No, No; Why Are You Describing This Action?

Published by Atari in the blog Nothing Better to Do Than Read Blogs? Then this is the Blog for You!. Views: 116

I am growing weary of constantly being told to not write in a particular manner.
I have read enough books that bore me to tears at many, many places to last me a lifetime. It has also made me wonder if anyone in the universe knows what he is talking about!

How can one say to not do a certain, stylistic thing as long as it is not confusing?
I have seen Tom Clancy do odd things that would be frowned upon on Writing forums! Perhaps even laughed at!

Sure, sure.

"If you want to get published, you have to start by being a mouthpiece for the wealthy."

Thanks for that tip, I will be certain to remember it while I write my first piece. Nothing like a good old fashioned mediocre novel to start off one's career, right?

Bah. Perhaps we have merely forgotten what it is like to truly be engaged, or to simply relax and indulge ourselves within a richly descriptive scene! And I am not even referring to scenery or pages of history upon the life of a wooden chair. I mean from the characters themselves! Writing out almost every minuscule motion, causing everything to be significant; conveying emotions and character with the movements!

A person placing his fists on his hips can convey a hundred words worth of meaning. A roll of the eyes, a slow lowering of the head, hands burying into pant pockets.

Within context you have the ability to convey so much, but instead I get, "Why did you put 'so much' description here?"
It is because I am crafting a scene! They are not mere lifeless vassals whom I can toss about as if without weight! I want you to see the things I write, not just hear about them, but be engaged!
And here is my attempt. Do not FIGHT the description as you read, but take it in, picture it, go with it. The personalities of the characters are conveyed in their movements, and the feel of the scene.
When you are done, THEN consider whether it was verbose or inspiring:

Mia put a hand on my shoulder as I simultaneously began doing the same to her. We paused, arms outstretched and interlocked, palms on one another’s shoulder, and while it felt a bit awkward I was certain we were doing it correctly. Mia’s expression softened. She glanced at our dovetailing arms with dispassionate observation, then moved her eyes to me with a slight, cute tilt of her head.
“Do you know this dance?”
I grinned, causing another one of my slicked-back hairs to spring upward, which Mia quickly noticed with a small, amused smile.
“Slow dance,” I informed her, returning her smile with one of my most inexplicably pleased ones.
She opened her mouth, drawing in a breath to speak, but, my oblivious words sinking in, she breathed out without a word. Her head returned to proper position and she withdrew her arm. As she put her hands at her belly and clasped them, she spoke, “I shall put my left hand on your shoulder,” she opened both hands palm-up and pushed them gently and slightly toward my shoulder in indication, then daintily clasped them together once again, “and you shall place your left arm on my waist,” she made an encompassing gesture, each hand on one side of her left hip, “see?” She focused her gaze on my own eyes, and I could not help but notice her purple-hued irises, intelligent and patient. “Yes. . . .” I replied solemnly.
Mia drew close and placed her palm on my right shoulder, fingers clasped around it, and a shudder pulsated up my spine. We stood for a moment, her biding, me waiting until the shiver left. When it did, I slowly put my hand near her waist, my fingers constricted in the air as I hesitated. I brought my hand up, but it was more near her shoulder blades. I brought it down, and hovered over her posterior, then came up to a spot I thought was unobtrusive, and settled down into the warmth of her lower back, warm even through the form-fitting, torso section of her white dress.
I was now acutely aware of her chest being inches from mine, and my hand actually grasping, albeit gently, her lower back. I gulped.
“Now,” Mia said, beaming with enthusiasm, “we shall dance– you do know the steps, I presume?”
My mother and father had both taught me the steps; this I knew. “Y-yes. . . .” I told her, nervously, with a bit of a nod. We waited. She waited, looking at me expectantly. I looked at her expectantly. The wind of a nearby dancer passing behind us brushed my back lightly. The orchestra played a soothing ballroom ballad, and we stared into each other’s eyes.
“Will you lead, or shall I?” Mia finally said.
“Oh–! Yes! I– uh, you may lead, if you want, I. . . you know, not very good at – uh. . . .” I lowered my eyes and finished in a quiet voice, “leading. . . .”
“My, my! Atari!” Mia suddenly exclaimed. I nearly jumped back, but only flinched. I am quite tactful.
“You are terribly nervous! Abate your anxiety. It is, after all, only a dance. You want to make a good impression for the king, do you not?”
I furrowed my brow spontaneously, defiantly, “What king?” I hissed.
Mia smiled politely and began to step, to dance, to lead. Impulsively, I followed, and soon the girl in my arms and the music in my ears overwhelmed my indignation. We would spin, at times, and her dress would flutter outward, desirably. Her long, royal blue hair did the same, shining in the light of the golden chandelier, the spiraling curls of hair in front of her ears bouncing lightly as if gilded ear rings.
I could talk for hours of her wonderful, bow-shaped lips, (a compound bow, to be precise) and gently guiding footsteps, but alas: No good thing is perpetual; indefinite, perhaps, but not perpetual.
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