Today’s #1lineWed is all about the feels–and I don’t mean emotions. It’s all about touch, texture, the feel of things. My Wolves are all about scent. And occasionally taste. My characters know the texture of skin and hair but I sometimes forget there are other things that have texture–like floors, or clothing, or all sorts of things.
One of the reasons I enjoy participating in #1lineWed, at least here on the blog if not always over on Twitter, is because it makes me think about my writing. With the two current WIPs, I’m making a conscious effort to explore texture. So, for your reading pleasure, here are some unedited snippets.
From BLOOD BRIDE:
Celie’s scent grew more pronounced, acrid ammonia creeping into the lemon and cinnamon. He resisted the urge to sneeze. He didn’t want her afraid—especially not of him. He signaled for the check, tossed some bills on the table once it arrived, and stood. Celie didn’t move.
He gripped the back of her chair, pulling it away from the wrought-iron table. The metal legs scraped against the rough-hewn planked floor. Leaning over her shoulder, his breath teased the skin of her neck until it pebbled. “I’ll take you home. Let’s go.”
She tensed, even as a trace of the lavender aroma of hope twined into her scent. Her face remained expressionless. She stood, her motions robotic. With his hand at the small of her back, Rhys urged her toward the exit. The bulky, cable-knit sweater she wore did little to hide her curves. His fingertips traced the soft and nubby knitted design, burning to touch the skin buried beneath the downy lambswool.
From NIGHT MOVES (Hollywood and Lainey):
I suddenly felt really tired which meant all that adrenaline was about to send me into a crash.
The man with kind eyes—uh…Hardy—caught my gaze and held it. “Need t’check your wrist, sugar. Gonna hurt.”
Yeah. With the adrenaline draining I could feel the throb running all the way up to my shoulder. I sucked in air and nodded. He picked up my hand. Oh. My. Freaking. God! Gonna hurt didn’t even come close. I didn’t mean to scream but I couldn’t help it.
Arms circled my waist and muscular legs framed my naked thighs. Worn denim brushed my skin, comfortable and comforting. Something warm and hard snuggled my bare back. Smooth. Sliding against me like butter. Only with lumps. Leather. A leather vest. With buttons and patches.
“Breathe, babe. You gotta breathe.” The voice, husky and gruff, rumbled in my ear.
Writers? Do you put texture in your descriptions? Readers? How do you feel about using the senses like this in the narrative?