MAKING DETAILS WORK FOR YOUR PURPOSE AND IDEA
Notice how both of the following are excerpts from the same personal experience, but the language and details create a very different effect in each case. The purpose of the first version is to create a mood of suspense and eeriness. The purpose of the second is to create more of a black-humor effect.
Emerging from the fog in front of us were two cars at the bottom of the hill. All the
way up at the top of hill, invisible, shrouded in thick gray mists, was the traffic light
near the church. We would have to pass between these two cars, both large Cadillacs from
the seventies, with their taillights seemingly encased in sharkfins. There were three men
in each of the cars, but as we came closer--and as I replay the incident in my mind, it
seems to be in slow motion--one man opened the door and, facing us momentarily, started
across the road directly in our path. When it seemed that we must hit him, he turned to
look at us, sprang up, and disappeared. Until this moment, everything seemed encased in a
cotton gauze. Perhaps it was the fog, but it was as if I were watching a silent movie. The
danger at the center of the screen loomed larger and larger, but silently. But when we
heard him land on the roof of our car, the pandemonium broke loose.
My mother was hysterical, and why shouldn't she be, since the man was trying to hijack us.
But the man was so inept, I just had to laugh. First of all, when he stood in the middle
of the road to force us to come to a stop, he looked so comical, like a little kid caught,
having forgotten to look both ways before crossing. Then he jumped on top of our car,
which did little good because once Mom accelerated, he flipped off over the left side.
Unfortunately, he managed to catch onto the sideview mirror. Then my mom swerved from side
to side, swinging the man around like big rag doll. He couldn't run fast enough to keep
up, so we just dragged him for a while, and when he still held on, Mom just ran over his
foot. He yelled bloody murder and dropped off. Unable to admit defeat, the sorry character
ran after us, trying to cut us off by running diagonally across the park. His pants were
pulled part way down, muddy from cuff to crotch, and his white shirt was now a smear of
brown and green from grass stains. He limped pathetically after us. When we beat him to
the park entrance, I waved at him gaily, as he mouthed the words that would never come
true: "I'm going to get you."