Immediacy.  The word alone does not really mean much, aside from its philosophical sense of “being known from experience” as far as writing is concerned.  For writers it is the act of making the reader associate with the setting to such an extent that they are able to transplant themselves into the story.  I propose a change to the term to better represent both the role and object of this tool: intimacy.

The lacquer on her nails is blood-red, as are the satin dress and the rubies in her necklace and earrings.  Those red nails pick a strawberry from a wooden bowl, plucking the juice-filled fruit from its place among equally choice morsels and carrying it gracefully through the air in an arc aimed at lips as deeply red as the nails.  Auburn hair cascades about fair shoulders as the woman tilts her head to meet the berry. Her emerald eyes sparkle, focused on the man sitting in the shadows of the curtains across the room, as the red lips part and accept the strawberry. 

A teacher once told me to stop writing assumptively.  To him, the assumptive writer leaves out the little details that spark all of the senses.  The assumptive writer would have said, “And she ate the strawberry, arousing the man in the shadows.”  What caused the arousal?  Intimacy brings the reader into the story in such a way that they can truly imagine every detail.

Saying intimacy instead of immediacy changes the focus of this writing mechanic.  A new writer, hearing that she need add some immediacy to the scene, may decide it imperative to start counting bricks and measuring distances.  While this will help recreate the picture of the author in the readers mind, it sure becomes distracting after reading a paragraph describing a meaningless front window of a regular old house.  Intimacy reminds the writer to connect with the reader.  What are the sights, smells, sounds, and other sensations that create the emotions the character so desperately needs to share with his unseen observer? 

Another exercise: a man is walking down a road.  It is obvious that the man is going somewhere from somewhere, so obviously the writer should mention that.  The intimate writer will tell the reader how the man is walking in such a way that it describes his mood and the state of his mind, which in turn develop the plot and conflict of the story.  Are the man’s hands in his pockets and his chin on his chest, or are his arms spread wide with eyes to the sky?  Does he smell fresh-cut grass and blooming flowers, or does he smell last week’s trash?  Does he see a butterflies and flowers or tumbleweeds and brambles?  Details should create more intimacy between the character and the reader.  

Perhaps at this point we can simply change immediacy to immediate, give it a feeling of necessary determination.  We need the reader to be there NOW, right there with our cunning heroine.  We need immediate intimacy, drag the reader into the story from the start and keep them there until the end.  Maybe the reader has never lost a child, so they cannot completely empathize with the protagonist, but the reader almost certainly has a friend they have seen broken down and desperate.  We can create an immediate need in that reader to console their new-found friend in the story we just wrote by making them intimately aware of the salty tears and racking sobs and pain-filled eyes.

So who’s with me, shall we stick with the old immediacy?  I hope a few more out there will join me in calling it what it really is: intimacy.

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