Whatever happened to taking your time?

Returning from a pre–Labor Day vacation in Virginia Beach today, we drove past some road construction. A number of trees had been felled and lay in a line in the median, like dead bodies in some dystopian world. It saddened my heart, and for no reason whatsoever, I thought about a book I had read recently that described the formula of a scene.

In its most basic form, a scene is a passage of writing in which a character attempts to achieve a goal and ends with either success, failure, or some variation of either. It propels the story forward. Whatever may be gained or lost as a result of a particular effort is the stakes. The more that is at risk and the more personal the consequences, the higher the stakes. But stakes and goal are not enough. The missing ingredient comes from within the person, something that compels them to take action. In other words, motivation—a need, idea, or emotion that demands the character take action. And then comes the resistance, either in physical form from another character, or intangible—verbal, situational, or mental. When this struggle happens between opposing forces, we have conflict, which coupled with uncertainty generates tension, which over time builds into suspense.

Character + Setting + Situation + Crucible + Goal + Stakes + Motivation + Attempt + Resistance + Conflict + Uncertainty + Tension + Time + Suspense + Climax + Resolution = Scen

The reason I mentioned this is to convey that yes, I understand this structure, and I’ve used it in my cozy mystery. But—and here’s what grates—it all has to happen so quickly. Because in a time when people have short attention spans, if you don’t hook them fast, you’ve lost them.

I miss those beloved books that took their time. Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice began with wit and social satire—the “conflict” was delayed, though the tension hummed underneath. The gentle riverbank of Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Rat lingered, unhurried, listening to the water and the whisper of the willows. And Dickens, who could describe fog, dust, chancery courts, or a street full of quirky characters—and readers stayed with him, savoring every word. Or Somerset Maugham, full of interiority, quiet observation, long reflections on art, love, morality, and the search for meaning. And my favorite, A.A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, where Pooh and Piglet spend an entire chapter wandering to see what the day brings, or stopping for “a little something”? The Hundred Acre Wood is itself a character—its trees, meadows, and streams framing every adventure. So lovely.

When I saw those trees lying in a line like corpses, cut down mid-song instead of swaying in the wind, whispering to one another about the seasons, perhaps even gossiping about the speed with which we were changing, I grieved. I grieved because as in W.H. Davies’s poem Leisure, in this world, so full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. Don’t have time to enjoy the oaks of Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles, the windswept heaths of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, and the gardens of Austen.

I grieve again—not for the trees alone,  but for the loss of patience in our reading lives, for the time when one could open a book and step into a beautiful world drawn from words, linger in the pages absorbing the atmosphere, description, and interior thought before the first stirrings of conflict even arrived.

I grieve that I have to hook my reader in the first five pages—or else.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I love trees.

By Kitty Wright

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