Looking for the Deli Cup
Every story, whether contemporary or high fantasy, has worldbuilding. It’s not just about what color the dragons are or the magic system functions, it could be a political structure or size of the planetoid where the story is set. But it’s also in the details.
There’s a great interview with Keegan Michael Key where he talks about this from the improv perspective.
“People think that improvisation is moving forward. What improvisation really is, is walking backwards. While I’m looking at you, I know you’re Sam Jones and we’re talking. In take a step back and there’s a light there. ‘Oh, whats the light?’ I look to the right, ‘Ahm that’s a set. We must be in a studio.”
Most people probably wouldn’t consider a single light to be worldbuilding, but it’s the first thing that tells us where we are and what the relationship is between two characters. Before that it was just a conversation.
Each step back reveals more information about the world we inhabit. Another step back reveals two chairs, “Same Jones must be an interviewer.” Another few steps back and the crew is visible. A few more and you’re on Mars and it’s the year 3055.
OK, that’s a bit silly. It could work as a joke in n improv scene, but if another step back revealed Mars on a premier scripted show or in a book, it wouldn’t land. That’s not because it’s unreasonable. It’s fiction, anything is possible! No, it’s because of the lack of breadcrumbs (i.e. more details). So lets look at a prestige television offering.
The bear has often been praised for the accuracy with which it portrays the environment in a restaurant kitchen. From 6:00am fork polishing to the endless march of new orders from the ticket machine ratcheting tension during service, the show cares about details.
The trick is to find the “huh” that gets the “hah!” A detail, or many, that bubbles up the trauma for those in the know and rings as noticeable and true to the unindoctrinated. Like the deli cups.
It’s a tiny detail in the show but consistently shown – drinking from deli cups. The habit even follows them home. Why? Because the deli cups are there. Because they don’t shatter like glass or ceramic. Because it’s easy, and because we need water to live.
“Because it’s there.” May not be an acceptable answer from your toddler, but it’s quintessential to worldbuilding. Someone who’s worked in a kitchen for a decade may not ever notice that kind of detail, and that’s why it’s perfect. It isn’t something the writers wanted to include; it’s something true they witnessed during research.
Take a moment to think about one of your routines. I’m not you, so I’ll use me as an example: I garden, I write, I build, I draw. That’s enough to start from. Let’s think about my garden of tomato plants.
I could give you all kinds of details about them: when they were planted, the varietals, the height, how many leaders they have, whether or not they are determinate, but that’s only interesting in an information book. Think about what you do and think while on the morning walk.
There’s a notebook in my hand. I trace each stem, searching every node for suckers – new lead stems trying to develop. I find one. Less than an inch, the tiny leaf is the kind of green that lets light through. The centimeter stem is light purple. Gently reaching two fingers toward the node, I pinch the sucker. A sharp, pleasant smell drifts from the plant and my fingers before I toss the sucker to the ground. I’ve found my detail.
I’m still searching for that “huh-hah” detail in my racing driver. It’s not F1 or historical. The story is contemporary, using near factory stock cars. I did that so that I could relate to it more, and I wanted to relate to it so I could be in the seat and in their heads.
And I want to be there because I need to hear the engine, feel the pressure of the brake pedal and the g-force around a corner. I need to step out of the car and feel the world slow with my feet on solid tarmac. I need to hear the din of racing, torque renches, and crowds under the shouting communication in the pitlane. That world doesn’t go into the book, only implications of it.
That’s the real magic trick. You don’t give the observer depth; you imply it and let their mind fill in the rest.
I’m not looking for best times, sayings of drivers, good advice, or the torque rating of some bolts on a V8. I scan with eyes and ears for the details that would fade into the background for those who have raced and stick out for those who haven’t.
I’m looking for the deli cup.
From the Rift,
Thanks for Reading
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