
My eyes flew open, and I slammed an elbow into the side of the casket. Rapid thumping outside now. Quick, muted footsteps. The clank of metal against metal—Jay sliding the L-key into the lock? A click—then nothing. I felt my eyes grow as wide as doubloons. Ramming my elbow harder against the casket, I yelled, “Let me out!” My voice sounded muffled by a thousand pillows. “Let-me-out!”
More clicking sounds that seemed to go on forever before—light! The top lid flew open, and I bolted upright, gulping air.
When I finally collected myself, I looked over at Jay. “What took you so long?”
He held up the L-key. “I got nervous, and it kept slipping out of the hole.”
Now that would have made an interesting broadcast—Author Suffocates in Casket Due to Nervous Funeral Director—more news at 10!
So tell me, how far would you go?