Ramblings: World Building

I don’t see white screens.

I don’t see blinking cursors or blank pages.

When I sit down to start a story, I don’t stare at my computer and see nothing: because, I’m not even really sitting in the chair.

My body might be there—but my mind is elsewhere.

 


 

9755552034_ae66df4cfa_zPhoto courtesy of: flicker


 

In my mind, I’m busy watching the hustle and bustle of a port city in the early hours just after dawn.

 

A thick fog is just starting to melt away. Thin tendrils of smoke rise from countless chimneys. Storefront doors lazily swing open; and second floor windows slam shut—the occupants inside trying to pretend that they didn’t just empty their chamber pot into the street below.

Porters carefully go to and fro along those streets—hauling their heavily laden carts through the filth behind them. Palanquin bearers use safer paths to make their way down to the water in search of business from weary travelers.

Small boats are gently rocking out in the harbor—I can just barely see the people moving about on the decks, but their distant forms move with the practiced familiarity of seasoned sailors going about their daily tasks.

While all the while, the Greatships moored at the docks take on new cargo, or empty their holds, or let off the wobbly legged passengers who stumble onto land grateful to greet the grey morning—finally arrived at their destination.

How could I see a white screen or blinking cursor when all of this is already so clearly before my eyes?

But there’s more to this world than just what I can see.

I can feel the world in the sea breeze softly tugging at my hair.

In the way my feet sink into the spongy topsoil of the hill I stand on, overlooking the city. In the way that the long grass tickles my palms as I wade through it. In the way the laziness of the morning makes me want to lay down and take a nap.

I can smell it in the saltines of the air.

In the morning preparations of the city’s bakers. In the distinctly fishy smell of, well, fish—natural enough in a city such as this. In the stench of the filth being thrown on the street—faint, yet unfortunately not faint enough.

I can hear it in the bells sounding from ship’s prows.

Or in the clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer. Or in the curse of the suddenly stinky porter; and creak of his wheels as he quickens his pace along the equally stinky street. Or in the hiss, crash, roar of the waves before they break against the seawall and send their spray high into the air to be carried back to me on the breeze.

Oddly enough I can even taste it in the morning dew, or in the slight tang of the air.

 


This is why I never see a blank screen.

This is why I’m not bothered by blinking cursors.

Because, even though I may be sitting in the chair staring at a white screen, I’m not actually there—that’s not what I’m seeing.

I’m completely immersed in the world of my story. Not just seeing the setting, but experiencing it through every single one of my senses.

I smell it, I feel it, I hear it, I even taste it. For the moment, this place really exists. I’m really there—in this world of my own creation.

But I’m not a part of it, I’m just the writer who built it.

This is how I see the worlds that I create. This is how I feel it should be.

Creating a setting shouldn’t just be about how the setting looks. It shouldn’t just be the background to my story. It has less to do with histories and maps, or cities and forests—and more to do with immersion.

It shouldn’t be a picture that stands still—it should be alive.

It should breathe like poetry, have a heart that beats like my own, and be a character in my story just like the actual characters themselves. I should be able to feel like I’m there when I close my eyes and imagine the sights, the sounds, the smells…

Why?

Why bother worrying so much about immersion, when the most important things for a story are the characters?

For a few reasons, actually: like, how an immersed reader can get lost in a story for hours, or how an immersive world helps to make your story feel real—but mostly because, when I’m immersed in a new world, when I can visit a place for myself, it becomes real to me. As a result, it’s easier to write about.

How could I not write about something so incredible? How can I not tell its stories? How can I not show my readers what I experience when I visit that place?

How could I resist the urge to write about it?

I don’t see white screens. I don’t see blinking cursors or blank pages. When I sit down to start a story, my mind is too busy exploring the world I just built—completely immersed as every sense is of use in this exploration.

While at the same time my fingers are busy moving that blinking cursor, and filling those blank pages—covering the white screen with words that paint scenes of color and subtle emotion. Delving into such perfect detail, and discovering the finest nuance of my every sense, that the world in my mind comes to life before my eyes…

Its stories played out in below me as I watch from my hilltop.