Who You Talkin’ to?
Communications can be wonderful. It can also be one of the most challenging things you do at any time, in any place. And as if verbal communications aren’t difficult in their own right, the written word can be extremely daunting. Some people tell me that the English language is easy. Whenever I hear that, I’m reminded of the old comedian Gallagher, who had an interesting bit about English that I remember seeing. And thanks to the wonders of technology and Youtube, you can view it as well. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDFQXxWIyvQ
Now while writing is one of my passions, I’ve also had to facilitate a fair number of training programs over the years. Some of these I’ve even designed myself, so it’s always a kick when you’re conducting the session and you see someone in the group suddenly get it. The light bulb literally goes on in their eyes and there is the sudden grasp of understanding. Sometimes, that can make all of your efforts worthwhile.
Recently I was in a discussion with some other writers. One member of the group is working on a story that has some good potential. But the part I had difficulty with was that they couldn’t clearly tell me who the target audience is. The basis of the story is something written for young children, maybe four or five or six years old, where the main character has a vivid and active imagination. Yet his selection of words in the story would be light years beyond the attention span or understanding of a young child. Even the dialogue he used was a struggle. Several members of the group hit upon the same issue. Who is your audience or ‘who you talkin’ to?’
Knowing who your audience is can make a huge difference in how your story comes across. It’s the same premise I have mentioned in trainings about communications. There are so many aspects about it that some people don’t even realize what they are doing. I remember watching a manager go over a list of assignments with an employee and each time the manager talked about an item, she would jab a manicured forefinger at the employee like it was a dagger of doom. And the employee would lean back a little more in their chair.
Just like gestures and body language, it’s important that the words you choose are appropriate for your audience. I have seen people use elaborate words to convey their message, only to have it fall short of the listeners’ ears with a lack of understanding. A perfect example of this was done in the original Pirates of the Caribbean movie by Geoffrey Rush. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YqRd7T6HbuQ. Sometimes the simplest words are the best. And it is so important to know your audience, because when you do, it’s so much easier to get your message across.
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Below is a segment of the mystery novel I’m currently working on. This scene centers around two detectives Jefferson Chene and Megan McDonald, and Father Dovensky, the parish priest who has known them since childhood. Chene and McDonald grew up together and after following different paths, end up working for the state police. Their efforts to unravel the taunting message have brought them to visit the old priest. Enjoy!
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We walked up the big stone steps and into the vestibule at the back of the church. Only now, in the dim light did Megan remove her shades. Our heels sounded like gunshots on the thick marble floors as we moved up the aisle between pews. My eyes went to the gigantic stained glass windows that lined the walls, reaching to the heavens. Their beauty was diminished on this overcast day. A young boy, probably no older than ten, dressed in a cassock and surplice, approached the altar and began solemnly to snuff out the candles. He paused at the center of the altar, bowed his head then resumed his duties.
“Bring back fond memories?” Megan whispered.
“Memories yes, fond no.”
A deep voice boomed behind me. “Well, I see some things haven’t changed. I’m surprised you remembered the way in,Jefferson.”
We turned around to face him. Just at that moment, the skies briefly cleared and a beam of sunlight shot through the glass, casting him in a rosy hue. He had removed the vestments from the morning mass and was wearing his customary black slacks, with a black long sleeved dress shirt and the white cardboard collar at the neck. A small wooden cross on a leather cord dangled from his neck. I always pictured him as a giant, so it surprised me to realize that he was only as tall as Megan, with a stocky frame. I could see the broken veins in his cheeks and nose, the sign of a heavy drinker. But his eyes were still sharp and black as coal. The gaze was piercing, giving you the impression not only that he could read your mind, but he’d edit your thoughts before putting them back.
“Hello, Father,” Megan said warmly. She stepped forward and hugged him.
“It’s good to see you, Megan. How’s the prettiest policewoman in the state?”
She actually blushed. “I’m good, Father Dovensky. How are you?”
“God’s work keeps me busy,” Dovensky said. He released her and turned his attention back to me. “You’re too big and too old for an embrace,Jefferson, so I suppose a handshake is in order.”
We clasped hands for a moment. I almost expected him to grind my fingers together as a form of penance for my absence. He didn’t, but I was willing to bet he wanted to.
“You look good, Father D.”
He shrugged it off with a quick grin. “Megan tells me you have a problem with a case that I might be able to assist you with.”
My eyes flicked around the great open space of the church. I remembered how well sounds could carry here. “Perhaps there’s somewhere else we could talk, Father.”
“Is this something you’re uncomfortable discussing in God’s house,Jefferson?”
I cut Megan off before she could respond. “We’re trying to catch a serial killer, Father. He is brutally slaying young women.”
He considered that for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. Let’s go to the rectory.”
We were settled in Dovensky’s office. It looked the same as when I used to visit while a resident of the orphanage. Except instead of a typewriter on the desk, there was a computer. Otherwise the clutter of books, photos and sports memorabilia crowded every flat surface. I glanced at the spines on the bookshelves. Many of the old literary classics mixed in with a few psychology books. Nothing recent. A housekeeper brought in a tray with coffee and condiments, along with a large plate of freshly baked cookies. There was a basket of scones on the desk and a bowl with apples, oranges and pears. Dovensky looked longingly at the cookies then reached for an apple.
“Dieting, Father?” Megan asked as she plucked a warm chocolate chip cookie from the plate.
“I gave up sweets for Lent. No cookies, baked goods or candy. The staff seems determined to test my resolve.”
Megan passed me the plate of cookies. I took three and put them on the napkin beside the mug of coffee. “I’ll savor these for you, Father.”
“I’ll bet you will,” he said with a chuckle. “So tell me how I can help.”
Megan and I took turns explaining the case to him. We knew he would keep things quiet. The press was not aware of the fact that the three killings were related. We were hoping to keep it that way. The last thing we wanted to do was start scaring the general public. But if we didn’t turn up something soon, we might not have a choice. Dovensky would treat it like a parishioner in the confessional.
He was sitting behind his desk, giving us his undivided attention. He rested his left elbow on the blotter and struck a pose that brought an onrush of memories. He hooked his thumb under his chin then curled the middle three fingers across his mouth. His pinky rested alongside his nose. Those dark eyes flicked back and forth between Megan and me while we wrapped it up.
“So what makes you think I can help,Jefferson?”
“Actually, it was Megan’s idea. All three victims have been found in motel rooms, number 319. And the message on the mirror refers to that.”
“I’m wondering if there is some significance in the bible that might give us a clue, Father.” Megan said. “And who better to ask about the bible than my favorite priest? There’s a chance the number refers to a particular chapter and verse in the bible.”
Dovensky leaned back and sipped his coffee. His eyes went to me. “How are the cookies?”
“Delicious. I’m getting just a hint of walnut.”
He sighed. “Marie takes great pleasure in tormenting me. Last night it was glazed blueberry scones with my tea.” He pushed the basket across the desk to Megan. She didn’t hesitate to pluck one from the stack. I watched her bite into it and widen her eyes.
“Nice to see the staff still has a sense of humor,” I said.
“Indeed. And it is many long days until Easter.”
We were quiet for a while. I couldn’t think of anything else to add. I was still debating whether this was such a good idea.
“So will you help us, Father?” Megan asked.
He hesitated, letting those black eyes flick back and forth between us for a moment. “If it might stop another murder, I’ll do some research.”
