Today's writing topic is saying without saying - the art of implication.

Stories that people remember best are the ones that make them feel something. The less that is told and the more that is implied the better. The reader has to imagine the scene in their mind to fill in the blanks. If you only give them some visual info and a lot of implication, you will pull them into the character's story. You may not have realized this while reading one of your favorite books, but think of the most memorable stories you've read. They didn't tell you what to think, or feel. They didn't tell you every detail surrounding the character or their situation.

Even better is to get so deep into the character's point of view that you forget who you are. For the time that you are reading you have become the character. I am going to post an example involving marital conflict. English is the second language for the man so when he is talking his language is supposed to sound broken. At the same time his thoughts would be in perfect grammar in his native tongue. I just translate his thoughts into grammatically correct English for the reader's benefit.

At any rate I call this scene from one of my books, "Hell at home." I never tell you what he is actually doing when he is caught. You as the reader just figure it out based on the hints around the situation, through their dialogue, and from his thoughts, which are in deep point of view. If you want to know more about the book, please post a comment and I'll give you the title. I have sole rights to the content that I am about to share. Enjoy!

Here is the scene...

As Tony lay on the couch trying to relax enough to fall asleep, he thought about Hope. What was she doing right now? Did she still think about him?

Closing his eyes, he remembered the first time he'd kissed her and saw that frightened, sensual look in her eyes as he closed in on her lips. She'd desired him, needed him even.

Nothing made him feel more like a man than being able to pleasure a woman so that she longed for more. And unlike his wife, Hope had always wanted more. But never more than he was willing to give.

Maybe that was why his marriage to Brenda had started to take a nosedive about a year ago. She had suddenly stopped desiring him and responding to his touch.

She was difficult to please, and no matter what he did she seemed to find fault with it. Why did she expect him to be perfect? He made mistakes like everyone else.

Hope made him feel good about himself. She found him attractive and wanted to spend time with him. He'd fallen for her hook, line, and sinker. And as much as his relationship with Hope had destroyed his life, sometimes he still dreamed about her. Wanted her in his bed.

His body responded to his musings. He remembered the time he'd taken her into the back of his truck.

The fire in her eyes as he poured himself into pleasing her had been so empowering. He needed that fix again. He wanted to see her again despite all of the ugliness that happened when the truth of their affair had come out.

His body stirred just thinking about their last encounter in his bed. With a moan, he imagined her beneath him and finally sought relief from the tension, even if it was self-induced.

The sound of footsteps padding on the floor made him work faster. He couldn't stop now. He was too close.

Brenda stood in front of him just as he stumbled over the edge of his passion and started to return to the present.

He wasn't sure if he should be more embarrassed or more angry that she'd caught him in the act.

He trembled as she watched him--open mouthed--as his breathing slowly returned to normal. His wife had never seen him take care of himself before. What would she say?

Her lips pressed tight and disgust filled her eyes as she scrutinized him. When she finally spoke, she asked, "How often do you do that?"

She was asking how often he… why should he answer her?

"Enough." Man, he wished he had a towel right now.

"Why?"

What kind of question was that? And why did she even care? It wasn't like she was going to take care of him anytime soon.

"Because I am a man. I have needs."

She huffed a disgusted grunt. "Maybe I have needs, too."

He snorted, unable to help himself, and sat up. "You lie."

"How would you know. Have you asked?"

"I am horny man, not stupid man. You will just hurt me, so I do not try. Is true you hate me, and will not forgive. So I do not ask. You must tell me what you need."

A sexy smiled pulled at her lips.
"Remember when I was pregnant with Mikey and after a few months I was always interested? I think it's the extra blood flow from carrying a child."

He fluffed his bangs, his body stirring again. "Why do you tell me this?"

She leaned forward and he could see her well-endowed breasts through the v-neck collar of her night shirt. "Were you thinking about me when you were doing… that… or were you thinking about her?"

Swallowing hard, he wanted to lie and tell her he thought of her and not Hope, but something told him she wouldn't believe him anyway.

"Just like I thought, you bastard. You make me sick." She straightened and turned her face to the side.

"See, Brenda. This is your problem." He stood and pointed at her, not caring that his boxers needed adjusting. "It makes me crazy how you say you want me to love you and desire you, but then you do things and make me want to run away."

"I do not." She pouted, and for the first time he noticed how little she was wearing on the lower half of her body.

Her gaze traveled over him and settled above his thighs, unnerving him because of her scrutiny. He noticed she had a night shirt on that was so short he could see her red underwear. Though tempted to let his gaze wander, he pulled up his boxers and huffed. "Yes, you do."

She stepped closer and rested her hands on his hips. Her elbows were pressed against her night shirt so it accentuated her breasts. "Maybe I'm interested now."

He closed his eyes believing his wife was either the most evil woman on the planet, or she was truly nuts. Maybe he was the crazy one, he decided, as he removed her hands from his hips.

"Well, I am not."

Her eyes pinched tight and she sneered, "You just don't have it in you. You're so limp it's pathetic."

Unable to take another insult, he pushed her aside, then quickly pulled on his jeans and shirt. Sliding his feet into his boots, he tuned her insults out as he grabbed his leather coat, then his keys, and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

"Evil witch!" he muttered under his breath, so angry that he wanted to drive away and never look back. Until the image of little Mikey's innocent face entered his mind.

Slamming his hand on the steering wheel as he drove away, he started yelling at God in Italian and saying all the things to an invisible Brenda he imagined in the passenger seat that he would never say to her face.