Author's notes:

Things not said. That's today's topic. One source points out that classic Japanese block print art, such as one showing a tsunami from the side, plays with the concept of negative space. The tsunami is roaring across from left to right, the head of the wave about to break over the ... negative space.

Often, in art, what we don't see is as important as what we see. I've already spoken about Hitchcock's off-screen murders. That's one form, but the everyday writing has two other forms.

The first form of using negative space is my speech tags in this story. I rarely use them. And, per another opinion piece for authors, when I do, they are almost always, 'said' and 'asked.' No Tom Swifties here.

Instead, I usually have the speaker perform an action, and affix the dialogue quote immediately before or after. This serves (at least) two purposes. I don't break into the flow of images with a 'tell,' that statement that 'he said this.' It's all action, and the words become part of the action.

The second purpose to restricting speech tags is to chop off words. By doing it this way, I also save those two words. Not that two words mean anything, given how loquacious I am. But these two words are common, and often repeat. Another writing bugaboo I try to avoid is that of repeating the same phrases over and again.

The second form of using negative space are the scene breaks. The "===" in other words. I try to start and end each chapter with a change in place and time. (This one is an exception, as the meeting of the five amigos is somewhat important.) In each one, I try to imply what happened in the interim.

"Evander passed Callan as he stormed out the Aberdeen Hotel." I didn't write that explicitly, but did show it in passing. "He was upset at something, something about Sian. Callan picked up on it, but didn't ask him what. Still, Callan had a good guess what and why."

These sentences could written out in Sian, but they're very 'tell.' They aren't something that needs to be shown. Their aftereffects can hint at their contents enough for the reader to make the inference, see the picture. What I didn't write, didn't say, becomes quite evident based on what I do say, or have the characters say.

Again, this cuts down on verbage. The Aberdeen lobby scene would be too short. Remember 'colour' of a page. It'd seem too short, out of the norm. There's nothing really special about it, so I don't want to play a game of 'fool the reader,' at least not here.

Each scene has to have a point. The lobby scene would have a point: 'Evander's pissed off.' But that's not enough to warrant a whole scene. Call it 'return on investment.' Thus, the choice to not render it fully, but instead show it in negative space.

Negative space. Look at what you say in your writing, and see if it can be made more effective if you don't say it outright.

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



The alley was decorated in crates and grates. Sian ran her hand over a patch of wall, looked at it, grimaced and put her shoulder against it. Her arms crossed over her chest, and she leveled her eyes at Callan as he carefully closed the door, trying to keep it from latching shut.

"Okay, what's the deal?"

"What?" He turned from the door. It clicked shut. He shrugged, put his hands in his jacket pockets and leaned against it.

"Okay, what's deal, Sire. Better?"

"Not really. I'm still not sure what you mean."

"Who is he? Yes, I know, 'Locke, my old friend.' You know what I mean. Who is he, why is he here? Who else is coming? What are you not telling me?"

"What I'm not telling you are things that are for your own good. I--"

"Bull."

"What?"

"Bull, Sire. But still bull, as in bullshit."

"If you're going to call me 'Sire' in that tone, I'd much rather you not. You have and will never see me call you 'little one' in the same manner.""

"All right, but stop patronizing me, all right? 'Little one' I can take. Marc shoved it into me pretty hard, and you saying it is better than hearing him say it over and over. But stop being so condescending."

"All right. Locke is someone I trust with my life, and, more importantly, with yours. Originally, he and the others were just going to celebrate our having Claimed one another, but things seem to have taken a turn for the complicated."

"Wait a second. ‘One another?’ I thought you claimed me, and that was the end of the story.”

"To some, it may be that simple. I’m not of that group, nor are the others you will hopefully meet. But, you are right. Most of the Awakened see the Claim as one way, those of the Circles over that of the thralls, acquaintances, and one-nighters. For their ears, I have Claimed you. Nothing more than that." He paused, taking in her stubborn pose.

She nodded, and her shoulders relaxed.

"To me, to my friends, you are my Other, my companion. You are much more than a thrall. Just keep this in your heart, this reciprocity we have." Callan's voice grew soft, but with no force of Will behind it. His hand patted his chest.

She stepped away from the opposite wall, hand outstretched and reaching for his. "But I thought you lied. You said Marc Claimed me first, and you were just confusing him."

"Did you ever answer to him when he addressed you as 'little one'?"

"I don’t know. I don’t know. It’s all a blur. I think so." Her fingers rested on his knuckles. His hand still rested on the hollow of his chest. She could almost feel his heart beat, strong and steady.

"Sian! You think so?"

Biting her lip, she nodded. Her eyes blinked. Something, some speck of dust had blown in. Somehow.

"Well, he certainly didn’t explain to you what a thrall was. You ran from me when I did so."

"Cal? I ran because I remembered him telling me. And I remembered wanting to be one. I probably let him call me that. I’m his. Oh, God. I’m really his." She fell against him.

His hands folded over her. "Then you had better keep that in your heart as well."

===

They walked around, past a few quiet storefronts, all hewn from stout hardwood, all lovingly stained. Some were nightclubs waiting for dusk and it's accompanying folk. Others were shops selling higher end furnishings, clothing and services. And the Brass Clock, fronted by its four-faced sphere announcing the time as it had for decades, perhaps even a century.

Three others had arrived. Callan smiled and greeted the closest, a lean and balding man. His glasses and slight stoop gave him a bookish look, but he straighted up when Callan approached, hailing "Brank!"

"Yes, Callan. Still me, still here. Your best efforts to the contrary." He gave Callan a wry smile, then hugged him.

"It was all an accident! Can you believe that, Locke? All these years, and he still blames me for fleeing from an angry mob."

Locke's beard hid his smile, but his voice didn't. "I don't think he blames you for running off, my friend. I just think he blames you for running off with his clothes."

"I grabbed the wrong bag! It was dark!"

Sian deftly stepped up and held up her hand to Brank. He swallowed his riposte and cupped her hand in his, then bowed to kiss it. "You must be Sian. I've heard much about you."

Sian felt Ressa's eyes on her and stole a glance at Locke's companion. Ressa made no motion, but her eyes flashed approval. Sian blushed and chanced a quick nod in acknowledgment.

Callan breathed an exaggerated sigh, then gestured to the woman at Brank's right. She was older than Sian by some margin, and wore the difference in years with comfort and pride. "This is Brank's companion, Ceili." The phonemes came out slightly distorted.

Sian tried her best. "Kaylee? That's a pretty name."

Ceili smiled. "It's Ceili." She spelled it out. "Kaylee is close enough."

Sian shook her head. "It's your name. It's important, Ceili." Accomplishment rushed through her.

They all smiled, brighter than Sian could understand. Before she could phrase that into a question, the other woman stepped forward. "I'm Lavender." Her voice was honey, thick, rich and golden.

Sian's breath caught in her throat. Lavender was stunning, her red hair disappearing behind her shoulder with a hint of a wave, her strong and piercing brown eyes, her full face and merry lips. Her body was full, curvaceous. Her skirt-suit complemented her form, neither constricting nor flaunting. She wasn't beautiful in what Sian used to think of as the meaning of the word, but she upended that definition completely. Sian stared, fully aware of doing so, and didn't care.

Lavender stepped forward and kissed her on the lips. "I'd take you, but Callan beat me to it, I see."

The mention of his name cleared her mind. She blinked, then bounced her attention between him and Lavender.

Callan smiled. "Lavender is ... something else. She has that effect on everyone. You just get used to it. Takes some time."

Locke added, "Could take years. Maybe longer." He sent a wink in their direction, but Sian couldn't tell if it was for Lavender or her. On the off-chance it was for her, she nodded.

Lavender smiled and licked her lips. They glistened, dancing in the ochre light of the ornate sconces. Sian's eyes fought to stay focused on hers, but kept drifting down to those full and welcoming lips. They parted, and a toying purr emerged. "She looks lovely."

Suddenly, Sian pulled self-consciously at her jeans and faded shirt. Her face flushed, and she stepped away from the woman, putting one shoulder behind Callan.

Ressa tapped Ceili and they stepped between Sian and Lavender.

"What say we companions leave you Circle people alone for a bit?" Ressa grabbed Sian's arm and led her toward the door. Ceili waved and smiled, covering their exit.

Sian was never so glad to be pulled away, but just a bit sad.